"Alliances - Part One"
Introducing - Victor Garber as Jack Archer
Apartment #301, New York City
Monday, 5th September 2005
9:30am
The mangled body of a woman lay in a pool of her own blood.
Jack Archer coughed, covering his mouth with his handkerchief as the putrid stench of death permeated his nostrils. “How long has she been here?” he choked, having to leave the confinement of the small room as the smell of decaying flesh became overwhelming.
The aide followed him out and into the hallway. “About a week. She was supposed to be on vacation. The building super found her after the neighbours complained of the smell.” The aide handed Jack an envelope containing a series of photographs depicting similar scenes of violence and death.
“In total there’s been thirteen deaths like this one in the past month. The police have no leads yet except that it looks like a serial killer. Each victim had their limbs either dismembered or mangled and their heart cut out. They also had similar flesh wounds like these…” the aide directed Jack to a specific photo.
“This looks like Belzar’s work all right,” said Jack, his face turning more rigid than usual in an effort to fight down the nausea. “He must be a fool, defying the treaty like this; he knows civilian territory is strictly out of bounds. Alert Beta section immediately, tell them I’ll be in Virginia by 10pm tonight.”
******
The Alliance Headquarters, Virginia
Monday, 5th September 2005
10:00pm
Jack Archer paced the length of the vast boardroom with haste. He was anxious to meet with the head of Security section. If Belzar had already left New York there was no telling where he might have taken his brand of wholesale carnage by now.
Suddenly the door opened and two middle aged men entered followed by a short Marakka demon.
“Ah Jack, please, sit down,” said the first man, gesturing towards a seat.
“Lothar, Samir, thank you for meeting me so urgently,” said Jack formally as he seated himself.
“We have some good news for you,” continued Lothar as they settled at the desk, “We located the subject you requested. He’s currently in Los Angeles.”
*Anywhere but there!* Jack thought dismally. He had avoided LA like it were a leper colony for the past twenty years and he didn’t have any desire to return. Outwardly he kept his expression as blank and tight lipped as usual. “Are you sure?” he asked flatly.
“Very sure Sir,” said the Marakka demon turning to face Jack, “I’ve been tracking Belzar for sometime. After the series of murders in Washington DC and New York he appeared to have vanished, then I found him again in Las Vegas.”
The demon pulled a file out from under his jacket and tossed it across the table towards Jack. “I received Intel earlier this morning. This time it was a Russian Diplomat, they found his dismembered corpse in the restroom at Caesar’s Palace. Not only that but his heart had been cut out, just like all the others.”
“This demon is one sick son of a bitch,” muttered Jack under his breath.
“Well, yeah, so I got one of my best trackers to follow the target from Vegas and that’s how we know he’s in LA. No doubt The Order will protect him.”
“You must be careful Jack,” warned Samir. He carefully removed his glasses and cleaned them thoroughly before replacing them on his face.
Jack rose from his chair in surprise. “Me? You want me to go to LA and eliminate Belzar? Why not just get one of our Californian agents to make the hit?”
“He’s your case subject Jack,” Lothar reminded him, “You know more about his moves and the way he thinks than anyone else in the Alliance. Belzar defied the treaty, that makes him a target now. Think you can handle it?”
Jack’s face became immovable again and he pursed his lips together in an expression of repressed contempt. "Of course,” Jack pushed his chair back noisily, “I’ll set out to Los Angeles as soon as I can.” He lowered his head respectfully and then turned to leave the room.
“And Jack?” called out Lothar, turning in his chair to face him, “Be careful. Belzar may very well be an irrational fool but he’s also one of the Five. The Order may be prepared to kill to defend one of their own.”
Jack nodded in understanding and quietly closed the door behind him.
“What’s his problem?” mumbled Samir in irritation.
Lothar still continued to stare at the door long after Jack had passed through it. “Old ghosts,” he replied.
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Mid-Season Two: Jan 20, 2006 - June 16(ish), 2006
Same day, 8:00
Tarix had grown really quiet from what Thule had told her. She couldn’t believe it. She didn’t even know who her sister was, and already she knew she was a killer.
“Thule? How you know I didn’t kill them?” she said. Her eyes were filled with tears. “Maybe I killed them, maybe I did it and she’s innocent.” She was growing hysterical now. Thule came over and hugged her, trying to calm her tears. She sobbed into his shoulder for a while. Thule guided her and made her sit down.
“Look, the Shamans not only saw her, they felt her aura. They were sure it was her, and that she covered all her path to the murder except that. Another thing you should know is, your sister was working with the Macabres.”
Tarix didn’t say anything, but let him continue. “I believe your father suspected that and tried to get my help. The reason I know this is because your sister didn’t know magic. And also the Shamans felt a hint of Macabre presence too. The Macabre magic wasn’t strong, because if it was then they would be able to cover it all. Fortunately they couldn’t.”
Tarix tried to reason again, “But I could find Jessy, I could ask her?”
“And tell her what? ‘I know you killed my parents, but I understand?’ Look Tarix, she is beyond reason right now. She finds you and she will kill you.”
Tarix wiped her tears, trying to look brave. “You think she was the one who hit me, don’t you? You think she was the one who sent me into amnesia, hit me so much, and left me to die in the alley. Don’t you?”
Thule’s look was answer enough for her.
Huh? Wait A Minute...
Parasol pushed a tight "Ah" out of her throat, burst out in raucous laugher, and flopped off of London onto her back. Blood was dripping down her chin. It was dripping down London's chin. Sooty maroon Rorschach patterns decorated their bodies and the sheets.
They each lay silent in their own bailiwick of the bloody bed staring at the ceiling; silent save for small intermittent chuckles.
After nearly 20 minutes, London reached over and grabbed a generous handful of Parasol's thigh flesh, then slapped it for good measure. She swiveled her head against the pillow to smile at him. His smooth black velvet face smiled back with bright eyes.
"London?" she sweetly asked.
"Ooooph, girl. You say my name so good. Say it again." London's eyes were ponging off body parts from Parasol's hairline to toes.
She grinned at him. "Talk that pillow talk, Romeo," and proceeded to do nothing.
London waited a few seconds longer, then cocked an expectant eyebrow at her. She turned her head back to the ceiling and started whistling.
It was London's turn to burst out in laughter. "Oh, it's like that, huh? You want me to beg you to say my name?"
"Ooohh. Begging. My favorite."
London turned on his side and propped himself onto an elbow. "There's no shame in my game, darlin'. It depends on if what you're begging for is worth it. So -- baby baby, pleeeease, baby baby baby."
"Llllondon." He watched her tongue curl in her mouth against her top teeth and smiled at the hard "L" she wrapped her mouth around.
"Whatcha want, sugar?"
"Can I have some more of that?" Parasol cooed, pointing to the barely breathing remains of tonight's quarry, a pickpocket they caught working Chevrine's, lolling in a collection of blood at the bottom of the huge bed.
"Baby, you can have anything you want." With that London reached down to the bottom of the bed, grabbed the poor soul by the hair and threw it across Parasol with its neck at her teeth. Parasol's flesh goosed as her face shrugged and her canines grew. She drove them into the punctures already there and blood slid over the quarry's neck and Parasol's shoulder. Parasol unhitched for a short second to wink at London and smile.
"By the way, London -- it's your turn to sleep in the wet spot," and turned back to drinking what was left in the thief.
It was a better end than the petty thief ever expected for herself.
******
Parasol pulled herself from the bloody bed. It was close to daylight. London wasn't in the bed. The corpse wasn't present either. Strange.
Reaching for the doorknob, she saw what had to be the thief's blood on the back of her hand. It ran in a sticky rivulet up her arm. Parasol's eyes traced its path up her arm to her shoulder. She turned and tilted her head so her nose could catch the dissipating fragrance of the thief's blood sodden with fear. She stood naked and motionless, her hand hanging inches away from the doorknob.
Parasol closed her eyes and her breath rasped sharply against the memory of last night and the dominos of nights before; the pattern's design fast approaching the end. She was nowhere nearer to possession of the Cadre than she was the night she prayed for the strength to stay the course. In point of fact, these dominos of nights were falling in a circle; moving but getting nowhere, other than spiraling her down to places she where she felt so very good.
Parasol's ambivalence, in no small part, was due to London. He was proving to be more of a kick than she had anticipated. He was smart and sharply funny. Even the basest of their hunting expeditions were peppered with engaging conversations. Many a quarry found itself languishing between life and death while she and London point and counterpointed the merits of the industrial revolution vis-a-vis the souls of the urbanized freed slaves or some such equally challenging debate. Parasol chuckled out loud at the memory of the bookie that used the last of his strength to whisper "Yada yada yada. I dropped Econ. Kill me. Please." She and London laughed themselves silly as they sunk their teeth into the bookie's body parts.
For some reason, the image of Chinaka holding her hand when Parasol left popped into her head. Was that days ago? Weeks ago? Months ago? Parasol couldn't remember. Why was that?
She did, however, remember in vivid and scintillating detail, the delight of the blood of last night's thief and the things she and London's fine ass did with it. A wave of lust hit her hard inside her chest cavity. She felt her forehead wrinkle at the bloodlust flashback.
Parasol shook her face smooth, dismissing both the memory of Chinaka and the carnage decorating her flesh and pulled open the bedroom door. She peered out into the hall for London's lackeys who seemed to constantly inhabit the house. No one. She stepped out into darkened hallway and stood in the middle -- listening. Nothing. Not a sound.
Parasol squinted in disbelief. It was even odder because it was nearly daytime and the idiotic assortment of undead freeloaders London housed should be just laying down to...
Parasol's toes clunked against something in the dark hallway. The dead thief from last night sat propped up against the wall. Its eyes were open, cutting its coddled eyes at her in accusation. Parasol knew London would never leave such a thing in the hallway. He was way too fastidious.
The darkness couldn't hide from Parasol's vampire eyes the damage she and London had done to the poor creature. Parasol's stomach lurched unexpectedly and she tore down the hall to the bathroom throwing it open and practically sliding into first to stick her head in the toilet. She emptied her stomach's contents. Not much. Her metabolism quickly digested whatever blood she had consumed last night.
When her retching stopped, she flushed the toilet and then laid face down on the cool marble floor. Turning her head to lay her cheek on the tile, again she chuckled weakly. Apparently, cool marble soothes both the living and the dead's ills of excess.
Cooling herself like a lizard on the floor, questions popped into her head. She considered them. She hadn't done that in a while. Hadn't needed to. No. Hadn't wanted to. Why was that?
She'd been distracted. London was just so...um... London was just so... Well, he was fine. Yes. He was fine.
Fine.
And of course, he was smart. Really smart. Parasol was smarter. She usually had to offer him the last Rubic to the Cube, but his hypotheses were 95% there.
So he was fine and he was smart.
And then the hootchie was damn near as good as the coochie. Can't forget that.
Okay. He really hunted in inventive ways. That too. It was fun with him, though she never before found hunting that appealing...
So. One: London was fine. Two: Nearly as smart as she was. Three: Made her wear her ankles for earrings. Four: And was an imaginative predator.
But why had that been enough to distract her from the Cadre? Only London and the things they did. Just London. She hadn't thought about that in a while. Why was that?
Where WAS London? Where were those hoodlum losers he employed? Why was the thief rotting in the hall? Where the fuck was the Cadre?
She was smarter than London, dammit. She should have had the Cadre in her possession by now. She should have what the Cadre could give her by now. She should be drinking Margaritas with Chinaka sitting outside African Heart with all this well behind her. Parasol hadn't even called Chinaka to see if she was ok in what -- weeks? She felt the corpse in the hallway's eyes smirking and accusing her.
What the fuck was she doing?
Parasol pulled herself from the marble to her feet. Logic inhabited her. It was as if she were learning to read for the first time.
* Aaahhh. Of course! If London has the Cadre, he's getting what he wants.*
Parasol reproached herself violently as she looked down at her bloody body.
*Stupid, stupid girl.*
She slammed the seat of the toilet down and sat, putting her head in her hands. Parasol cried pink tears.
Mid-Season Two: Jan 20, 2006 - June 16(ish), 2006
"Magic Eye-Type Shit"
[Note: italicized text denotes memory]
September 15, 2005
3 A.M.
Downtown L.A.
Fate knew that he had about three hours to savor his present state of mind before the sun came up. Safely before that time came he'd be in his empty rented room, meditating in the artificial darkness to conserve energy, trying to achieve complete experiential stasis even though he knew that the battle against his relentless metabolism was a losing one. Soon enough he'd be back in hunt-and-kill mode, the entirety of his consciousness focused like coherent light on the necessity of sustenance. But that would be later.
Right now Fate was rolling.
Having recently fed to satiety, he was riding out the crest of the psychophysiological sinewave that defined his daily existence, a circadian rhythm ramped up several degrees of magnitude. 'Fullness,' a vestigial term he just couldn't seem to shake, shortcircuited his pleasure centers, hitting his subjective experience with a kinghell hit of everything in his mind's medicine chest.
A psychic shift, transient and razorwire-fine.
Uncut happiness analog.
Fate fully intended to spend the next one hundred and eighty minutes in a synesthetic state of hyperawareness, boundaries between differing types of sensory data blurring into a single composite experience, insights sometimes emerging from the coincidental convergences of energy waveforms.
Tarot spreads of radiation.
Superheterodyne tea leaves.
A cipher in the spatial mathematics of L.A.'s alien dynamism, Fate was content to wander in his own inferential pocket universe. He thought of tigers, or, more properly, remembered them...
******
It was six months after Fate's change. Effectively orphaned from the human race, he sought spiritual kinship in the animal kingdom. That seemed his only recourse. He was born in the Year of the Tiger, and consequently developed a rather inconvenient fixation on the big cats. Risking incarceration -- which was certain death -- he contrived a scheme to break into the San Diego Zoo by night to commune with his fellow predators. The plan worked suprisingly well, due more to the rarity with which individuals considered after-hours zoo trespassing a viable criminal pursuit than any illicit skill on Fate's part. Knowing that most members of the feline community were nocturnal by nature, he imagined -- naively -- that the imprisoned animals would be stalking their cages, dominating the synthetic landscape with ferocity and majesty. Reality dealt Fate another blow. He sought pride and guidance, and found sedentary animals lazily awaiting their inevitable feeding time instead. He was crushed. Months passed before he recovered...
******
Fate unconsciously began decreasing the radii of his orbits around his neighborhood. The sky was lightening. The sunrise was on its way.
******
In the beginning, Fate was so blinded by rage and loneliness that he couldn't conceive of Ishida as anything but pure evil, a thing that earned the moniker 'demon.' Ishida took his family, his innocence, and his life. He made Fate a monster. Ishida's immediate death did nothing to bring any sense of closure to what seemed a diabolical conclusion. Pain distorted Fate's logic. The mocking tone, the sinister laugh, the outright confession of his misdeeds. Seething hatred for the monster that camouflaged itself as a man. Fate saw Ishida's face on every one of his victims...
******
Fate's reverie turned to thoughts of stone and steel and age as a dilapidated building came into focus, crumbling under its own neglected weight. He could feel the slight groan of material fatigue, the grainy surface as it absorbed light, aware on a rational level that the bonds between atomic lattices were weakening, losing structural integrity. A static relic of a different era, stubbornly pleading its relevance to the apathy of a changing world...
*You have GOT to be kidding me! Oh Fate, you handsome, charming, stupid motherfucker!* He stopped dead right outside the door to his building and laughed, the dawn of a serious understanding as imminent as the coming sunrise.
For the first time in thirty-five years, Fate had to consider the very real possibility that Ishida wasn't even close to what he appeared to be...
Julian and Jade
Monday, 12 September 2005 - 2pm
Reintroducing Jerry Yan as Julian Chen
The afternoon sun poured through the front window of the shop, bouncing off the numerous suncatchers Jade had taken to hanging around XY's interior, casting small, colorful reflections of light onto the shop's walls and shelves.
A radio played softly in the back, a man singing a familiar tune, believe it or not, about walking on air... about feeling free... about flying away on nothing but a wing and a prayer...
Two young women huddled together over a book on Love Spells, giggling as they thumbed through the pages, casting furtive little glances at the handsome Asian man standing behind the counter.
Absorbed as he was with his own thoughts, Julian Chen failed to notice the less-than-subtle attention being directed at him. His thoughts were focused on one person, the same person he had been worrying about for the last two days. He hadn't heard from Jade since she'd left the store on Friday afternoon.
*When she was all aflurry to rush home and prepare for her special night in with that Tris chap.* JC scowled, remembering the only time he had met Sorrow and the instinctive unease he felt around the man. Besides the fact that Jade had practically collapsed with worry for Sorrow's well-being, *And that was before the guy had turned up at her apartment bruised and battered!* JC had seen something in Sorrow's eyes that night. *Something... dead. Geez, that sounds melodramatic yet... I can't think of another way to describe it!*
Shoving his hair back impatiently, JC gave an inward sigh, finally noticing the female duo edging closer towards him. He nodded politely, flashed them a quick grin that had both women blushing, then turned his attention back to his own thoughts.
When Jade failed to show up at XY on Saturday, JC had not been worried, taking it as a sign that the "date" had gone well. By Sunday though, he had become a little concerned. Jade had never left him to run XY alone without ringing him sometime during the day to find out if everything was ok. He had called her twice after closing the store but there had been no answer on her home line or her mobile.
Now, halfway through Monday, Julian knew something was wrong. As much as she trusted him, he was certain that Jade would not go 48 hours without word. *She'd know I'd worry.* Julian's hands toyed with a pencil as he remembered the last time Jade had left him without a word. How frantic he and Kevin had been. Till the police had turned up at their doorstep.
JC shook off the memories. *That's in the past man... Get a grip. You've got to find out what's happened to J.* He stood up suddenly, startling the two women who had finally worked up the courage to talk to him. Taking a step back, he smiled apologetically. "Sorry girls but something's cropped up and I need to run out for a little while. Was there something I could help you with before I leave?"
Squashing the horrible images super-imposing themselves in his brain took quite a bit of willpower but JC dealt with it and his customers deftly. The minute the women were out of the shop, arms laden with purchases, he grabbed the keys and his wallet and ran out of XY in the direction of Poplar Avenue.
Mid-Season Two: Jan 20, 2006 - June 16(ish), 2006
Saturday September 17th,
9:16 PM
Tarix walked on the pavement, hearing her feet beat upon the hard ground. Her hands in her pockets and her head down, she seemed to be deep in her own thoughts but that was last place she wanted to be. She had just finished her work at the usual 9pm. She reached her apartment building, looked at it for a few minutes and walked past it.
She felt like walking, maybe she’d get a cup of coffee. It had been many days since she found out about her past, something that still pierced her heart. When she was working or talking to somebody she would push the thought away to the back of the mind, trying to forget. But when she would be alone by herself, with nothing to do, those thoughts would push forward to come right back to haunt her, like demons from the past. She couldn’t take it any more. She looked up and saw a small coffee shop right in front of her. *Maybe I can drown my demons in caffeine.*
She pushed open the door of the near by coffee shop. The rich aroma of caffeine was quite welcoming. She came in, still deep in her thoughts. It had been a few nights ago when Thule had broken the big news to her. She didn't understand it then, but now she knew why Thule had kept it from her. *Oh God it hurts, it hurts so bad.*
Glancing around quickly, she found a table, and without a hesitation sat down with a big thump. Moments passed and many people came and went. The waitress had come, and Tarix absent-mindedly ordered a regular coffee. Nothing could get her attention, she was absorbed in her own thoughts.
Tarix, not thinking about anything other then Jessy, imagined what it had been like. How she had killed them. She imagined Jessy coming in, grabbing a knife, an evil gleam in her eyes, coming towards a woman, whose back was turned. The knife raised high and then it comes down.
"Nooooo," Tarix groaned, as she noticed the tears welling in her eyes. She put her head down on the table and covered it with her arms and started sobbing quietly.
"Hey, Tarix right? Are you... are you ok?"
The young woman raised her head from her arms to see who had addressed her. The tall, handsome form of her new neighbor stood before her.
"Look I’m sorry if I’m bothering you, and I know this is probably none of my business, but I saw you from the back of the cafe, and I noticed that you were crying."
Tarix quickly wiped away the massing tear drops. She decided the “something in my eye” alibi wasn't going to work, now that she had wailed as well. She tried to smile, tried to push her worries away, but it was just too much effort.
With a weak smile she replied, "I... I... just something on my mind." She realized Darian was still standing there in front of her, like an angel. "Sorry, I am being rude. Please, have a seat."
Darian grabbed the closest chair from an adjacent table, and nervously sat. Usually, Darian avoided one on one conversations with people, since all his close relationships only caused much heart ache, yet seeing this girl in pain struck a chord in him, made him feel like he had to do something.
"I know what it's like to be thinking so much you depress yourself. I think it's something in the air of LA,” he joked with a comforting smile.
"Yes. Maybe you are right."
Tarix looked across at this young man trying to make her feel better. She once again glanced at those purple pools of eyes and almost lost herself. She shrugged it off. Could she tell him? She didn't even know who he was. Hell, she didn't even know who she was. Yet, there was something in that reassuring smile told her that she could trust him.
"You know. Have you ever felt that you've known the deepest pain? And then something more painful hits you?"
Darian's mind quickly replayed the events that occurred just before Sebastian was transformed, over 200 years ago.
"Yeah. You could say I know what you mean. I've actually come to LA to fix that pain."
His hand drifted up to his neck where the amethyst pendant containing his best friend’s life source hung. Unconsciously, he gripped the small stone protectively. *Soon, Seb. Soon.*
Tarix’s face turned into a sour grin. "So did I actually. Do you know I found myself two years ago in New York, with amnesia?" She laughed bitterly. "Yup, I was all beaten up and left there to die, next to a garbage bin. I didn't even know my real name. Do you know what I am named after? A garbage bin. I am garbage!"
Ashamed, she felt she had said enough and quieted, looking down at the table again.
Awkwardly, he placed his hand on hers; comforting people was not a skill he had practiced much over the last two centuries.
"You know, for someone who lost their memory, it seems like you're taking pretty good care of yourself. That's proof enough that you’re not garbage." He gently lifted Tarix's chin, "You know, it's getting late, and the streets aren't really safe at night. If you'd like I could... uh... walk you home." The end of Darian's sentence was almost inaudible.
She smiled back. "Yeah, the night, darkness, very threatening. Besides, I'm sure the coffee will just make me more twitchy then usual."
The two got up from the table and left the rich soothing air of the coffee shop for the brisk scent of the evening air.
*****
As Darian followed Tarix up the stairs to the fourth floor, he let his gaze rest on her. *There is definitly something different with this girl. First the tingly feeling when we touched the other day, and then the whole her losing her memory.* Despite this nagging feeling, Darian was drawn to her somehow. Something inside of him made him want to learn what it was she was hiding. *If she's in danger, maybe it’s a good thing I live so close.*
They had walked quietly up and finally reached the apartments. Tarix was lost in her thoughts, Darian in his. When they had reached there, both of them just stood there, not knowing what to do.
"Well," Tarix finally broke the silence, "By the way, you never told me how you came to be in L.A.?"
Darian looked up, totally caught off guard by her question. "To make a long story short, my best friend Sebastian went missing awhile back, and I think he may be in LA." His voice had a very unconvincing tone to it. *I wonder if she bought that.*
The unbelievable tone was not lost on Tarix. She could tell that Darian was shaken by her question, and that there was something wrong with his story.
"So now that I’ve spilled my very brief life story, tell me, how did you end up in LA?" he replied, trying desperately to change the focus of the conversation from himself.
Tarix felt that Darian really didn't feel like discussing his past. *Maybe he doesn't trust me. Well why should he? I myself don't know who I am.*
"Well, like I said I lost my memory. I went to the nearby hospital and gave Tyrux as my name. But I felt very lonely there. And one day I was fired from my job. I just knew I had to get away. I don't know why, but I came all the way to LA, thinking I could find something." She kept the story of how she got fired a secret - the last thing she wanted was her neighbor to think she was crazy.
“Let's hope that LA will have what we are both looking for," he said, raising his eyes to meet hers. Unconsciously, he smiled that nervous smile he always did when looking into this girl's eyes. "I... I think I better get some rest. If ever you need to talk or anything, don’t be shy to come over. I mean what are neighbors for?"
"Thank you, Darian." She looked into his eyes as well. Again those purple orbs just looked back, drawing her into them. Suddenly, something odd struck Tarix. *Oh my, why didn't I realize before. Something is unnatural with those eyes. No one has purple eyes.*
Tarix face turned from grinning to being stunned *No... Maybe I’ve been working too hard.* But she did not feel convinced.
The sudden change in her expression alarmed Darian. What was it that made her instantly tense up?
The two exchanged their "good-nights" and retired to their separate apartments. Both Darian and Tarix were filled with a sense of uneasiness from their meeting. Both knew that the other was hiding something about themselves, and both were scared that the other would find it out.
Mid-Season Two: Jan 20, 2006 - June 16(ish), 2006
Monday, 12 September 2005 - 3pm, L.A time
Tuesday, 13 September 2005 - 12 midnight, Bremen & Tours local time
Starring Kevin Spacey as Michael Gemmel
Michael Gemmel had always prided himself on being four things - cautious, determined, thorough and smart. He was ruthlessly organised, paid meticulous attention to detail, and was a man who knew how to pick his battles, choosing only those he was confident of winning. In Gemmel's book, calculated risks were permissible, but only if they guaranteed returns. Success was paramount, failure was inacceptable.
These characteristics and beliefs had served him well his entire life. During the time he had been the odd kid out in the elite private boarding school his parents had sent him. Through the years he had spent climbing the Ministry's hierachiel ladder. All the way to the lofty plateau of his current position.
Which was why Jadyn Lee frustrated him. Michael Gemmel was not a man on familiar terms with defeat and the last 48 hours had not gone according to plan. None of the test results had shown or told him anything he had not already known. Higher regenerative abilities, unnatural strength, suspected immortality, immunity to sunlight, holy water and crosses. None of which his team were able to provide an explanation for. He had some of the best scientists and doctors at his disposal and not a single one had been able to tell him what his contacts within the Society of Ulle hadn't already managed to dig up.
Of course, seeing that a half-vampire, half-human species was previously unheard of, Gemmel couldn't really blame them. Especially when one of the biggest hunting societies in the world had so little information on her. The Ulle file on Jadyn Lee was extremely thin. It had provided him with a brief rundown on her parents and abilities, but there had been little else.
*Not much help there. Surprise suprise...* Gemmel's mouth twisted in a smirk as he recalled Alistair's words. "Ulle has been extremely careful with Vampire Elders since the bloodbath it suffered at the hands of the Vampire Dathan in the 1800s. It's the reason why Ms Lee's file was so deeply buried and why none of Ulle's hunters know about her. The Society couldn't risk any of them hunting her down and incurring the wrath of another Elder. Especially since the one in question is supposedly the most vicious of the four."
*Valerian.* The hand holding the cigarette flexed slightly as Gemmel inhaled. He had over four dozen men working around the clock, watching for any sign to show that their route to Bremen had been traced. Despite the reports that she and Valerian had nothing to do with each other, Gemmel wasn't taking any chances. Even if the vampire cared nothing for his offspring, Gemmel knew that Tristan Barrington would not give up looking for Jade till she was found. *Although she'll be beyond saving by the time he finally figures out where we have her.*
Alistair had given him a highly-skilled team to work with and Gemmel had every intention of utilising the abilities - magical or otherwise - each member possessed to ensure that this little project yielded the results he desired. The compound they were "housing" Jade in not only had the best surveillance equipment money could buy, it was also protected by a number of powerful charms. And in the event their location was somehow compromised, he would simply move his team and their captive somewhere else.
A knock on the door had Gemmel looking up. "Enter."
A man dressed in a spotless white coat entered. "Good evening sir. I apologise for intruding on your private time, especially since it is so late." His voice was tentative, his English heavily accented. "But you did leave instructions to let you know as soon as we moved the girl..."
"Is she conscious?" Gemmel tossed back the contents of the brandy balloon, stubbed his cigarette out and rose to his feet.
"Not totally sir. She drifts in and out but I do not think she is fully aware of where she is or what is happening. The effects of the sedatives won't wear off for at least another hour."
*Good. That'll give me the time I need.* Aloud, Gemmel said, "Thank you, Doctor. That will be all." The grey-haired man, knowing a dismissal when he heard one, said a polite goodnight and left the room. After the door clicked shut behind him, Gemmel lit another cigarette, pacing the room as he debated what he was about to do. Since duplicating Jade's abilities genetically was proving to be impossible, he had no choice but to move onto option two. Picking up the phone, Gemmel dialed a number.
"Good evening Alistair..."
Mid-Season Two: Jan 20, 2006 - June 16(ish), 2006
September 18th 2005, 9:15pm
A sound of a metallic click was heard and a moment later the knob turned and slowly the door opened. Thule looked into the apartment and found that it was in utter darkness. *She must be working late today,* he thought as he quietly closed the door behind him and locked it. Pocketing the key, he walked a few steps into the living area/training area, when he heard something.
Thule stopped in his tracks and listened intently. He made it out to be heavy breathing. He suddenly stiffened and took a few more cautious steps. Slowly he looked around the dark area and decided to turn the light on. Then decided against it, thinking that if an intruder was in the apartment he had better try and surprise it.
He crept in closer to Tarix’s bedroom and saw that it was also darkened but the noise of someone breathing seemed to be growing. Thule realised that it was not only the sound of hard breathing but also of sobbing. He switched on the light in that room and just as he had guessed there she was on the bed, sitting with her head in her hands.
“Tarix? Are you still crying over that?” Thule asked more in a I-told-you-so tone then in a sympathetic one.
She jolted up. “Thule? God, do you want to give a girl a heart attack? I was just sitting here thinking about something.” She stood up. “Don’t you ever knock?” she demanded.
“I was in the neighborhood and thought I could drop by. See if you had any other brilliant unanswered questions that would leave you crying for half a decade.”
She looked at him, a slight smile on her face. “No need to be cynical, Thule. A person gets curious about her past, especially when she does not know much about it.” She walked out of her bedroom and turned on the lights in the living area. “Now that you have turned on some of the lights, it is kinda dark in here.” She turned towards Thule, who had also followed her out.
Thule observed her more thoroughly now. Her hair was tied behind her head, and she was wearing a faded black shirt and dark denim jeans. Currently she was standing with her hands on her hips, looking towards Thule.
“Well, now that you’re here you would probably like some tea to drink I think? Maybe some scones for the road,” she teased.
Thule couldn’t help but smirk. “Now who’s being cynical? And yes, I would take some tea, no ‘scones’ thank you.”
She nodded and turned towards the kitchen and started to prepare the tea.
Thule looked around and found the living area just as he had left it this morning, when he was training Tarix. He took a seat on the nearest couch and waited for her. “So, how was work today?” he asked as he heard her open a few cabinets and then close them.
“Oh, work, well you know, it was ok. The boss was a little harsh,” she said, looking through the other cabinets until she found a mug and the tea bags. She put them down on the counter and turned on the stove to start heating the kettle that she had also found in one of the cabinets.
“You want help in there?” came the voice of Thule. “You seem to be taking extra long.”
“No it's nothing,” she replied. “You know, all the work. Gets to one's head.” She gave a little giggle.
Moments later she brought a steaming cup of tea.
“Thule?” she said, handing him the tea. “I seem to be feeling a little more woozy today. Do you know what happened to me today? I got dressed in the morning and suddenly found out I had forgotten where I worked.” She shook her head. “I had to go around try to ask people but I found nobody. So I decided not to go any where. Isn’t that weird. Is that supposed to happen? Amnesia returning or something?”
Thule turned serious. “I’ve never actually ever heard about it before, no. But in your special case maybe these things could happen. Tell me, is there anything else that you have forgotten?”
She looked thoughtful, then replied. “No not really, I mean it all seems really hazy. These few days. I even forgot when you come over. Then later I remembered,” she just let out a little nervous luagh.
“Well I just came this morning at about seven o’clock and you seemed fine then. You even seemed to have remembered going to the Laughing Dogs.”
Her serious face broke into a smile and signs of remembrance came to her. “Oh yeah,” she said. “I remember now.” She got up and walked over to the terrace. “We trained for a while, then you went. It's all coming back to me. It was, like, after that. I got all ready and didn’t know where to go.” She started giggling again. “Must be some exercises we did today Thule.”
Thule's eyes narrowed slightly as he noticed something. He quickly put the cup down on the table. “Tarix, where is your pendant?” His eyes had fallen towards her neck and he had noticed the lack of chain or pendent there.
She stopped smiling and looked down at her chest, acting as if half expecting the pendant to appear. She looked back up. She was about answer when there was a noise behind Thule. He quickly turned around and saw the door opening and in came Tarix carrying a few bags in her hands. She didn’t notice Thule and continued to close the door. She took a few steps in and saw him.
“Thule!” she said, startled, almost dropping her groceries, “What are you doing here?” What puzzled her more was the expression on Thule’s face.
He abruptly turned around but it was too late. The terrace window was wide open but nobody was there. Jessy had left.
Mid-Season Two: Jan 20, 2006 - June 16(ish), 2006
Monday September 19th, 2005, 7:15am
“The power to morph is one if the rarest of the five powers of the whole Kumacs. It was known that only one out of two hundred possessed this power.” Thule stopped and looked at Tarix. She was sitting in front of him in her favorite position on the floor. She was intently listening to him, her eyes lighting up with interest and he continued. Her hair, in its usual mess, was tied behind her head in a bun and she herself was wearing a medium length skirt and a black shirt.
Thule was dressed in his usual gray suit that he liked so much. “So what can this person who possesses this power, morph into?”
Tarix spoke up, as Thule had stopped. “Well, one could morph into a wide variety of objects, but the rule was that you couldn’t morph into a non-living thing, such as a garbage can or into a building. The second rule was that you couldn’t morph too much out of your size. For example you could morph into a dog or even a horse but you would be unable to morph into a rat or an elephant. Even a giraffe would be a challenge."
“Rather then morphing into animals, one could also morph into other human beings or demons, but here still the size mattered. I mean one could easily morph into any vampire or human, but it would but difficult to morph into a demon who would be a size of an elephant, and yes they do exist.” He paused once again to allow her to ask questions.
“If this person with this power did morph into a human being or into a vampire, would they only look like him or her or would they also suddenly inherit all their skills too?”
“First of all this person couldn’t just lay their eyes on anybody and say ‘Oh I think I’ll turn Bruce Lee today’ - they need to possess a fragment of that person's DNA. This could be done by just touching the bare skin of a person or by feeling their bare hair. After the ‘morpher’ has gotten the DNA material then they can morph into that person and because of that DNA they will possess that person’s skills, yes.”
Thule got up and started to pace around. “The weakness of this power is that if the ‘morpher’ takes the form of any demon or human, they will also inherit their weaknesses. For example, in taking the form of a vampire they can be killed by the means of staking, sunlight, holy water, etc. You’ll find all the weaknesses of a vampire in the books I gave you to study. The second weakness is that the ‘morpher’ can only take a certain form for a limited time.”
“How much time would that be?” asked Tarix, her curiosity growing.
“It depends on the strength of the ‘morpher’. If he or she is new to the power then the form could only last for about an hour. If they have been used to using it they could preserve that form for up to six hours and after that they would have to change back and rest before they can use it again. Energy-wise, it is somewhat same as your telekinetic power. The ‘morpher’ uses up energy when they morph, and this energy will keep draining as this power is used. If the ‘morpher’ doesn’t morph back in due time then they could lose consciousness, go into a coma, and if nothing is done by that stage, even die.”
This time the silence from Thule’s words was longer. Then he motioned her to ask any more questions.
“So do I have this power to morph?” Tarix thought, half expecting him to say no.
“I think so. But unfortunately so does Jessy, that I am sure of.” *As I was the one to train her for it in the first place.* “She can use that power much to her advantage. She already knows where you live and work. It would be more difficult for you hide from her.” Thule’s tone turned more serious, if that could be possible. “You need to be very careful when you come in contact with anyone, you understand?”
Tarix nodded.
“Good. Now where was I? Ah, yes. So let's see whether you can morph.” Thule came over to her and sat down on the ground in front of Tarix.
“Fine, so how do I learn how to morph then?” she asked, excited that she had this rare power.
“It's not quite simple, when you try to learn it again, but it’s easier when you get the hang of it. Here’s what you do.” Thule held out his hand. “As you don’t quite have any other living form to morph into you might as well start from me.”
Tarix let out a giggle. “Thule, how nice of you.” She also held out her hand and put it over Thule’s. “Ok, now what do I do?”
“You close your eyes.” Tarix followed. “Clear your mind, make it a blank. Now focus on what is in front of you. That is me. See me in your mind, as you would see me if your eyes were open. Focus on that thought. Now focus on your hand on mine and try your best to ‘acquire’.”
His directions were easy until the ‘acquire’ part, but she tried. She pictured Thule and an image of him appeared in her mind. However that image wasn’t very clear. She tried to focus on it further, while focusing on his hand as well. Nothing happened for some time. Then suddenly Tarix felt a slight tingling sensation on her hand and the image of Thule, that was fading, now started to become more and more clear. Tarix’s eyes flew open and she quickly removed her hand from Thule's.
“What happened?” he asked.
“I think it worked. I felt like this sensation like ants were crawling on my palm.” She looked at her hand and it was slightly red, as if someone had put pressure on it. “Ok, now that I have done the acquiring, now what?”
Thule got up and sat back on the couch, feeling slightly restless. “Now you morph.” Tarix waited for him to say something more, but he didn’t.
“That’s it? Morph? No more directions? What am I supposed to say; abracadabra and I turn into you?”
“Well, not quite. You are supposed to further concentrate on that image of me you have in that tiny skull of yours.”
Tarix rolled her eyes. “You know, at least Miyagi told his pupil about the wax-on and wax-off.” She sighed, knowing he wouldn’t get her pun. “Fine, I’ll try.”
She stood up and stretched out her hands. She didn’t know how that was going to help, but it felt good to stretch out. She then closed her eyes and started once again to concentrate. The image of Thule seemed to be much clearer now. After many minutes of trying she still didn’t feel any different.
“Thule!” she said, her eyes still closed. “I’m going nowhere fast. A little help?”
“Why don’t you try to focus more on each separate part of the body. Like the hands, then the head, then the legs, and so on,” came his voice.
She tried again, first focusing on the hands. As if by magic, she felt her hands start to twitch, and felt her skin loosening and then expanding slightly. She wanted to talk to Thule, but she thought if she did she may lose her concentration. Slowly she focused on the legs, arms, and the head.
To Thule it felt like deja-vu. Looking at Tarix, he felt as if he were looking at Jessy. She had also morphed into Thule, the first time she tried her power. Slowly Tarix’s hand turned larger and more wrinkled. Then the change travelled up her arms as they also turned wrinkled and more hairy. Slowly her hair started to shrink and change colour to a darker brown then to black. Her face turned more masculine and soon it felt to Thule like as if he was looking at himself in a mirror. But only one thing was different.
“God lord, how could I forget again?” Thule groaned.
Tarix’s eyes opened. “So, did it work?” she asked Thule, in his voice.
“Um, yes, very well. Now you can morph back. I don’t want your energy to start running low. Now you close your eyes and…”
“Wow, wow, wait a minute,” said Tarix. “I can stay like this for about an hour. Besides I want to check myself out in a mirror.” And she started to walk towards her bedroom.
“No,” Thule said abruptly. “It's better that you try and change back. I assure you have done quite well.” But it was too late, Tarix had already reached her mirror and Thule heard a high pitched squeal of laughter.
Thule sighed. “I brought it all on myself,” he said to himself.
Tarix was almost crying from laughter. In her mirror she had seen the serious form of Thule dressed in Tarix’s skirt and blouse. “All right,” Thule finally said. “Now that you have laughed half your wits, correction, my wits off, can you please change back?”
But Tarix hadn’t had enough. “Oh, Thule you look so nice in a dress.”
Thule saw himself, standing in front of the mirror, lifting his skirt slightly and bending his legs to curtsy.
*What have I done to deserve this?* the real Thule thought, shaking his head in exasperation.
“Look Thule, your gay twin,” Tarix waved, going into a fit of laughter.
“Tarix!” Thule groaned.
“What, you can’t even let a girl have some fun? Correction, you won’t let yourself have some fun.” This made her go into another fit of laughter.
After she stopped laughing she looked at herself observantly in the mirror. “You know, you should really shave.” It took Thule nearly half an hour to get Tarix to change back, and save him more humiliation.
After she had changed back into herself she yawned. “You were right Thule, I do feel a little tired,” she admitted.
“Well, if you hadn’t wasted your energy taunting... I think that’s enough training for today.” Thule started to go out then stopped. “Oh, I almost forgot.” He came back to her and took out two candles from his pocket. “These are ordinary candles. But they are here to help you concentrate and meditate.”
Tarix took them from him, puzzled.
“All you do is light them. Sit in front on them and try to meditate. Relax your muscles. It will also help you with your powers and also help you hone your senses.”
She just looked at him. *Mr. Miyagi all right,* she thought.
He left her. Tarix sat there for a while resting. *Isn’t that just like him? Lack of description or detail. What am I supposed to do? Read his mind?* She found that thought very ironic. Tarix got up to get dressed and then left for her daily job.
Mid-Season Two: Jan 20, 2006 - June 16(ish), 2006
Monday 19th September 2005, 10:30pm
She stood there on top of the building looking down, through her binoculars. She had been there for about an hour, doing nothing but observing her identical twin. She put her binoculars down, and if someone were to look into her eyes at that moment they would have seen nothing but cold fury and pure malice.
In her apartment Tarix had just finished her dinner and was clearing the dishes. She looked around her living area, thinking of what to do next. She felt like going out, but Thule had told her stay put, so she decided to stay at home and read a book. Maybe if she got bored enough she’d even browse through one of the books Thule had brought her.
Up on the roof Jessy had still not moved from her previous position. *I wish I could kill her now.* But she knew she couldn’t, not now. Jessy always wanted a fair fight and when Jasmine was ready she’d meet her. And make sure that that would be Jasmine’s last fight. *Tarix indeed. You can hide behind a false name and identity but you will always be my sister and the best I can do is give my sister a good funeral.* An evil smile crept across Jessy’s face as she got ready to leave.
Tarix was about to switch on the TV but she suddenly felt something. Like a feeling that she was being watched. She looked out of her window and saw nothing unusual outside, but for some reason she shook as a cold shiver went down her spine.
Mid-Season Two: Jan 20, 2006 - June 16(ish), 2006
September 7, 2005: 7:00pm
Forty-eight hours.
Forty-eight hours had passed since Tyler left the Beazor. Forty-eight hours, and the job was not done. Granted, with this sort of task you can’t just charge into it half cocked and expect to not encounter some resistance. It takes time to properly surveil your quarry, to figure out a plan of attack. But that was the problem, entirely.
Forty-eight hours had passed and time was what Tyler didn’t have. So he sat in that stolen black Honda Civic, staring at an apartment building (one he’d soon enter) waiting for the precise, perfect moment. The moment where he’d have the least time to think about what he was about to do. Because thinking meant one thing, and one thing only.
Tyler would not be able to do the job.
The job, as both Tyler and Paul referred to it, had turned out to be a woman by the name of Sandra Ellis. On the morning of August 3, Sandra had been in the Beazor. In the Beazor, she’d made conversation with a drunken Chaos demon. In the course of that conversation, Sandra had made a purchase. She bought a large chunk of what appeared to be purple quartz. But, of course, that stone was not just quartz.
Unbeknownst to the demon, and perhaps to Sandra, the “quartz” was a mystical stone, the rough equivalent of a magical amplifier. Channel a spell through it, and the power amplifies a thousand fold. There were stones of this kind scattered all over the world. This one specialized in regenerative magics.
What Sandra definitely did not know was that the Chaos demon was supposed to be holding this thing for Paul.
The demon died in the pit that night, torn to pieces by an angry Fyarl.
And forty-eight hours ago, Tyler drove from the Beazor to Sandra’s apartment.
And before hour fifty, this thing would be over.
A Warehouse, somewhere in the LA warehouse district
Two days.
Agents Harrison and Scott had been in LA for two days and they were getting impatient. From the airport, Denny Elbourn had brought them to the warehouse district and stashed them in a safe house, which was in essence a much smaller scale version of the headquarters in Texas.
There would be an LA branch soon. But two days did pass in that warehouse before they convinced Elbourn to get to the business of things. And the business they wanted was to know their jobs.
And, after two days, Agent Elbourn acquiesced. He brought them into the command office, his own, and sat down behind a desk. From a drawer Elbourn produced two manila folders, passing them to his charges for their perusal.
“Damn,” Scott replied, as was his instinct, with mild profanity.
“So this is why Collin sent us here.” Harrison was levelheaded, too much so.
“Yeah. The boss has wanted this one for a while. How long do you need?” Elbourn was all business now that things were moving.
“A month, at least. He’ll be looking for something,” Scott said quietly.
“And if he’s not, the witch will be,” Harrison nodded in agreement.
“All right then.” Elbourn stood up, moved for the door. “Let’s get started, since you’re so eager.”
LA: 8:00 pm
Tyler opened the door of his Civic and took a cautious step onto the street. He could see, in the distance to his right, a man coming. This man lived here, and entered the building daily at 8:03. And twenty minutes later, Sandra Ellis followed. In another two, she’d have made her way to her apartment.
And to set up, Tyler needed exactly twenty-two minutes.
So, as this man approached the door Tyler was half a foot behind, and when the man unlocked the door and flung it open, Tyler threw an old shell casing. Right into the jamb. Thus, when the door swung back, it didn’t lock itself again.
And Tyler entered. Once that was done, he turned to his right, scanning the names on the mailboxes. It was in his favor that the boxes held the same numbers as the person’s apartment.
*Sandra Ellis, 4C.* Tyler found his quarry, and moved to the stairs, running to the fourth floor. It was 8:08 when Tyler reached his floor, and moved to apartment C.
Standing in front of the door, Tyler removed from his pocket two paperclips, which were bent out of shape. He stuck both into the lock, jiggled them, and turned.
The door popped open. It was now 8:16.
Tyler shut the door behind him, locking it again, and stopped to take measure of the apartment. To his left was a kitchen counter, which served as the left edge of the kitchen itself. Past the kitchen was a bathroom and closet. On the far left wall was a glass door leading to a balcony. On the right, just in front of Tyler, was a living room, past which was the bedroom. On the right wall was a television, 36” flat screen, and a shelf of books.
Tyler immediately went to that shelf and pulled a box from atop it. Inside the box was a Glock 22, along with a clip of .40 caliber ammo. Tyler took the gun, slammed the clip into place, and put the box away.
It was 8:24, so Tyler moved back to the door and held the gun low as Sandra opened it, hiding him.
She stepped in slowly, holding a grocery bag. She stopped moving altogether, however, when Tyler shut the door, and drew back the hammer.
“If you move, I will kill you.” Tyler put extra effort into the threat, trying to sound menacing. It worked. Or would have, but Sandra was not the type to scare easily.
“Strange threat. I have to assume you’ll do that anyway.” Sandra dropped the bag, and turned for where she thought her gun would be. Barely two steps into the move, Tyler grabbed her, hooked her head, and jammed the Glock into her temple.
“Maybe. But there’s still the question, Sandra, of how slow you’re going to die,” Tyler whispered in her ear, barely having time to finish before Sandra bit his hand. As she wriggled free, Tyler brought the Glock down into her skull, knocking her to the floor. He then pressed on her windpipe with his foot.
“Done yet?” Tyler pressed harder. “Listen real close, Sandra. I’m going to let you up, and you’re going to do exactly what I tell you. Are we agreed?”
Sandra nodded.
“Good. First, I want you to go to your table, and get a chair. Then wedge it in the door. Do that now.”
Tyler released Sandra, and she did as was asked, effectively barricading them in. Tyler followed her with the gun the whole way.
“Well done. Put your hands on your chest.”
“Screw you.” She was surly, but did as she was told.
“Not interested. Now you’re going to answer my question. A month ago, you were at the Beazor Complex.” Sandra nodded at Tyler’s question. “While you were there, you bought something from a demon.”
Sandra’s face changed to recognition.
“I see you know what I’m talking about. Where is it?”
“In my bedroom, on the…”
“Go get it.” Sandra moved toward the back of the apartment, with Tyler five feet behind her. But as she entered her bedroom the distance closed to two feet. Sandra went into a closet and opened a box. After a moment she attacked Hyatt in a lightning move, swinging a knife at his neck.
Tyler dodged and fired, severing the brachial nerve.
“That was not smart, Sandy.” Tyler kicked her in the ribs, and went into the closet. He found the crystal on the top. “And neither is keeping this right next to your back up weapon.”
Tyler pocketed the crystal and kicked her again. This time, the blow turned her face up. Then he aimed.
Forty-nine hours and fifty-six minutes after Tyler met with Paul, Sandra Ellis was executed. Tyler shot her once again, this time cleanly through the head. And immediately, he felt sick. Tyler’s breathing hitched, and the lunch he ate two days ago on the train threatened to reemerge. But that lasted less than a second.
And Tyler was okay. He kneeled next to Sandra, running a hand over her face. With his finger, Tyler shut her eyes gently and whispered two words.
“I’m sorry.” When that was done, Tyler stood, and walked to the glass door.
And as hour fifty passed, Tyler returned to his car.
Mid-Season Two: Jan 20, 2006 - June 16(ish), 2006
Tuesday 20 September
Alaric could not stand the luxury apartment. For one thing, he had to constantly buy materials to make a cream to hide his natural skin colour. This was an annoyance, but one he had to be patient with until such time as he could acquire a new home. Majestic 12 found and raided his old base, so it was necessary to move.
Normally he hid in places where they didn’t look for demons. The hunters always tracked them to the bad parts of town, the luxury penthouses, graveyards, crypts, and the like. That was what made the home in the suburbs so great: it was unpredictable. Nobody ever expected to find a leader of an old demon organisation hiding there. So the leader of the Five was able to stay hidden for the most part... and now they needed a new member.
Belzar’s betrayal still stuck in their throats. He'd hated the Alliance, hated the treaty, and felt the Order was abandoning its position. It was too bad the demon never understood the subtleties of influence which could be brought to bear. A free hand to sow conflict between demons, and all for refraining from injuring a few human politicians. Which led to his betrayal, and the others waiting for him to die before meeting to discuss a replacement.
A knock on the door of the apartment came. Alaric crept silently to the door, peering through the eyehole. He wasn’t disguised, so would have to make like he wasn’t home if it was a neighbour. *Good. Thule.* As he opened the door, he spoke with a quasi-jovial voice. “Ah, Thule, so nice to see you again. Do come in.” The other was still in the suit he had worn earlier. “How are you doing?”
“Very well,” Thule replied, taking a seat in the middle of the room. He noticed that Alaric had already placed out tea, and was pouring a cup which he accepted from the orange demon. “I have been training Tarix, teaching her about her powers and demons. She is learning fast.”
“Excellent,” Alaric replied, sitting on the arm of the chair. “She is close to you, trusts you?” Thule nodded once, immediately knowing where this was going. “I think it is time we began to integrate her more fully into the Order. Introduce her to our central philosophy.”
“You want me to do this?” Thule asked.
“Both of us.” Alaric smiled at his friend, judging it was time to spring the good news. “After all, her mentor is one of the Five who govern the Order, so I would like to meet his protégé. Assuming, of course, you accept.”
“The Five?” Thule asked in surprise, before some of the things he’d heard returned to him. “Then it’s true. Did Belzar really fall?”
“Yes, he did. I personally lobbied my compatriots on your behalf.”
“I am honoured, and I do accept.”
“Excellent.” Alaric clasped his hands together as he considered the man he had known for a long time. “We have been silent of late, but soon we will move again, sowing our conflict.”
Mid-Season Two: Jan 20, 2006 - June 16(ish), 2006
"Kid Ronin, the Taoist Pistolero"
16 Sept. 05
6:35 P.M.
Sunny Gates Apartments, Unit 3D
Fate wondered what color his hat would be were his existence made into a postmodernist cowboy picture. It had all the classic elements of solid, corn-fed, wistfully nostalgic Old West sentimentalism: subterfuge leading to a full-on betrayal leading to revenge leading to a photonegative of the standard denouement, the ostensible 'hero' riding off into the sunrise, his future uncertain, indeterminate. Being a postmodern cowboy flick, the 'hero' would have no interest in whatever buxom, corn-fed Love Interest the filmmaker would tease the audience with for two hours before the tenuous 'what-if?' moment before the closing am-scray before the credits rolled. Fate knew he was dodging the issue, painting himself into wild, abstract, hypothetical situations to avoid thinking about the Great Big Thing burning in his ever-aware consciousness...
16 Sept. 05
7 A.M.
Sunny Gates Apartments, Unit 3D
Fate, fading thoughts of tigers still coursing through his head, retired to the lightproof sanctity of his empty bedroom to begin susoku kan, the classic kendo practitioner’s meditative method of kneeling perfectly still while counting to four over and over again to achieve a state of complete experiential stasis. While he serenely kept cadence, the photosensor he set up in the western window of the apartment monitored the amount of lumens the sun put out, triggering an alarm clock to rouse him from his meditation when the rays would no longer harm his excessively-photosensitive physiology. He learned to accept this daily period of inactivity like mortals treated sleep--a basic, physical necessity--but he never welcomed it. Time and the world moved around him while he kneeled there, outside of the equation, a sometime variable. An entity that phased into the continuity of reality like a supplementary character in a dream…
16 Sept. 05
7:06 A.M.
Sunny Gates Apartments, Unit 3D
Fate, suffering from a thirty-five year-old lack of subconscious interference, felt the cumulative weight of his mind acting in direct opposition to his conscious motives. Dreams rendered obsolete by the sheer mass of his awareness, his mind conjured fleeting images to remind him that his subconscious mind was still operational, and still sitting in tribunal over the various misdeeds Fate was perhaps guilty of. His count was constantly interrupted by the rush of images cutting in and out like a hyperkinetic slideshow…
16 Sept. 05
7:35 A.M.
Sunny Gates Apartments, Unit 3D
*Ichi*
*Ni*
…image of Fate back when he was only Terence, aged seven, at a local carnival with his parents. They were riding the Ferris wheel, the three of them, young Terence equal parts terror and exhilaration. His father’s arm around him, a comforting presence, offering a squeeze on the shoulder for every downstroke of the iron wheel. Terence there trying not to scream, trying to be brave in the face of engineering beyond his youthful ability to comprehend. All he felt was the up and down of the ride, the constant change in altitude…
*Shit*
*Up and down just like my energy level, neverending, no rest for the wicked…*
*San*
*My existence as a two-footed Ferris wheel. Lovely. Concentrate, dammit!*
*Shi*
*Ichi*
*Ni*
…
16 Sept. 05
9:42 A.M.
Sunny Gates Apartments, Unit 3D
*Ni*
*San*
…her name was Michelle, his first sweetheart. The first girl he kissed. The owner of the first breasts he lay hands upon. She smelled like flowers and linens dried on a clothesline, a basic freshness to her general effect on the olfactory sense. To Terence she owned the scent of love and hope, and he remembered the way he pined for her, the way his world stood still until he could see her again after school. The glow of her complexion. The taste of her lipgloss. The way she crinkled her nose when she smiled. The laugh that quaked its way through the topography of her body, tremors measurable on the Richter scale of his desire for her contours…
*Shi*
*She’s fifty-five now, most likely married with grown children. I wonder what she remembers of me? I probably incurred her anger with the way I simply vanished off the radar. Ghost lover, non-corporeal as a memory. Hopefully she thinks of me fondly…
*Ichi*
*Ni*
…
16 Sept. 05
11:26 A.M.
Sunny Gates Apartments, Unit 3D
*Ichi*
…The Somebody Man, Zen ID forger extraordinaire, cloistered in the lower echelons of the criminal hierarchy of San Diego, asking Fate what name he wanted to go by. Fate giving him the unlikely moniker ‘Johnny Ifrit,’ deciding on the anonymity of Johnny (America loves a Johnny) coupled with a surname copped off of a malevolent Arabian fire spirit, a counterpoint to the djinni of myth. The Somebody Man there with his own apropos nickname, pens in hand creating an entity out of nothing, Godhead of lamination and stippled print. Fate--without using his heightened senses--knew he could trust this man, one of the true artists out there, plying his illicit trade as coolly and cleanly as he could, his word worth more than any signed contract extant. And The Somebody Man’s word extended to tertiary inquiries on the legitimacy of the identities created, his network of facilitators (his term, vague and spectral) insinuating the necessary code into the mainframes of decent society, creating a being where there was only a void before, the smoke of his clove cigarettes hovering as the only by-product of his creativity. Fate didn’t mind snuffing The Somebody Man’s enemies. The Somebody Man deserved a reprieve from those who didn’t appreciate the nature of his specialty, those who sought to thwart his brilliance. They deserved to die for their indecency, their constitutional lack of delicacy and appreciation for the truth of genuine artistry. Fate kept them from his careful hands and eyes, and The Somebody Man smiled on Fate, letting him see his eyes as they truly were, exposing his soul for the sake of Fate’s appreciation…
*Ni*
*Peace be upon you, Somebody Man…*
*San*
…
16 Sept. 05
1:41 P.M.
Sunny Gates Apartments, Unit 3D
…Images of Ishida juxtaposed with Blake’s “The Tyger.” Blake spoke of The Tyger to explain the other side of wisdom and serenity, the being of relentless energy and enthusiasm, the Thing that challenged God to find a way to frame it in His limitless power. The Tyger exploded into the world, preying and hunting, an anomaly outside of God’s orderly universe. Blake knew that God couldn’t claim credit for creating such an animal, a predator that defied the sternest measures of God’s Control Machine. The poem erupted with questions, pleading for the Beast to consider the rigidity of the universe and act accordingly. The Tyger had no time for pleas…
*Shi*
…Ishida there with his alleged four centuries of experience, grasping at the first opportunity to pass on the force that allowed him his timelessness…Fate there, willing and acquiescent…Ishida, Senyata-Oni, more than human, handing it off knowing that death would be his reward for his ‘gift.’ Four hundred years and he couldn’t think beyond basic human relationships or morality? Blake’s Tyger hunted. Ishida waited for his prey to come to him…
Japanese Venus Fly-Trap.
Failure of will.
A meekness of spirit.
And a Tyger consumed a Lamb…
*Ichi*
…
16 Sept. 05
3:08 P.M.
Sunny Gates Apartments, Unit 3D
…Fate keeping in mind the reality of Cop Radar, mortal Heat perhaps on his case eventually (he has been a bad, bad boy for about thirty-five years now)…He knows on some level that they, the beating-heart gestalt Cop Presence, wear hats of white, but he can’t help thinking that their sphere of influence is in no way adjacent to his own. And above the street-level, beat, Heat force is another, higher form of Heat, an evolution of the species that perceives the world at a higher level of resolution, Cops ‘N’ Robbers with the decimal places moved several steps to the left…Where did Fate fit into the progression? Was there some form of Divine Heat waiting to nab him, some rarefied Justice that saw his—Fate’s—actions in an equally-rarefied, unsullied, esoteric framework? Could that high-end Heat dig on his personal war against the ostensible forces of Evil and judge accordingly? The undead were presumably the Blackest of Black Hats, but would his—Fate’s—predations on them resolve as Good Deeds, or was he anonymously correcting a Divine Mistake? How much would God cop to?
*Ni*
*Ni*
*Ni*
*Concentrate!*
16 Sept. 05
6:44 P.M.
Sunny Gates Apartments, Unit 3D
…Hats of various colors, black bleaching out to an eventual white, baseline gray alternately brightening to white in a burst of spiritual levity or descending the wavelengths to a sullied darkness…Fate there outside of the spectrum, his will desiring only clarity, the clarity of a High Noon challenge or the carefully-articulated reality of a kendo duel. In either case Death was the final arbiter, the last witness to the outcome of the moment, neither good nor bad, simply what was…Fate spent the last thirty-five years disregarding outcomes…
16 Sept. 05
6:46 P.M.
Sunny Gates Apartments, Unit 3D
Fate there, Kid Ronin the Taoist Pistolero, death in his hands and being, the smiling monster daring God to frame his fearful symmetry, began his nightly progression of katas…
Mid-Season Two: Jan 20, 2006 - June 16(ish), 2006
20th September 2005,
4:15pm
It was Thule who had decided that it would be good for Tarix if she were to witness a slight change in her surroundings. He had taken her to the nearest park, much to Tarix’s reluctance. “Thule, I really would rather be in my apartment. I could be doing a lot of useful things, like reading a book, or watching TV or…”
“Or sulking and giving yourself a migraine by thinking about your past,” Thule finished for her. They had been walking around the park and the sun was still up and shining quite brightly.
Even though she didn’t admit it, the change of air did feel quite refreshing to her. She kept on walking and breathed in the crisp air, and her lungs welcomed it. She looked at the trees and heard the cheerful chirping of the birds and it was rather calming.
“So, Mr. Miyagi, have you brought me here to give me another lesson or just for the sake of being a nice mentor as they show in the movies?” Tarix asked, quite teasingly.
“Well, actually I have. And stop calling me that.” He stopped and looked straight ahead. “I wanted to teach you to trust me, and that if I don’t tell you something, I am doing it for your own good.” He looked at her. “I still think it would have been better if you had learned about your sister when you were stronger.”
“But I am strong!” she protested. “All that training in the morning, I bet I can kick Sylvester’s butt.”
“Probably of the cat - the actor, I doubt it. But I meant stronger emotionally. However, it's better that it’s out in the open. At least now we know that you're maybe under threat by Jessy and that you are aware of it.”
Tarix looked around her and not finding any bench decided to sit down on the grass. “Thule, tell me. When you first met me you said you had never seen me before, and that you had only seen a picture of me. How much of that is true?”
Thule followed her and also sat down on the ground, even though he was dressed formally in a suit. “Well, none of it really.” At Tarix’s look of disapproval he added, “You have to understand that I was trying not to alarm you too much. What would have happened if that same day you had learned about your entire past? I doubt you would have been able to have gotten over the emotional pain.”
Tarix didn’t say anything.
“Yes, I knew you. And your sister. As a matter of fact I was quite fond of her. She was more open, while you seemed to be more shy. You liked to stay at home, while Jessy was always coaxing your dad to have her taken to his place of work.” Thule stopped, and a glazed look came over his eyes as he started to remember.
“So how well did you knew Jessy?” she asked. At this question Thule’s expression turned a little painful and he looked down. When he looked back up his expression was hardened.
“I knew her quite well, or at least I thought I did. She had begged me to train her and I did. I had taken many pupils under my wing, your father being one of them, but she seemed to be better than most of them. Her learning was very fast and within a few months she knew how to easily defend herself, and at the age of thirteen she had killed three vampires. We were all very proud.”
And he did remember it. Little Jessy was standing there struggling with a newly turned vampire. He was standing about three feet away, with a stake, just in case the vampire got an upper hand on the child. The vampire, a middle-aged looking man was almost strangling her, and Thule decided it was time he took care of the problem. He was closing in when Jessy’s foot shot up and kicked her opponent in the shin.
As he got distracted, she pushed him off herself and thumped him in the face. He quickly lost his balance and fell, and before he could get back up Jessy quickly grabbed the stake from Thule and stabbed the vamp.
“Hey! That hurts you little twerp.” Jessy’s eyes grew in shock as she realised the vampire hadn’t turned to dust. She was sitting on the vamp, holding him in place, as she looked up at Thule with a puzzled look.
“Jessy, the heart is usually on the left hand side.” Thule answered back.
“But I did… oh wait that’s my left, hold on.” She looked down, thumped the vamp again in the head to daze him, quickly pulled out the stake and stabbed him again in the right place.
“Ewww, Thule I got vamp dust on my jumper!”
Thule just chuckled, “Very good, your first vampire.”
He came back to reality and took a deep breath, feeling as if he couldn’t continue. “But little did we know she’d come out that way. I mean she always kept something secret. Little did I know that her secret would be scheming with the Macabres, and killing her own parents.” He seemed to choke on his last words, and Tarix noticed that his skin had gone a very slight blue. She shook her head and looked at Thule again and saw that there was nothing wrong with him. *Must be my imagination.*
She decided to drop the subject, as it seemed to hurt him so much. They sat there quietly on the grass for a few more minutes. Just before the sun was going to set Thule quietly got up, deciding it was time to head back before they were engulfed in total darkness and the danger of the night started to lurk out.
Call for Help
September 20, 2005 - 5:00 p.m.
Beeeeeeep.
“Um. Hi Drew. It’s Chinaka. I, uh, I mean you bought a picture at my gallery – African Heart. Oh! And I was at that party given by your girlfriend, I can’t remember her name – one of the redheads – the natural one. I think it’s natural. If not, great dye job because it looks like it grows out of her head that way. I didn’t see ANY roots.
“Anyway, remember everyone at that party was all wigged because I brought my Auntie Parasol? She’s a vampire. Remember? Look, my auntie’s gone missing. Which I kinda thought I wanted but… And she left this book that I can’t decipher. It’s bass-ackwards with all kinds of parables and prophecies and descriptions and stuff. Well, you gave me your card when you bought that picture. Look, you’re familiar with this hoodoo stuff. I mean, you’re a scholar on it, right?
“Drew – in all seriousness. I’m really worried about her and I really need your help. It’s important. Please, PLEASE call me. 323-555-9482. As soon as possible.”
September 20, 2005 – 4:55 p.m.
Chinaka had tried to do this on her own. She really had. She took the book she found in Parasol’s room and went to the Los Angeles Public Library. Great building, but not a single word on “Phoe’s Listing.” She spent hours hunched over what seemed to be hundreds of books. She woke up drooling on them.
She tried another course of action -- the Psychic Eye Book Shop. After days of research she found that the stuff there was too new agey; no definitions, only allusions. And she hated the space cadets that work there. They knew nothing about Parasol’s book. No. What she needed was serious knowledge about some pretty serious geechee voodoo bad magic mojo. So not Chinaka’s bag.
Chinaka called her mother every day to see if she’d heard from Parasol. Her mother said she hadn’t but that Parasol could take care of herself. Chinaka angrily pointed out that for all her mother knew, Parasol could be dust in the wind. Her mother just said, “Then she’s released,” and suggested that Chinaka keep her britches on. And pray.
Chinaka sat alone in the Adirondak chair outside African Heart – praying. She really missed Parasol. She felt stunningly guilty about how mean she’d been to Parasol. Chinaka tried to let herself off the hook by pointing out to herself that Parasol was a VAMPIRE for chrissakes. Herself would counter with the fact that Parasol was family. Hell, everyone’s got at least one black sheep in the family. Ask the Kozinskis. So Parasol was a bit blacker than most but still… family is family.
And Parasol had been so gracious at that party at that book shop, the one where everyone treated her like she was pariah, which, okay, technically, she was. Notwithstanding, Chinaka remembered Parasol walking around that party like she owned the joint. Even talking to the owner of the shop, that redhead, Drew’s girlfr…
Chinaka stopped dead in her thoughts.
Drew! Of course! He knew about this. Or at least he could help. Or he could point her in a direction. Or he knew people who would know or help or point.
Chinaka unassed the Adirondak and ran to the cash register. Now where did she put that card? She rung the drawer open. There it was, all safe and sound under the money.
Chinaka dialed Drew’s number, wishing and hoping and praying that he could help her figure out what the hell this Phoe’s Listing was all about. Maybe he’d know what a Cadre was and what Parasol's note, “Find the Cadre, find God,” meant. What did a vampire have to do with God? Or the question probably should be what did God have to do with a vampire?
Drew could help bring her Auntie Parasol back so Chinaka could tell her how much she loved her. How much she missed her. How much she didn’t care what Parasol was. That she’d been too self-involved to see it before. That she now realized that Parasol had only done good by her and that should be the measure of a being. Chinaka was near tears at the thought that help may finally, finally come her way. Drew HAD to help her.
As the phone rang, Chinaka wondered if Drew really was as handsome as she remembered – all long-legged and stuff.
Mid-Season Two: Jan 20, 2006 - June 16(ish), 2006
Monday, 12th September 2005 – 6:15pm Tours local time
Monday, 12th September 2005 – 9:15am LA time
Tash cracked a blind open and peered out. Late afternoon sun was filtering through grey clouds and a slight drizzle dampened the ground. The plane taxied towards an open hangar, and once inside the door rolled shut blocking out the weak sunlight. Letting the blind snap back into place Tash stood and stretched, getting the kinks out of her back. "So we're here. Now what?"
"We take rooms at a local hotel, Samantha and I feed then I locate Jadyn."
Sorrow winced. Valerian's bluntness practically invited an explosion from Tash and though he understood that there was nothing he or Tash could do to stop Valerian - and by extension Samantha - feeding, that didn't mean Tash wouldn't try.
"Tash..."
Tash blanched at Valerian's words. Feed... Then she stared at Sorrow incredulously for a moment. His warning tone surely shouldn't have been directed at her, but at Valerian. She opened her mouth to protest, but shut it again. There would be time enough at the hotel to have this out.
The look didn’t pass unnoticed by Valerian, however, and he gave a low chuckle, “Now, now children, don’t start bickering. You wouldn’t want to ruin my concentration and make it more difficult for me to find Jadyn, I’m sure.”
The mocking smile he directed at Tash made her wince. The threat in his statement was clear. But she couldn’t just stand by while he and Sam… Could she?
Hefting her bag over a shoulder she stared icy daggers at the vampire. “Just get us to this hotel.”
Valerian inclined his head to Tash as Sam opened the door of the plane. They descended the steps to another limousine. The car pulled away and they sat in silence. Sorrow looked at the others impassively. He'd been expecting this. There was no way Valerian wouldn't feed. Just like Tash wouldn't refrain from doing everything in her power to stop him. It seemed Valerian was going to rub their noses in the fact they couldn't stop him.
*He's going to make me defend his right to hunt or watch him punish Tash's temerity.* She sat next to him seething and he knew he'd do it. Their presence was inconsequential - Valerian would feed. *Pick your battles...*
Valerian reclined on the plush upholstery, outwardly calm but inwardly delighted. Either Tristan would be forced to restrain Natasha, or Natasha would give him an excuse to chastise her. He would get pleasure both from the watching or the doing. It didn't matter to him. Though he had to admit, Natasha's discomfort at his touch was supremely gratifying to him.
For her part, Tash sat in stony silence during the car ride, unwilling to look at the vampires or Sorrow. She was relieved when they reached the hotel. The limousine tilted as they descended to the underground car park, and Tash was first out of the car as soon as it drew to a smooth stop.
Scant minutes later, Tash and Sorrow were being ushered to their rooms. Valerian took great pains to point out that he’d arranged separate rooms for them, while he and Sam were sharing a suite at the end of the hall.
Ignoring Valerian’s supercilious smile, Tash entered her room long enough to cast an eye over the sumptuous fittings before she crossed the hall. Sorrow had left his door ajar and she knocked once to announce her presence as she pushed it open. Shutting it behind her she leaned against it and crossed her arms. Sorrow acknowledged her but continued unpacking.
Tash didn’t bother with a preamble. “Now just what the hell was that about back there, Sorrow? You reckon it’s ok for Valerian to go out and murder people now?”
"If you can come up with a way to stop him feeding that doesn’t get us both killed, then by all means go stop him from killing people because I have no idea how to do it." Sorrow stalked across the room to Tash, "If you make an issue of this it will only get worse. Assuming he doesn't just beat the shit out of you for what he no doubt considers your presumption, he will use this to torture you."
He sighed, "I don't like it, but be realistic - are either of us capable of killing a vampire that's 1600 years old? Because that's what it's going to take to stop him."
Tash regarded Sorrow balefully, “You and I both hunt vampires. It’s who we are. And whatever our reasons for getting into it, we keep doing it to stop people from losing their lives. And yes, he’s powerful. And yes, if we try to stop him hunting he might decide to ditch us and take his chances with finding Jade alone. And yes, he might beat me half to death for trying. But damn, Sorrow!”
She ran her fingers through her short-cropped hair, her hand trembling in frustration. “Maybe you can just sit back and say c’est la vie. But I can’t. I just can’t wait here while they go out and drain the life from someone’s son or daughter, or someone’s mother or father, or someone’s wife or husband.” She looked at him helplessly. “I can’t. I’ve got to do something. Usually we hunt on the off-chance we’ll find some vampire about to feed – that’s when they’re most vulnerable. And this one’s given us a heads up, for shit’s sake!”
"He isn't vulnerable, Tash. He's handled Hizashi unsheathed like it was an ordinary blade; he's had centuries to learn about power and he has none of my limitations. You could tiptoe up behind him while he's sucking the blood out of some innocent and he could strike you down without a second thought or even worse, enthral you so you stood there and watched. Maybe he'd leave his victim with just enough blood to give you hope that they'd survive but they'd die before they reached a hospital. The best you can do is balance the scales. Go out and hunt, kill a few vampires, save a few people that wouldn't be saved were we not here. Anything else is a fool’s errand."
“I know you’re right. I know. But it makes my blood boil that he expects us to just sit here meekly while he slakes his thirst.”
Tash paced around the room, feeling the anger ebb and flow. “I feel like an exhibit at a circus, and Valerian’s the one holding the whip making me jump through hoops for him. He wants me to fight him on this, doesn’t he? He loves to torment people. Damn!” Tash clenched her fists, resisting the urge to punch the wall.
She turned blazing eyes on Sorrow, “Ok then, good plan. The sun’ll be setting in half an hour or so. Why don’t we find out just how many vampires operate in Tours?”
Sorrow smiled tightly and nodded. *Ok, that went easier than expected but can she hold it together when Valerian's cracking the whip?* Sorrow gathered his hunting gear and waited for Tash in the hallway outside his room. They walked downstairs in silence and met the two vampires at the doors just as the sun was setting.
"Ah, Tristan. Natasha. Will you be joining us for dinner?"
Tash gritted her teeth and stared icily past Valerian's shoulder. "Hardly."
She was preparing to say more when she felt the pressure of Sorrow's hand in the small of her back. Snarling, she subsided, her ego stinging under Valerian's soft laughter and Sam's knowing smirk. *Just give me five minutes alone with you, you bitch!* she thought furiously.
"Keep Samantha close tonight, Valerian. If we cross paths and you aren't around to save her... she's dust."
Samantha's hand grabbed Sorrow's arm as he and Tash walked past the vampires. "Do you think you can?"
Sorrow rolled the sudden sense of the vampire around his head. Finding it lacking he directed his gaze to Valerian and smirked, "I know I can."
Tash appeared on Sam's opposite side, a stake already in her hand and pressing against the young vampire's ribs. "In a heartbeat," she whispered to the startled creature before backing off a pace. Sorrow's aura had darkened a fraction - a brief flare of his old blackness – and Tash smiled, “But I doubt I’d get the chance. Sorrow would beat me to it.”
Mid-Season Two: Jan 20, 2006 - June 16(ish), 2006
A couple of hours later found Tash and Sorrow standing in a darkened alley far from the streetlights of Tours. "You know, you take me to the nicest places," Sorrow whispered.
They'd hit the graveyards first, but apart from a single vampire who was obviously unused to the concept of hunters they'd found nothing. So they'd moved on; heading into the city centre they walked through the streets while Tash tried to pick out any vampires in the crowd.
Finally Tash spotted a foursome of vampires. They were in high spirits and Sorrow got the impression they had already fed and were now looking for a night’s entertainment. So Tash and Sorrow had followed behind and waited for their moment. The vamps had unknowingly led them here to this darkened alley. And both of the hunters got the sense that there were more than four vampires here so they decided on a little caution.
The snippets of speech were hard to make out and Tash strained to remember the French she’d learned while searching through Europe for Matthias. The sense of clustered evil was strong, and Tash stood on tiptoe to whisper directly into Sorrow’s ear. “I think they’re saying that’s some sort of vampire hang out down there.”
As she finished speaking, a door near the far end of the alley opened and noise spilled out faintly as the vampires entered, calling greetings to those inside. Sorrow and Tash shared a quick look of tacit agreement and they sped down the alley to catch the door’s edge just as it was about to swing shut. Easing it open a crack, Tash crouched and peered into the gloom.
The interior was as unprepossessing as the outside. Half a dozen or so dark shapes disappeared into a room to the right of a short hallway. The hallway was bare of adornment except for scraps of rubbish that littered the floor. The dank smell of death wafted out, almost imperceptible. The cold feeling of evil remained, however.
Sorrow slipped a stake into his hand and crept up to the door. There were two other exits from the hallway and he remained alert, reaching out with his senses, but beyond the muffled murmur from the door on the right he heard nothing and the scent of old death and rotting garbage masked the scent of any vampires that may have passed through.
He could discern six distinct voices through the door. Sharing a look with Tash he mouthed "six" to her then nodded. He placed his hand on the doorknob, twisted sharply and thrust the door open. Taking care to keep control of the door Sorrow leapt into the room taking the six vampires within by surprise.
Sorrow moved to the left of the room, staking the first vampire in the back before it could even turn. As soon as Sorrow cleared the doorway, Tash let loose her readied crossbow bolt, skewering the one on the right with his back to her. The repeater mechanism clicked a second bolt into place and a young red haired vampire obliged by turning to face her square on, exposing his heart. A second pile of dust settled to the ground to join her first, and she dropped the crossbow and advanced on the last on her side. He snarled menacingly and uttered something Tash couldn’t be bothered to translate. She was sure it was unfriendly, if not downright unsavoury.
Sorrow punched his second foe in the face and the sound of cracking cartilage filled the small room. Unloading a second and third punch, Sorrow drove the vampire back and then unleashed a kick straight into its chest. The vampire flew backwards into the wall and slumped downward, its chest a shattered bloody mess. Sorrow’s final opponent stood, momentarily shocked at the sudden eruption of violence but he recovered quickly and with a growl launched himself at the D'Nethk'Quan.
Tash winced at the noise Sorrow was making on his side, then thought, *Bugger it, bring them on!* She was still furious at her inability to stop Valerian from feeding, and wanted - no, needed - to more than make up for it in local vamps. She snarled in return at the tall, greasy-haired vampire facing her and curled her lip in response to his frank appraisal of her. It rushed at her and she stepped to one side, avoiding his clumsy attempt at a grapple.
"Used to whimpering local girls, aren't you? You've got vampire hunters on your case now," Tash kidney punched the vampire, "and we're a whole different kettle of fish.”
The vampire growled something in French in response and Tash simply stuck her tongue out at him. "Yeah, come get some."
She made 'come on' motions with her fingertips and the beast's eyes narrowed. Then he charged once more, this time trying to slam her against the wall. He caught the edge of her shoulder as she twisted out the way, and she spun against the corner of the table. *Ow!* She gritted her teeth against the deep throbbing pain in her thigh. That would be a pretty bruise tomorrow. She lashed out with her other foot, landing a solid blow in the bloodsucker's midriff and causing him to double over. As his face came down, Tash's fist pistoned up, and blood sprayed over her from his nose and mouth.
He spat out a broken tooth, snarled again, louder, and swung at her, but he really wasn't used to fighting much and Tash manoeuvred herself behind him and grabbed his hair, smashing his already mangled face into the wall. Once, twice, three times…
Sorrow grinned as he met the vampire's rush. At first they seemed evenly matched but Sorrow's greater skill, speed and strength quickly told. As the vampire's chest heaved, drawing in unnecessary air, Sorrow gave one last smile and drove his fist into the flesh just below the vampire’s breastbone. The leech curled up around Sorrow’s hand, unable to breathe and not yet remembering that it didn't have to. Sorrow looked down at the creature’s exposed back and drove his stake through its unbeating heart. He glanced over to Tash who was giving her opponent a lesson in the breaking point of various bones then turned to the vamp whose ribcage he had shattered and dusted the pathetic revenant.
"Uh Tash..." The sound of steel being drawn filled the room as Sorrow stepped towards the doorway.
...Twenty-one, twenty-two... Tash paused at Sorrow's words, her hand twisted tightly in the vampire’s hair. A trail of blood and mucus oozed down the wall to the point near the floor where she now crouched with him. She'd broken both his knees to stop him from struggling as she repeatedly rammed his face into the wall, and now he was slumped almost to the ground, unmoving. The rhythm of her arm moving back and forth was hypnotic, the crunching sounds at the start being gradually replaced by softer, squidgier noises.
She realised her opponent was no longer feeling anything and Sorrow's tone indicated fresh arrivals, so she pulled out a stake and dispatched her victim. She turned to see Sorrow in the doorway, Hizashi out and flashing even in this dim light. A door slammed nearby and footsteps sounded in the hallway. *Too casual. They just think it's a brawl.* Tash laughed deep in her throat and crouched low, stake at the ready.
Sorrow stepped out into the corridor in a blur. The tight quarters forced him to use very short strokes but even so Hizashi's light seemed to form a halo around him. A halo that dusted any vampire that got too close. The sheer speed and power of Sorrow's attack pushed the vampires back and Sorrow found himself in a large open plan area scattered with dingy sofas. With space to manoeuvre and a large number of vampires, Sorrow cut loose.
Rushing after Sorrow, Tash stared in admiration from the doorway. *Now I know why he did that DNQ stuff.* The room they found themselves in looked like it had once been the living area of a house. A connecting wall had been knocked down to make a larger room, and a variety of aged furniture was scattered about. A near-naked woman cowered in the corner, but Tash didn't have time for more sightseeing. A multitude of vampires converged on Sorrow, but some noticed her in the doorway and advanced with evil intent in their eyes.
Grinning, Tash whirled into action. With plenty of room and no shortage of opponents, there was no danger of missing a target. Being overwhelmed by numbers, well - that was another matter. She slipped out vial after vial of holy water, smashing them into vampires' faces, giving her breathing room. Fists and feet lashed out as fast as she could manage, but each time her stake drove home it seemed there was a fresh beast ready to fill the space.
The vampires had learnt that Sorrow's shining blade was lethal to them and his physical abilities were more than their match. A trio of the more capable ones kept him busy while the rest concentrated on Tash. But try as they might, the three vamps couldn't control the fight. They shied away from Sorrow's blade too quickly, too focused on retaining their immortality to take the necessary risks.
Sorrow smiled grimly. He flashed the blade, drove two vampires back and rounded on the third. He skewered the creature on the tip of his sword then took two steps, used a sofa as a launching platform and leapt over the group of vamps assaulting Tash. Closer to Tash he had to take more care, but two quick cuts disposed of a couple of vampires and gave Tash the breathing room she needed to deal with her remaining opponents.
Flashing Sorrow a quick smile of thanks, Tash continued the fray with everything she had at her disposal. She elbowed one of the female vamps in the face, feeling the satisfying crunch as her cheekbone gave way, while she thrust her stake through the heart of a leering bloodsucker who was getting ready to chomp on her shoulder.
Sorrow finished off the female vamp as it held its shattered jaw, leaving only one vampire to deal with. It backed away nervously, stumbling over a couch in its attempt to escape these two insane humans. Tash advanced on him slowly, her eyes cold and hard. The undead creature's own eyes widened in fear as it saw its final death in her stare.
Tash straddled it where it lay on the floor, her knees pinning its arms. It had reached the point where there was no fight left in it. But Tash's impotence and fury came to the fore and she pulled out her last vial of holy water. Unstoppering it with her teeth, she poured out a trickle and watched the smoke curl from the leech's chest.
"How does it feel to have your life drained out of you slowly? Hmm?"
The vampire stared at her, unable to comprehend, and shook its head helplessly.
Undeterred, Tash continued. The curls of smoke grew thicker as Tash dripped water on his face, his arms, his chest, his stomach. All the while her voice stayed low and steady. "That's what you do to people every day. You take their life, a bit at a time. Not nice, is it?"
The vampire began to quiver and his wail filled the room. Then he started speaking rapidly in French, pleading in his voice. His eyes fixed on Sorrow who stood behind Tash, watching impassively.
The vial empty, Tash stared down at this pitiful creature who had terrorised the people of this town for who knows how long. She thought of Valerian and Sam out there, drawing the lifeblood from some petrified victim. Her cross dangled out of her shirt, and the vampire fixed his eyes on it in stark terror. For a long moment Tash paused, watching the final wisps of smoke disappear to the ceiling and debating pressing the cross to its flesh. "Damn," she muttered softly, and pushed her stake through his heart.
She dropped the few inches to the floor with a thud and sat there, staring at the stake. She had no idea how many vampires she'd killed tonight. But it wasn't enough. It was never enough.
Sorrow walked over to Tash and placed his hand on her shoulder. "You all right?" He could see the bruises already beginning to form on her skin but it wasn't her body Sorrow was asking about.
Tash turned hollow eyes on Sorrow. "You know I'll never be all right. Neither of us will. It stopped being all right the day our families died."
She tried to stand and winced. Knocks and bruises she hadn't felt during the adrenaline rush of the fight were now making their presence known. "Oh, I'm going to be stiff tomorrow," she moaned.
Sorrow helped Tash stand. "Come on, let's get out of here. I doubt we got them all and they may be back with friends."
As Tash walked gingerly to the door Sorrow gathered her crossbow up and sheathed his own blade. Giving one last look around the now silent room Sorrow smiled and closed the door.
Mid-Season Two: Jan 20, 2006 - June 16(ish), 2006
Tuesday, 13th September 2005 - 4:30pm Tours local time
Tuesday, 13th September 2005 - 7:30am LA time
Tash slitted her eyes open to see the golden hue of a late afternoon sun slanting across her bed covers. The room looked unfamiliar, and it took a moment for her to remember. Tours. France. Jade. Valerian.
She rolled over and groaned as the aches and pains made themselves felt. She probed gingerly at the worst of the damage and shrugged mentally. *That’ll teach me to go moshing with vampires.* Luckily she’d sustained nothing worse than bruises and strained muscles. Sorrow had ‘tut-tutted’ over the state of her shoulder but Tash knew that with the first aid he’d given her last night and some warmup exercises today she’d be right soon enough.
Half an hour later saw her showered and dressed and phoning room service for breakfast. It was the mark of a classy hotel, she figured, that they didn’t so much as bat an eyelid at a request for breakfast at 5 in the evening. She was finishing her second egg on toast when there was a knock on the door accompanied by Sorrow’s voice.
She stood and limped to the door. The shower had eased the cork in her thigh somewhat, but it would be tender for a couple of days. Rubbing it, she unlocked her door. *Not that a mere lock would ever keep Valerian out if he wanted in,* she thought ruefully.
“Morning,” she said as she opened the door to Sorrow, “What’s news?”
Sorrow leant against the doorframe. Unlike Tash he felt fine. He'd picked up only a couple of bruises last night and they'd faded during the day. He had had to eat a rather substantial meal but he was used to the demands D'Nethk'Quan made on his appetite.
"Valerian’s done his ritual again. Seems Jade's in Germany, not France. Sam's making the arrangements now and we’re flying tonight."
Sorrow's eyes took in the stiffness of Tash's bearing. "You feeling better or worse this morning?"
"Mostly better, though a little sore. I'll work it out once I've finished eating." Tash's practised eye noted Sorrow's easy stance. "You seem to be none the worse for wear, but I know you got a couple of good knocks." She shook her head, a half-smile curving her mouth, "That damn DNQ isn't it? It's times like this I really miss Matthias."
She gestured for Sorrow to enter and closed the door behind him. Settling back at the small table, she polished off the remains of her meal. "So, when does he want us ready?"
"Sunset. We could move earlier; the car's covered and they could do the hanger trick again, but it's a relatively short hop. Seems he'd prefer to do the whole thing in darkness and since we still need the bloodsucker..." Sorrow shrugged. He didn't like that Valerian was calling the shots but he didn't have much choice in the matter. Once Jade was rescued though... well that was another matter.
Tash nodded. She laid a hand over Sorrow's where it rested on the table. "We will get her out. I hate relying on Valerian for this as much as you do, but for Jade's sake..." She pushed away her empty plate and squeezed his hand, the leather of her glove creaking softly in the quiet room. "We'll get her out, and we'll find a way to deal with Valerian. He won't get her. I made a promise to her long ago that I wouldn't let that monster harm her in any way."
"When this is over I will find a way." Tears stood in his eyes, yet they were at odds with the determination in his voice, "She'll be free of him if it's the last thing I do." Sorrow raised his hands and dashed the tears from his eyes then glanced at the clock.
"We have a couple of hours yet, why don't you loosen up? I'll run interference on the vampires."
The concern showed in Tash's eyes, but there were times when a girl just had to let a man be macho. The time for catharsis wasn't now. As much as she wanted to gather him in her arms and let him cry, they had to stay focused. She offered him a reassuring smile instead, "Ta, I'll do some stretching and warm up these stiff muscles. They'll be fine."
*****
The ride to the airport was strangely quiet. There was none of the usual mocking commentary from Valerian or Sam. Instead Valerian stared at the tinted windows of his limousine and Sam looked at her sire. When they reached the plane he took a seat as far from Tash and Sorrow as the close confines of the cabin would allow. Samantha fixed Valerian a drink and then sat between her sire and the two humans, the glare on her face enough to tell them they were not to disturb him.
Sorrow shared a look with Tash then shook his head and shrugged. They sat back and soon the muffled whine of the engines filled the silence of the cabin as the small jet raced down the runway and took off. As the plane levelled out Sorrow rose and moved to the drinks cabinet. "Drink?"
Valerian pointedly ignored the question. Sam shot a look that could curdle milk at ten paces. Tash hid a smile. It seemed the vampires hadn't had a good night last night. Tempting as a brandy was, she knew alcohol would slow her healing, so, "Just some water, thanks," was all she asked for. Sorrow handed her the chilled glass and she sipped at it, listening to the tinkle of the ice cubes as they rattled against the sides.
She turned to Valerian, "Have you got any more detail than 'Germany'? It's not a small country, you know."
"Bremen," came Sam's cold reply, "Hence our flight plan."
Tash's curious eyes remained on Valerian. He simply stared out the window at the night sky, not moving. It wasn't often Tash had a chance to study a vampire she wasn't in combat with, and it unnerved her the way he sat so still. Unbreathing, unmoving – he looked every bit the corpse he was. Shivering, Tash returned her attention to her water. Thank God the flight was short.
For the most part the flight passed in silence. There was the occasional whispered conversation between Sorrow and Tash, yet without the verbal sparring that characterised their previous time spent with Valerian the time seemed to stretch. In the end the stillness began to grate on their nerves almost as much as Valerian’s mocking tones had.
There was the brief squeal of tyres as the plane landed then the wail of the engines going into reverse - the plane slowed and then taxied to a relatively unlit portion of Bremen airport where yet another limousine was waiting for them. "Do you have a car at every airport, or are you using the vampiric conspiracy's resources?"
"Yes," came Valerian's reply. Whatever had troubled him on the flight had vanished.
The moon hung fat in the sky as they were whisked once more to a luxurious hotel where Valerian seemed well known. Or maybe it was just his wealth that made the concierge greet him like he was an old friend. Now that they had landed Valerian seemed excited, almost eager. He held an arm out to Tash to escort her through the lift door, an arm that she refused, silently stalking past him. The pensiveness he'd shown on the flight was gone - a smile that couldn't quite be called a smirk rested on his face as he baited Natasha.
Jadyn was close - he could sense her. Her scent filled this city. Soon he would find her and then... and then he would see. He appraised Tristan and Natasha from the corner of his eye as they rose in an uncomfortable silence to the 17th floor. They would try to interfere, of course. His smile broadened. When the time came, they wouldn't be a problem.
Alicia's dilemna
*** Friday, September 16, 2005, after 10 pm ***
Sighing, Alicia Wyldling turned the pendant she held over in her hands, pondering the last week. Daye had been quite busy with the shop, which was going along swimmingly. She’d hired on more and more help, and spent endless hours between working the counter, the restaurant, and taking care of things in her cramped office. In Alicia’s opinion, she was handling things very well. In fact, she seemed much better than she had been before Alicia left for England. The only problem was that Mrs. Wyldling still had an uneasy sense of foreboding. Something told her that whatever had been plaguing young Miss Blaise had only taken a short recess, not retreated altogether. She felt very strongly that something was waiting in the wings, something evil, and that Amanda Blaise was somehow in the center of it. The only thing was Alicia couldn’t figure out what that something was.
Alicia knew that Amanda’s former lover, the demon, was involved in whatever was happening, or about to happen. She could sense that somehow he was not what he seemed to be. The problem, of course, was that Alicia had no power, really, to ascertain what was going on here. She was an interpreter of prophecy, not a seer so much. Alicia wished, for the hundredth time, that someone better equipped had been assigned this task. She had no real idea of what was going on with Amanda, with her destiny or her birthright, or anything else. What exactly was Alicia Wyldling supposed to do to help here?
(Flashback)
Alicia stood in the garden, facing the robed figure of Ariel, pondering all that she had been told. “I can’t believe what you’ve told me,” she whispered. “These events could prove cataclysmic for us all. If you’re right, the Director must be stopped.”
“And you must stop him,” Ariel agreed.
“But how?” Alicia was more than disturbed. She was terrified. This mysterious faction Ariel represented seemed determined to lay the fate of the world at her feet. She had no clue what she was to do with it.
“With this,” Ariel pulled her hand out from within her cloak and held it out to Alicia. In her palm was a large, oblong stone. The charm was smoky white inside and almost seemed to swirl with some sort of energy. Ariel continued to hold it out, waiting for Alicia to take it, but the younger woman was hesitant to do so.
“What is that?” Alicia asked, holding back.
“This is the Árthach Ánam Iomaí,” Ariel replied. “You must take it.”
Alicia searched her mind for the meaning of Ariel’s words. The object's name was in Gaelic. She thought it meant “holder of souls” or something like that. “Why do I need it? What is it?”
“The Árthach contains the “essence” of Amanda’s family. It was sent to us so that we might use it to help her in her time of trouble,” Ariel explained, pushing the pendant towards Alicia once again. “The Council swore to the spirits of the family that this object would be protected until the time was right and then entrusted to the one person who could save Amanda from the dangers lurking in her future. It will be your task now.”
“So, what, you want me to take this “Árthach” and give it to someone?” Alicia asked, “Who exactly?"
“That has not been revealed to us,” Ariel was beginning to sound perturbed, “Please, take the pendant.”
“Well, how am I supposed to know who to give it to?” Alicia asked, still hesitating, “What if I give it to the wrong person?”
“You won’t,” Ariel assured her, “When the time comes, you will know what to do. Go back to L.A. and keep a close eye on the girl. You will see someone close to her, someone powerful and strong. This person may not be obvious at first, but the Árthach will guide you. It will know. It will recognize the Bearer. Do you understand?”
“I… I… I don’t know,” Alicia sighed, “I don’t think I’m the best person for this job. I don’t exactly have the best senses or anything. I’m not sensitive to power. I don’t even have any real clairvoyance. You know my abilities are minor at best. Surely there’s someone more qualified for this task.”
Ariel sneered. “There is no one else, child,” she hissed, “If anyone were sent to L.A. now, it might alert the Director to our plans. You are our only hope. You must accept this task.”
Alicia nodded wearily, finally taking the pendant from Ariel’s hand. She studied it closely, turning it over again and again in her hand.
(End Flashback)
It had been two weeks since she’d returned from England, and Alicia was no closer to solving the mystery of the pendant than she had been before. She needed some sort of help, some sort of guidance, but she didn’t know who to turn to. Sighing, Alicia lifted the pendant up, watching as the light played over the surface of the gem, swirling in the milky center.
“Árthach Áman Iomaí,” Alicia whispered, pondering the mystical stone, “Ánam Blaise, I seek guidance.”
At Alicia’s whispered plea, light began to spill forth from the jewel. It flooded the bookshop, blinding Alicia to her surroundings. Alicia drew back, shielding her eyes from the light. When she peeked out, the glow had subdued and she could make out a crowd of misty figures before her. The shop and all her surroundings had disappeared.
“Where am I?” Alicia asked, “What’s happened?”
“You are within the Árthach Áman Iomaí,” a chorus of voices responded, “You called for guidance and you shall receive it.”
Alicia remained silent, considering their words. In all her years of serving the Council, never had she herself experienced anything like this. She was proud of her bookkeeping skills and the time she had put in running businesses for the Watchers like The Bibliophile, but she had never really been a “field agent” so to speak. Alicia Wyldling did not possess powerful magic or foresight or strength. She had always remained in the background, happy to be a cog in a great machine. Now, she found herself somehow transported within a mystical gem, conversing with the souls of a long renowned witch family. She felt a bit overwhelmed, to tell the truth.
“What troubles you, Seeker?” the chorus intoned.
“I fear I am not worthy to protect the Árthach,” Alicia spoke honestly, “I don’t know how to find the Bearer. I don’t even know where to begin to look.”
From all around, Alicia felt a ripple of indulgent amusement. “Fear not, for you are doing well. Already has the Bearer been near to you. We felt their presence. We will know at the right time, and we shall reveal them to you. Continue as you have and await the right time. All will be well, and all that is shall be as it must.”
Alicia felt strangely reassured at their words. She let her eyes drift closed as a soft singing came from all around. When she opened her eyes once again, Alicia Wyldling stood inside the empty bookshop, the pendant spinning slowly from her hand. Alicia, sighing, slipped the Árthach in her pocket and hurried to finish closing the shop.
The Cadre -- Part I
1774
Barbados
John Annis knew that no one was coming to get him. No one cared about a runaway slave caught in his “crime.” He was lost to the world.
It was a stupid mistake that he made, really. He’d been a man -- a free man that is – for six years, but for just a moment, forgot that he was a slave.
The Cadre -- Part II
1768
Boston
At first, John Annis’ newfound freedom served only to highlight that his mentality was that of a slave. It took him months before he would venture outside the Wilson home, the Quaker family that housed him. Paranoia would get the best of him at the threshold of the door and he’d turn back disappointed in himself but supremely relieved that he didn’t have to go out there. Justified agoraphobia; a self-inflicted imprisonment.
The Quaker family with whom he lived was patient and kind. His life’s ordeal seemed unfathomable to them, so they indulged him his neurosis. Eventually, John’s gregarious nature got the best of him. Listening to the children’s stories about school or their parent’s description of any social happening made his fear of the outside lessen.
He’d see the children off to school on the stoop of the house. He’d be sitting there when they came home. That was about as far as he’d go.
The Wilsons convinced him to go to church with them. His mindset about being in the company of a whole bunch of white folks around a whole bunch of white folks doing a whole bunch of white folks things was hard to surmount. But the church was amicable and had other Africans there; some free, some runaways like he.
Church is where he met his wife, Annabelle, herself a runaway. She spoke to him in soothing and understanding ways about how hard it was to come to grips with being free. He married her for love, but would have nevertheless for the comradeship of the tether.
Two years after running away from the hell Barbados held for him, he started working at the Wilsons’ abolitionist newspaper and publishing house. He and Annabelle began their own family. They lived in a small house near the Wilsons. He could only walk from home to work or church.
Three years after running away, he wrote an article for the paper, recounting his situation. He got involved with the Wilsons and their efforts in freeing slaves. He could now walk from home to work, church or the abolitionist meetings.
Four years after running away, his now many articles for the newspaper were read worldwide. Other abolitionist organizations wanted him to speak to their groups; they even offered to pay him to do so. Though each trip afar from his home and hearth was an ordeal fraught with fear and loathing, he did so for the greater good.
Five years after running away, he met his good friend Olaudah Equino at a speaking engagement in Philadelphia. Olaudah, himself a former slave, understood his constant trepidation. Olaudah, though, had one up on John. John had been born in Barbados. Olaudah Equino was born in Africa and had survived the Middle Passage. He would recount to John horrors that even he found bracing. And yet, John observed that Olaudah walked about the earth a free man afraid of nothing. When John asked Olaudah how he managed that feat in the face of all that white folks had done to them, Olaudah calmly said “God made me free, though man made me a slave. I choose to follow God’s wishes. I forgave them and became truly free.”
John decided that he would adopt the attitude of his friend Olaudah, though forgiveness was not something he could yet attain.
In John’s sixth year after running away, now considering himself a free man in Boston, John took his afternoon constitutional as he had done every day since meeting his friend Olaudah. Annabelle reminded him that their oldest was having a birthday that afternoon and perhaps he could skip his constitutional. Even as she asked, she knew he wouldn’t. John had, for the past year, walked about every day come what may.
John Annis crossed the street and turned back toward home. He was looking down, trying to remember. What was the song they used to sing on the plantation? Ah, yes. “Nearer My God to Thee.” He started humming the song, smiling at his remembrance. When he looked up, there was his old master in the local barbershop, looking John dead in the eye over a copy of the Wilson’s newspaper.
All it took for John to be returned to captivity was Master Beaufort summoning the gendarmes. The law was on Beaufort’s side and it was swift. Before John could offer an argument, before he could bid his wife, his children, his friends, his life, his freedom goodbye, he was back in shackles and in the very bottom of the boat headed back for the West Indies.
The Cadre -- Part III
1774
Barbados
John Annis sat trussed to the mean chair in Master Beaufort’s plantation barn. The leather band around his ankles bound them together, ankle bone to ankle bone. There was a winch with a crank that would tighten the band or loosen it, at Master Beaufort’s behest. The pain was excruciating. There was nothing John could say or do or tell that would alleviate it. If there had been, he would have given up Harriet Tubman herself, though she was yet to be born. So he stood silent.
The days before had gone on endlessly in pain and misery while Beaufort observed, issuing long-winded soliloquies about the next method of torture in store for John. Beaufort would pepper his tirades with readings of John’s articles from various publications around the world. “You’re my nigger, John,” Beaufort sneered, “a remarkably well-spoken nigger, but my nigger nonetheless.”
In the last week of John Annis’ life, he experienced every method and measure of cruelty Beaufort’s self-righteous indignation could devise. Beaufort was bent on retribution and would settle for nothing less.
During one of Beaufort’s short absences from that foul barn, the slave turning the crank on the winch whispered in John’s ear that he heard that Olaudah Equino was trying to come get him. John was grateful for the thought alone that his soul’s liberator knew of his predicament and set out to do something about it. In John’s heart of hearts, though, he knew that Olaudah’s efforts would never succeed and if they did, it wouldn’t be in time. John prayed for death, the quicker the better.
After days of unimaginable torture and cruelty, John Annis – free man for six years of his life – broke his silence and finally passed to Glory.
John’s death wasn’t as sweet as Beaufort anticipated it might be. It was that damn nigger’s last words. After all the abuse, both physical and mental, that Beaufort unleashed on him for days upon days, the only thing the nigger said, calm as a lullaby through split and parched lips was “God made me free, though man made me a slave. I choose to follow God’s wishes.” That was bad enough but then the nigger smiled at him – SMILED – and added, “I forgive you.” Then he died.
Beaufort took mighty umbrage to his nigger’s forgiveness. He had nothing to be forgiven for. He was well within the law and his rights. He owned him outright and could do what he wanted however he wanted. Quite frankly, Beaufort told himself, he was out the cost of a slave.
Within hours of John Annis’ death, Beaufort had tossed himself into a dark tizzy over the “I forgive you.” At dusk of the day of John’s death, Beaufort, full of some quite exquisite West Indian rum and bile, took to the barn to confront John’s not yet buried body. In his arms were the bottle of rum, a hatchet and the cook’s boning knife.
“YOU forgive ME, do you nigger?” he cursed drunkenly over the corpse. “I’m gonna,” Beaufort’s mouth angrily issued spittle and rum, “make something of use out of you.”
Beaufort stood on drunken knocked knees, trying to find his center of balance whirling around. He dragged the body in crazy switchbacks to the chopping block. His brain sank to the bottom as he bent over, but by God he was going to do this. He grabbed the hand of his dead property and placed it on the chopping block. It wouldn’t stay. Rigor mortis had not yet fully set in. The hand kept flopping down on the body, next to the other in an infuriating prayer stance; or it looked like that anyway.
Finally, Beaufort had placed enough of the dead nigger’s arm on the chopping block to make it stay. He hefted the hatchet high, found his body’s drunken center and brought the wood-splitter down near the elbow, severing the appendage cleanly. He bent over again despite his brain’s dizzy protest, grabbed hold of the arm, stood upright and then promptly fell over in a faint.
The plantation’s slaves watched the drunken comedy of coordination from a distance wondering what further abuse Beaufort had in store.
They had to only wait a few hours to find out.
At late evening, Beaufort came to, smacked his lips and wondered which of the many cats that inhabited his plantation shat in his mouth. He worked up what spittle he could and expelled it through his front teeth. He sat there, looking for all the world like a big baby. Beaufort's legs were held straight out in front of him with John’s arm tightly in his grasp like a security blanket. Looking around, he located his bottle of rum and the boning knife; his bottle and toy.
Beaufort rose to his feet and kicked the remainder of John’s body with a venomous “See who’s who?” and carried the arm, the rum and the boning knife into the lights from the house that shone on the veranda steps.
Beaufort took as comfortable a seat as he could on the steps, considering he was hungover and drunk at the same time. He angrily considered the insult of his slave forgiving him and pulled at the rum. He flipped the boning knife in his fingers and began his task of making something out of the nigger he could use.
The Cadre -- Part IV
1775
Haiti
“Dis fine work,” the old crone cackled at Beaufort as she held the artifact delicately between her bony fingers. “You do dis?”
“Quite.” Beaufort was anxious to leave this old black woman’s abode. There was all manner of things about – hanging, soaking, boiling, screaming.
“And de structure? Dat made of de finger bones?” She tapped the spine with a hardened fingernail.
“Yes.”
“And the forearm skin is de casing?” She drew a dry finger across the top.
“Yes! Can you help me or not?” Beaufort wanted this transaction over.
The old woman sucked at her teeth and gave Beaufort a look of disdain. “No use getting’ all spent out at me! You don’ own me. You keep up sneerin’ me, I cut you loose wit’out no help at ya.”
“Of course, ma’am.” Beaufort set his irritation aside and got smooth. “Forgive my impertinence. I believe this box has, shall I say, made things happen. I am just anxious to ascertain exactly what magics this box may hold.” *And then get the hell out of here.*
“No need ta callin’ me ma’am. Dey call me Lucky. You do so too.”
“Yes. Lucky. Fortuitous name.” And he chuckled amiably to please her. She wasn’t pleased. She cut her eyes and scratched her head full of dreadlocks.
“Ain’t no use kissin’ me backside eid’ah. I ain’t got nuthin’ do wid it. I jus’ do what de spirits tell me. And dey tellin’ me…”
“Yes.”
She squinted her eyes at him and put her face up close to his. He could smell her breath, like onions and sinfulness as she hissed a whisper from between ground down teeth. “Dis t’ing, dis here box, it call itself de Cadre d’Ames. Tell me -- it made out of de righteous man?”
“Righteous?! I’d hardly call the renegade slave that box is made from righteous!” Now this was really too much, Beaufort hackles set forward.
She cawed at him “No use jumpin’ up on de high horse here, sinner! De man who got his parts in dis here box…was he righteous? Did God himself smile down on him at de hour he dead?”
“God?! Smile?!”
Lucky cackled with glee, “Oh yeah, sinner. You goin’ to hell. You jus’ too damn faulty to know it.” The old woman fixed her gaze on Beaufort. Her stare seemed to heat him from within. He felt sweat slick down his back and around his crotch.
Her voice heightened. “Aw yeah, sinner. You turn yer backside to God’s face kissin’ on de devil’s privates.”
The room filled with the acrid breath of hell as Beaufort watched the walls around him fall away into black nothingness. His flesh dislodged from his skeleton as his soul was wrenched from its mortal vessel.
“Oh yeah, sinner,” the old woman sneered through her old dry lips, “The righteous gib to you de absolution ‘fore you took his life in a way de devil he’self skeered of. He gib you pa’don.”
Beaufort watched from above the blackness feeling his soul snag on the jagged ice lining the path to the Rings of Hell. He tried to cry out for the hag to cease her incantations. Nothing but the screams John Annis never uttered escaped from his mouth.
“Oh yeah, sinner,” the old woman screamed through the void beginning to encase Beaufort, “you got whut you wanted from de righteous.”
Beaufort felt nothing but despair crawling around like evil roaches under what used to be his skin.
“God done knowed, sinner. He done seed. He seed whut you got from de righteous.”
He felt John Annis’ tortured pain as the last wisps of God’s grace kissed the edges of Beaufort's soul before it abandoned him completely.
“You got de righteous dead in de foul manner dat skeered de devil. Now God gonna gib de righteous dat which is good.”
With the last wails of the old crone, Beaufort slipped into what hell must be for any soul. He stretched himself out in cold uncaring forever oblivion.
Lucky stood still while her abode settled back into its recognizable dishevelment. She shook her head and muttered a low "white folks." She sucked at her teeth, walked over and set the box made of the skin and bones of the free man John Annis on the shelf behind her amulets and charms. The Cadre d’Ames sat quietly, waiting to grant even the wicked their desire, provided the righteous got that which is good.
Torture
Monday, 12 September 2005 - 6.30pm, L.A time
Tuesday, 13 September 2005 - 3.30am, Bremen & Tours local time
Blood of my blood... Flesh of my flesh... Blood of my blood... Flesh of my flesh... Blood... Flesh...
The words echoed endlessly in her mind, back and forth till they became an endless chant as she struggled to awaken from her drugged stupor. She felt as if she was enveloped in a soft, black cloud, one that was swallowing her whole, devouring her into nothingness.
There was something evilly seductive about the oblivion it promised. That black cloud. Something about it that tempted her to give in to the darkness again, to sink back under and never re-surface. She wanted to. Desperately wanted to. She would have, if it hadn't been for that small voice inside her head that kept urging her to do otherwise. *Open your eyes. Open... Your... Eyes... Wake up. Wake... Up...* Her eyelids were so heavy. It was almost as if they had been welded shut. She struggled, willing herself to shake off the inertia that seemed to be paralysing in its weight, forcing herself to swim through that thick, syrupy sea towards consciousness.
Her eyes opened. Slowly. Her body tensed. Instinctively bracing itself for a sensory onslaught of light or sound. Instead, she felt... Nothing.
*Open. Your. Eyes.* Her hands reached up to press the heels of her palms hard on her eye sockets. *Wake up wake up wake up. Open your eyes. Open!* At that, she wrenched her hands away and forced her eyes wide to stare at... Nothing!
"No." The word came out as a whimper as panicky, trembling fingers reached up to touch her own face, brush against her eyelids. Her eyes were open! They were open and yet she could see nothing but black. Fighting the terror that was running like ice water through her veins, she spread her fingers wide, pressed them against her nose and eyes and willed herself to see the outline of the hand she held right in front of her face.
She saw only black. Neverending, atramentous, all-encompassing pitch-black.
She wasn't blind. Oh God, she couldn't be blind! But... Why else couldn't she see anything? Where was she? Where was she? Her head moved wildly from side to side as her arms flailed about, desperately searching for something, anything, to give a hint as to what was happening to her. Her movements felt strangely hampered, as if the air around her was thicker than it was supposed to be.
It was when she realised that her feet were not touching ground, that in fact her whole being seemed to be suspended in this dark, unidentifiable space, that she began to panic in earnest. Small, mewling sounds escaped her lips as she thrashed around, her semi-drugged mind hardly registering anything except the vicious need to get out of this nightmarish hellhole she had awakened in.
It was impossible to tell how long she fought against the dark. It could have been minutes, hours or days. Time was of no consequence in this universe, where each second was an eternity, an infinity in which she had nothing to occupy herself but the sounds of her own ragged breathing and the reverberations of her own keening cries.
Finally, physical exhaustion won out and she quieted. She choked back the oily, queasy waves of fear that threatened to engulf her and willed herself to be still. The silence that followed was so complete, so oppresive, it seemed to press down on her chest and cause her to gasp for breath. The need to shatter it was instinctive. Even with the sluggish haze permeating her mind, she sought to take whatever control she could of her surroundings.
"You're alive."
Her voice was muffled, as if coming from underwater, and barely above a whisper. But it was her voice. It proved that she still could hear. For the moment, that was a comfort. "You're alive. Alive. You're alive!" Over and over she made herself repeat the words, till they became a mantra, one that she clung on to as tightly as she did the sound of her voice. She was alive. At least, she was quite certain she was alive. Unless this was what death was about. An endless floating in a void of black.
"No!" The echo of that exclaimation seem to pull her back from the brink. She had to remain focused. She had to concentrate on staying alive. Everything else was inconsequential. Everything else was unimportant. All that mattered was that she stay alive for Tris.
"Trissssss..." The name came out as a soft sigh as consciousness flickered and she started to fade off.
The Tank
Monday, 12 September 2005 - 10.30pm, L.A time
Tuesday, 13 September 2005 - 7.30am, Bremen & Tours local time
The tank was huge, over twenty feet in length and fifteen in height. Its exterior was a dull cream colour, although the drab colouring and fluorescent lighting of the room that housed it made it look a sickly grey.
*Not that one could call this a 'room'.* Gemmel paused in his intent study of the numerous monitors to glance idly around. It was more of a large underground cavern, with unpainted, unadorned walls and a scatter of worn furniture. The tank stood in the middle of the chamber, surrounded by a haphazard collection of scientific apparatus, medical equipment and magical supplies. The irony of mixing magic and science was not lost on Gemmel, but it was a combination that had served him and the Ministry well many times before.
*Let's just hope that this does not prove to be the exception.* A small sound from the headphones dangling around his neck caused his attention to snap back to the screens before him. The eight infrared cameras positioned within the tank allowed him to observe what was inside it from any angle he wished. He reached over and nudged the volume controls up a fraction. A sordid smile twisted his lips as he heard what was being murmured and picked up by the hi-sensitivity microphones embedded within the tank's inner walls.
*Yes, my dear,* his eyes raked down the nude, slender form that was Jade as she drifted in and out of consciousness, *You're alive. In a manner of speaking. And I intend to keep you that way.* Absently, Gemmel reached out and traced a finger along the line of Jade's body onscreen. At his level, contact with the Ministry's agents-in-training was negligible. The importance and the critical nature of this project, however, meant that Alistair trusted no one else but him to handle it.
Gemmel recalled the reluctance he had felt at first and wondered where along the way his feelings had changed. Perhaps it was the long hours he had spent researching into Jadyn Lee's background, digging for some small clue as to what made her what she was.
*Half-vampire, half-human.* Gemmel shook his head. The thought of such a being existing still filled him with amazement. He had spent the last fifteen years of his life working with the Ministry - dedicating his time and energy towards creating a human-vampire hybrid and obtaining the secret of immortality - and this was the closest he had come to achieving his dream.
Mid-Season Two: Jan 20, 2006 - June 16(ish), 2006
September 19th
12:20 AM
Introducing Ryan Philippe as Loki
The moon hung low in the clear night sky, its eerie light softly illuminating the city of LA. In a dark alley just beneath Darian’s apartment balcony, a lone figure sat atop a large dumpster, restlessly fidgeting to pass the time; patience was never one of Loki’s virtues. This annoying wait, however, was nothing when compared to the excitement he was about to have.
Being the “Golden Boy” of the Order of the Fae, it was no surprise to Loki when he was asked to travel to LA and deal with his pesky half-faery peer. Unlike himself, Darian had never succumbed to his darker half (even though the Order hoped a few centuries would have changed that), thus he had no more reason to live. This particular assignment greatly intrigued the sadistic assassin; it was not everyday he had the chance to go up against someone who possessed the same powers he had.
Finally, overtaken by impatience, Loki raised himself from his temporary seat and gracefully leapt onto Darian’s balcony overhead; a jump no normal man could hope to make. After silently landing without so much as a thud, Loki’s angelic face twisted into a sinister smile as his appearance began to shimmer and alter. *I’m so clever, I even surprise myself sometimes.*
Darian’s eyes slowly fluttered open as he awoke from an uneasy rest. Normally he would change positions and try to get back to sleep, yet something was not right. His skin tingled, a strange sensation he often felt when mystical energy was close. Immediately shaking off the cobwebs of fatigue, Darian leapt from his bed and quickly glanced around his room. *This town has got you on edge,* he thought, realizing he was alone. A cool breeze suddenly swept in from the living room and gently caressed Darian’s half-naked body. At first he welcomed the refreshing wind, until he realized that there shouldn’t be a breeze since he had closed the patio screen before going to bed.
Instinctively the young fae grabbed one of his switchblade knives from its resting-place on his bedside table, and cautiously ventured into the darkness of the living room. His eyes instantly fell upon the outline of a figure standing on his outside balcony. *This burglar sure picked the wrong apartment tonight.* Without a sound, Darian made his way to the balcony door, preparing to deal with the would be robber. With his hand firmly gripping the knife he took one last deep breath, and rushed out.
To Darian’s complete and utter shock, it was not a robber outside, it was... “Sebasitan!?”
Impossible as it was, the tall figure of his best friend stood before him. “Seb.” *It can't be.* Without thinking, he dropped the switchblade and wrapped his arms around the figure in a powerful bear hug; one Sebastian did not reciprocate. “But.. but how, how did you get out of the stone?”
“It doesn’t matter how I got out, Darian. All that matters is that YOU didn’t help.” Sebastian/Loki’s eyes turned stone cold, “You’re so pathetic that in two centuries you couldn’t even find a way to help me.”
His words struck Darian with the force of a locomotive.
“But don’t worry, there is still a way you can make it up to me.” Loki smiled behind the illusion of Sebastian that he created.
Tears began to well in Darian’s eye. “Wha… what can I do? I’m sorry I wasn’t able to free you, but tell me how I can help?” his voice quivered between the growing sobs.
“I can’t tell you now, but soon my friend, soon.”
Loki once again summoned the magics within himself as he began to hum a haunting melody. Although his charms would not usually affect Darian, the shock of the situation left the young fae vulnerable to the assassin’s mystic persuasion. Exhaustion swept over Darian, and within a few seconds he fell to the ground in deep slumber.
*How easy it would be to just slit your throat now, but this game is just to much fun to end now,* Loki mused as the image of Sebastian melted away. Chuckling to himself, he effortlessly jumped from the balcony and disappeared into the dark LA night.
******
September 19th
9:15 Am
The sounds of the busy LA morning woke Darian from Loki’s mystically induced slumber. At first, Darian did not understand why he was outside on his balcony, until the images of last night’s events came rushing back into his mind. *Did that really happen?* His hand floated up, grasping the pendant around his neck. *The stone is still here, yet Sebastian was here last night. Or was he? Everything is so foggy, why can't I remember properly?*
Realizing that he was only wearing his boxers and everyone on the street could see him, Darian embarrassingly entered back into his apartment.
For the next several hours, Darian paced about his apartment, trying to piece together the events of the previous evening. His efforts were in vain. All his hypotheses were flawed: If Sebastian had really been there, why was his necklace still intact, yet how could he not believe what he saw with his own eyes? Frustrated, he fell on his bed and stared blankly and the white roof over head. *Could I be going insane?*
Mid-Season Two: Jan 20, 2006 - June 16(ish), 2006
September 7, 2005: 9:10 pm
Tyler dropped from the fire escape of the building and made his way back toward the street. He stopped at the end of the building and checked, looking for cops or any other kind of trouble. Seeing none, Tyler sprinted across the street to his car, all the while shaky, unsure on his feet. He opened the car door and all but fell in. But the slight weakness passed then and he started the car.
Then, naturally, Tyler pulled away from the curb.
He drove for some time, through Alhambra and into the worse parts of town. He chose this place because he knew he could hide there for a while. It’s one of many sad facts, but the guys in charge ignore places where there’s no money to be made. And most often, high crime areas are those places.
What’s really sad, though, is that those places are what they are because they are ignored.
But politics aside, Tyler pulled his stolen car up next to the first house he found that was, without question, abandoned. It was an easy sight too, as the walls had rotted away like dust with the wind. The paint had chipped so badly that the holes in the wood, which housed countless termites, were visible from nearly a mile away. The roof was doubtless filled with hole upon hole. All in all, the place was uninhabitable.
Just what Tyler needed.
He stepped out of his car and entered the house through the front door. On perusal, the interior was as bad as the exterior. Maybe worse. Wallpaper hung, half rotted off, and every stitch of whatever life took place in this house was gone. It was, in effect, dead.
So Tyler searched some more, until he found a set of stairs. Going up, he pulled the Glock from his pocket and checked the clip. Tyler immediately felt nauseous.
*Fifteen shots. Have to get rid of it before they’re gone.* Tyler put that thought out of his head quickly enough as he came to the top of the stairs. Using the Glock, Tyler checked the hall, clearing it of any threat. Then he moved left, and carefully opened the door to the master bedroom, still covering himself with the Glock.
The room was clear, so Tyler walked to the back, put his back to the wall, and sank to the floor. He tucked the gun under his coat, keeping his hand on it, and shut his eyes.
It was time to rest.
Balance HQ: Austin Texas
It was not unusual for Collin to work late. It was, in fact, quite common. He’d stay in the office long after the bulk of his agents went home, and he’d deal with the small nuances of running the agency.
That and torture his grandfather, who he keeps alive in the back room of his office.
But tonight was not the usual deal. Tonight, Collin stayed for a specific purpose.
“Sir, they’ve arrived,” Collin’s personal assistant buzzed in.
“Send them in.”
At Collin’s word, his door opened and an agent came in. Behind him, a weak, old man struggled to keep up. This man, on looks alone, was giving Methuselah a run for his money. His hair was all but gone, with just a small, white ring remaining just below his eyes. His skin was far from smooth, looking like he’d spent a thousand years in the bath. And he couldn’t stand straight.
But he dressed well, in the same suit as Collin. Leaning on a cane, the old man waited while the agent guided him to a seat.
“Sir,” the agent’s voice shook when he addressed Collin, “This guy was our first hit. He’s the last to even attempt what you wanted.”
“Well done. Get back to work.” Collin reclined in his chair.
The agent walked out of the office, leaving the old man and Collin alone.
“What do you want from me?” The old man was not in the least bit scared.
“To begin with, I want to know everything you know about resurrection spells.”
Los Angeles
Hyatt stood up form the wall and trained the gun on the door. He’d woken with a start, as the sound of an explosion pulsated in his head.
It had come from downstairs.
Hyatt moved back to the door and opened it, holding the Glock on the rotting home before him. He made his way to the stairs, down them, and out into what used to be a living room, or actually was a living room.
Except it didn’t belong there. This room was not decaying, wasting away like Jimmy Buffet in Magaritaville. This room was fleshed out, set up fully for someone who enjoys their comfort. It was, in truth, an entire apartment. And Hyatt knew it immediately.
Because he’d been in it a few hours ago.
Staying completely calm, Tyler made his way through the apartment to the bedroom, which found itself where the house held its broken-down kitchen. Inside Tyler saw himself, leaning back against the bed, the Glock smoking in his hand. In front of him Sandra Ellis reeled, clutching her shoulder, ultimately falling to the ground.
Then Tyler watched himself step forward, speak, kick Sandra over, and fire. Again, and again, and again, he watches.
Till Tyler fired once, and turned to himself.
“What the hell are you staring at?” Tyler stood in the doorway, dumbfounded. “It’s not like it wasn’t fun.”
Before either Tyler could blink, the man in the doorway stood in the place of the executioner, firing.
“Don’t try to tell me it wasn’t,” The second appeared next to him, whispering in his ear, “I mean look at her. She was pretty. Nice blonde hair, good rack, good face. Well, not so much now."
Suddenly, all Tyler could see was Sandra’s body with only a hole where her eyes used to be.
“Isn’t it great?” Tyler whispered into his own ear, gloating.
“No.” Tyler dropped the gun next to Sandra, horrified.
“Oh, don’t give me that crap.”
“That’s not why…”
“Please.” A third Hyatt appeared in the doorway, as the one in Tyler’s ear turned in disgust. “Don’t try to sell me the “I did it because it was the only way” line. I wrote the thing just to please you.”
The second Tyler turned back, ranting, “You could have found the kid without that piece of crap at the Beazor.”
Hyatt from the doorway spoke now, “Maybe not as fast, but you’d have found him.”
The second Tyler got back in the shooter’s ear. “You just wanted to kill something, something not trying to kill you.”
“No. I needed…”
The man in his ear interrupted the shooter again,,“Liar.”
The shooting Tyler turned and swung the gun wildly at his doppelganger, only to find it trained back at Sandra, at the moment of fire once again.
“Maybe it’s the victim that bothers you. Let’s try another.”
As the voice from the doorway finished, Tyler quickly found himself shooting again. He looked down, only to see the woman’s hair was brown, edging on black. And her face was different, prettier.
Kelly’s. Tyler screamed in horror, as the bullet hit her.
“No, let’s try this,” the voice sneered in Tyler’s ear, as the scene replayed itself.
This time it was Shawn, Tyler’s son.
Then Ryan Michaels, with no demon in him.
“None of those work? Well I bet ya this one you’ll like.” Before Tyler could blink, he found himself on the floor. He was staring up at his own image, training the gun on him.
“Later, loser,” the shooting Tyler told himself. Then the gun went off.
*****
Tyler woke with a start from his nightmare and his hand shot out, taking hold of someone’s arm. A bum, it seemed, had wandered in and was trying to rob Tyler.
Needless to say, the bum was surprised at the Glock Tyler shoved into his chin. And he all but wet himself when Tyler drew the hammer back.
The two men held that position a moment, before Tyler yanked the bum in close, and whispered in his ear.
“Go away.” Tyler let go, and his quarry ran. Tyler did not follow. Instead, he picked himself up, put the gun away, and started out of the house.
It was time to collect a debt.
September 7, 2005: 11:46 pm.
Mid-Season Two: Jan 20, 2006 - June 16(ish), 2006
***Friday Sept 16th, 8:30ish***
Mantheana's fingers moved with liquid grace over the keys of black and white. The minor key made the piece sound icy and the timing made it sound almost violent. She no longer needed the music in front of her, as this had been her favourite piece when she was twelve and she knew it back to front and inside out. Her father had had it written for her birthday by a little-known Russian composer. Even Mantheana could not remember his name now, though the music would never leave the memory of her agile fingers.
Maybe she would have some music written for Maria when she was twelve. Maria certainly liked this piece. Her hands moved up an octave and the timing changed to form a twinkling interlude in the midst of music that proclaimed anger. There was a shuffle behind Mantheana, and she turned her head to see.
Maria was watching her. Mantheana smiled and brought the piece to a close. Both of them were changed for bed, and Mantheana picked Maria up, carrying her upstairs and into Maria's room.
The bed was made and a hot water bottle that Maria probably didn't need was resting inside. Mantheana lay Maria down and pulled the covers up to her chin. She picked a book from Maria's bedside table and opened it at the book-marked page.
"And vhat has just happened?" she quizzed Maria briefly, as much trying to remember herself as to remind Maria.
"Elijah died. He was fine one minute but then he just died. Mama, why did he die?"
"Because he vos old, pteetsa. Bodies cannot keep going forever. They get vorn out."
"So everyone in the book will die eventually."
"Vell, yeys, I suppose so."
"Are we going to die Mama?"
Mantheana stopped with a sharp intake of breath. *I do not know.*. She struggled with her own thoughts. It was possible. The eternity that Mikhail had promised could wear of at any second. Then again she could always go on. Mantheana was not invulnerable. She had tried to stop it before. Maria had changed all that. But Maria had rights.
"I do not know Maria. My body vos changed by your Papa, and you vere born from both of us - you know that. I gave you the book." It had been a year since Mantheana had stood up and walked out of Maria's room. In her own bedroom, a jewellery box was unlocked and she had lifted up the supposed floor to it. Underneath lay a small and tattered book. Mantheana took it out, blew off the dust and locked the box again.
Returning to Maria, Mantheana had found Yasha had joined the ceremony of bedtime story, and stroked his broad head as she re-seated herself.
"Maria, this is a book you need to read. I do not know vether you vill like vot is written, but I need you to understand every vord, every syllable. Know this book, Maria. Look after this book, Maria." Mantheana had left Maria with one of the only surviving copies of "The Mortality and Immortality of Coldlings, Vol IV: Ending". Mantheana knew this book. She had tried to use it, but things had changed.
Now Maria knew it word for word, like Mantheana knew her twelfth birthday piano piece. She understood it. It was true, as Mantheana had said. Maria knew as much as Mantheana did about coldling mortality. Should she need to, she could probably end her mother more easily than other children of her age.
In the present, Mantheana rubbed Maria's warm little hands reassuringly. "I am sure the story vill have a happy ending. They always do." Maria would have a happy ending, Mantheana knew that, and she would live to the end just to make sure.
"So vot will happen next, I am vunderink?" Mantheana started on the way to the happy ending. Opening the book once more, she began "…After Elijah's passing, it vos hard for the others to continue, but they made it. Slowly, routine crawled back into their lives, and things vent on almost as normal. By this time, Jenna vos growing more and more, no longer a podgy toddler, but a lithe child, playing and laughing all day long..." Mantheana continued and for a while, both she and Maria forgot about rituals and pianos and clung desperately to the search for a happy ending on the paper pages that lay before them.
drew returns chinaka's call
*** Tuesday, September 20, 2005, around 5:30 pm ***
“Hang on,” Drew said, turning to unlock the door of his apartment. Daye stood close to him, lazily rubbing his back as she waited for him to turn the key. He’d arrived at the shop a half an hour earlier and spirited her away, getting Mrs. Wyldling to cover for her. Drew had promised a delicious, home-cooked meal and a quiet evening cuddling on his couch. Daye had been unable to turn him down. The last week, she’d begun to have trouble sleeping again. She was feeling run down and exhausted all the time. The idea of a hot meal that didn’t come in a Styrofoam box was too appealing to resist. So, here she stood one hand under Drew’s suit jacket as he swung open the door to his oh-so-masculine apartment.
Daye had been at Drew’s place a few times, but mostly they got together at her place. That was partially due to the fact that Daye lived only a few blocks from the Bibliophile, and partially due to the fact that Daye felt sort of uncomfortable in the stuffy confines of Drew’s abode. The place was all dark leather and heavy wood furnishings with beige and tan accents. Very serious and manly. Apparently his ultra conservative mother had decorated the place; drawing inspiration from the popular stereotypes depicted in Hollywood of a “Bachelor Professor’s” apartment. Drew and Daye had actually joked about it quite a bit and he’d said he wanted to redecorate, but with classes and the shop remodel, they hadn’t quite gotten around to it. They were actually pretty lucky to find themselves alone together at all.
Drew led Daye inside, dropping his attaché case on the side table and drawing her close for a quick, unsatisfying kiss. He reluctantly pulled away, because he could hear his answering machine beckoning. Daye shut the door, kicked off her shoes as she entered the living room and sank onto his soft, leather sofa. She leaned back and shut her eyes as Drew went over to check the messages.
“Sorry, babe,” he called over his shoulder as he bent to press the playback button, “but it’s probably Mom. She’s been pestering me for over a week to bring you around for ‘tea’ on Sunday. I’m going to have to call her back if that is her, or she’ll call in an hour, when we’re ‘otherwise engaged.’”
Daye chuckled at the licentious tone in his voice. “I’m fine,” she murmured, snuggling more deeply on the sofa. “It’s relaxing just being here. At home, I feel like I need to clean something, or make myself useful in some other way.”
Drew didn’t respond as his machine began to play back the messages he’d missed. The first was from his mother.
(beep) “Drew, darling, it’s your mother again. I thought you were done with classes early today. (pause) Oh, well, you must be out somewhere. Maybe with this ‘girlfriend.’ (audible sigh) I am really beginning to wonder if you made this ‘fabulous’ woman up. Trying to get me to stop setting you up, maybe? (dry chuckle) Seriously, though, I insist you bring…Amanda, is it? I insist you bring Amanda around this weekend. Your father and I are simply going mad waiting to meet this woman. Don’t let me down, Andrew. Call me back tonight and let me know what time you and your friend can be here. Goodbye, Dear.” (beep)
Daye listened to Drew’s mother’s message with a mixture of amusement and offense. Something in her tone suggested that Daye was unsavory in some way and that was why Drew hadn’t bothered to introduce them yet. That wasn’t the case. At least, Daye hoped that wasn’t the case. She was frowning in consternation while she considered it when the second message caught her complete attention. It was from another woman.
(beep) “Um. Hi Drew. It’s Chinaka. I, uh, I mean you bought a picture at my gallery – African Heart. Oh! And I was at that party given by your girlfriend, I can’t remember her name – one of the redheads – the natural one. I think it’s natural. If not, great dye job because it looks like it grows out of her head that way. I didn’t see ANY roots.
“Anyway, remember everyone at that party was all wigged because I brought my Auntie Parasol? She’s a vampire. Remember? Look, my auntie’s gone missing. Which I kinda thought I wanted but… And she left this book that I can’t decipher. It’s bass-ackwards with all kinds of parables and prophecies and descriptions and stuff. Well, you gave me your card when you bought that picture. Look, you’re familiar with this hoodoo stuff. I mean, you’re a scholar on it, right?
“Drew – in all seriousness. I’m really worried about her and I really need your help. It’s important. Please, PLEASE call me. 323-555-9482. As soon as possible.” (beep)
Daye was surprised. She vaguely remembered Chinaka from the party. She’d been feeling out of sorts at the time, but now that she thought about it, she recalled getting vibes off the girl, like she was interested in Drew at the time, and not because he was a student of the paranormal either. Even now, in her concerned, breathless message, Daye thought she picked up that same note of attraction.
*My auntie… the vampire… has gone missing and I’m so worried,* Daye mentally snorted. *Yeah, that’s likely.*
*And my hair is so obviously not a dye job,* Daye thought indignantly. She sat up and turned around so she could see Drew. She was surprised to see him replaying Chinaka’s message, a pen and paper in hand. He was bent down close to the machine and seemed to be listening very closely for the number. Daye watched, an irritated frown on her face as he straightened and grabbed the receiver from the cordless phone, apparently taking it into the kitchen with him.
“Where are you going?” Daye asked.
Drew turned around, grinning sheepishly. “Sorry, baby,” he replied. “I thought you were taking a catnap. I’m going to go put the food on the table. I need to return a phone call too. Is that okay?”
Daye smiled. “You don’t have to ask my permission,” she said. “I was just curious.” She stood up. “And I’ll help with the food.”
Daye glided past Drew before he could protest. She could help him set up dinner, and maybe, just maybe, keep one ear on his conversation with Chinaka.
Drew followed Daye into the kitchen, dialing as he walked. When he arrived inside, Daye was pulling dishes out of the cupboard and stacking them on the counter. There was a pot on the stove with spinach and asparagus tortellini waiting to be dished up, and a pan with grilled vegetables to be served on top of the pasta. A loaf of bread was warming in the oven and the fixings for a salad sat on the island in the middle of the kitchen. Balancing the phone on his shoulder, Drew started chopping everything and throwing it together in a serving bowl. He listened to the phone ring a couple of times before Chinaka answered.
Daye set up the dishes and then started to set the table, listening intently to Drew’s conversation.
“Hello, Chinaka,” Drew said. His tone was friendly and delighted. “Yeah, I got the message.” Drew laughed loudly. “I suppose it might.” He paused and listened for a minute. Daye couldn’t see his face, but he seemed very happy to be speaking to the other woman.
“I think I might,” he said, “Well, yeah, I’m sure we could.”
Daye hated that she couldn’t hear what the other woman was saying to him. Were they arranging to meet? If so, where? Someplace cozy, maybe, over dinner, or a late-night drink. Daye was fuming. She edged a little closer to the island, but still couldn’t hear the other side of the conversation.
*I could enhance my hearing a bit,* she thought to herself. She had a spell, an eavesdropping cantrip that she knew by heart. She closed her eyes and began centering herself. Just as she was about to whisper the incantation, Daye stopped herself. *What am I doing?* she thought, *I can’t use my magic to spy on Drew!*
Daye stepped back to the doorway of the dining room and leaned on the doorjamb, closing her eyes and trying to regain some perspective. Where had this sudden jealousy come from? Drew was allowed to have friends, both male and female. Hell, she had male friends after all, and Drew had never reacted this way to any of them. He hadn’t read Galen the riot act, or drilled Victor with twenty questions, right? So, why was she acting this way? Okay, okay, Drew had been cold and defensive around Ryan, but that was a bit different. Ryan was her ex-lover. Chinaka was a girl Drew had met a few weeks ago, while buying Daye a lovely gift. A gift she hadn’t even really deserved. Drew loved her. He was respectful, and tender, and… off the phone.
Daye glanced up to see Drew coming towards her, the phone resting on the island. He was looking very concerned.
“You okay, baby?” Drew asked. He put his hands on her shoulders, gently kneading them.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Daye smiled. “I love you.”
Daye stretched up and placed her mouth on Drew’s, kissing him passionately. When she withdrew, he was grinning from ear to ear.
“What’s that for?” he asked.
“Nothing special, I just love you,” Daye replied. She moved around him, grabbing dinner off the stove and they both headed into the dining room. Once they were settled, Drew served everything up and poured them each a glass of a very wine.
“So, is your friend all right?” Daye asked, between bites of the delicious meal Drew had prepared.
“Actually, she’s having a problem with her aunt,” Drew explained, “She was hoping I could help.”
“That’s the vampire she brought to Bibliophile, right?” Daye queried.
Drew nodded. “Yes, she’s gone missing or something, and Chinaka is afraid something is wrong. She wants my help to figure it out. I’m not sure what I can do. So…”
Drew’s voice trailed off and when Daye looked up, he was watching her sheepishly again.
“What?” Daye sounded suspicious. What was he so guilty about? He’d been awfully eager to call this woman back. Was there something more going on her she didn’t know about?
“I asked her to meet me at the shop tomorrow afternoon. I told her you could help too,” Drew smiled hopefully. “I know I probably should have checked with you first, but you’re a witch and a watcher and you know a lot about this stuff, so I thought maybe…”
Daye laughed in relief. Even though he’d arranged to meet another woman, Drew had done so at her shop and included her in his plans. She’d been really off her rocker to be so worried. Drew obviously had no designs on Chinaka.
“I’d be happy to help, if I can,” Daye said.
“Thanks, baby,” Drew stood and came around the table. “I figured you’d say that. You know, you really are wonderful… and it’s time I took you to meet Mom and Dad. I know they’re going to love you too. I’ll call her back after dinner.” Drew paused. “That way we’ll have the rest of the night all to ourselves,” he leaned over and dropped a long, slow kiss on Daye’s mouth. She sighed longingly when he moved back to his side of the table to finish his meal.
*Honestly,* Daye thought to herself, *Drew sneaking around behind my back. Where do I get such outlandish ideas?*
Daye dreams of Drew and Chinaka
*** Tuesday, September 20, 2005 around midnight ***
Daye snuggled close to Drew, her eyes drifting closed as he gently stroked her hair and spoke softly about something that had happened in one of his classes earlier that day. She loved the quiet moments they spent together almost as much as the lovemaking they had just shared. Content and satiated, Daye slipped smoothly into sleep.
***
Daye stood in the rear of the bookshop, sliding a book back into its space on the shelf. The lights were dimmed and the shop locked up for the night. She had even finished all her paperwork early, so all she needed to do was lock the rest of the doors and double check the lights before she set the alarm and the wards. Daye smiled contentedly. She and Drew would be meeting up at his place early tonight. He’d be so delighted.
Daye finished up the shop side and moved quickly into the restaurant. Everything in the front looked beautiful. All that was left was to lock up the kitchen. Daye moved to the swinging door, but stopped abruptly because she heard a strange sound. A woman’s voice drifted out of the room, soft and sort of conspiratorial. Daye smiled ruefully. Josh must have hooked up with someone, maybe that new hostess, Amelia. Daye didn’t want to disturb them, but she needed to lock up. Besides, The Bibliophile’s kitchen was no place to have an assignation. Daye started to push open the door, but then thought the better of it. She didn’t want to go barging in and catch Josh or his lady friend in a state of dishabille.
Feeling a bit uncomfortable, Daye leaned forward and peered through the small circular window cut in the kitchen door. What she saw struck her like a physical blow. Rather than catching sight of Josh and the hostess, or Josh and some other woman for that matter, Daye saw a couple sprawled on the counter that she knew. The man, as a matter of fact, she knew very well, although she recognized. She stood stock still, horror stricken as the tableau played out before her.
The woman, Chinaka, lay back on the counter, a sexy grin on her face. She was half undressed, her blouse open wide to reveal a lacy, red bra underneath. At that moment, Drew was lightly running a finger around the edges of that bra while he nuzzled at the woman’s neck. Drew! Daye’s Drew, her man, was inside the kitchen of her shop all but making love to another woman. Daye felt bile rise in her throat as Drew slid the bra straps down and bent his head to the other woman’s breast. His tan skin contrasted against the Chinaka’s dark tone, and Daye shuddered when his tongue flicked out to lap at the woman’s now exposed breast. Daye felt her breath hitch as Chinaka threw her head back, a throaty growl of pleasure issuing forth and assaulting Daye’s ears. She continued to watch, transfixed, as the couple quickly undressed.
Daye didn’t know what to do. Should she charge in and stop them? Should she sneak away? She was humiliated, betrayed, destroyed by the scene she watched play out in the kitchen. Drew was there, only a few feet away, now engaged in wild sex with this other woman. Daye couldn’t stand to watch any more. She was hurt and sad and bewildered, but beneath all that she was growing more and more angry. With each thrust of his hips, each wild peal of her joyous laughter, Daye felt her fury grow. She wanted to do something, something to hurt them as they were hurting her. As she stood there and her anger bubbled, power began to build within her. Without realizing what she was going to do, Daye slammed open the kitchen door, standing in the doorway and waiting for them to respond.
Daye expected Drew to look surprised, or at the very least embarrassed, but when he heard and saw her enter, he just smiled lazily, not even moving away from Chinaka.
“Done so soon, baby?” he asked, stroking Chinaka’s body with his hands as he spoke casually to her.
Daye glared at him, unable to believe his actions. “What are you doing?! Are you crazy?!”
“No, he’s not crazy,” Chinaka replied, her words and eyes scornful and pitying. “The man is lonely. You spend all your time in this shop, with your dusty old books. What did you expect him to do, Daye, wait forever?”
Daye couldn’t believe the hateful things this… this slut was saying to her. How dare she sound so righteous and satisfied? She’d just stolen Daye’s man. Daye felt the power pulsing within her with each passing moment.
“I thought you loved me,” Daye said to Drew. Tears of rage and pain streamed down her cheeks, but she didn’t feel them. Her anger was a white heat inside, burning for a release.
“Baby, I do love you,” Drew chided, “But I’ve got needs too. You should understand. I’ve given you your space, your time, and now I’m getting some of my own back.”
Drew grinned at her, stroking Chinaka, continuing to make love to her. Chinaka arched against him, panting and gyrating on the cold, granite countertop. Daye watched as they ignored her presence. She was astonished. They didn’t even care that she stood in the doorway.
“Stop!” Daye screamed, throwing her hands out in front of her. Drew and Chinaka turned to look at her again, their expressions growing horror-stricken, as Daye’s eyes darkened, becoming dead, black pools in her pale face. She stood with her arms thrown out, her mouth twisted in a snarl as angry words in some foreign tongue spilled from her lips. Suddenly, the pair was gripped with agony. Drew tried to draw away from Chinaka. Chinaka struggled to free herself from his embrace. It was impossible. Energy flowed from Daye, enveloping them and their bodies became fused, melting into one another. They were a distortion of life, body parts flowing without structure from one to the other. As they writhed and screamed for pity, for release, Daye threw back her head and laughed until she too was screaming.
***
Drew bolted up in bed at the sound of Daye’s screaming hysteria. He turned and pulled her into his arms, gently calling her from the depth of her sleep. Daye slowly trudged out of the nightmare, coming awake in his embrace. She fell to sobbing immediately and wouldn’t speak of what had frightened her. Drew was frightened and confused as he helped her to fall back into a fitful sleep.
When In Rome
Introducing Gabrielle Anwar as Rhiannon, Anna Paquin as Sianna, and Dame Maggie Smith as Madlen.
Friday, September 23, 2005 - Mid-afternoon
Black Hills Birthing Center
Young Dana North lay on her back in a room of The Black Mountains Birthing Center. Her eyes were a pair of glassy blue marbles as they stared into the peaceful patterns of the Monet on the wall. Perspiration dampened her short, auburn hair and forehead as another wave of pain tightened her stomach into a knotted ball.
"That's it Dana. You're doing very well," said Elain, one of the midwives at the birthing center. Her blonde hair was wrapped in a tight bun around her head. She moved about Dana performing tasks with purpose.
"Yes. You've done very well. Now it is time to do some more work," stated Rhiannon, another midwife who had just finished examining Dana. "You have to push now, Dana. Are you ready?"
"I'm scared," Dana cried.
Elain took her place behind Dana, supporting her back and helping her to sit up slightly. "Everything will be fine. Everything is as it should be," Elain said in a voice that was trained to soothe.
"All right Dana, I want you to put your chin to your chest and bear down to push out your baby. Do you understand?" Rhiannon said, kneeling at the foot of the bed in preparation to deliver the child.
Dana nodded, her face a picture of agony.
"Good. When the next contraction comes I want you to push."
A moment later a wave of pain moved through the girl, as if someone had pulled taut a rubber band inside of her, and she began to push with all her strength.
"Very good," said Elain, "Take a breath and continue."
Dana squeezed the sheets between her hands, threatening to tear the thin material to shreds, and pushed down again with renewed force. Her face contorted and she cried out between breaths.
"Almost there Dana!" encouraged Rhiannon.
Again Dana worked to free the child, pushing and wailing until finally, with one last cry, the child was brought into the world.
"You have a perfect baby boy," said Rhiannon as she set the child upon Dana's chest.
Elain was ready with soft towels to clean and wrap the child in warmth.
When examinations of mother and child were complete, Dana held her new baby in her arms. The child looked straight into his mother's eyes, so much like his own, and smiled.
"I didn't think newborns could smile," Dana said.
"They can't. He's probably just a bit gassy," replied Rhiannon as she moved to walk out of the room to give the new family some privacy.
Dana smiled and began at an attempt to nurse her son. He would have none of it and struggled to latch on. After a time, the baby became frustrated with hunger and began to howl at the top of his lungs.
Rhiannon poked her head back into the room at the sound. "Everything all right?"
As the child continued to cry his pink skin changed to a deep, blood red and tiny razor sharp teeth appeared in his mouth.
"What the…?" exclaimed Rhiannon. "Elain! You may want to see this."
Elain came quickly into the room to see the child who was by now completely covered in a layer of shiny, ruby red scales and crying buckets.
"Holy Mother! What's wrong with him?" cried Elain, her hand clasped over her mouth in astonishment.
"Nothing," said Dana calmly, "His father is a Lumath Demon."
Elain and Rhiannon exchanged glances then turned back to stare at the mother and her child. Dana was smiling peacefully and cooing to the infant as if nothing was different about him.
"Hmm," said Rhiannon, "Well, might I suggest you bottle feed this one. Those teeth could do a number on you."
Elain was looking at Rhiannon as if she had lobsters crawling from her ears. Rhiannon simply gave a shrug of her shoulders and smiled.
"Right. Lumath Demon. That's certainly a first," Elain said quietly. Then to Dana, "Be sure and get a picture of him for us to hang on the bulletin board, will you?"
***
Friday, September 23, 2005 - 9:15pm
Shenn Chione
"You should've seen it, Madlen. He was beet red and shining like jewels," said Elain.
"Very strange indeed," said Madlen, the oldest of the midwives. Her once blonde hair had long since gone gray with age. Her pleasant face was wrinkled, each line telling a tale of her life.
"Did he have horns?" asked Sianna, Rhiannon's sister and the youngest of them at thirteen.
"No. He didn’t have horns," said Rhiannon. "He was like some kind of reptile - a snake. A chubby, cute, little snake… demon… thing."
The four of them laughed as they sipped Madlen's personal blend of nighttime tea.
"I think it was worth it just to see Elain's face," said Rhiannon, "She came running in only to stop in her tracks when she saw the child. I thought she was going to faint."
"I'm sorry I wasn't as collected as you were," Elain smiled, "I've never seen a squirming red reptile come out of a perfectly human woman before."
Another soft round of good-natured laughter went around the table in a wave.
"Well, girls. I'm off to bed," said Madlen, "Sianna, off with you as well."
Sianna resigned a sigh and said her goodnights. "Perhaps next year Madlen will let me stay up past nine o'clock."
"She made us wait until we were sixteen. But don't worry. She's getting old. Maybe you can convince her that you're really two years older," Rhiannon whispered conspiratorially.
Sianna chuckled, then kissed her sister goodnight and ran off up the stairs to her room. The sound of her bare feet padding up the stairs made the remaining two women smile fondly.
Rhiannon slowly turned to her companion. Her eyes were saying more to Elain than words ever actually could. Rhiannon raised her hand and touched Elain's cheek with the pad of her thumb. The touch was so slight that Elain held her breath and closed her eyes to feel it more strongly. Rhiannon's hand moved to a piece of blonde hair that had strayed from Elain's now loosened bun.
Elain stayed unmoving, not speaking for a moment then turned her head away from the heat of Rhiannon's stare.
The intensity of the moment was softened by Rhiannon's beaming smile. "Come on. Let's see what's on HBO." Rhiannon jumped from the table and fairly ran to the next room.
Elain followed behind her. "You and your cable television. It's a good thing we never had that back home or you would never have gotten any work done."
A pillow came whizzing past Elain's head. "I would've just cheated and had you do all the work."
They were both smiling as they plopped down in front of their small television. They sat in comfortable silence, just content to be by each other's side.
Staring into the abyss.
Wednesday, 14th September 2005 – 1:20am Bremen local time
Tuesday, 13th September 2005 – 4:20pm LA time
After they’d settled into the hotel, Valerian had declared that he and Samantha would make a brief hunt then try locating Jade’s whereabouts in the city. Tash and Sorrow had met this announcement with grim looks then gathered their hunting paraphernalia and headed out into the darkness to kill what they could and save a few more lives.
There had been, however, rather slim pickings that night. The darkness had done its job and despite all their advantages the two hunters had found only a couple of inexperienced fledglings, neither of which had taxed them in the slightest. Unfortunately they had no time to hunt further. Whoever had kidnapped Jade was no doubt expecting some sort of rescue and they needed to keep their presence to a minimum.
In yet another empty darkened back alley just away from the busier streets Sorrow stopped and leant against a gritty, damp wall. “What do you think? Somebody already cleaned out the town or have they been warned off?”
Tash appeared not to hear him for a few moments. She stood, staring into the middle distance with her hands on her hips. Every nerve twitched from the pent-up frustration of the night's hunt. *I'm sure Valerian's found his quarry - why can't we?*
Finally she moved, dropping her arms to her sides and facing Sorrow. She'd picked up no hint of vampires in the area, not so much as a lingering trace. "I don't know. It's almost as though there aren't any here. But there has to be. A city this large could support a good-sized population. So where are they all?"
She sounded whiny to her own ears, like a spoiled kid being denied their favourite toy. But damn, she needed to compensate for having to let Valerian hunt without comment. The two new vamps they’d encountered hadn't even made her break sweat. She paced up and down the alley, returning to where Sorrow regarded her with an amused gleam in his eye.
"I don't know," she repeated, "Maybe Valerian didn't want a repeat of Tours. We made a serious dent in the vampire population there."
“That’s true. Still, not much we can do about it now. Shame we have to stay low profile around here at the moment.” He took in Tash’s still-tense form, “You ok with us calling it a night?”
"Not really. But I don't think we're being given any choice. Just like we've had no choices all along." Tash clenched her jaw and her fists simultaneously. "I hate having my strings pulled, Sorrow. Valerian's seriously shitting me off. Is there any way you can track Jade yourself now that we're here?"
Sorrow shook his head, turned back towards the hotel and started walking. “As for Valerian, he’s a vampire. Manipulation is what they do. And you never know, maybe vampires don’t like German food?”
******
Surprisingly, the two vampires had already returned to the hotel by the time Sorrow and Tash got back. Valerian stood in the doorway of his room, that familiar mocking smile gracing his face. “Everything went well, I take it? I’m just about to finalise Jadyn’s location - I wondered if you’d care to join us?”
Mistrusting Valerian's motives, Tash was nevertheless cursed with an insatiable curiosity. She had to admit that she'd wondered just how Valerian was able to track Jade when Sorrow's magic had failed. Talk of blood ties was all well and good, but there had to be something more to it. She cast a sidelong glance at Sorrow, hoping he might have more clues as to what they might be letting themselves in for if they agreed.
Valerian's eyes seemed to bore into her and she knew he could feel her fear of him. Revelled in it. Damn him. She'd love to ram a stake through his heart one day. Soon. Her thoughts flitted from one answer to the other and although her mouth opened to speak, in the end she remained silent.
Valerian glanced at Sorrow who looked to Tash. "Your call Tash..."
Valerian cocked his head as his gaze rested once more on Tash. "Well, Natasha? It's a simple enough query. Are you interested in finding your friend's location?"
Tash's eyes narrowed at his rephrasing. *Bastard,* she thought. His eyes glittered for just a second and she knew her emotion had shown on her face. Letting out her breath she acquiesced, "Please, lead the way."
Grabbing Sorrow's arm she pinched him lightly, just enough to show her annoyance at him while they followed Valerian into his hotel suite.
Sorrow bestowed a dazzling smile on Tash as they stepped into Valerian's room. Laid out on the floor was a simple silver chalice and single straight bladed knife. *Blood to blood indeed...* Samantha was unfolding a street map of the city.
Suddenly Sorrow frowned, leaning to whisper into Tash's ear, "You know, it occurs to me I'm not the only one with a head full of magical knowledge. Is there anything you could do to find Jade?"
Tash blinked in surprise. It hadn’t even occurred to her to think about that angle. She eyed the dagger and the silver bowl, sinking into Ohenewaa’s memories. Images of countless human sacrifices and innumerable summonings of malevolent forces rose in her mind. Grimacing inwardly, she tried to push past the evil uses to which Ohenewaa had put her craft and to delve into the basics that lay at the root.
Finally she shook her head and replied, “I’m not sure. There are ways of tracking people, but most of what comes to the front involves methods I wouldn’t even begin to consider.”
She met Sorrow's gaze, his eyes filled with hope and desperation. "If this doesn't work I'll have a proper think about it later, when I'm not so distracted," she promised, gesturing towards the vampires as they prepared for their own ritual.
Having laid out the map on the table Sam took out three incense sticks, lit them and set them carefully into a holder. Valerian took up the knife and laid open his forearm. He let the blood run into the cup until it was half full. Valerian spoke quietly and the surface of the blood went unnaturally still. Valerian’s baritone voice rose into the room as he began to chant over the chalice.
“Any idea what that is?” Tash had attended enough rituals recently to recognise Latin or Greek and Valerian’s chant was in neither.
“Coptic I think. It certainly sounds similar…” Sorrow quieted as Samantha shot a glare across the room.
Valerian’s words came faster and louder now as the surface of the rich, red liquid began to roil and the coppery smell of heated blood cut through the incense. Without breaking his chant Valerian took up one of the incense sticks. The urgency in his voice building towards a crescendo, he wafted the fragrant smoke over the cup and then quenched the burning tip in the blood.
A cool blue flame sprang up then almost at once began to fade. Valerian continued to chant in a voice it seemed should have been able to command the stars to stop. It was however to no avail; despite the effort and obvious power Valerian had raised, the flames flickered and died. As the last blue tongue faded the silver cup went black and Valerian slumped back. He was still, reminding both Tash and Sorrow of nothing more than a puppet whose strings had been cut.
Tash shifted in the awkward silence. She’d also been to enough rituals to know when one had failed utterly. “No Jade, then?” she asked sweetly.
Valerian’s head whipped round to face Tash, his eyes blazing with a millennium of evil and hate. His eyes closed for a second then that mocking smile they had come to revile spread slowly across his features. “Samantha, it appears we will need something more potent. Do try to be back quickly, I’d prefer to continue this in darkness.”
Even though she spoke to Valerian, Sam looked squarely at Tash as she grinned in feral joy. "Gladly, master. I'll fetch you a prime specimen."
The bright kernel of suspicion that had flared to life in Tash's mind at Valerian's words blossomed into certainty. "Oh, no," she said, rounding on Valerian. The intensity of his reaction should have given her pause, but this - this was too much to expect of her. "No, you're not going to kill someone right in front of us." She barred the doorway, causing Sam to stop short. The vampiress hissed at her, but Tash held firm, looking to Sorrow for support.
"Find another way Valerian," Sorrow drew Hizashi, "because if she tries to leave this room she's dust."
Valerian drew himself up, and despite his stature he seemed to tower over everyone in the room. His voice boomed, “Foolish children. You are here simply to make it easier on Jadyn when – when we find her. And find her I will, whatever the means. Take care not to overstep your bounds, lest I decide I can do without you.”
He muttered, "Blood I need and blood I will have... " Valerian stalked towards the doorway and his voice cracked out, "Natasha!"
Startled, Tash looked towards Valerian and for just a moment met his eyes. The rest of the room started to fade…
Panic rose in her chest for a moment: once more she was twenty, lying on her back on the grass, staring up at the stars and wondering why her arm hurt. Then all she could focus on were those eyes. She was drowning in those dark pools. Without quite knowing how she’d crossed the intervening space she found herself several paces from the door, pressed against Valerian, gazing into those deep liquid orbs.
He rested his hands lightly on her shoulders and rested his cheek against hers to whisper, his breath tickling her ear, “Of course, your blood would do as well as anyone’s. And so convenient.”
The anger that thrummed through his body faded a little at the sight of Natasha tilting her neck in offering to him, and he chuckled deep in his throat. This was just too easy.
"Release her. Now!" Sorrow pressed the tip of his sword into Valerian’s back, "Or we find out just how mortal you are!" he snarled. From the doorway Samantha's vicious grin had drained away.
"Tristan... please," Valerian said reprovingly.
"I said now Valerian, or I decide to end your existence and take my chances at finding Jade. After all, I don't need you for the darker aspects of magic."
"And do you really think that pig-sticker will do the job? Really, Tristan. I credited you with more intelligence than that. But, have it your way," he planted a kiss on Tash's cheek before removing his hands from her shoulders, "My reasons for bringing you haven't changed," he smiled indulgently at Sorrow, "so why upset the applecart?" He stepped away from Tash and she swayed where she stood, whimpering slightly at the absence of her master's touch.
Sorrow reached up and grabbed Valerian’s hair, "I sever your spine, you die. I put this pig-sticker through your heart, you die. I burn you, you die. I call living sunlight into this room and you die. I said release her!"
Fire blazed in Valerian's eyes for a second, then just as quickly it was quenched. "Very well," he said with a mock bow, "As you wish."
He reached out and gently closed Tash's eyes. She quivered as his fingertips brushed her skin, but grew still again when he leaned forward to whisper once more in her ear. Valerian drew back and offered a tight smile to Sorrow. "There. Better?"
“Not yet. Tash?"
Tash's eyes flew open, "What, Sorrow?"
Then she frowned, feeling a little disoriented. *Wha..? Oh, yeah, that's right.* She turned to see Samantha still by the door. *How..? Wasn't I in the doorway?* Shaking her head, Tash advanced on Sam again. "I mean it. I can't let you go get some poor bastard off the street."
Sorrow looked at Valerian for a moment then there was a brief flow of power focusing on Tash. Sorrow relaxed a little and at Tash's quizzical look he smiled, "Just checking."
Sorrow kept Hizashi to hand, "There are other means to gaining power Valerian, and I'm sure a vampire of your considerable age and skill is more than capable of arriving at a solution that requires no unwilling donors." He pointed his shining sword, "But just in case, I think we'll take Sam with us."
Valerian regarded Sorrow balefully. "My dear boy, I think it's about time," and Valerian's hand shot out in a blur. Sorrow's hyped reflexes cut in to deflect the blow, but even with his renewed enhancements the elder vampire still batted Hizashi from his hand. The sword clattered against the far wall as Valerian finished, “that you stopped relying on that toy for a while.”
His other hand shot out, stopping Tash's headlong rush with a 'whoof' of expelled air as his palm connected sharply with her sternum. "Don't even bother, Natasha. You both seem to forget that you need me to find Jadyn. And the method will be that of my choosing. Your only choice is to stay or leave. Or to die. Decide."
*I really hate this creature.* Sorrow walked calmly over to his sword, picked it up and sheathed it. He turned to face the room, "I'll stay, though I won't be watching." It was just another death to add to Valerian's tally or to the kidnappers’. The blood would stain his soul too but he'd already done worse for Jade. "Just one thing, Valerian. You don't want my blood on your hands." He turned to Tash, "Staying or going?"
Tash met Sorrow's eyes. "I've come this far. We have to find Jade." She rubbed her chest, *One more bruise to add to the collection.* She turned her back to Valerian and stalked towards the door, "But I'm damned if I'm staying in this room a moment longer."
Mid-Season Two: Jan 20, 2006 - June 16(ish), 2006
“Darwinist Jack Move”
16 Sept. 05
7:35 P.M.
Sunny Gates Apartments, Unit 3D
Fate, his daily meditations over, springs to attention, bows to a non-existent enemy (‘there is no enemy outside of the mind’ as Yamaoka Tesshu wrote in the 1800s), and begins his nightly progression of katas to clear his head.
As a sort of kinetic backlash to the cerebral Humanism of his earlier thoughts, he flows directly into the primitive nature of the animal styles in an effort to achieve some measure of experiential homeostasis through atavistic reversion.
First kata sequence: Snake Style. Fate is sinuous and hypnotic in his movements, yet as directly deadly as the cobra for which the style was named. Hands contorted into an approximation of the cobra’s mouth, he throws strikes at key points, working the Cycle of Destruction with a pre-emptive lack of remorse. The cobra is venom and reflex, a killer by nature, and Fate tries to emulate its lack of hesitation at the moment of conflict. His body, disciplined by years of practice, falls into the circularities and circumnavigations of the idealized Snake, his features assuming the same moral blankness as the Biblical Serpent. His muscles striate and relax at odd intervals between strikes, a loose, liquid physiology flowing with circumstances to enable one Definite Moment, a place outside of time where the conclusion is foregone…
Second kata sequence: Tiger Style. Fate thinks in offensive terms immediately. He does not pause even for a moment to let the perceived enemy make its strike. He lashes forth with as much energy and vigor as he can bring to bear. His techniques are forceful and unforgiving, fingers approximating the claws that rend, hard movements with an unbridled sense of crushing the enemy at every swipe. The Definite Moment of Tiger Style is pro-active, and The Tiger either kills or dies in one substantive exchange…
Third kata sequence: Monkey Style. Fate moves erratically, feinting, ducking, and dodging in between strikes and grabs. His hands are once again human and prehensile, grasping and probing with sinister curiosity. The Monkey’s Definite Moment is the enemy’s state of confusion and the hesitation that confusion promulgates…
Fourth kata sequence: Crane Style. Fate works the entirety of his limited space in a series of flying kicks and other high-mobility techniques. Simulating the predatory swoop of The Crane, The Definite Moment is an accurately-placed strike delivered across a considerable distance with precision and grace…
Fate’s fifth sequence is his own unorthodox synthesis of every style he has ever encountered, his method of refocusing his attention on The Ideal Enemy that he is certain waits out in the streets for him. Every technique he uses is immediately followed by the counter to that technique, reminding him that nothing in combat is infallible…
Comes to rest.
Bows once again.
Begins his night.
8:02 P.M.
Fate, slicing through the busy streets as quick and clean as a straightrazor, let his mind drift back to the basic problem he had with the whole Senyata-Oni business. He knew that by most accounts he was, in fact, the walking dead-- his heart didn’t beat, after all—and that his feeding was quite the sight to behold, what with the lightning-show and all, but outside of that, the rest of the tale sounded a bit hokey. Ishida, ostensibly a four-hundred year-old Japanese martial arts Grandmaster, sallied forth from Japan to end up in, of all places, San Diego, California, just to pass his curse on to the first naïve, twenty year-old black kid that crossed his path? Four hundred years of experience with his Inner Monster and he couldn’t find a way to live with it, some method of reconciling himself to immortality and its attendant superpowers? *Yep—sounds like classic bullshit. How did I ever buy that crap? Fate, thine ass ‘tis awfully gullible sometimes.* He preferred to chop the supernatural aspects right out of his supernature, and apply some good old-fashioned reason to the principal questions of his existence as a photosensitive, bipedal metabolism.
Human beings and animals were basically electrified bags of water and trace minerals, no matter what the philosophers said. They needed lungs to breathe, and blood to carry that oxygen to all the stuff that hid out internally. They needed to consume other slower animals and plants to provide energy to fuel the oxygen distribution network. Food energy became chemical energy became electrical energy in a rather inefficient process that generated a considerable amount of by-products. The human body, Fate decided, was poorly-engineered. Indoor plumbing provided all the evidence he needed. Human beings, having reasoned their way to the top of the food chain, made a bunch more of themselves, and proceeded to overpopulate the world quickly, creating plumbing problems on a global scale. The world had to regulate the human population somehow. Enter the vampire…
The vampire, Fate pensed, was a much more efficient organism. They possessed considerable physical prowess, sensory enhancement, and freedom from natural death, cellular oxidation, and threats of disease and poisoning, at the cost of extreme photosensitivity and a vulnerable heart. A simple diet high in protein and oxygen that the vampire body used up with one hundred percent efficiency. No need for indoor plumbing. Definitely a step in the right direction. The entire business of crosses and holy symbols was kind of a sticking point, though. Fate figured that it was some Jungian Collective Unconscious thing that absolutely stank of centuries-old internalized guilt. Even with that, vampires sat at the top of the food chain, human beings the slower animals they fed on. And they lived forever. And they could make more of themselves that lived forever, too. The world had to regulate them as well. Enter Fate…
*Old Chuck Darwin’d shit a Galapagos turtle if he met me, but I think he’d confirm my suspicions about my place in The Grand Scheme o’Things…*
Which was, at present, tailing a group of six vampires dressed in Early S&M Leather and Buckles, who were, at present, tailing a pack of five mortal lasses who were, it seemed, big fans of Early S&M Leather and Buckles. None of the energy signatures read terribly hot to Fate—most likely new vamps—and he had an extremely short moment of pity for the extremely short life expectancy of all six vamps he was a very short time away from making them all too aware of.
The band of revelers and revenants made the obligatory turn into the obligatory dark, sinister alley where the latter were to presumably separate the former from their very lives. Fate had seen this rookie mistake made on entirely too many occasions in his thirty-five years of hunting vamps, and wondered why someone would go through the trouble of making a bunch of vampires only to avoid showing them how to keep themselves around to experience immortality in practical fashion. Just as the vampires were about to make their intentions plain, Fate decided to barge right into the group uninvited. And horribly sarcastic, too…
“Boys, boys, boys,” Fate said, shaking his head with mock sadness, “it would seem that I’ve stumbled across quite the unusual combination of horrid fashion sense and fundamental stupidity.” He smiled as he subtly closed the gap separating them, marking their respective positions in his mind.
“Hey man, mind your own business,” the one that went much too heavy on the eyeliner said, trying to sound hard. Fate decided to tease them a little.
“I mean you six, trying to do what I know you happen to want to do right now to these nice-if-a-little-misguided young ladies,” Fate said and stopped walking. He was exactly where he needed to be.
“Wh-what’s that supposed to mean,” Eyeliner asked, and a slight trace of fear glimmered in his eyes. All six of them stared at Fate with what might have been appraising glances, sizing him up as his lack of pheromonal output finally dawned on them. “Hey man, this has got nothing to do with you, okay?” Pleading, almost.
Just before Fate made his move, he succumbed to the desire to say something overtly Action-Movie-One-Liner-Ish. “In an effort to properly articulate my spiritual disharmony, I am going to kill and eat every last one of you sorry sons-of-bitches.” Then he moved…
Kicking his nervous system into Livewire Voodoo mode, Fate shot headfirst straight at the biggest vampire in the group, crushing his ribcage with a supersonic head-butt that impaled his heart with the bones that were supposed to protect it. The next closest vampire froze with surprise and shock, so Fate calmly laid his - Fate’s - hand on his - the one who would soon be ashes - neck and absorbed him justlikethat. Whirling around, he wound his torso up and torqued off a spear-hand strike into the heart of the next. Dust. He let the fourth one hit him with a punch to the head, only to drain him as he set up for a “one-two” combination. Fate was glowing blue by the time the fifth and six decided to run, and cooked off the excess energy his body held by accelerating and killing them for the good of the vampire species. He was culling the herd by eliminating its dumber members.
Street-level Darwinism.
Predator and prey.
Food and fed.
The young ladies, eyes like dinner plates in terror. “No one here but us evolutionary mechanisms, darlin's,” he said, and if he had had a hat, he would have tipped it to them before walking away whistling.
Ian The Nursemaid Part 3
Tuesday 13th September 2005 - 1pm
Ian poked his head into the “treasure room” as he thought of it. He quietly closed the door behind himself and then walked around the room. He pantomimed placing item after item into an imaginary gym bag. He then opened the door and walked quickly but not rushed to the front door.
Click. He shut off the stopwatch and looked at the time. Eleven minutes almost exactly. From front door to the third floor, pick the locks and exit with the goods only took eleven minutes. He shook his head. That would have to be fixed.
He went back to the apartment and informed Victor what he was going to do. Victor didn’t understand a word of it. But he recognized the need. Ian went out and did some shopping.
It’s amazing how many things can be obtained on the open market. Miniature cameras, computer controlled entry systems and highly dangerous prevention systems. If you knew where to look you could even get stuff better than the government. Not that the government ever had the top of the line stuff.
Ian had acquired a sizeable collection of equipment. He even drew up an invoice for Victor’s records. He started to install the security system right away. Sometime around three pm he discovered he would need a secure power line.
Ian walked down the stairs gingerly. He had spent his life entering dark places and yet this basement gave him the creeps. It was fairly plain. An old coal-burning furnace, some shelves, a battered set of washers and dryers and a storage cage pretty much filled the space. Old, very old, stone walls with a newer concrete floor and cast-iron steam pipes to carry hot water to the radiators gave it an antique feel.
Ian was puzzled why Victor had not cleaned up the graffiti around the storage bin. It went all over the inside and out onto the floor. Ian spotted the fuse box and headed over. He opened the panel and a deep tanned arm with delicate fingers and corded muscles slammed it shut.
“Who are you, hun?”
Ian looked into liquid brown eyes and long black hair dressed in blue jeans and a designer t-shirt. She was stunning. He stammered as his eyes wandered over her athletic body.
“Ian... uh... I’m Ian. I’m helping around the place for a few days. You must be Reah. I heard you lived here. Victor asked me to stop by but you have not been home.”
Alice gave Ian a cockeyed smile, “Wrong name, wrong game, three strikes and you might be out. My name is Alice and you,” she poked him in the chest with a stiff finger that made him wince, “should not be here.”
Ian was about to ask why when his brain inverted. His life dwindled to a minute speck of dust in a vast microcosm of space dominated by a single… Alice. She was standing very close to him in a corner and was hugging him tightly.
“Don’t move or sneeze or think for a few seconds or I may have to break your spine. This spot is safe but I only made it to fit one,” she said.
Ian was afraid to tell her that he was breathing very shallowly because she was crushing his abdomen. Then he watched as a lumbering thing came out of the wall. It was white at first but it faded into focus and color in seconds. It looked for all the world like a pro wrestler. He took one step and then the floor erupted into a mass of tentacles.
The wrestler grabbed tentacles and suplexed and body slammed and got bitch slapped by the floor-monster. It then opened a toothy maw and began to munch on the wrestler's foot. In less than a minute it was all over and there wasn’t even a drop of evidence to show it had happened. Even the cobwebs were undisturbed.
Alice moved her hands down the back of Ian’s pants; sliding her hands in his back pockets she pulled out his wallet.
Alice relaxed and let Ian step out of the tiny circle on the floor. Ian's brain was reeling. “Do you believe in Magic?” Victor had asked him. After what he had just seen? Hell yes. No. Uh…
Alice looked through Ian's wallet and pulled out his driver’s license. "Why do they never take a good picture?” Alice tossed Ian’s wallet back to him.
She poked Ian in the gut, “What are you thinking, hun?”
Ian’s brain snapped to the moment, “What?”
Alice laughed, “Your brain just had an epiphany that was triggered by the interdimensional influx of protomatter into a protoplasmic universe. In short, hun, you just got religion.”
Ian hated it when he knew his jaw was open and couldn’t close it in time. Then Alice made it worse, “And you must have liked it, too!”
She pointed to a bulge in his pants. Ian tried to play it cool but he could feel the burn of his cheeks ruining the moment. Alice planted a friendly peck on Ian’s cheek and strolled back up the basement stairs, “See you in the funny papers Ian, and remember I know where you live now.”
Ian watched her fine rear end wiggle up the stairs and had to shake his head to clear it. Why was he down here? What had he seen? It took five more minutes to remember the electrical panel. It took ten minutes past that for him to stop shaking at what else he had remembered.
Adding the secure circuit helped him steady his mind and as he was working he decided that Alice had slipped him a drug of some sort. He had no idea WHAT sort but it fit the experience better than the idea of magic did. Didn’t it?
***** Tuesday 4pm
Henry bounded up the steps two at a time to the building at 1318 Poplar Avenue. Ever since Galen recommended him for the 'promotion,' he had seen more weird stuff than anyone could have expected to find. He quickly found his way to apartment 205.
A man whose looks screamed 'wanker' opened the door. Henry's voice came out like someone who was trying very hard to sound important and serious, but failing on both counts. "I got a call to come to see Mr. Tek. He wouldn't happen to be around, would he?"
Ian stood in the open door and suppressed a smile at this self-important man. *And this is the wanker who's supposed to cut through the red tape?* Aloud, Ian said, "Depends. We're expecting someone, sure... but I didn't catch your name." His smile was open and friendly.
"Gyrich," he said, pulling his ID and badge out of the suit coat, still trying not to overdo it. He was also still failing. *It's not like they take me seriously anyway.* "Henry Gyrich. You are?"
Ian ignored the question, "Sure, Henry. Mr. Tek is right in here." He opened the door wide and kept the smile plastered on his face. Maybe with a couple of whiskeys in him this guy could unbend a little, but right now he had a rod so far up his arse...
Henry ignored the idiot's manner and pushed into the apartment, struck by the katana on the wall and the giant stone slab. *Wow.* There was a black man with a neck brace on the couch he assumed was Victor. "Mr. Tek?" he asked carefully, walking over.
Victor had vague memories of meeting this man before as Vicasha and of pushing some levers in Henry's brain to make him forget the encounter. Victor regretted the necessity of doing it but some secrets were best kept confined. He had a vague notion that Henry might appreciate the irony, but Victor was not about to test the theory. "I'm sorry I can't stand, Henry. Our mutual friend Galen Eldrige has spoken highly of you. Seems you two have a few interesting drinking stories together."
Victor gestured to the second couch and glanced at Ian who tossed his hands in the air and muttered something about not being Victor's waitress.
Henry could think of only one possible night he might be referring to. You didn't drag the boss out to the bar often... and just what had happened? He usually didn't get that drunk. "Well, you know how it is, when you need to unwind."
Ian's ears perked up. Maybe there was hope for this guy after all.
"Coffee?" he inquired.
"Sure, thank you," Henry replied as he plopped down on the couch, a broad grin crossing his face. All seriousness vanished. "So, is it true? That Galen left for a woman? She must be a real looker."
"Henry, Kate is worth it. She was one of the first people I ever met in LA and she 'changed' me, you might say. She's more than just a 'looker', she's the kind of woman you would slay demons for. And Galen is deeply in love with her."
Victor leaned forward and whispered to Henry, "You might say you and I are in the same business, just on different sides of the government fence and I need your help. If you can't talk any further I'll understand, but I want you to have the kind of success and influence Galen enjoyed in his position. And I can help you with that if you are willing to help me with a small arrangement."
Ian sighed in the kitchen. He remembered Kate - and damn, but she really was a looker. He finished making Henry's coffee, adding a generous splash of whiskey from the bottle Tash kept just for his visits. He placed the mug in front of Henry with a grin. "There, hope you like it."
"Thanks, man," he said, sipping it. "You know, there are more subtle ways to get someone drunk, don't you?"
"Ian!" Victor expressed concern. He could smell the liquor in the coffee, "Sorry, Henry, I know he means well, but its kind of rude to assume..."
"No, no, that's okay. It's actually a bit weak."
Victor could smell how "weak" it wasn’t but declined to comment.
"Hang on, I can fix that." Ian disappeared to return a moment later with the bottle and a couple of filled glasses. He settled back on the couch next to Victor and proffered one of the glasses. "No? I didn't think so." Ian thought it odd that Victor never seemed to eat or drink anything at all. He pushed the second glass towards Henry instead, along with the bottle.
Victor looked at Henry and smiled, "Pain medication, it reacts badly. But please, if you want to I won't mind."
Victor elbowed Ian slightly in reproof, but continued more or less where he left off. "This building is over 200 years old and has special significance to the area. I'd like you to see how we have preserved it and would like to keep preserving it. That is part of what the "foundation" is all about. And I was hoping you might be able to help me in that regard."
Henry tried to remember the details of the various reports he was supposed to absorb, including the operation that had to do with this building again. Was Victor talking about the doppelgangers, the vampires, the mm'pfashnik demon running around, or something else?
"Um, yes, we probably could. What's wrong, Senator not giving you a fair hearing?" He was catching on quickly that they couldn't exactly speak freely with Ian around, but wondered how to get him to leave.
Victor lifted a paper-wrapped bundle and handed it to Henry, "Most of what you need to know about this place is in here. Understand these are papers that date back to the turn of the 19th century so be very careful with them. I would like them back."
Victor patted Ian's knee, "Across the hall in my office is a folder marked 'Foundation Non-Profit'. Could you bring that in here?"
Ian gave Victor a look that showed he knew he was being got out of the way. "Sure," he said, downing the last of his current glass. "I'll just be a sec."
He rose and walked to the door, closing it deliberately behind him. He crossed the hallway and unlocked the door to Victor's office, then crept back to press his ear against the wood of Tash's door.
Victor could hear Ian's shallow breathing out in the hall. He would still need to be somewhat circumspect, but not totally; something would have to leak.
"Henry, I was Galen's informant for the last big threat... the 'doubles'. My friends and I are well connected to the subterrestrial community and can help you. But we need to set up a way you can help us in this mission without attracting attention to us... or you." Victor waited to see Henry's reaction. He wanted to be sure he understood the full implications of what he was offering.
Ultimately Henry could become a super agent working both inside and outside the confines of the rules of Majestic. It would be a tug of war between them, a war of wills; hoping that the other would neither abuse nor sever the relationship. That together they would work towards a common goal.
Henry rubbed his hands together. "Sure, whatever. Sounds good." Was he being offered a bribe? He hoped so... Majestic was hardly paying enough as it was.
Then he rejected the thought. No, it had to be getting this doppelganger problem under control. That was the important thing. "So, what do we do now? Aside from getting this place on the historic register. Though it's doubtful the committee would let it on normally. They like their historic buildings to be a little more run down."
"Henry, I appreciate that you may not think of this building as being almost 200 years old. It is remarkably well preserved I'll admit. But trust me, you don't want anyone to tear it down. Ever. In fact I'll promise you that if you help me out I will never ever show you what is in the basement."
*Wasn't that a drugged hallucination?* Ian thought about his experience in the basement earlier and shivered. *Just what the hell is going on here?* Realising his absence would be conspicuous if he was too much longer he tiptoed on shaking legs to the office and retrieved the file. Composing himself, he re-entered Tash's flat and held the file out to Victor. "Sorry it took a little while - it was buried under some other stuff." He smiled tightly and poured himself a second, larger whiskey and sat heavily.
"Dogbert's New Ruling Class would love to take a look at that," Henry said, draining a good portion of his whiskey glass.
Victor, clueless, blinked a few times and tried to ignore Ian's stifled snickering. He handed the folder to Henry as well. “Here is the information you need on our non-profit status if you need some way to justify it. And I am going to assume we have a deal."
"Yes, we have a deal," Henry replied as he accepted the folder. Then, unable to resist another wisecrack, added, "One princess, for one million space bucks."
After Henry was out of the building Victor asked Ian what a 'Space buck' was.
Ian rolled his eyes. "I'd show you, but you don't watch movies. Or eat. Or drink. Or sleep. And you've got something weird in the basement." He paused and stared at Victor's impassive face for a second. "That's what I thought," he said as he picked up the bottle. He filled a glass and downed it in one gulp. "I'll be in the next room if you need me."
"Ian. Do you really want to know? Ignorance truly is bliss." Victor's voice was low and serious. "You've been a real friend and I don't want to drag you deeper into this than you have to be."
Ian was rarely serious. He found it hampered his enjoyment of life. Curiosity was a powerful thing, but Victor was right - knowledge led to responsibilities. "No, it's ok," he replied, "How can I be a good comic sidekick if I know what's going on?"
He leant back in his seat, "No, I'll just get drunk and have a good time and have the occasional bit of weird shit happen to me while the rest of you go deal with whatever Earth-shattering events are going on. I think I prefer it that way."
Ian The Nursemaid Part 3 (continued)
Tuesday 13th September 2005 - 10pm
Ian was looking at the little sparkles playing across the last inch of whiskey in the bottle. He liked how he didn’t need to know what made the sparkles to appreciate them. Victor was reading one of those old books in the bedroom and Ian needed to get out and get more whiskey.
He put on his jacket and headed for the door. Victor called from the back room, “Don’t drive drunk, Ian!”
Ian silently mouthed Victor’s warning then stuck out his tongue in that direction. He sucked the last of the whiskey down and coughed in the hallway until he caught his breath. He strolled erratically into the street and headed toward town.
The werewolves had been waiting. It had been 30 days since the last time they had been able to hunt. Their pack had suffered terrible losses at the hands of the accursed Sam and Thumper. These were the last two.
They watched the drunken man wander down the street, singing off key. They waited until he was close and then charged across the street. The lead werewolf went right under the tires of the bus. The second one pulled up short but was still battered by the bumper.
Ian on the other hand proceeded all the way to the end of the street to Bob’s Bar. He walked into the ‘pub’ and sat down at the bar. An attractive sheila sidled up next to him. “You're new,” she said.
Bob tapped the bar to get her attention. “Don’t mess with this one honey. He’s a white hat.”
White hat. Ian heard it but he had no idea what it meant. He ordered a beer and asked the bartender what he meant.
Bob smiled, “You don’t remember me do you? I didn’t forget you though. I watched you a few months ago put three of my customers through the wringer. I have since heard about you hanging with Natasha Brookes and that crew. I am not taking any chances on getting them on my back. You are a white hat as far as I am concerned.”
Ian decided he wasn’t drunk enough to appreciate the ramifications of that. A white hat. This wasn’t what he'd signed on for. He didn’t want to be one of the good guys. He was comic relief. He was the kindly old prospector in the western, not the hero.
He added a whiskey chaser to the beer.
A few hours later Ian was explaining the advantages of being able to morph between vamp face and human face to the girl (‘You don’t need to mess with eye make-up, its all built in!”). She was laughing like an idiot. She had demonstrated blood sucking on Ian’s arm and Ian had let her do it. It was a rush. He had no idea it would feel so good.
Bob set a pill on the bar and charged him $35 for it. “Look pal, I don’t know what jollies you are trying to get here, but this will make you forget it all. No memory of tonight and no regrets. Think of it as a get out of guilt free card.”
Ian pocketed the pill and continued to make merry. He asked about what it was like to die and come back. He asked about magic, demons, white hats, and more. Bob was glad to provide answers and Ian had plenty of money to spend.
Ian walked home. The werewolf tailed him from a safe distance. It charged for him just as he reached Poplar Avenue and had turned to make the final walk to 1318. It grabbed his leg and dragged him down.
Ian was pinned under the weight of the wolf and it dripped saliva onto his chest. Ian had already pissed himself and was ready to die when he remembered something. He jerked his arm free as the wolf tried to bite him and rolled to one side. The wolf got a mouthful of his shirt and tugged it, tossing Ian around like a doll.
Ian pulled out the Silver Cross pen he had carried for years and jabbed at the wolf. The silver made little curls of smoke as it burned the flesh of the wolf’s shoulder. The wolf yelped and snapped at the pen, but it burned its tongue.
Ian scrambled crab-like away from the wolf and watched in horror as it morphed and changed into a man. “Dude, this sucks. It won’t kill me but I can’t pull it out. I promise I won’t bite you, just pull it out, okay? We walk away and nothing happens.” He pointed at the still smoldering pen sticking out of his bicep.
Ian nodded, shaking, sober, scared and reached up and pulled the pen out of the man’s shoulder. The wound blistered and scabbed over almost immediately. The man sighed in obvious relief. “Dude, no hard feelings. I’ll just eat someone else, okay? Thanks again Duuuuuuooooooo…” His voice trailed away to a howl as he changed back into a wolf and ran away.
Ian wiped the blood off his pen and re-pocketed it. He found the pill. It was bright blue and glittered in the moonlight. He remembered the Matrix and Morpheus saying,
*Where the fuck is the red pill?* Ian thought. Victor had asked him, “Do you really want to know the truth?” and he had refused then. *Why now? I have gone my entire life wondering what was out there. Wondering about the truth. Why should I care now? What is it that makes knowing so terrible?*
That part of Ian’s subconscious that held all those truths that he so jealously hid from himself let another one go. *Because if you know you can’t ignore it any more.*
Fuck. Ian popped the blue pill and swallowed it dry. By the time he reached the apartment door he could not remember where he had been or why… but his buzz had returned. *I must have had a good time,* he thought drunkenly.
Mid-Season Two: Jan 20, 2006 - June 16(ish), 2006
September 8, 2005: 12:26 AM
Hyatt pulled his car up to the back side of the Beazor and parked. For a moment he just sat, shaken, the dream still vibrating in him. He could still see it, hear it:
“It’s not like it wasn’t fun.”
“She was pretty. Nice, blonde hair, good rack, good face. Well, not so much now.”
It had more than shaken him. Tyler couldn’t put it away, no matter how he tried. And he had to. Tyler knew that well. He knew that what he was about to do could very well make even the worst nightmare feel like an episode of the Care Bears, and that he damned well needed to be firing on all cylinders for it. But he couldn’t put it away.
*I’ll be damned if it was fun,* Tyler thought before he could silence himself, *But it had to be done.* At the end of that, a picture popped into Tyler’s head, from a warehouse in San Francisco, a little past one year ago.
He and Ryan, going through a door into a vamp nest. Ryan had died that night, and the demon Bereaver had been born.
“And it would just kill you to know that son of a bitch was running around with your face, wouldn’t it, kid?” Tyler said this aloud, rubbing his eyes.
From the day they met, till they went to San Francisco, Tyler had liked Ryan. And in five years, which had been filled with perpetual life threatening peril, the two became close. In that time, Tyler introduced his apprentice to his wife, and his son, and soon enough Ryan was a regular guest at the Hyatt house.
*And I let you down.* Tyler just sat a moment, but quickly and ruthlessly pushed all of that aside. There was work to be done now. And it was dangerous enough when he wasn’t distracted. So Tyler stepped out of the car and walked toward the complex.
A little know fact about the Beazor complex is that Kain had an entrance put in on the back side, specifically for those who work for him. Paul continued to use it, and that was where he told Tyler to go when the job was finished. So Tyler abided, coming to that door and knocking to the tune of the first line to the chorus of “Ty Cobb” by Soundgarden.
The door was opened by the same vampire who escorted Tyler to Paul last time.
“You’re back?” The vampire actually sounded surprised. “Balls. I just lost big.”
“And I should care why?” Tyler was cold for a purpose. He wanted past this clown.
“No offense, guy. But the odds were ten to one against you making it. Couldn’t resist.” The vamp smirked at Tyler, “I’ll tell ya, that chick, we couldn’t figure out what she was, but she was sumthin'.” At that, Tyler smirked back. Then, Tyler rammed a stake into the vamp’s chest.
“Anyone else bet against me?” Tyler’s eyes scanned the “faces” of the various deviants that Paul kept in his employ. They were all blank.
None of them like that vampire.
“Where’s Paul?” Tyler asked the room, and a rather large F’yarl pointed to a door, which was watched by a second, particularly large, vampire. The vamp nodded as Tyler approached, and knocked on the door.
“What?” Paul yelled from inside. He sounded annoyed.
“The dude you sent after the stone is back,” the vamp stated flatly.
“Then send him in.” As Paul finished, the vamp opened the door. Tyler entered and took the seat Paul gestured to.
“So, Mr. Hyatt, did you pull it off? Do you have the Crystal?” Paul leaned back, watching Tyler cautiously. And his eyes lit for a moment, as Tyler dropped the stone on Paul’s desk. Though he didn’t notice Paul, it occurred to him immediately exactly how stupid it was to do that.
“Good.” Paul took the stone before Tyler could think of it. “Now, what did you want to know?”
Later, Tyler would look back and regret the slight twinge of hope he felt when Paul asked that. And he knew it. But still, he played the hand he’d dealt himself.
“How long have you been here, Mr. Nesmith?” Tyler was taking the round about path.
“For a long time. Why?”
“Last year,” at why, that twinge of hope disappeared. “A friend of mine came to LA. I’ve heard he worked for you.”
“What’s this guy’s name?” Paul asked this sincerely. During their last meeting he’d taken Tyler for a man of principle, and he wanted to know what was worth throwing that principle out the window.
That and how to further exploit this guy.
“Michaels. Ryan Michaels. He might have gone by Bereaver.” Tyler could see where this was going, even before Paul had the audacity to actually look contemplative.
“I remember him, I think. ‘Bout your height, brown hair, long black coat? Carried a katana?” Paul asked, still playing sincere.
“Yeah. I want to know what he did for you, and where I can find him.”
“Well,” Paul dropped the other shoe now. “That’s a problem. You see, what you’re asking could wind up screwing me over, big time. I can't risk bringing that mess on myself for just this crystal.”
That pissed Tyler off.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to ask another favor.”
Tyler stopped a moment, apparently thinking.
“I don’t think so.”
In a flash, Tyler reached into his right pocket and withdrew Sandra’s Glock, training it on Paul’s head. Paul, for his part, managed to get his hand on his own Glock, before he realized what was going on. He cursed himself for not realizing Tyler was faster.
“Two fingers, Paul.” Tyler’s voice was ripe with disgust, mostly for himself, and not controlling the situation better. Paul did as Tyler asked, and pulled the gun with two fingers. All other assumptions aside, he knew Tyler wouldn’t hesitate to kill.
“Put it on the table.” Paul did as Tyler asked, then reasserted himself.
“You must be some kind of moron, pulling a gun on me, here.” Paul didn’t falter a bit. This was, after all, not the first time he’d had a gun on him. “Had I gone for the buzzer, you’d be dead.”
“Maybe,” Tyler was equally unfazed, “Maybe not. But you would be, for certain. Now you tell me everything you know, or...”
“Or what?” Paul all but growled now, “You’ll kill me? And accomplish what, exactly? The only thing you’ll do is get yourself killed, and lose your trail on Bereaver.”
Tyler kept the gun squarely on Paul.
“Face it, Hyatt. I’ve got your balls in a vice.” Paul all but ignored the Glock in his face. “In four days' time, there’s a man coming to town. He’s a Watcher, by the name of Gerald Dessler. He’s arriving at LAX at seven pm, and from there he’ll be going straight to the Port, dock 10C. While he’s there, Dessler is going to meet with some people, so that he can buy a Lazarus Crystal. There are three in this world. You’ve just handed me one.”
“And what do you want me to do?”
“Stop the deal. Bring me the crystal. Leave no one alive.” Paul kept that short, and cast a look at Tyler; letting him know there was no other choice. Hyatt, for his part, kept the gun on Paul, and covered himself for next time.
“Fine. But afterward, you are coming to me, a place of my choosing. You’ll come alone, or there will be trouble. And you don’t get the crystal until I know everything you know.”
“You’re in no position…” Paul started to protest, but Hyatt cut him off by drawing back the hammer.
“You’ll agree, or I’ll kill you right now.” Before Paul could speak, Hyatt interrupted him again. “I can find Ryan on my own if I have to. Just happens I’m short on time, so another way is better.”
“You shoot, you die.” Paul remained unfazed.
“Do you really think I can’t fight my way out of this office?” Tyler let that hang between them. Both men knew he had a shot, at least.
“Fine.” Besides, Paul could always handle this later.
“Got a number for that phone?”
“610-555-3490.” Paul was casual, too much so, and Tyler took note. Then he stood and moved to the door, keeping one eye on it, the other on Paul, along with the Glock. To himself, Tyler made an oath.
*Before I leave this town, I will make you sorry you met me.*
Then he made his way out.
Drew dreams of daye and trouble
*** Wednesday, September 21, 2005 around 2 am ***
Drew waited until Daye had finally fallen back to sleep before settling beside her. He’d been in a deep, dreamless state when her terrified screams woke him up. Daye was breathing shallowly now, tossing a bit beside him. He was tired, but greatly disturbed by her nightmare. Drew couldn’t help but recall the weeks she’d recently spent in restless sleep, and how cold and distant that time had made her. They were just beginning to get back to a place that he felt comfortable with, and now Drew feared that whatever had been plaguing Daye a few weeks ago was about to start again. Daye had been looking a little peaked the last few days, and she’d mentioned some troubled sleep. Drew wasn’t sure what to do. He didn’t want things to fall apart the way they had before. Up until she passed out at her party, Daye had been pushing him away with both hands. If that started up again now, he didn’t know how he would handle it.
Drew lay back on his pillow, thinking of Daye’s trouble, as his eyes slowly drifted shut. Finally, exhaustion claimed him.
***
Drew stood in the sweltering hot sun of a dirty street. He was dressed in loosely fitting robes and a headpiece. For a moment he was disoriented. Where was he, and why? Then Drew remembered. This was Cairo. He had come with his archeology professor on a dig of “significant importance,” but so far all they had seen were old, broken shards of pottery and a few barely decipherable scratches in the walls of a tumbling edifice. Drew was bored and tired. Cairo was so alien to him, and he would have given anything for a little excitement. So he’d skipped out on the dig that morning and headed for the bazaar. Now, here he was.
The streets were filled with people, some buying and some hawking their wares. Many of the latter eyed him with undisguised lust. Drew, with his fair skin and eyes, was obviously a foreigner, and in this place that usually meant money. The street vendors could practically smell it on him and the odor made them all but drool. As Drew began to wander further into the crowded street men called out to him, extolling the virtues of their products. There were rugs, beads, and all manner of other artisan pieces. Drew recognized that much of it was not worth considering. There were many pieces of touristy junk being pushed upon him. Despite his youth, Drew steered clear and kept his gaze focused, aware from the many trips he’d taken with his parents that there was a certain way to behave in order to avoid much of the harassment.
Drew pushed out of the main thoroughfare into a smaller, less crowded street. Here, the vendors and their customers haggled quietly in corners and his progress was pretty much unmolested. He continued on, a feeling of disquiet settling in his chest. He had been here before, and something about this path disturbed him. Drew followed the less crowded streets, twisting and turning around corners as he headed for some destination that was both new and familiar. Drew wanted to turn away, to head somewhere else, or to stop altogether, but his feet kept moving, taking him farther and farther from the public face of the street fair. Soon he was in a darker, hotter, less explored part of the city. The buildings crowded around him, and his feelings of discomfort grew more and more intense. In shadowed corners he caught glimpses of men, old and diseased, smoking on hookah pipes, their eyes glazed as they wandered highways he could not even see. In other corners, men and women were locked in more personal assignations. Drew could hear the rustle of clothing and the occasional grunt or moan. He kept his eyes averted, afraid of the outcome if they thought they were being watched.
Strangely, the quality of light in the city seemed to be growing worse and worse as Drew continued on. Glancing quickly up at the sky he noticed that the sun had apparently disappeared. That was odd, because he was sure it was still very early. In any case, as he finally came to the seediest street yet darkness had completely settled over him. In this little corner of Cairo there were one or two shops, with their run down facades closed up tight. In the back corner of the dead end street stood a small, dilapidated storefront. A raised platform rested by the door and a man stood on that platform beside a rickety cage. As Drew moved forward, drawn to the cage and its occupant, he found that the creature inside was a woman, a young, beautiful woman. She sat slumped in a strange pile of arms and legs, looking almost boneless. Drew stopped at the edge of the platform and stared at the woman, both fascinated and revolted. She was filthy, dressed in a coarse rag which barely covered her dirt streaked flesh. Her head was down, but he could see the matted tangle of her hair, a dull, red-gold that would have been lovely if it was clean.
“Boy,” the man beside the cage had approached Drew. He stood next to Drew, too close. “You like her, eh?”
Drew looked at the man. He was surprisingly young, with sharp, hawk-like features. The man’s eyes were clear and his smile was sardonic, but his teeth were clean and even. Drew thought he had yet to see any commoner in this poor, sad land that looked so… so normal. Despite his misgivings, Drew smiled back.
“I don’t know,” Drew answered the man’s question. “Why is she caged?”
“This is no ordinary woman, young one,” the man’s voice dropped to a mere whisper. Drew had to lean closer to him to hear his next words. “She is a büyücü.”
“Büyücü?” Drew repeated. He searched his limited Arabic vocabulary, but couldn’t quite place the word. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what you mean.”
“She is very powerful, with the büyü, the forces around us all,” the man replied. “Do you understand? She is dangerous and strong, but I know her secret. I have the key to the büyücü.”
Drew was still unsure of the man’s meaning. What was the büyü? This man spoke in riddles, like some sort of crazy shaman in the movies or something. Drew continued to watch the woman in the cage, his own western sentiment stirring his disgust.
“Are you all right?” Drew asked her, ignoring the derisive chuckle of the street vendor. “Can you understand me?”
The woman, the büyücü, whatever that meant, didn’t respond. She continued to stare down at the floor, her face hidden by that snarl of hair. Drew wouldn’t have been sure she was alive, if not for the shallow breaths he could hear, and the twitching. She would twitch, almost spasmodically, every now and again, like an agitated animal. Drew was drawn and repulsed by the scene before him. Whatever she was being accused of, no woman, no one deserved to be kept like this. Not even a vicious animal should be so obviously neglected and abused. It was a marvel that here, in this part of the world, there seemed to be little scruple about it though.
“I don’t understand,” Drew told the vendor, “Why is she here? What has she done?”
“As I’ve said, my young friend,” the man’s smile was a leer, “she is a büyücü, what you Americans call a… witch. She consorts with demons and devils. She is powerful and dangerous, unless you know how to control her. Did her mother not die, consumed by the holy fires? She was given to me as she howled in the streets behind the blackened body. I know the secret of the büyücü.”
Drew was aghast. Witchcraft? This pitiful creature had been accused of witchcraft and sentenced to the drudgery of this tiny, filthy cage? That was outrageous. This was the Twentieth Century. People were not charged and convicted of utter nonsense. How backward was this ancient land?
“A witch?” Drew all but shouted, “Are you kidding me? She’s not a witch. She’s a girl, a frightened, abused, girl. You’re sick!”
The man’s eyes narrowed at Drew’s diatribe. “You, boy, are a fool. This girl is a witch, a wild beast in a pretty package. But, if you think I’m the monster, perhaps we can work out a way to assuage your conscience. Maybe you want to buy the pretty thing from me?”
“Buy her?!” Drew was again aghast at what he had heard, “I can’t buy her. She’s a person, not property.”
“She is my property,” the man replied easily. “For the right price, she can be yours.”
Drew stared at the woman, unable to understand how such a thing could take place. He was about to turn around, walking away in disgust, when the girl raised her gaze to his own. Her eyes were lovely, deep green pools in her dirty face. She looked so lost and hopeful as she pleaded silently with Drew for help. Despite his best intentions, Drew felt himself drawn into her, into her sad, old eyes. “How much do you want?” he asked the vendor, his gaze never leaving the girl. The man quoted an outrageous price, and Drew paid it, not even blinking. In a moment, the man had opened the cage and led the girl to Drew by way of a leather thong tied tightly about her neck. Drew took the leash without thinking.
“Now, here, you must take this as well,” the man held out pendant on a leather strap. The necklace was a milky stone which glinted and danced in the faded light.
“What is that?” Drew had dragged his gaze away from the girl to look at the necklace.
“This is the heart,” the man replied. “When you keep it, here,” he gestured to his own breast,” it protects you from her power. While you wear the heart, the witch will never harm you.”
Drew nodded, still somehow transfixed. He slipped the “heart” around his own neck and led the girl away from the cage. He exited the tiny, dark street and blinked rapidly.
Drew stood on a crowded city street. He recognized Los Angeles, in all its sunny summer brilliance. As he turned back to look where he had come, he saw that Daye stood behind him, her hand clutched in his. She was watching him with a wary look in her eye.
“Are you all right?” she asked, clutching hold of his arm. Drew felt himself sway slightly, as he adjusted to his surroundings.
“Yeah, baby,” he said, still a bit confused, “I was just…”
“Daydreaming,” she suggested, leaning forward to brush her mouth over his own. “That’s okay. It’s a lovely day for it.”
Drew nodded, following her now as she began to move up the street. He recognized that they were close to her shop and assumed they were heading that way. Drew trailed Daye, but suddenly stopped, as he felt something warm and hard brush his skin beneath the collar of his shirt. Stopping abruptly, he reached out and pulled a pendant from around his neck. Drew stared at the object, dumbfounded. It was the milky stone, dancing even more in the California light. Daye stopped and looked at him, puzzled.
“Drew, what’s wrong?” she asked, “What’s that?”
Drew held it out to her, troubled. “Oh,” Daye laughed merrily. “Why look there, it’s my heart. Why, I’d forgotten you still had that. Well, let’s go. Time’s a wasting.”
Drew followed Daye, unable to fathom what was going on. They came to the door of the shop, and Daye pushed open the door. He followed her inside.
Drew stepped into the door, expecting to find Bibliophile on the other side, but surprised to see a sleek art gallery instead. He was standing in the doorway of African Heart, and Daye had disappeared. Drew looked around, once again disoriented. The gallery looked much the same as it had the last time he’d been inside. Some of the pieces on display had been replaced with new ones, but that was par for the course in an art gallery. The art here was for sale, and items would rotate through the stock. Hadn’t he himself purchased an item here?
Drew moved away from the door, unsure what he was doing in the gallery. He made his way forward, stopping in front of one particular photograph hanging near the entrance. The photograph showed a dirty, disheveled woman dressed in rags. Her red-gold hair was hanging in tangled waves around her slumped shoulders. She faced the camera, but seemed almost to be staring through it or past it as the photographer shot. The woman was so familiar, so like someone Drew knew, but he couldn’t place her. In the foreground of the shot, Drew could see an empty street and a cage. The area seemed to be somewhere in the Middle East, Morocco or maybe Egypt. Drew found himself breaking out into goose bumps as he looked at the picture.
“She’s very powerful, isn’t she?” a voice he knew purred in Drew’s ear, and he turned quickly to find Chinaka standing very close to him. Her body was brushing against his as she looked over his shoulder at the photograph. “It’s a good thing you have the heart.”
“What?” Drew asked, as Chinaka slid her arms up around his neck. Chinaka brushed her mouth over his and hummed.
“You did bring it with you, right?” she asked, inching her hands down his neck to reach inside his shirt. She pulled the pendant he was wearing out and held it in front of him. “There we go. The Heart of the Büyücü, very nice. This is a lovely piece. And now it’s all mine, right sugar?”
Chinaka slipped the pendant off Drew’s neck and he felt drained suddenly. She was smiling up at him, all sultry and satisfied. He felt his body responding to all her luscious curves and for a moment he was confused again.
“Drew!” a horrified shriek brought Drew’s mind into focus. He looked past Chinaka, who was still smiling, seemingly undisturbed. Drew could see over her shoulder, Daye standing in the center of the gallery. Her hair was wildly matted and she was dressed in tattered rags. She was filthy, covered in scratches, bruises, and dirt. Daye’s eyes were on Drew as she stood in the clean, modern room. Drew saw at once she was the Büyücü, from the cage in Cairo, from the photograph on the wall, Daye was the tormented witch. She was standing, crouched as if in pain, her eyes shining with horror. Drew saw that she was watching Chinaka, who held the pendant out in front of her.
“My heart!” Daye wailed, trying to move towards them. Suddenly, from out of the air, a cage formed around Daye, trapping her inside. Daye fell to the ground, wailing. She drew her body into a tight ball and rocked, her sobs and cries echoing in the gallery.
“Well, then, that’s done,” Chinaka said matter of factly, taking Drew’s hand and pulling him away from the cage. “I’ll get a price on that soon as I can. Come on, baby, let’s celebrate.”
Drew followed Chinaka out of the gallery, dazed, as Daye’s wild cries echoed in his ears.
***
Drew awoke suddenly, clutching at Daye who slept fitfully at his side. The images of his oh-so-disturbing dream haunting him. What did it all mean?
He lay awake as the sun slowly rose outside his window, completely out of sorts. The day had not started well at all.
Mid-Season Two: Jan 20, 2006 - June 16(ish), 2006
"Every Deck Has Two Jokers."
19 Sept. 2005
9:08 P.M.
Outside the domicile of “Madame Amelia, Teller of Fortunes”
Fate there, digging the angularity of the brick and concrete, his physiology sated for the moment, decided to try his luck in the neon siren's song of a late-night Tarot-card reader. He had to wonder why anyone blessed with prescient sight would content themselves with the accidental sort of clientele a late-night business would seem to draw. That manner of gift seemed WAY too important to waste on Nightlings, but who was Fate to question motives?
His--Fate's--motives were, in order, Meditate, Kill/Feed, Perceive, and Meditate. What was the rest of the world to him, or, for that matter, he to the rest of the world? Several Ugly Questions almost made his experiential radar, but obscured themselves in the circumstantial ambience of Reality And Its Attendant Weirdnessess. Fate decided to just roll with it, and see what happened...
The waiting room was a mockery of rooms in which one waited. The corners converged at odd angles, the trim seemed only to highlight the angular disparity, and the magazines provided for the ostensible enjoyment of the waiters seemed wholly out of keeping with the sorts of people that might presumably frequent such an establishment. Fate, taking the entirety of the scene in, noticed a white guy whose energy signature was as out of place in present tense as were the 'zines. He didn’t read ‘hot’ by Fate’s estimation—more of an aggressive lukewarmness, really—but he definitely outclassed the proprietor of the place by a factor of five or better. Fate figured him for a ‘sensitive’ or something, and wondered why such a guy would waste his time and money begging the advice of the dubious “Madame Amelia…”
The arrival of the new individual was barely noticed by Darian. The events which had transpired earlier that morning had left him disoriented and perplexed. It was because of that dark abyss of confusion in his mind that Darian had decided to seek the counsel of a local seer. Moments later a young woman dressed in archetypal gothic attire emerged from the reading room, and the look on her face illustrated her obvious pleasure with the results she received. Trailing in her footsteps, the matron of the establishment glided into the waiting room and beckoned Darian to follow her. Her appearance was not what you would have expected from a reader of the cards; she was young, probably early thirties, with long
raven hair and sparking emerald eyes. Definitely not the old, gnarled Gypsy women you often see in Hollywood. The reading room was hardly decorated, save for a few arcane symbols painted on the ebony walls.
She beckoned the young fae to sit. "So what makes you seek my counsel tonight my friend? Do you have questions about your career, money, or your love life?”
"Actually, it’s none of the above," Darian responded, annoyed at the accusation that he would come on such trivial whims, "I need to know something about a meeting I had with an old friend. Can your cards help me understand what it means?" He didn’t wish to give any more information than that for risk of revealing both his real identity and the nature of his predicament.
The woman slowly removed a small deck from a silk indigo cloth and she began to shuffle them, the combination of the cards and her hand merging into a hypnotic dance that she had obviously been perfecting for some time. "Well, let’s see if I can help you, handsome." She placed the deck back down on the table, separated it into five piles, and flipped the top card of the pile in the center. It was The Knight of Swords, inverted.
"Well, well," she chuckled, lifting her head to look Darian in the eyes, "This card represents you in your present situation. You’re headstrong, courageous, and dedicated, yet the card’s inversion has a negative connotation. Your mind is too one tracked due to your stubbornness, it is dangerous.”
She flipped the second card and placed it both perpendicular to and on top of the first. It was The Fool.
"How interesting…This card just confirms my first suspicions. You can't understand the situations around you because you are acting out of passion and emotion instead of rationality,” she said, and awaited Darian’s reaction.
Darian let out an impatient sigh, "This is no help. If I wasn’t confused, I wouldn’t need to come see you now, would I?"
The seer responded with a coy smile and a gentle, "Patience my friend." She flipped the third card. It was The Devil.
“Usually this represents the careless pursuit of bodily pleasures, yet I don’t think this applies in your case. I get the impression that this is representative of an actual individual. Someone seductive and seemingly innocent is out to cause you harm. Does this make any sense?"
*I don’t understand, why would Sebastian want to hurt me? None of this is clarifying anything!*
"Well, I don’t know... Just go on and tell me what it all means,” Darian said, his frustration evident in the brusque fashion in which he replied.
Her hands quickly flipped the fourth card: The Moon. "This is the third Major Arcana card I’ve turned up in your fortune; powerful forces must be at work around you. The moon represents illusion and deceit, but I feel as if this applies not only to your current situation, but something or someone else in your life which you may not realize,” she told him with yet another ambiguous choice of words, serving only to increase Darian's frustrations.
*I don't know anyone else besides Sebastian, so how could someone be decieving me?* the fae mused, not realizing he had made a friend out of his neighbour Tarix.
The raven-haired card reader turned over the final card, revealing the image of a naked man lying in a bloody heap, ten swords protruding from his chest. It was the 10 of Swords.
Fate, through the shoddy wooden door, could see the spirit of the milquetoast white kid Hertzing up and down the energy continuum. Apparently, the Tarot-card Reader had given him info that threw him directly into a discordant state, and Fate was somewhat curious as to both the white guy and the knowledge that the 'Seer' imparted. It wasn't every day that Fate got surprised, and he had a moment of delicious indecision as he thought over the infinite number of possible outcomes that present circumstances offered him.
The kid was obviously not a Vamp, and obviously not a Demon (Fate had gigged enough of their respective energy signatures to know one when he saw one), so he languished in his particular corner of The Great Whatever and decided to play the scene at 0 Kelvin: Absolute Zero Cool. *What the hell. Might maybe get interesting.*
Meanwhile back in the reading room, Darian's extremely "helpful" reading continued. The tarot-reader’s face conveyed the worry she felt upon the turning of the last card. "The 10 of Swords... mixed with the rest," she murmured to herself.
"What does it mean? Stop mumbling and just tell me,” Darian fumed, the purple in his eyes turning a shade darker.
"These are bad omens honey; you’re in trouble; I see a figure - he's..." An excruciating pause...
"Yes, what do you see?!"
The fortune teller suddenly grimaced in pain, her hand shooting up to massage her temples. "I can’t see anything more," she moaned, recovering from the bizarre rapid migraine. "Somebody doesn’t want me peering into your life, and they’re making sure you don’t get any answers. I’m sorry babe, but I can’t help you any more than that."
The color of Darian's dark mauve eyes faded into orbs of pure black. The strange meeting with Sebastian - if it really was him - the confusion he felt afterwards, and the ambiguity of the Seer’s answers all whirled together, retrieving the dark aspects of Darian's evil faery side. The usually-virtuous young man was no longer in control of his form, as the evil entity lurking inside now had the pleasure of managing the vessel.
"You stupid bitch, you think you can just toy with my emotions? Tell me I’m in danger and then say no more? Why not turn another card? I think you'll find that it tells you YOU’RE in trouble.”
Fate, whistling an old blues tune to combat boredom, sensed the abrupt shift in the spirit of the kid that was in to see the Seer, and, without deliberating at all, calmly kicked in the particulate hodgepodge of the flimsy door to investigate what exactly had gone wildly southbound in the last thirty to forty seconds. The image of "The Fool" from the Major Arcana of any self-respecting Tarot deck kept pulsing through his head, a caricatured likeness of the kind of chap that went blasting through weak doors guided by insufficient evidence. Before he could give the situation any measure of rational consideration, his momentum carried him into the ‘reading room’ and the two figures locked in a weird, tense tableau. Three (3) things became apparent almost immediately:
(1) The kid’s spirit shifted dark in a big hurry,
(2) The 'Seer,’ hack though she was, apparently triggered the nasty reversion,
and,
(3) Fate, for the first time in his thirty-five some-odd years of doing what it was that he did, was facing a situation he couldn’t even begin to comprehend.
The kid was torn by something, his spirit uncertain, indecisive, but getting darker with every moment. He didn't waste time on the spirit of the Seer. Anything a Tarot-card reader could prophesy for anyone was largely attributable to probability and the proverbial Luck of The Draw. No legitimate mystic would flip cards, but that didn't keep Fate from instinctively seeking to protect the poor, mortal, Snake-Oil saleswoman.
The kid, upon Fate's unceremonious arrival into the Seer's "Inner Sanctum," made no move to defend himself, and Fate knew that something was seriously amiss. Fate walked up to him, placed one hand upon the bare skin of his exposed neck, and the other just below his elbow, trying to appear concerned while maintaining the contact he really didn’t want to use. "So, m’man,” he said with what he hoped was a soothing tone of voice, “everything going okay in here?”
Despite his humanity’s best efforts to regain control, Darian's body remained in control of the faery inside. "You stupid, interrupting idiot! You're going to regret barging in on my business!" He slipped out of Fate’s grasp and exploded in a flurry of blows that took Fate completely by surprise.
Fate, getting punched in the head for no good reason he could begin to come up with, regarded the kid with different eyes. Shrugging off the unexpected series of strikes, Fate quickly realized that this particular white kid was MUCH more than he had anticipated. *Reality holds surprises for us all, I guess.* Lapsing into Full Combat Mode, and more than a little sick of being pummeled by what he originally took for a simple ‘sensitive,’ Fate delivered lightning-fast, pinpoint strikes to the kid's arms and torso, hoping to supercool his aggression by rendering him incapable of counterattacks. The Chinese Cycle of Destruction played out in fluid fastforward, Fate struck to paralyze, not kill, but was still pissed that his state of satiation took the Edge off of his being as it did. He could sense the spiritual turmoil boiling away in the kid, and didn't want to destroy a soul that had the potential to be good.
While possessed by rage, Darian had not the discipline to properly defend himself. His enemy’s attacks were powerful, more so than any regular human, and this moment of recognition caused The Dark Fae a moment of hesitation. The onyx orbs that were the fae's eyes began to slowly shift back to the light purple color. His body began to sweat and shudder; Darian was once again regaining control. "I’m... not... going... to let... you... control me,” he gasped between sharp breaths. Finally the battle which was taking place inside his soul ended, leaving Darian once again in full authority of his body.
Fate sensed the shift in the kid's spirit, a grayscale Dopplering from black to white that matched the chromatic shift in eye color. And his energy signature cooled off noticeably. *Lovely! A regular Jekyll & Hyde routine! Fate Wilkins: the all-singing, all-dancing punching bag to the supernatural psycho element.* "So, kid - you done now?” Fate said, eyeing the young man suspiciously.
Raising his head, Darian quietly responded, ashamed of the actions he just perpetrated. "I'm... I'm okay now, but how," a brief pause of confusion, "how did you manage to stop me?" *A week in LA and already I’m up to my head in ghouls, goblins and ghosts.*
Fate paused a moment, then responded, "Ancient Japanese secret, m'man. Forgive me for being so vague, but a man's got to have his secrets - as I'm sure you're MORE than well aware," he continued, flashing a wink at the unfortunate Seer cowered in the corner of what used to be her sanctuary. "The upside is," Fate said, ignoring the gestures of terror that the Seer added to what he felt was an important dialogue, "the both of us are still walking, and you seem to have regained some measure of sense. Don't take this the wrong way, but keep in mind that I'll be keeping my eye out for you in the future. I've got this funny way of never forgetting a face." *Or an energy signature.* Fate envisioned the totality of The Major Arcana falling unceremoniously on his head, gave a short bow, and turned to rejoin a world he could almost begin to understand.
Before Fate could leave, however, Darian's hand reached out and gently stopped him. "I owe you a debt of gratitude, stranger. Had you not been here...” his voice decrescendoed to silence rather than articulate the ugliness of potentialities. Quickly and gracefully, Darian made his way to the exit, turned one last time, mouthed a genuine "Sorry" to the fortune-teller, and disappeared into the night.
Fate, his body healing the damage the schizo kid had done with nary a thought (Fate’s frame so terribly busy on a cellular level), decided to have a little fun with the ‘psychic.’
“You know,” Fate said, collecting himself in preparation for a smooth exit. “I’m surprised you didn’t foretell that bit of unpleasantness, being as you’re one of ‘The Gifted’ and all.” And before fading into the street, he added, “I see two tall, dark strangers in your near-future that may push you to make different decisions with your career. Welcome to Fortune’s Wheel, my dear,” he said, and left quickly.
Mid-Season Two: Jan 20, 2006 - June 16(ish), 2006
"One Life to Live"
Previously on LA By Night:
- Sam loses his mind after being sexually confronted by the DG Tash.
- Sam is discovered by Hanson who encourage him to leave their hotel room tub.
- Hesch tries to flee the influence of Killroy the vengeance demon.
- 'Kebah Togah Honey Ma' works magic courtesy of the Idea
- Sam (as Mr. Dowd) heads to Narcosis in search of Reah and then disappears.
Sam sat at the counter in Denny’s and looked into his Sprite. The attractive waitress topped off his glass again. “Life is not the movies, Sam,” she said.
Sam rolled Thumper back and forth on the counter and liked the rough wooden sound it made. Thittle-thittle-thittle thunk. “It would be easier if it was,” he muttered, “No strangeness. No demon bosses and their sexy girlfriends. No bathtubs and Hanson and flying ex wives. No bunnies. Definitely no bunnies.”
“Amen to that, brother,” said Sue the waitress.
A dingle at the door accompanied an attractive dark haired woman entering to stand next to the Wait here for a server sign. She stopped her idle musings of the claw machine and real estate magazines to take a second glance at the man at the counter.
“Jeezy Peezy,” she said out loud.
The man barely spared her a glance. Sue waved to her, “Hey! Good to see you!”
Brinkly just pointed in astonishment at the only other customer. Her eyes were wide in astonishment. “Him?”
Sue walked over, grabbing a laminated menu along the way. “Look, I saw him first and trust me he is going to be around for a while. You and your loose threads gets annoying at a certain level,” said Sue.
“Listen ‘Sue’ or whatever name you are sporting this week, you called me. Now that I am here I have a job to do. Don’t make me....” Brinkley was beginning to get really upset. If Ra were here he’d have already ducked for cover.
*Ten, nine, eight,* Brinkly closed her eyes and contined her count to negative four.
Sue gently laid the menu at the table closest to the door and left her to her mathematics.
Sam sipped his drink and muttered, “Life isn’t the movies.”
Sue whispered to him, “I already said that.”
Brinkley opened her eyes and it was palpable. She could taste it without touching him. Grapefruit. Tangy and fruity and a touch of bitter that made her throat want to close. She could hear the echoes of his thoughts on the ether: *Not the movies, not the movies, not the movies...*
“Sam,” she knew him. He was part of her now. “What if life were like the movies?”
Sam stopped tapping Thumper against the glass to listen to the ‘ting’ sound. *What if life were like the movies?* he thought. Really thought, like he had thought about coming to LA. Like he had thought about summoning Killroy. He thought hard about it. He didn’t know why he was thinking so hard until it sort of came to him. He couldn’t remember his lines.
“Line!” said Brendan Fraser.
“Shit, Brendan” said the dark haired actress, “Not again.”
“Sorry Janeane, I can’t seem to get this guy.” Brendan turned towards her.
Janeane Garofalo put her hands on her hips, “What’s not to get, he’s a stupid hick who is in over his head. You played this same part in ‘Darkly’, didn’t you?”
A voice from the darkness followed a deep sigh. “Okay, cut. Brendan, do we need to go over this again?”
A ball-capped man with glasses and a nasally voice walked into the set. “I have reviewed this scene with you a hundred times and you still don’t seem to get it. Sam is The Idea. He dominates everything in his path until there is nothing left. Invariably it ruins his life and those around him because all he can focus on are his own problems. The few times he has managed to lift his head from his own morass he finds himself drawn back by the weight of his own ignorance.”
“Jeffrey,” said Brendan, “I’ve heard you tell me this stuff a hundred times, but I don’t get it. He has all the power of creation at his fingertips and he imitates MGM musicals and Jimmy Stewart films? I need to understand this guy Sam somehow.”
“Jesus Christ, Brendan! You don’t have to understand him you need to be him. He doesn’t know who he is and you can’t be him if you understand who he is!”
Jeffrey - the director and writer - sat down on one of the stools on the set. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one, drawing a long lungful and exhaling it slowly. “Fuck it!” said the director, “I’m done. I give up. I am going out to get drunk.” He got up and stormed off the set.
At the door to the sound stage a short man with a goatee stopped him, “Sid. Jeffrey. Talk to me, what’s the problem?”
“David, I can’t do it any more. It's all wrong. It's got a life of its own and I can’t control it. It keeps running away from me.”
The producer smiled, “Isn’t that the point of the story? Isn’t that the spine you already pitched? If it didn’t have a life if its own it would be your life.”
Sid looked at him and spoke softly, “That’s out of control too. I can only hold one life at a time.” Sid then turned away. He walked off the set never to be seen again.
The producer walked solemnly onto the set. “Ladies and gentlemen… you too Ed, come in here. Jeffrey has walked off this project. It's not your work, I can tell you you’ve been doing a fine job. As of now, however, you are all freed from your contract. It seems our writer/director can’t produce the story he wanted to tell. Everyone, I’m sorry. It’s been lovely working with you, but this picture is officially closed.”
As Brendan started to walk away David stopped him, “Brendan, I know you’ve invested a lot into this character. I can’t give you back your time and effort. However, this other writer over here may have a few shorts to film that I’ll be happy to give you points on if you are interested.”
Brendan waved to Kris who was lurking in the background. He had been happy to work on some small scenes she had co-written. He liked her style. “Sure, Dave, I’m in. When do I start?”
David patted Brendan on the back, “Whenever you want to, sport. Just ask the writer.” Brendan consulted with Kris in the wings then walked back into the set.
Kris shouted “Action!” from behind the camera.
Sam walked out of Denny’s and blinked at the sunlight. He really really wanted to go home and visit his mother. She would help him figure out what to do next. She loved him and he loved her.
“Mommy,” he said under his breath.
[/]Mid-Season Two: Jan 20, 2006 - June 16(ish), 2006
September 8, 2005: 1:10 am
Tyler sat in the driver’s seat of his Civic, never taking his eyes off the Beazor Complex. Rage burned in his eyes, rage directed at himself more than anyone else. The critic inside wouldn’t let this one go.
*How could you be so colossally stupid?* The voice was loud and annoying. Tyler shut it down, however, and just stared. Out of the blue, however, Tyler slammed his palm into the steering wheel and followed that up with a right cross on the horn. It was a very vivid show of frustration, one Tyler could ill afford, in most cases. But he was alone now. What could it hurt?
With that done, he wired the car up, and pulled away from the Beazor.
Where Tyler was going was the Port of Los Angeles.
1:15 AM In front of 1318 Poplar Ave.
Agents Harrison, Scott and Elbourn often found themselves hating their work. This was one of those moments.
With their assignment in hand, they’d all climbed into the brown Volkswagen Bus that was provided for such outings and made their way through LA to the home and congregation point of the white hats in LA. Their task was to sit and watch, get the routine of the building, its inhabitants and their target so they could move with the minimum possible ripple effect.
But for men such as they, such work was at best boring, most usually mind numbing. So they wound up watching in shifts, while two of them played cards. Now, normally a brown VW bus would attract some attention. But it is not normal that the residents of a building are busy cleaning up the mess left behind by their battles with doppelgangers and some sort of evil God. So we can forgive no one caring about the van that sat out there for the better part of a day.
Anyhow, when 1:15 rolled around on the 8th, Agent Elbourn had watch, while Harrison and Scott occupied themselves by sleeping. Elbourn sat at the back of the van, next to a window, out of sight to anyone not LOOKING for someone. As is to be expected at the time, there was nothing going on. As such, it was a jolt when Elbourn’s phone rang.
Even more so when Collin Braddock was on the other end.
“Sir.” Elbourn was more than a bit shocked, and though Collin was silent, he could hear something on the other end. It sounded like the cries of pain of a poor old man. Elbourn didn’t want to know if they were.
“There’s been a change of plans, Agent. In two hours, an attack team will arrive. Meet them at the Port of Los Angeles, dock 11A. Brief them on the Port and make preparations. The clean up crew is already on its way. You’re going to acquire something for me.” Collin sounded very strange to his underling.
“What, exactly?” Elbourn was a good soldier and just took the orders.
“A crystal. It will be handled by a man named Dessler. Six two, one ninety, black hair. He’s in town to sell what you’re after. You will be briefed on specifics by the team.” Collin stayed unusually monotone.
“Total number of hostiles?” Elbourn raised binoculars to his eyes, trying to peer into a window.
“Three confirmed. Dessler will arrive with two men. They’re Watchers, field agents. Expect resistance.”
“Noted. The customers?” Elbourn turned away from the window and smacked Scott on the arm.
“Three to five. Probably local demon worshippers.” Collin seemed to dismiss this.
“Will they cause trouble?”
“I doubt it, Agent.” Collin seemed anxious to end the call. Elbourn picked up on it.
“And about the other matter?”
“Harrison is a big boy. He can handle it.”
“Yes, sir.” Elbourn hung up his phone. For some reason, he had a feeling this would be a long week.
Port of Los Angeles: Dock 10C: 2:00 AM
Tyler paced about on the back end of the dock, taking stock of the area he figured most likely to be the site of the exchange. He was standing on concrete in front of a large warehouse, where goods were offloaded to from ships. Tyler suspected that the exchange would take place where he stood, which would only make his job harder.
*Bloody brilliant. No way to ambush, except the warehouse. And that is not going to work. Its going to be locked, at least, and the Watcher is definitely going to look.* On top of those problems, Hyatt could add that he had no idea how many men he was facing, and that the only other way to approach this spot would be head on, which was death.
However, in the plus column was the fact that since there was only one way the various parties could be hit by surprise, there was only one exit. But one man was not enough for such things. And Tyler certainly didn’t have the money to bring in anyone else.
Paul was right, he had Tyler by the balls.
But Tyler was not ready to give in. He stood in front of the warehouse, looking up, around, and down. He then glanced to the left, and saw it.
About a hundred yards from where Hyatt stood there was a pier. On the side of that pier was closest to Hyatt was a virtual wall, roughly four feet high. He started walking over to look in.
*Might be able to pull this off yet.*
*****
Port of Los Angeles: Dock 10B: 2:45 AM
After seeing his wall and forming a loose plan, Hyatt left the Port. He went about three blocks north to a twenty-four hour store, an all in one sort of place, and bought a ten dollar disposable camera. Then he returned and went to get pictures. This was not something Tyler intended to rush through.
*I’m likely dead anyway.*
Standing at that “wall”, looking down at the site of this future exchange, Hyatt had a clear line of sight, regardless of what was going on. He couldn’t have asked for a better sniper’s nest than this.
Hyatt snapped pictures from every angle. He returned to the grounds just in front of this warehouse and took pictures there. Tomorrow these photos would be developed, and tomorrow Hyatt would get money. Then he would acquire the weapons he needed, and he would wait.
And pray.
All needed pictures taken, Hyatt walked back to the street. He made his way north, fighting the crowd of sailors and prostitutes, all of whom traveled in the opposite direction. As he had nearly cleared this crowd a woman ran into Hyatt, nearly cutting him with a poorly made, fake diamond she wore around her neck. It turned out to be a stroke of good luck, as Tyler as able to get a look at the passenger of a yellow cab that pulled to the kerb in front of him.
And Tyler immediately recognized Denny Elbourn.
*****
Balance HQ, somewhere in the past
Tyler sat in his cube on the main floor of the Balance headquarters. Ryan had gone for coffee, as the pair awaited their next assignment. And it was just Tyler’s luck that the news came before he returned as Collin approached with two men in tow.
“Hyatt,” Collin signaled for Hyatt to come to him, and the four men stood in an open space.
“Sir?” Collin had, four years earlier, been Tyler’s trainer. No matter how Collin hounded him, Tyler still called him sir.
“Code fifteen. You’re going in. Where’s your aide?” Collin was excessively formal. Hyatt figured something was up.
It had been two years since he was Collin’s friend.
“He’s out. Be back in a minute. How’s the briefing going to go?”
“Agent Elbourn,” Collin gestured with his head to the man behind him to the left, who was in a snazzy, imitation designer suit, with hair combed too rigidly, “will be giving it. There’s another matter I have to see to.”
As Collin walked away, Denny extended a hand.
“It’s a pleasure to work with you. You know Jayson already?” Elbourn nodded toward his partner.
Jayson was a very large man, standing six foot seven, and tipping the scales at two hundred and forty pounds. His full name was Jayson Merdano. He kept his dirty blonde hair long and tied back, and was the only member of the Balance to come to work in jeans and faded t-shirts. His face was the kind that ordinary men saw in nightmares just before they died, and with him Jayson carried a reputation for extreme viciousness.
Tyler despised him.
*****
Before Elbourn could look up, Tyler moved quickly across the street. It was no great event that he’d worked with this man, which was the case with nearly every top Balance agent. However, Tyler couldn’t let himself be seen.
*What the hell is he doing here?*
He took up a spot next to a small butcher’s shop, leaning against the wall like some newly homeless man. Tyler watched his former co-worker through the window.
“You haven’t found me. You’d have tried to kill me,” Tyler spoke under his breath. “What the hell is gong on?”
That, Tyler decided, he would have to wait here to find out.
Balance HQ: 3:14:26
Dickinson sat at his desk, squirming. He thought it a miracle he wasn’t sick. He’d been attentive, disgustingly so, since the moment he brought the old shaman into his employer’s office. As he exited after the drop, Dickinson had signaled for the Balance’s team of magic specialists to cast the ward over the office.
Then the screaming had started. It all but hadn’t stopped since. So Dickinson waited, watching the clock at his desk.
In thirty-four seconds, the attack team would meet with Elbourn. In thirty-four seconds, this would be over.
Collin, for his part, did much the same. After he’d asked the question, the shaman had tried to leave. When Collin stopped him, the shaman tried a spell. The look on his face when nothing happened would light up Collin’s dreams for some time. A blow to the head and a few minutes later, the old man was naked, and hanging by his wrists in the center of Collin’s office.
The interrogation would then get ugly. After a few hours, though, Collin had what he wanted to have. And now he paced off the seconds, till he could finish the job.
And, as 3:15 rolled around, he did. The finish to this job was a knife being draped across the shaman’s throat. With that done, Collin went to his desk and activated his intercom.
“Dickinson,” Collin’s voice was too calm, “Our guest appears to have decided to be rude and bleed all over my floor. See that the matter is dealt with before I return for the next shift.”
Upon hearing this, Dickinson sighed, and nearly vomited.
Maybe it wasn’t over yet.
LA, 3:15 AM
Hyatt moved further up the street, getting out of Elbourn’s sight, and crossed again. From the distance he watched as Elbourn greeted four agents - three men and one woman - with a nod. Hyatt recognized the foursome as an attack team. The team took the lead and moved back toward the Port.
Hyatt followed, and watched with horror as they made their way to dock 10 C.
And his life grew infinitely more complicated.
Mid-Season Two: Jan 20, 2006 - June 16(ish), 2006
Wednesday, 14th September 2005 – 3:00am Bremen local time
Tuesday, 13th September 2005 – 6:00pm LA time
The sound of her door slamming reverberated around the room for several seconds while Tash paced, thinking furiously. It hurt to breathe deeply, but she didn’t think Valerian had quite managed to crack her sternum. She hoped not, anyway. “Damn him to Hell!” she shouted to the empty room, “Why do we suffer his presence?”
A soft sound at the doorway caused her to whirl in alarm. Sorrow closed it gently behind him before he answered her.
"Because without him we lose Jade and I'm not willing to do that." His voice was soft, his demeanour calm, but for once even his shields were unable to hide the rage that boiled just below the surface.
Tash's fury ebbed and faded from its white-hot glow, but the embers remained. "I know. I know we need him. And I knew right from the start what he was and what he'd do. And I even knew he was a sadistic bastard. But," she turned away from Sorrow, unable to look him in the eye, "I can't just stand by and watch him murder someone - even for Jade."
Her head snapped up as an idea struck her, "Maybe it doesn't have to be human blood for this ritual of his. What if we brought him a vampire or demon? I know he loves to push us to our limits, but he needs us almost as much as we need him right now. Maybe he'd accept that?"
"He might accept a demon, though I doubt it. As for a vampire, if we won't sacrifice one of our own for Jade why should he sacrifice one of his? No, I'm afraid he'll take a human life because he knows what it will do to us. And because he knows we can't stop him."
"No, but we can stop her." Tash's eyes gleamed for a moment, then she slumped in defeat, "But of course, if Sam has an 'accident' on her way to find... what was it? 'a prime specimen', then I guess the deal would be off." She sank onto the edge of her bed and let her head droop. "Damn him," she said again, softly.
"Tash, do you remember how you got from the doorway to the middle of the room?" He knew now wasn't necessarily the best time to bring up her enthrallment, but Sorrow wanted to get it out of the way. The blind rage he'd felt when Tash had offered her throat to that monster still seethed within him and he was a razor’s edge from doing something incredibly stupid.
Tash frowned in puzzlement. "To the middle...?" she echoed. "That's right. I was blocking the door from Sam, but then I was further in the room." Tash struggled to bring back the fuzzy memory of those few moments. She shook her head, "I don't know. I was just so mad at both of them for even attempting to perform human sacrifice in front of us that I could barely see straight. I guess I must have moved..."
She trailed off and looked up at Sorrow and the sharp, red spikes of anger that stabbed out from his aura. His shields were still in place, but there was so much seething just beneath the surface that they couldn't keep it all in. "Why, Sorrow? What did I do? What did Valer..." Her voice caught in her throat and she simply stared at Sorrow.
"He had you, Tash. You walked up to him, pressed yourself against him and when he asked you, you offered him your throat..."
Bile rose in Tash's gorge, threatening to choke her. She closed her eyes and willed the nausea down. "No," she whispered, "Please, no." Goosebumps raised themselves over her body and she shivered, hugging herself. "Please tell me it's not true."
Sorrow crossed the room and slipped his arms around her. Gently rocking her he spoke, "I'm sorry. I did what I could..." Sorrow's rage had dissipated with Tash's obvious distress. *Dammit Sorrow, this was so not the best time to tell her.*
Tash rested in Sorrow's comforting arms, wishing mightily that they were Victor's. That led her to thinking of Jade, alone and frightened somewhere. Possibly in pain. 'He had you.' Sorrow's words echoed in her head, over and over. 'He had you.' Could she risk her sanity and her soul for Jade?
Sobs rose in her chest. "Oh, he must be having the time of his life. Unlife."
"Maybe, but I think me sticking Hizashi in his back and threatening to call sunlight into that room put a dampener on his night." It was a feeble attempt at a joke but right then Sorrow felt feeble was better than nothing at all. “He can gloat all he wants over these minor victories but when we have Jade back I will find a way to win the war. I'll not rest until his unlife is over. I'll not let it happen again, Tash. How would I explain it to Victor? 'Yeah, I got Jade back but Tash is wandering around Europe as Valerian's undead groupie?'"
That raised a short, soft chuckle from Tash, but her smile faded in an instant. "You used Hizashi on him? Would he have drained me if you hadn't been there?" She turned her head and regarded Sorrow silently for a minute. "Yeah," she answered herself, "in a heartbeat. Thanks." She raised her hand to touch his cheek lightly with her gloved fingertips. "And when the time comes, believe me, I'll be there jamming whatever it takes into that bastard's heart. It's just - in the meantime, how do I protect myself from him? I obviously have no defences against him taking over my mind."
"I don't know. I think your telepathy makes you more vulnerable. I wouldn't be surprised if your previous encounter left some residue he can exploit. There are some exercises that might help - I used them when I was building my shields a few years ago."
Sorrow stood up a moved away from the bed a little. "He hasn't bothered trying to enthrall me but whether that's because he can't or feels he doesn't need to I'm not sure." He snorted, "And of course you can do the avoid eye contact routine..."
"Yeah, right, like that was so successful this time. Exercises might help, but I think my best bet is to stick close to you," she grinned wickedly, "and your sword."
She rested her chin on her fists, all trace of amusement fading from her face once more. "And I hate to sound like a broken record, but can we really just sit here while they collect someone and drain their blood? I refuse to believe we're helpless, that we're bound by Valerian's damn rules!"
"Unfortunately he does seem to have the power to back up his damn rules. I caught him by surprise when he enthralled you but I doubt I'd manage it again. And no insult intended, but should we face him and he manages to enthrall you again... Well, let's just say I don't want to try to take three of you on at once." Sorrow stopped momentarily, "Hell, if he enthralled you again you'd probably happily help him pick out just the right sacrifice. Trust me, Tash. You'd do anything for him under his spell. You whimpered when he broke physical contact."
”Don't even joke about that, Sorrow. I just don't want to think about what he'd do... he wanted to turn me last time." She felt her stomach knot again, "He scares me, Sorrow. More than anything else I've ever faced." She stood, leaving a rumpled indentation on the bedspread behind her. "He terrifies me. Other things have tried to kill me, but he's tried to make me his. I want to see him as a dustcloud."
"I know. And I know that you can't stand by while they kill some innocent. So if you want to try and stop them then I'll help to the best of my ability." *Futile as it may be.*
Tash's teeth flashed in a feral grin. "Oh, I want to stop them. I'm sure Valerian can find a substitute for his ritual."
*****
Sam's trail hadn't been too hard to follow. Between them, Tash and Sorrow had developed finely-tuned senses when it came to tracking the undead. Those senses had led them here, to an expensive late-night bar. Tash figured that Sorrow might blend with the crowd in his dark hunting gear, but she had the feeling that her jeans targeted her instantly as ‘not belonging’. That and her dark skin – she could feel the eyes on her as they walked through the main bar. “So much for making a quiet entrance,” she muttered to Sorrow.
"Well, we aren't here to be quiet. We're here to cramp dear Samantha's style." Sorrow scanned the crowd as he walked up to the bar. "Brandy, straight no ice," he ordered before glancing questioningly at Tash.
The bartender glared at Sorrow, “Geehrter Herr, denke ich es würde sein besser, wenn sie hier verließen. Und nahm ihren 'freund' mit ihnen.”
Tash looked uncomfortable and picked at Sorrow’s sleeve. “Uh, vampires aren’t the only things we need to worry about in here,” she observed, nodding to the various unfriendly groups that were staring at her.
Sorrow's German wasn't great and he had honestly forgotten they'd moved countries a couple of times in the last few days, but he could spot a 'polite' request to leave when he heard one. Glancing around he spied Sam in a corner. He smiled at the barman and turned to Tash, "You know, I'm almost willing to let one of these idiots get eaten. Come on, let’s leave. She still has to get them to the hotel."
Shaking her head sadly at the mutters and scowls directed at her from the patrons, she agreed, "Yeah, we'll get her outside. Though she's well aware we're here now, of course." Mustering her dignity, Tash stalked out of the bar. Now was not the time to make a stand.
Outside, she heaved a sigh of relief. The atmosphere in the bar had been so thick, you didn’t need to be a telepath to feel the antipathy. “Brr,” she said, “I can understand someone hating me for what I’ve done, but to feel that impersonal hate from a roomful of strangers… ugh!”
Brushing aside the incident, Tash checked their surroundings. “We’ll need to be sure she can’t get out without us seeing her.” She looked up, “The roof?”
"As good an idea as any. I'll check for a back exit. You've got your mobile, right?" Sorrow blessed the wonders of multiband mobiles and hit the speed dial for Tash's phone.
Tash pressed the answer button on her phone before it had a chance to emit more than the first note of its X-Men ring tone. Hooking it to her belt, she found the best way up to the roof and scrambled up, finding a niche that gave her a good view of the front and sides of the bar. She propped the phone in front of her and spoke softly, "In position."
Sorrow slipped down the alley that ran along the length of the bar and turned the corner to discover a simple fire exit that led to a small open space. Finding himself a small shadowed corner Sorrow concealed himself from human view. "Time to wait," he whispered into his phone.
It was some ten minutes later that Sorrow heard the faint sounds of movement from the fire door in front of him. The door swung open and cast two shadows across the ground, the slight slim form of Samantha stretched against a much taller human. "Tash, back door..." Sorrow spoke urgently into his phone then waited calmly.
Silently, as years of stalking vampires had taught her, Tash padded to the rear, arriving in time to see two figures emerge into the cul-de-sac at the back of the building. The cold feeling of vampire mingled with the warmer feeling of inebriated human. The small 'snick' her crossbow made as she cocked it was enough to give Sam pause. The young vampire stopped and looked upwards, right into Tash's broad smile. "Fancy meeting you here," Tash said.
Sam drew her victim closer to her. The young man was looking a little startled at this turn of events, but was still keen to collect his promised 'entertainment'. Sam narrowed her eyes at Tash's silhouette on the roof, "You can't stop me. Valerian will eat you for dinner if you do."
"Valerian is far more sensible than that. Right now he needs us more than he needs you," Sorrow stepped from the shadows as he spoke, "Easy or hard?"
"Oh please, I'm Valerian's childe. You're nothing to me." Sam moved quickly towards Sorrow, her game face emerging as she did so. The vampire's sudden movement caught her mark by surprise but Sorrow was more than used to vampiric speed. He blocked Samantha's surprisingly skillful attacks but he was more than a match for this young fledgling. Careful not to break anything he stepped in and moved through a combination of punches, elbows, parries and ripostes that left Samantha on the ground unconscious.
Tash flipped onto the ground from the roof in time to see Sam nosedive into the hard concrete. She put her hands on her hips and pouted at Sorrow. "You didn't leave any for me," she complained.
She shot out a hand and grabbed the young man by his collar as he raced past her, seemingly intent on attacking Sorrow. He pulled up short and turned, spluttering, shouting in German too fast for Tash to make out. "We just saved your life, you know," she said to him, then tried again in her halting German, "Gespeichertes leben sie wir."
"Leave it. He probably doesn't understand and considering his choice of drinking establishment I doubt he's well disposed to you anyway." Sorrow picked up the now unconscious vampire and looked over her face. He glanced at Tash who was still holding the struggling German. "Stop playing with him and knock him out before he gets smart and shouts for help."
Tash sighed and balled up a fist. The sharp blow took the man by surprise and he slithered to the ground, stunned though not quite unconscious. She crouched and stroked the man's face, "Sorry to have to do that, and I doubt you'll ever understand. But trust me, it was for the best." She hurried after Sorrow's retreating form and nodded to the comatose vampire he carried, "She's right, you know. Valerian's going to be mightily pissed at us."
“And I'm right too. He needs us enough that he'll find another way. He can't afford to risk alienating Jade, and killing either of us is likely to cause that." Sorrow halted, "Well, alienate her more than she is already."
They continued in silence to the hotel, propping Sam between them. Tash couldn't believe they were trying that old saw, 'my friend is drunk', but the few people they encountered at this time of night seemed to buy it. Whether it was just the passage of time or whether it was because she was now vertical, Sam started to come round as they got her into the lift. By the time they reached the 17th floor she was in fine, furious form.
"Be quiet," Sorrow's voice was cold and Sam's tirade did not abate. "Be quiet or I will break your forearm then the other. If you still scream at me I'll start on your shins then your thighs. And if you can do anything other than mewl at that point I'll break every one of your ribs. Are we clear?"
The sheer unadulterated rage in Sorrow's voice was unbelievably shocking to Tash, and Sam meekly replied, “Yes."
The lift doors opened and Tash emerged first, dragging a defiant but mercifully silent Sam in her wake. Sorrow kept a firm grip on Sam's other arm as they marched towards Valerian's door. He glared meaningfully at the cowed vampire and she produced the key, opening the door on the sound of Valerian's voice raised in chant.
The three entered onto a scene much as Tash and Sorrow had left mere hours earlier. The smell of incense was strong, but not strong enough to overpower the sharp tang of fresh blood. Sam's clear laughter pealed out, highlighting Valerian's deeper tone as he turned to face the intruders with a beatific smile. Blood dripped from the silver knife he held in one hand, while the other hand relaxed, letting the body of the young girl slump to the floor.
Mid-Season Two: Jan 20, 2006 - June 16(ish), 2006
September 8, 2005: 5:25 am
Two hours passed before the Balance team was done at the Port. Two hours of each man examining the site, looking at every possible angle of attack. Two hours of intensive study which cannot be described. These men were killers - cold, calculated. And what’s more, they were quite good at what they did.
Once he knew what was going on at the port, Tyler went and retrieved his Civic, parking it far enough away that the agents would not notice. And when they left, climbing into a mini-van, he followed, confident that he could stay hidden. He’d always been better than Elbourn, after all.
The journey took him through the city and into the warehouse district. They parked near a building marked “Chromolax Film,” which Tyler bypassed. Tyler immediately knew it was a front.
Chromolax was a subsidiary of Braddock industries.
As Tyler circled around again, he saw that all members had entered the warehouse. As such, Tyler pulled into an alley across the street and got out of his car. He crossed the street and began to search the exterior of the building for a window, some way to see in. He found none, but could make a fair guess at what was going on.
The attack team was being briefed, a plan was being made, and weapons would be distributed.
So Tyler went back across the street and took up a position in his car. He would wait them out.
*****
Three hours passed before there was any movement in the warehouse. And when that movement came, it was in the person of Denny Elbourn and the woman exiting the warehouse and climbing into the minivan. They pulled away from the warehouse and went east. Hyatt pulled away in pursuit.
In short order they were out of the warehouse district, and the rough neighborhood that borders it, and the Minivan pulled into the alleyway across the street from an apartment building. Tyler took time to note the address:
1318 Poplar.
As he passed the alley, Tyler saw Elbourn climb out of the van and into a black VW bus. In the window Tyler could also see two men, both of whom he recognized as well.
As soon as the faces clicked, Tyler pulled his Civic around the corner and parked.
“What the **** are you guys watching?” Tyler muttered to himself as he stepped out of the car and made his way back to the corner, just in time to see Elbourn climb back into the minivan, and to watch that van pull away.
Tyler then crossed the street and walked down to the next intersection, moving in behind the buildings, behind the bus. He moved slowly until he came to the opposite end of the alley. Hyatt took up a spot behind an open dumpster and waited.
*It’s going to be a long day.*
September 9, 2005: 5:00 am, Super 8 Motel
Tyler was dragging a bit when he left the Balance agents behind on Poplar. He’d spent the entire day watching them, waiting for them to make a move that never came. It was, in two words, mind numbing. So, naturally, Tyler was tired.
It had been nearly three days since he’d last slept, truly slept, aboard the train into LA. And despite the fact that he had been trained to function without sleep for prolonged periods, Tyler was starting to drag. So he made his way through the city and found the cheapest hotel he could.
And he’d have settled for a homeless man renting boxes. Instead, Tyler found a Super 8 with a vacancy. He went in and booked a room. Beyond what was necessary, Tyler exchanged only a few words with the attendant.
“In case you get the urge to move some stuff,” the attendant spoke in a rough voice, from a throat that had been ravaged by tobacco. “All the furniture is bolted to the floor. One of our guests stole a couch the day she checked out.”
That made Tyler smirk, but little more. He went to his room, shut himself in and he went to sleep. And had anyone been there, no one could possibly have said he looked peaceful.
*****
7:00 AM
After two hours, Tyler woke with a start. Before he realized what was going on, his hand went to his waist on the right side, where he usually kept his gun. Of course it was lying on the table next to a lamp, so it was even more of a surprise when he found nothing but the bare skin of his waist. It doesn’t pay to sleep with a weapon on. Especially when you’re the type to be plagued by nightmares.
And Tyler was, the more recent one about Sandra being the tamest of them. But Hyatt always managed to push them aside, and he did now. He’d slept as long as he could allow. There was work to be done. So he got up, put his shirt back on, strapped on the Sig and grabbed his coat.
The first stop was a fertility clinic. Tyler needed cash. Then he would head back to the Beazor to see where he could get weapons.
But for now Tyler simply prayed that this was, in fact, the endgame.
Mid-Season Two: Jan 20, 2006 - June 16(ish), 2006
Once again the familiar sound of 'thud thud' echoed as Tarix walked out of the Laughing Dogs, her purse in hand and her jumper around her shoulders. Today had been the same as any other day; dull and boring. She thought again of why Thule wanted her to keep this job, as she did every day during her small walk from her job to her home.
She walked up to the rusted metal gates and pushed them open. With a very loud creak, the gates slowly began to move apart. She gritted her teeth; sounds like that made her skin crawl. *That and the fact I have a killer sister who loves me to death.*
She walked past the gate and heard another set of footsteps behind her. She turned around and saw Thule walking towards her. "Well hey Thule," she said, giving him a little wave. "Are you ok? Whatever happened to soundless walking?"
Thule seemed to ignore that comment. "Hello Jasmine, just thought I could drop by. See how you were doing."
Tarix seemed to wince, "Um, Thule is it ok if you don't call me that? I mean, much as I love the name and the little ounce of my memory you gave me, I still don’t know entirely who I am. And next question, why? You just came back this morning?" Before Thule could answer Tarix continued, "You know, all that training, I think I can defend myself."
"Yes, well, still, no one is invincible. That’s a theory anyway." Thule looked up at the building. "So are you going up or are we going to have to waste the night out here? I would like some tea."
She smirked at Thule’s comment, then turned around and headed up. Thule followed and both of them walked up the four flights of stairs. Tarix reached her apartment and unlocked the door. She stepped in followed by Thule and switched on the lights to her dark apartment.
She threw her purse on the couch and then froze. Right in front of her stood a man. He was bald with slight fuzz of hair, of average height, and in loose fitted jeans and a blue shirt. The weird thing about him was that he was completely orange.
Alaric could read the surprise on the young girl’s face. Despite the amount of time he had been waiting, it didn’t matter. Patience really was a virtue in his line of work, a lesson soon learned and not forgotten. His eyes moved over as Thule entered behind the apartment.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Thule said, “I forgot to tell you. This is Alaric.”
“You forgot?” Alaric asked incredulously, sitting in the chair in a non-threatening manner. There were ways to defuse the situation, and this would probably work to his advantage anyway. “I am fortunate your protégé here did not decide I was a dangerous intruder. Forgive me for approaching you like this, please.”
Tarix remained stiff. "Thule," she almost whispered, "who is this orange, um, person? Has he had too much Miranda to drink?"
"Tarix," Thule warned her, "please be polite." He went over to Alaric. "I see you made use of the extra key I gave you. Why don't you introduce yourself to her while I make us some tea?" And with that he strode over to the kitchen.
Tarix hesitated, then edged towards the chair. *Well, if it’s ok with Thule, I guess he could be safe.* She slowly sat down in front of him. She quickly looked at Thule and saw him busily making tea. She waited for Alaric to continue.
“As Thule has probably told you, he is part of a ‘secret society’ of sorts, the Order of Valour, and wishes for you to join us. Has he told you anything else about us?” At her nod in the negative, Alaric continued. “We are governed by a group of Five, of which I am a member. Our goal is to make the various races of demons stronger.”
"The Five? So if you are one of the five, who are the other four?" Tarix looked at Alaric, and she couldn't help but compare him to a character she had seen in one of those TV series. "So are you like the head of the five, like a captain?" Before Alaric could answer further Tarix quipped, "Like Captain Picard!"
By this time Thule had made his way out of the kitchen with a tray carrying three cups of tea. "Sorry Alaric, she has a habit of giving people odd nicknames." He shot Tarix a look of disapproval.
"Quite all right," Alaric said, seizing on the opportunity to put the girl at ease. He motioned to the tea, "Earl Grey? Hot?" Tarix stifled a laugh at this before he calmed down Thule again.
"Well yes, I am something of the leader of the Five. Your mentor here is our newest member. But tell me, have you ever heard of Charles Darwin? Origin of the Species?"
Tarix thought about it, her brows knitted, "Well, I haven't read much about Darwin. I mean Thule gave me the books but all that comes to mind is "Monkey Man"?" Thule motioned her to take the third cup of tea, but she nodded her head in a “no”, tea was never her favorite beverage.
Alaric considered this, and a moment later had the best approach figured out. "Darwin latched on to something about how the world works that we have known for quite some time. Thule tells me he has been training you, making you stronger. But what if you wanted to make demons as a whole stronger? Do you think we could train them all?"
She frowned and looked up at Thule, who had now quietly walked to Tarix's room and brought a folded chair and sat in it, sipping tea. "Well, you could try. Like they do in the army, I guess?"
She glanced back at Thule in case she had said something wrong, but he seemed to have a blank face.
"That is a possibility," Alaric conceded, "but there is a problem. We are hunted by the humans, remember? That would take a large facility, which would draw attention. They would hunt us down and destroy us. So, don't you think we need a more effective technique?"
If he was hinting at something, she was definitely not getting it. "Yes, but demons are a lot stronger then humans, well most of them are. They could take over in no time?"
She looked around, like a student in a class who is unsure of an answer she had given. "Well couldn't they?" she said in a small voice.
Alaric smiled inwardly. It should be easy to bring the young girl about to the Order's way of thinking. She was proving receptive so far.
"We could certainly try," he pointed out. "But what they lack in strength, they make up for in numbers. In order to survive, on the whole we have to become stronger. It's just like Darwin noticed."
He stood up and walked over to Tarix on the couch. Crouching in front of her, hoping that she would feel trust for him. "Natural selection. Conflict, the competition for resources weeds out the weaker species. In the end, those that are left are stronger, the 'most fit' to survive. So we try to encourage this as much as possible."
She didn't know why, but she could feel a lot of power coming from this man, this demon and this made her slightly nervous, but decided not to show it.
"But, we are the good guys, right? We try to help the lower beings and make demons strong to help them?" She glanced again at Thule, but he seemed to be lost in his tea. *God Thule, a little support would be nice! Trying thinking outside the cup.*
"Yes," Alaric replied. "We wait mainly for one day to come. One day, the humans in general will learn about us and begin to hunt us down. We will be caught in a battle for our very survival. Ragnarok. Whichever race - humans or demons - is most fit to survive will triumph. The Order intends to give us the best chance of survival."
She started to chew her lower lip, as she thought of what he was saying. "Do you mean like an apocalypse? The end coming with the fight between the humans and demons?"
She looked back at him, staring into his eyes. Tarix found his face to be peaceful, calm, and friendly, and his posture was non-threatening. But when she looked in his eyes, got a bit disturbed. There was nothing there but icy coldness.
She cleared her throat, trying to ignore her feelings. "Um, besides, I do not know what Raggerok... um... Raggerick... um… whatever means?"
"It's a human myth," Alaric pointed out. "The final battle, resulting in the destruction of the world... and a birth of the new one. The Gods on the one hand, the Giants and Demons on the other destroy each other. The battle is inevitable, Tarix."
He paused for a moment, letting that thought sink in. His voice turned calm, caring, like the tempting serpent in the Garden of Eden. "Thule has told me so much about you, and is quite fond of you. We can offer you a higher purpose to your life. Help train you, make you stronger, and in turn work with us to make our race stronger. So that we don't simply end as legends when the battle comes, tales told of species which no longer exist."
And suddenly it hit Tarix, and she sat up straight. "Wow, wow, wait a minute. Are you telling me you are going to make me a killer? Of Humans!"
This time she shot Thule a look of anger. *Why can’t he ever talk straight with me!* She looked back at Alaric, not knowing what more to say.
"It is the natural order of the world. There are some who think peace between humans and demons is possible, but they're deluding themselves." Alaric rose slowly, checking the time.
"I must leave. Think on my offer, young Tarix. But in answer to your question let me leave you with this thought: they would destroy you without a thought if they thought you were a threat to them. Maybe even without that. Goodbye, Tarix. We shall talk again at some point, I am sure." With that, Alaric left the young woman alone with Thule and her thoughts.
Mid-Season Two: Jan 20, 2006 - June 16(ish), 2006
23rd Septemeber, 10:00pm
Tarix saw Alaric leave, then turned to shoot Thule a glare.
“Well, that was nice wasn’t it? Now you have met another member of the Order.” He got up to clear the cups away. “You sure you’re not going to drink that?” he motioned towards her untouched cup of tea.
Tarix couldn’t hold it in any more. “Thule, you stop being so calm all the time, like nothing has happened! It's unnerving you know.”
“Fine, but it’s a waste a good cup of tea.” He took to the cup and headed to the kitchen.
“Damn the tea and damn you!” She got up and went followed him. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
He had busily started washing the cups and drying them. “Well, because you would have made a big issue out of it. Besides, I only found out I was a member of the Five a few days ago and I knew you’d want to throw a party, and you know how I loathe this kinds of celebrations so I refrained to bring up the subject.”
“What? No, that’s not what I was referring to. Oh, and congratulations by the way.” She sighed and combed her hair back with her hand. “Why is it that I have to find out everything from a third person? Why can’t you just sit me down and tell me all of this? Then I would act like the way I do.”
Thule had now finished and was wiping his hands on a towel. “Fine, you want to be sat down and told everything? Then I’ll tell you.” He walked back to the living area. “Sit down and we’ll talk.” When Tarix was seated, Thule also took a seat.
“What do you want to know? Fire away.”
She hesitated; it seemed like the first time she felt she could ask anything. “Ok, what is the Order of Valour?”
“Alaric already covered that. It is an organisation headed by the Five. Its job it to make demons stronger so that they can fight against,” he caught himself, “I mean defend themselves against the humans. You see Tarix, you are lucky to look like a human. Out there, there are many demons that are not as lucky and humans, they are afraid of what they don’t know. They think to stop being afraid they can eliminate the demons.” Thule looked at her making sure she was absorbing it all. “All to answer you questions, in a way we help them, the demon kind.”
“So what does the Order want from me?”
“You work for them now. Think of it exactly like a job. You get a check every month, and in return you will be asked to do a set of tasks. This will occur when the Order decides that you are knowledgeable enough and ready, and you will then have to face a series of tests. Once you pass you will be promoted to a formal employee. You will still receive training from me, but at that point you will be doing some serious work for the Order.”
“So, what is this ‘serious work’?” As per her habit she air quoted the last phrase.
Thule looked thoughtful for a moment, then continued, “It varies. It may be a simple task or a complex one. You will most likely be counted on doing it alone.”
She started to look uncomfortable. “But what about Jessy?”
Thule’s eyes suddenly turned cold from the mention of her name. “What about her?”
“Well, what happens to her? Will the Order kill her? Will they capture her?”
“That I am not sure of. I’ll discuss it will Alaric when I get the chance. Anything else?”
“Just two last questions. One, why do I still have to keep that awful job?” she asked.
“Because I said so.” But he knew this wouldn’t be enough for her, so continued, “I already tried to tell you. It’s a cover, to tell people that you work for a respectable human owned organisation.”
“You sure it’s human owned? Because Jimmy reminds me of everything but humane.” Tarix joked.
“What’s your other question?”
“Huh, oh that. When do I learn how to use the power to read people’s minds? Because it’d be really cool if I could read yours. I wouldn’t have to grovel all the time for you to tell me what from what.”
Thule seemed to smile slightly. “Soon. Now if that’s all, I think I’ll take leave too. I will come in the morning for your training.” When she didn’t seem to have anything to ask, he nodded and left her.
She thought about what she was going to do for the rest of the evening, and decided to read one of those leather bound books, courtesy of Thule, and then go to sleep. She got up and headed for her study, heading for a boring evening alone at her apartment.
Mid-Season Two: Jan 20, 2006 - June 16(ish), 2006
September 9, 2005: 9:00 AM. The Beazor Complex
This day had gone well thus far for Tyler Hyatt. He’d managed to take care of business at the fertility clinic very quickly. A series of lies and false identifiers got him through the screening process, in addition to his being in perfect health. He then left his deposit and got his cash. And he committed himself to moving on to more important matters.
The first of these was a trip to the mall, where Tyler purchased a black, long sleeved shirt and a black ski mask. Clichés get to be clichés for a reason, ya know.
Three grand richer, Tyler then headed for the Beazor to gather what he needed. He entered through the front this time, with no trouble from the guards, and made his way past the pits and back to the bar, where he found his way to Paul for the first time. As Tyler suspected, the same man was behind it, serving blood and bat urine to the demon customers.
Tyler took a seat next to one with urine. The smell was overpowering. And as Tyler fought his disgust, the bartender approached.
“You again. What now?” The bartender was surly. After Tyler’s last visit, Paul had threatened to castrate him if he wasn’t more careful.
“I need a question answered. There’s fifty in it for you.” Tyler ignored the bartender’s tone. Further, he ignored the bartender’s apparent struggle. That was easy, however, as it was brief.
“What’s da question?”
“I need to get my hands on some equipment, some weapons. Where can I do that?” There was further struggle from the bartender now, and Hyatt quelled it quickly.
“I’m doing some work for Mr. Nesmith. Relax.”
“Ah, well. Other side of the pit from here. Ask for Ranthog.”
“Ranthog?”
“Yeah. What they call an Iventith demon. You’ll know him when you see him.” Tyler laid a fifty on the bar and walked away. He rounded the pit and came to a door, being guarded by a particularly large Fyarl.
“I’m looking for Ranthog.” The Fyarl moved aside, and waved Hyatt to the door. Tyler opened it and stepped through.
What he found on the other side was a militia nut’s wet dream. In the first three steps, Tyler counted seven firearms that had been banned from ownership by the general public. Mostly because four of them fired explosive rounds, but that was beside the point. The walls of this room were lined with such weapons. To the left, the right, and behind Tyler were the kinds of things that could be used to take down an armored car.
Tyler was not interested in them. He was interested in the back wall, where the more common weapons were kept. At a glance, he saw four AK’s, two military issue M-4’s, a Desert Storm era M21, and a host of other weapons. In front of those was a glass counter, the case for a selection of pistols.
Behind that counter was a human, a man just like any other. Or, he would have been, if his face didn’t periodically roll up on his head, allowing a second face, complete with differently colored hair, to slide into place. This was Ranthog, the Iventith demon.
“Good day, sir,” the demon spoke in a voice that would always be identified with the slimy salesmen as Tyler approached. Before he got out another word, Tyler slapped him in the face.
“Shut up.” Tyler turned his head downward, to the pistols. “What’s the ammo capacity on this Glock?”
“Which?” Like any other Iventith demon, Ranthog was a coward, so he did not retaliate for the slap.
“The twenty-two.”
“The clip holds seventeen rounds, the chamber one…” Tyler interrupted Ranthog here.
“Good. I want it, along with three additional clips, and a box of .40 caliber ammunition. In addition, I’d like to see that MP5.” Ranthog moved to the wall behind the counter and picked out what Tyler wanted, handing it across.
“You got a suppressor that fits?”
“Yes sir.”
“Get it, and some ammo.” Tyler took another look at the case. “The flare too, along with a bag for all of this.”
Ranthog removed the items Tyler requested.
“What’s this going to run me, Ranthog?” Tyler screwed the suppressor onto the MP5.
“With ammo, first time buyer,” Tyler looked up at Ranthog with a glare that would send the average child screaming to their mother. “A grand?”
Tyler smiled at that. He was expecting twice that, especially since these weapons were all in perfect working order.
“Deal. Pleasure doing business with you.” Tyler, at the finish of that statement laid down the money, packed his weapons into the green duffle Ranthog retrieved. With that done, he turned and walked out.
Port of Los Angeles, dock 10C: 11:00 am.
With the port now crowded, active, Tyler had to be more careful. He stood in front of the warehouse, preparing for all possibilities. His head now clear, he prepared his approach. He would move just after the Balance team arrived, disorienting them with the flare which now functioned as a flash grenade.
*In the initial rush, I have to get at least one of Elbourn’s. They’ll take care of the rest. I’ll have to take them.* And he would. He had to.
Another hour passed before Tyler was satisfied. He returned to the motel and emptied the bag. He took the ammo and the empty magazines, and began to fill them, one bullet at a time.
All the while, his eyes locked on the phone.
Madrid, Spain: 9:35 pm
Kelly Hyatt was clearing the dinner dishes that she and Shawn had used when the phone rang. It didn’t surprise her, Shawn’s friends usually called around this time. So she answered the phone, prepared to call him in from the living room where he sat in front of the TV.
“Hello?” But Kelly wouldn’t be doing that tonight. What did surprise her was the voice on the other end.
“Hi.” Tyler was quiet, with the voice of one overcome by shame.
“Wha… Jesus, Tyler?” Kelly took more than a moment to gather herself.
“Yeah. How are you?”
“How am I?” When she recovered, Kelly felt anger. And, frankly, can you blame her? “Where the hell are you, what happened?”
Tyler’s head immediately ached and his gut clenched.
“I’m sorry.” Knowing nothing else about the man, anyone could tell there was no bullshit in Hyatt now. “I’m so sorry. For all of this.”
“That doesn’t…” She softened a bit, hearing the pain in her husband’s voice. “Why? What happened?”
“I had to, Kelly, I didn’t know what else to do.” Tyler reigned himself in. He’d made sure, when he took the job with the Balance, to tell Kelly what he was getting into. “The people, my unit, they were going to come after us. They were going to kill me. And they were going to use you to do it. I couldn’t… I had to make sure you were safe.”
“And that’s to send us away, and not tell us a damn thing? Tyler, I’ve…”
“These men did things, Kelly. Things I can’t ignore. They killed Ryan. Killed him, and fed him to monsters. I couldn’t hide with you. I have to do… I have to do something.” Tyler stopped and took a breath. “I can’t run, Kelly. I couldn’t live with myself. But I can’t fight them with you here.”
“Then why did you call?”
“I needed to hear your voice. I needed to… remember that the things I’ve done have some point.” Tyler’s voice was low, too low. Kelly worried.
“What’s going on? Where are you?”
Tyler expertly avoided the question. “There’s a thing I’m going to do soon… and it’s… forget it. I just… I wanted to let you know I’m okay. I’ll see you as soon as it’s safe.” Tyler hung up the phone.
“Tyler?” Kelly called into the phone before she hung up, and dialed the operator.
“Hello?”
“Hi. I was just prank called. I was wondering if you could get the number for me?” Kelly asked, exasperated by the whole thing.
“I’m not sure…”
“Please? This is the third time. I want to talk to the kid’s mother, make sure it doesn’t happen again.” At that, the operator relented.
“Let me see what I can do…”
Los Angeles.
Tyler, after hanging up, paced his hotel room in quick, irritated strides.
“Stupid. So stupid.” He was angry - with himself, no one else. “You know better.”
The first thing Tyler learned in the Army was that in War, you had to accept the fact that you were dead. Dreams of life helped no one. And now he’d caught himself dreaming.
But the dream, and the frustration at it didn’t last long. In less than ten seconds, Hyatt was himself again. And he would be ready.
In two days, he would be ready.
Mid-Season Two: Jan 20, 2006 - June 16(ish), 2006
September 11, 2005: Super 8 Motel, 6:00 am
Hyatt passed what was left of the ninth, and the tenth, in relative silence. He stayed in his motel room and brooded. He brooded over Michaels, over the life he had before this mess. Most of all he kicked himself, constantly, over leaving that phone call as he did. And, as the morning of the eleventh rolled around, he woke with her face on his mind, as she sneered at him, cursing him, before she fired a single shot into his head.
Life on the run creates the most screwed up pictures.
But, as he was human, Tyler couldn’t put that one away easily. So he climbed out of the bed and walked to the bathroom, with intent of splashing water on his face so he could function. But as he finished the job, his face in his hands, Tyler’s knees gave and he sank to the floor.
“Christ.” The situation was far worse than Tyler had thought it. He’d done more than dream. He’d let himself think, imagine, what returning home would be like. He’d seen it; in the moment she answered the phone. And he was paralyzed now, with fear, fear he would never make it, and the last thing he’d done with his wife was hang up on her.
The feeling was horrid.
But Tyler recovered quickly enough. He picked himself up off the floor, and ran his hands over his face.
*You’re losing it.* With that thought in mind, Tyler dropped his drawers and stepped into the shower.
*Gonna be a long day.*
Madrid
Whereas Tyler brooded over his mistake, Kelly took action. After she got the number of his hotel from the operator, she placed a call to it, ultimately winding up with the on duty clerk. From him, she got an address. Then she checked flights to LA, and was deflated. There were none available for the better part of three months. The high she was on from the progress got blown away there.
“What the hell is the chance of him still being there by then?” There was no one around to answer the question, but Kelly didn’t need it. There was none. So, she went back to her daily business and prayed that some sign, some second chance would come. But she didn’t think it would.
She’d stopped believing in miracles the day she left the US.
*****
Port of Los Angeles Dock 10C: 11:58 pm
The docks cleared of the average person around ten, leaving them empty and relatively safe for the conducting the less reputable sort of business. On the average Port Dock one could find anything from a prostitute to a drug dealer, to the living embodiment of Satan, so long as the place was cleared.
Or in Tyler’s case, no one, as he huddled himself up against his wall of wood, waiting.
He had been pacing dock 10B when he spotted Dessler’s car, a gray Lincoln Continental. The look of it, the motion, had screamed Watcher. And Tyler had been right, as five men had climbed out of the car when it stopped, one of whom (the driver) had carried a black briefcase. And the only reason to have that in this place at this time of night was to do a deal.
It seemed Paul had been wrong. Dessler had dawdled considerably before arriving at the port.
All five men were dressed in clothes that were suitable for a day at the office, but would not hinder quick moves. And they did move quickly, Hyatt was sure to note, as they moved into position in front of the warehouse. The man holding the briefcase was tall and built well. His hair was a slick, shining black, parted on the left. The rest were big men, thick and well muscled, sporting buzz cuts.
The first thing they did was check the immediate interior of the warehouse. That made Tyler smirk. That didn’t last, however, as Tyler spotted the Balance mini-van on the opposite side of the warehouse. As such, Tyler reached into his bag, and pulled the ski mask on.
The bag got wet after that.
The second party arrived ten minutes after the Watchers. They rolled up in a van of their own, which appeared to be old, beaten, and used. And most likely made prior to the eighties. There were four of them, young men, white boys. They dressed in the same clothes, those being baggy black jeans, and black collared shirts. They approached the Watchers, walking in ridiculous fashion.
*****
“Yo, you Dessler?” The boy at the front spoke, addressing the right man.
“Yes.”
“I got the stuff ya wanted.” The boy was unnecessarily giving a vibe of confidence. Even as he withdrew the crystal from his pocket, his motions were arrogant. Tyler could see him being killed first.
“Now, lemme see the money.” Dessler lifted the briefcase to open it, and the Balance made their move. The van emptied, and five men sprang onto the scene, raising M-4’s on the parties as the items changed hands. And Hyatt did likewise, from his position behind the wall; he hefted the flare toward the warehouse. It flashed, mid air, drawing the attention of everyone involved. Tyler took the cue to rise and start shooting. His MP5 blazed, clipping the boy at the front in the scalp. Gray matter flew against the warehouse walls.
Two member of the Balance team turned and returned fire on Hyatt. The Watchers, meanwhile, drew guns of their own and retreated into the warehouse. Elbourn and the last two Balance agents gave chase, firing all the way.
Behind them, Hyatt hit one agent in the arm and rose, moving quickly around the wall and diving into a boat below it. On the landing, Tyler raised the MP5 again and hit that same agent in the head. The MP5 was now empty. And Tyler had but one clip. As such, he threw it over the side of the boat, and hit the floor.
From his coat, Tyler drew the Glocks.
The lone remaining Balance agent rained bullets down on the boat, until she had emptied the clip. She ducked behind cover to reload. And Tyler sprang. He leapt to his feet and jumped to the next boat, firing all the while. Sandra’s Glock emptied, as Tyler hit the floor on the next boat. As the agent turned to fire again, Tyler squeezed off the last two shots in the second pistol.
The agent got one in each eye.
Tyler took a moment, reloaded, and jumped from boat to boat, until he was in front of the warehouse. The door stood open, and from it Tyler could hear continuous gunfire. He entered, and immediately saw a Watcher had been killed, just a foot into the warehouse. Moving toward the body, Tyler squeezed off three shots in the direction of the gunfire.
As Hyatt crouched, a second Watcher rounded the corner. Hyatt hit him twice in the gut. Tucking a Glock under his arm, Tyler took the dead Watcher’s gun, a Sig 228, black. He pocketed it and moved further into the warehouse. Rounding a set of crates, Tyler watched as a third Balance agent fell, taking down a Watcher with him. Elbourn, for his part, drilled Dessler, as Tyler hit one, and the final Balance agent the other.
Elbourn turned in a flash and fired on Hyatt, who dove behind a crate. The other agent ran to Dessler, took the crystal, and made a break for the exit, with Elbourn covering. As he made it to the door, Hyatt popped up, and nailed Elbourn in the chest. The Glocks empty, Hyatt dropped them and gave chase.
Exiting the warehouse, Tyler saw the agent getting into the minivan, and made a break for his own car. He could hear the van’s tires squealing, as he pulled away, going after it.
Inside the warehouse, Elbourn moved his hand into his left pants pocket and activated his phone, calling for the clean up unit.
With the superior vehicle, Tyler ended the pursuit quickly. He caught the van and slammed into its side, so hard both Tyler and the van spun out, and crushed each other against a nearby barrier. Hyatt opened his door and fell out of his car, which had been ruined by the crash. He picked himself up, and a hand immediately clutched his ribs, which were most assuredly broken.
The agent, on the other hand, barely began to stir as Tyler spotted him. That didn’t last, however, as Tyler drew his Sig and put a bullet in his brain. He then walked to the car, stuck his head in the window, grabbed the crystal off the passenger’s seat, and turned away, bumping into a woman, who was out for a jog.
He shot her as well, and moved away as quickly as possible. The police would arrive soon.
But it was done.
*****
An hour later, Tyler was back in his hotel. The crash had indeed broken his ribs, in addition to spraining his knee and opening a minor cut above his left eye. The cut he handled himself, the knee was on ice. The ribs he would bear.
But the job was done. So Tyler picked up the phone and dialed Paul’s number.
September 12, 2005: 1:00 am: The Beazor Complex
Paul leaned back in his chair, turning his eyes from the books. Profits had been down recently, so much so he’d had no choice but to reopen the arena. Even with his arms competition out of the way.
This did not sit well with Paul. But he didn’t have time to stew over it, as his phone rang.
“What?” Paul was surly. Who could blame him?
“It’s done.” Hyatt's voice, however, shocked him. He hadn’t expected the man to survive this one. *What the hell am I dealing with here?*
“There’s a club, After Dark. Seven pm tomorrow. You come alone, don’t wear a jacket. I so much as whiff a bodyguard, you die before you see me.” Then Tyler hung up.
Mid-Season Two: Jan 20, 2006 - June 16(ish), 2006
23rd September, 11:59m
The moon hung over the dark sky, dominating it with its brilliance. Those who may have said that night was the time of evil had to just once look at the beautiful pearl that stood there shining in the darkness with its sparkling presence. But looks can be deceiving and this can also imply to the moon itself. It is known for many years the type of effect it might have on some people. Some grow mad, others grow savage, and then there is the race of supernatural to consider.
It was little known that the moon also affected some demon natures and the Koolangs themselves have had a long relationship with it, because with its help could they be free. Thule had pulled back half his curtain, standing in the window in his robe, book in one hand. He could also feel a sense of power coming from the lunar but he always ignored it. This night, however, he felt the power greater then he had ever felt before. Almost afraid of what the power might do, whose madness it might arouse, Thule closed his curtains and got ready to go to bed.
Some distance away Tarix had already gone to bed; unlike Thule she didn’t seem to feel any different. For many nights now she had not had her dream. Ever since she had only felt a sort of presence, she was sure was that of her sister. She had seen on the Discovery channel how twins may be able to feel each other, and God only knows how this worked in half-demons. Still she slept in her deep slumber.
Watching her, as usual, from the rooftop of the opposite building was Jessy. She had bribed the manager of this sleazy building so that she could stay on the roof. She had told him that she loved sleeping under the stars. But he cared little about why, than about how much money would be going into his pocket, so after milking her out of as much money he could he let her stay for as long as she liked.
Jessy wasn’t stupid and she knew that she could have easily convinced him otherwise, but she didn’t wanted to attract attention so she quietly paid, bought a few items she’d need to accommodate the roof from the neary market. So she said hello to her new temporary leaky residence with other vermin as guests. *God I can’t wait to get back to the Big Apple.* She stared further into her foe’s apartment and,concluding that she had indeed gone to sleep, decided to rest a little while by herself too.
*Come on, Jazz, hurry up with the remembering, so I can kill your ass already,* she thought as she put down her binoculars and slipped into her uncomfortable sleeping bag. On reflex, her left hand rested on the gun she had placed next to pillow, and she closed her eyes to rest.
*****
Kathleen Honey looked at her two daughters lovingly. “Mummy! Mummy! Please sing us the Petri Kaha, we promise, just this once,” said little Jasmine, with her pearl like face and sparkling eyes, and with her golden hair.
“Yes, Mum, we promise we’ll go to sleep,” chimed in her identical sister, lying next to her. Sometimes Kathleen thought they both looked so alike that it was as if one of them was standing in front of a mirror.
She smiled at them both. “Ok, just this once.” Her eyes sparkled, as she tucked the girls in and then sat next to them and started to sing.
Keeri mayi, aayi aayi, keeri mayi aayaiyo.
Keeri mayi, aayi aayi, keeri mayi aayaiyo.
Dana may ka hum wa, hum wa ka roo,
Teeri magi aago, daa hum wa ma sago.
Keeri aayi aayi aayi, keeri aayi-yaiyo.
Keeri aayi aayi aayi, keeri aayi-yaiyo.
Keeri aayi aayi aayi, keeri aayaiyoooooo… **
Her voice was like a warm sweet milk that washed over both the girls. When she had finished she looked at them and saw them both peacefully sleeping together. Kathleen’s loving smile start to turn sad and then slowly tears started to drip down her face, as she faded away.
The twins sprang up together, feeling each other's presence even more, and unsure of what the dream might have meant.
**To hear the lullaby, click here. To see the full definition of the lullaby see the thread “Petri Kaha” in the “Character Diary” section.
Mid-Season Two: Jan 20, 2006 - June 16(ish), 2006
24th September, 6:10am
The streets were silent and there was no noise, as if civilization itself had stopped breathing. Then slowly the whole city started to get up. The birds started to chirp, the car horns started to honk, the doors were slamming, pedestrians were busily buying Starbucks coffee, just as it happened every day.
Tarix felt her life was too monotonous, as she stretched out her arms and started to yawn standing on her small terrace. She breathed in the fresh air, and even though a smell of car fumes hung in it, it was still fresh air and the lungs welcomed it. She went back to her apartment to take a shower and change into her training clothes; faded denim jeans and a white loose polo shirt that she had got free in one of those product promotions.
After she was finished with her light breakfast she started to do some stretches while waiting for Thule. Exactly at 6:30am, Thule rang the bell. Tarix waited for Thule to come in but then remembered that he had given Alaric the extra key. She got up and quickly rushed to the door to open it.
Thule stood there, as usual in his ever-favorite grey suit. Tarix sometimes imagined what Thule's wardrobe would look like with twenty copies of perfect grey suits and clones of black shoes. He pleasantly greeted her and came in.
Tarix started to bring the weights out when Thule motioned for her to stop. "No, we'll do a little educational work today. Expand your knowledge, something you are always complaining about." With that he headed towards the study room.
Tarix smiled, left the weights and headed after him. She stepped in the room and looked around. It was absolutely empty of any decorations or furniture. There was nothing in the room except towers and towers of books that Thule had brought case and cases of for Tarix, creating a small library for her.
From time to time she would sit on one of the towers and become completely involved in reading some of the books. For hours and hours she’d read deep into her night, researching more about her demon self. She was beginning to get used to being a half demon but the thought still seemed sort of unreal.
She looked at Thule who was going around looking at the books, searching for a particular one. “Why can’t you keep it organized, alphabetically would be helpful!” he complained, bending down to glance at every book.
“Ah, here it is.” He took a big fat book out from under many other books and handed it to Tarix. It seemed to weigh a lot. She looked at the title of the book, which had only one word in huge writing across it.
Tarix looked back at Thule.
“I tried to go through it some nights ago, but I didn’t have time to read most of it and sort of forgot about it.” She glanced again at the book and decided to sit on the floor with it. *Damn, I must get some furniture for this place soon.* Thule followed her and also sat down.
“This book is one of the main books that appropriately describe this world and mostly with emphasis on the subject of vampires. This book is usually used as a guide to the slayer and over the years there have been many copies.”
“The slayer?” Tarix interrupted him, “What’s a slayer?”
“A slayer is a girl, born into each generation. Her only job is to slay vampires, to stop their numbers from increasing and to try the best she can to defend the world from demonic terrors. When one slayer dies, another gets activated.”
“Oh. So they are demons themselves?”
“Not really. They have super strength and stamina to help them, but there’s nothing demonic about it. Each slayer has a mentor, a person who trains them and teaches them. He or she is called the Watcher.”
Tarix smirked. “That remind you of anyone?”
“As a matter of fact I applied to be a Watcher. Before I joined the Order of Valour, I had the desire to be a Watcher.” He had a dreamy look on his face as he remembered the days of his youth.
Tarix’s voice brought him back. “So what happened?”
Thule shook his head, “Nothing, they told me that they don’t elect demons. A policy they have, makes them think if a slayer gets a demon Watcher, that Watcher may become baised. At that time I was in Europe - I came to LA a while later and joined the Order.” He left out the details about his parents being called “freaks” in Germany, and then dying later. *My life doesn’t concern her.* His face grew slightly sad as he remembered his childhood times in Germany.
As always Tarix interupted him again, without realising. "Who's the slayer right now?"
"Nobody knows, yet. I assume the Watchers' Council is probably looking for her."
There was a moment of silence as Tarix flipped through the pages and Thule just looked off into space.
This time he broke the silence. "Well that seems enough for today." He got up, "I would like you to read that book, skim through it." At this Tarix groaned slightly, but Thule didn't seem to hear. "I'll leave you so that can meditate for a few moments and then get ready to go to your beloved job." This time her groan was much louder.
Thule couldn't help but smirk lightly. *She's like a little girl.*
He turned around to leave, but Tarix stopped him. “Thule, I had another dream yesterday.” This stopped him and he faced her once again. “This time it wasn’t a nightmare. I felt more peaceful by it, but at the same time it disturbed me. I saw two twins, again, the same girls I always used to see in my nightmares before. Only this time they acted less mysterious and more like little girls. I think they were,” she hesitated, “us. It was Jessy and I, I believe, because I could somehow feel it.
"We were being tucked in bed by a pretty faced women and she started to sing us a lullaby to put us to sleep. Her voice was just so sweet that I felt as if I was floating on a cloud.”
“That must be Kathleen,” Thule spoke up. Tarix noticed a slight crack in his voice as he spoke her name. “She was your mother. I remember Alfred telling me of how she loved singing you that lullaby every night.” He stared at Tarix. “Looks like your memory is slowly returning back to you. Good. I don’t think it means much, except what you experienced when you were young.”
After Thule felt that Tarix wasn’t going to ask anything else, he bid her goodbye and headed for the door.
Mid-Season Two: Jan 20, 2006 - June 16(ish), 2006
“A Jazz Solo in Two Iterations”
16 Sept. 2005
10:23 P.M.
At-large in the streets of L.A.
Fate, blissfully winding his way through the labyrinthine streets of L.A., his system vibrating at the frequency of Life in waves of assumed happiness, hands swinging passive and non-lethal at his sides, decided to sync up with the rhythm of the night.
The biz in the darkened L.A. streets had its own waveform, sharktoothing and spiking well within the specifications of its own ruthless operational protocol. Hustlers perceived the waveform on some instinctive, predatory level and adjusted the precision of their respective Games in split-second adjustments. Fate gigged the serious players in the game right off the bat, and spent the majority of his night avoiding the jetwash of Mortal Hustler Biz. His Hustle shattered the usual parameters of The Meat & Change Trade, and Fate preferred to operate at a much higher level of resolution, amplifying and analyzing the signals the nocturnal streets kicked out at him and his boosted head. In every shady transaction, every hurried, furtive glance for The Law, every bead of desperate sweat, every Come-Along-Sonny routine, every gesture that indicated an awareness of wrongdoing — whether illegal, immoral, or both — Fate gathered data for the purpose of integration into his overall picture of Where The Juice Came From and Went To.
Mostly his data was inferential and sketchy: a fleeting, deferential gesture here, an observance of professional distance there, the occasional outburst of senseless violence to either shake the foundations or try to, but the true chain of connectivity still escaped him. He knew on some level that the street-level rituals he witnessed were only visceral translations of esoteric conflicts occurring amongst the real power players in town, but it wasn’t like he could simply roll his ass into one of the glittering glass palaces that overlooked L.A. and start slapping answers out of The People In The Know. The Influence Machine, in its odd, gestalt way, was an organism as highly evolved in a cultural sense as Fate was in a physical sense, and they had WAY more resources to fall back on.
(A low-end pusher harassed Fate and ended up with a tettsui-uchi—“hammer fist strike,” from the Japanese—to the bridge of the nose. Blood flowed as Fate kept moving, and the lower echelons of the food chain bludgeoned themselves up a transient step…)
And Fate wasn’t even considering the supernatural element and all of its extant hierarchies that were certainly in place. Their signatures cut flashbulb memories in his head, and he could recognize the Heavies that blazed by regardless of type. Smart cat that Fate was, he knew to avoid them. Premature non-existence was nothing he was interested in, and he was better able to understand his position in the Supernatural Food Chain—and successfully be around to appreciate his standing within it—by whistling and walking away. Proto-humanity got eaten by prehistoric nasties for such hierarchical ignorance, and Fate was definitely not going to let history repeat itself if he had any say in the matter…
[First iteration of a Jazz Solo]
The music reached his ears just as he sensed the Presence, a soul of such purity that Fate had nothing in his experience to compare it to. A lone saxophone wailing its disconnected cry into the night woodwindedly, the notes and progressions etching patterns in Fate’s head like auditory lines of magnetic force. One block, two blocks, and Fate turned a corner to see the man blowing away at his saxophone, a young kid—thirteen on the outside edge—accompanying him, banging on a mocked-up set of jazz drums that consisted of an upended plastic five-gallon bucket that the kid sat on, and a high hat approximated from a trash-can lid resting on top of another five-gallon bucket. The kid’s timing was metronomic, perfectly delineating a jazz beat on his ad hoc hardware, and his spirit read just as whitephosphorous pure as the older, obviously blind sax man.
The two of them occupied an oasis of sodiumvaporlight on the street corner, the music emanating from that serene singularity:
Impromptu, fractal jazz
sp-
ir-
al-
ing
Outward
from
a
WOW
WOW WOW
WOW locus WOW
WOW WOW
WOW
Of
Pure
Spiritlovecareconcerngentlecynicismresoluteacceptanceofcircumstances…
Involutions of air.
Frequencies manipulated through a finite number of stops and valves of brass.
Soundtrack for the manipulation of a finite number of nucleotides and ele
ments.
Life in four-four time (emphasis on the two and four beats)
The blind sax player slid out of the Major scales, and laid twelve bars of Chromatic Blue right into Fate’s cerebral cortex. Fate swayed with the music and dug upon it with an enthusiasm that Langston Hughes would have been proud of.
[My motto,
As I live and learn,
Is dig
And be dug
In return.
-Hughes]
The kid paced the sax with a cool, collected, can-lid brush, a sibilant hiss of resonating steel in between the closed thumps of sticks on bucket.
Fate, he of the supercharged physiology, the No-Self orientation, the No-Sword school of Kendo, and would-be Senyata-Oni, stood transfixed by the pneumatic permutations of the blind man and his youthful apprentice. Fate, in short, fully dug.
An hour passed.
Air molecules were compressed and rarefacted in deliberate fashion.
Another hour passed.
Air molecules left wandering the proximity of the streetcorner were also compressed and rarefacted in equally-deliberate fashion.
Fate didn’t move.
The molecules of the streetlight’s filament stayed excited, but that was to be expected.
Fate, like the filament, was excited as well…
When the blind man finally stopped blowing his horn after two and a half hours of straight solo, the young drummer flipped his seat-slash-bass drum right-side-up to accept donations. Fate calmly extracted a twenty from his pocket and set it reverently in the bucket, his eyes epoxied to the pair before him.
“Say, my friend,” the sax man said, his eyes groping at Fate’s approximate location through deeply-tinted lenses, “you mind if I send Ronnie here to acquire me some smokes with your quite-charitable donation to our cause?”
“Not at all m’man. Duty calls, I know,” Fate said, beaming at the radiance of the man and his protégé, wanting desperately to shake hands.
Ronnie flicked a glance at the old man, an appraising look that the old man seemed to sense and shrug off with a truncated hand gesture. Ronnie departed in a flash, crossing the street against the light with the practiced precision of a career city-dweller. Fate watched him disappear, following his progress with his eyes until Ronnie was out of earshot. He turned to the sax man and offered his hand. “Name’s Fate, m’man. You sure do blow the hell out of that horn.”
The old man, sensing Fate’s gesture, stuck out his hand with surprising accuracy. “You can call me Blake, son. And,” he said, “I could feel you coming a mile away.” Smiling. The smile Blake had on his face was the holiest thing Fate had ever seen. Fate shook hands anyway,
&
felt the most beautiful sort of static shock he had ever felt in the entirety of his Really-Close-To-But-Mostly-On-The-Outside-Of somewhat life. Blake’s spirit gave and gave and gave and gave, and Fate felt and felt and felt and felt. Blake’s purity blew through Fate like a hurricane, staining Fate’s cells an indelible white, and it took all that Fate had to break that arthritic grip. Separation.
“So, m’boy,” Blake said, his lensed eyes trained fully on Fate, “you ain’t like the rest of us, are you?”
Fate, blown away by the last forty-five seconds of his existence, stammered out a reply. “Nope,” was all he could manage.
“Hell, I could feel that,” Blake said warmly. “Your presence precedes you.”
“So, uh,” Fate said, fully lost in the conversational flow. “You’re one of them there ‘Sensitives?’”
“No way, son. I just ‘see’ in ways that ain’t so dependant on the eyes. I play my sax, the world moves around me and Ronnie, and I notice things that you visually okay folks maybe don’t notice.”
“You sent Ronnie away just so we could have this chat, right?” Fate asked, already knowing the answer on a very deep level. He liked Blake in ways that he could never fully articulate. For once Fate felt Understood, one anonymous Old Sax Man comprehending the weight of Fate’s Being in a simple exchange of words.
“Sure I did,” Blake said, laughing, his useless eyes scanning the irrelevance of the urban terrain. “He’s young. I’m trying to earn enough to send him to music school. The boy’s got talent,” Blake said matter-of-factly.
“Agreed,” Fate said, pensing the beat Ronnie put down. Two and Four clean and metronomic and Eastern, Fate putting his hotrodded head into the contemplation of East vs. West, the West clapping proactively on the One and Three, the East strictly Two and Four, a reactive stance on the issue of The Doing of Something, time there to thwart whatever the Western-types guess at.
“So I wander the streets with Ronnie, blowing my horn whenever the situation warrants it, and I eventually suss my way—in four-four, mind you—to peace. But then you come along,” Blake said, pointing an accusing finger at Fate.
“So what-- you’re going to blame me?” Fate said, feeling a sense of guilt entirely outside of the parameters of his usual range of feelings. Blake fucked all that right up. The blind man made Fate feel a sense of responsibility for all of his actions that led directly to Vamps being eaten, et cetera…
“Not especially, kid—don’t misunderstand me. All I’m saying is that beings like you tweak the formula a bit, throw variables into it that are way beyond what most of us mere mortal-types can wrap our minds around,” Blake said, almost as an apology. “The kind of power I feel in you scares the hell out of me, and I ain’t ashamed to say so.”
Fate, speaking more honestly than he had in thirty-five years, said, “you’ve got absolutely nothing to fear from me. Nothing at all. You or Ronnie,” he added, just to ease the old man’s mind.
“I sorta figured that was the case, but you can’t blame an old, blind man for his silly fears,” he said, laughing. “Before Ronnie gets back, I just want you to promise me one thing,” his voice dropping to a solemn tone, “I ain’t gonna be around forever to keep an eye on the boy…Would you…”
“Yes I will. He’s got nothing to fear from the night as long as I’m still walking. You’ve got my word on that,” Fate said, dead-serious.
“Thanks, kid. I reckon you’ve got to be going, no?”
“Matter of fact, yes, I think I do. Work to do and all,” Fate said, understanding that the moment had passed, and that his presence was no longer necessary. “See you around, then?”
“Yeah—I’ll see you around,” Blake said, chuckling at his own joke, the sound fading in Fate’s ears as he crossed the street with purpose, off to the solitude of his chopped, channeled, lowered, and louvered apartment to wait out the next several hours of daylight. *Until next time, Pop.*
Fate smiled, contemplating the thirty-five year dance through time that led him to this moment, this beatific state of purpose and meaning.
The second iteration of a jazz solo.
Fractal, emphasis on the two and four, awaiting his enemies.
Awaiting a kinetic improvisation of his own.
Mid-Season Two: Jan 20, 2006 - June 16(ish), 2006
“Preacher Man”
Sunday, 18 September 2005
Introducing Jack Nicholson as Reginald
With Tommy Lee Jones as James Anderson
Father Reginald hummed a little upbeat ditty to himself as he got ready for the weekly sermon. His congregation was amazing, he thought, even if he had taken over it by forcibly replacing the old priest. Dress pants and socks already on, he finished buttoning his shirt before pulling on the robes. A piece of blue cloth bearing white crosses went on last, hanging down the front. Picking up his bible and the copy of the day's sermon (just in case his mind stared to wander; Reginald knew he was absent-minded) and smiled. “Looking good, my man,” he muttered to nobody in particular. “You’re gonna knock ‘em dead today.”
Reginald could hear the sound of the organ playing as he suddenly remembered he was supposed to be outside. Hurrying to the door, he stopped to compose himself before heading to the pulpit. “I’m so glad you could make it,” he said to his congregation, Christians of a number of denominations. He had a small core audience that loved his sermons, but most rotated. “So glad to see the old faces, the new faces as well.”
He always found that the problem with his sermons was that there was so much to say, but so little time to communicate it. Never enough time to tell them everything. “Well now, where to begin, where to begin… I suppose the best place to start is at the beginning. ‘In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.’ Ah, Jesus, the Word made flesh.
“You know, it’s amazing. We’re always in contact with the Word, and yet most people act as if they’re deaf. They just can’t hear it, so they go about their lives doing all sorts of wrong deeds. We don’t need violent movies or television shows if we want that for entertainment; all we need to do is to look at the news.
“Then again, that’s what we get for living in today’s modern world. Just take a look around – we’re just ‘matter in motion’ now to most people, even the supposedly devout. Always treating the symptoms, never the patient. But that’s ok, because we’re good science worshippers. That’s going to solve all of our problems after all.”
Reginald went on for a while, talking about how living well involved more than just this notion of the physical. He wanted to bring them to understanding of the higher realm, the realm he had come into contact with before… but they wouldn’t listen. They never did; and the one time he tried to reveal everything to someone, they’d fled and tried to lock him up in a nuthouse.
He broke his train of thought in the sermon as these thoughts occurred to him. “That’s another thing,” he said. “Why is it that every time we speak to God, it’s called prayer, yet when God speaks back, it’s schziophrenia? It’s like that joke about how all mystics are a little crazy, so the church keeps them in insane asylums called monasteries. Maybe the problem is just that the rest of the world is screwed up and not us.” The most amusing part for his congregation was when he finally did lose track, and began talking about the world series. He wasn’t sure, but he thought the Oriels playing well again might have meant the Lamb had broken the Second Seal, or simply that God was looking out for them – only time would tell which was the case.
Afterwards, his core parishioners knew they would be back again, either for amusement or because they felt he really was on to something. As usual afterwards, he would listen to problems and offer advice, sometimes showing himself to know more than most people thought he should. Those who felt he was on to something took it as a sign that God really was speaking through him.
A fellow middle aged man with his wife came up to shake his hand after the sermon. “Ah, Detective Anderson,” said Reginald while shaking. “How nice to see you could make it here today. How are you today?”
“Very fine,” James replied, never quite sure what to think of Father Reginald. He was one of the ‘core’ members who continually showed up, although his feelings on the good father were mixed. While he wasn’t sure if God was speaking through the father or not, he did seem a bit… well, at least slightly off-centre half the time.
“Ah, and the lovely Jennifer is with you!” he exclaimed, suddenly embracing her in a hug. They all knew there was nothing sexual about it, even if it was a little forward. “But no daughter with you today. Nothing happened to her, I hope?”
“She was feeling a bit ill,” James said.
Reginald’s expression went from jovial to slightly concerned. “Out partying again last night?” James nodded. That was not all she liked to do, and James was quite concerned with what had been happening. Their other daughter was currently at home taking care of her. “You know, I’m suddenly reminded of St. Augustine’s prayer. ‘Lord, give me chastity and continence, but not yet.’”
The pair both forced a laugh at that, trying to be polite. They knew he was trying to be polite, even if it was little comfort to them. “Thank you,” Jennifer said. “But, um, think we would prefer her to get slightly under control sooner rather than later.”
“Well, I’m sure it’s all part of the divine plan,” he tried to comfort them. “You just have to be patient and hope she doesn’t get a set of fangs and extraordinarily white skin.” At their baffled expressions, a look of comprehension came over his face. “That’s right, you don’t know about them yet.”
“Them who?” James asked in confusion.
Reginald just went on as if no question had been asked, completely forgetting he’d even made the mention. “Ah well. No matter. If you’ll excuse me, I have to meet with someone about getting this blasted roof fixed.” James nodded, and he and his wife said their goodbyes.
All Reginald could think as everyone left was, why couldn’t he shake this feeling that he was forgetting something?
Mid-Season Two: Jan 20, 2006 - June 16(ish), 2006
Tuesday, 13th September 2005 - 8.20pm LA time
Wednesday, 14th September 2005 - 5.20am Bremen local time
Silence had long since descended within the tank. Deafening silence. The darkness that had surrounded her since she first awokened was as heavy as ever. Blinding dark.
Whatever drugs she had in her system had worn off some time ago, although she could not say for sure how much time that process had taken, nor when exactly she had started to think clearly again. Her "awakening" had been gradual, like a baby taking her first steps; getting a little further each time she regained consciousness.
The mindless panic she had initially experienced was gone. Instinctively she had come to realise how futile her struggles and incoherent ramblings were against the absolute nothingness of her environment and had ceased trying to fight it.
She knew she was lying down but try as she might, she could not stand or sit. An invisible force held here exactly where she was. She sensed that even with all the thrashing around she had done earlier on, she had not moved an inch from the position she had awakened in. So she remained still, stomach clenching from the flutterings of fear that threatened to overwhelm her again.
She talked. To the darkness. To whoever it was who placed her in that darkness. To Sorrow. To herself. She begged, threatened, cried, reminisced... Her voice was hoarse from overuse and her throat burned with pain but she refused to let herself stop. She knew the hold she had on her sanity was thready. If she gave in to the silence, she would be lost forever.
Her eyes were closed. If she closed her eyes tight enough, she could pretend that the darkness was of her own making. If she focused long enough, she could fill her mind with images of the people she cared about and block out the unknown horrors that lay within and beyond her "prison".
Suddenly her body jerked and her eyes snapped open. It was as if someone had delivered a massive blow to her mid-section, leaving her gasping for breath and whimpering in pain. The coppery taste of blood filled her mouth, making her gag and retch helplessly, her head flailing from side to side in utter bewilderment and terror. As convulsions wracked her slender frame, she saw in her mind's eye a scene that was not from her own fevered imagination...
Valerian kneeling over the naked body of a young girl. Her eyes were open and filmed over, leaving little doubt that she was dead. Valerian's hands were covered in fresh blood. Streaks of crimson stained his lips and his eyes gleamed with an unholy joy as he started chanting in a strange tongue she did not understand, his voice growing louder with every line...
Blood of my blood... Flesh of my flesh...
The words returned to haunt her, even more now that she had seen what her father had done. He had killed, once again, because of her. She did not recognise the girl nor did she know what part the girl played in her being trapped where she was. It did not matter. She had seen what Valerian had done, tasted the girl's blood as he had. She knew that it was another death on her conscience and wept.
*****
Chaos had broken out. The equipment surrounding the huge tank had suddenly gone berserk - lights flashing and alarms sounding.
"Somebody tell me what the fuck is going on!" Gemmel shouted as he slammed a hand against the table.
The three men scurrying around behind him glanced at one another uncertainly before the one nearest to him spoke. "Well sir, it... It appears there's been a... b-br-breach." His voice was hesistant, and he took a cautious step backward as Gemmel spun around in fury.
"A breach? You're suppose to be the best we have and you're telling me your hocus-pocus abilities failed to stand up to a fucking breach?"
The men remained silent, standing exactly where they were, as if paralysed with fear. Never before had any of them seen Gemmel in such a rage. He whirled back towards the monitors, staring at the figure within. His voice shook as he muttered to himself, "It's him... It's got to be him. Only he could... He's managed to bypass our defences somehow, the son of a bitch!"
"H-him, s-s-sir?" the mage gulped.
"The Elder, you fool!" Gemmel spat. "He is near. He has sensed her, despite what you claimed were unbreakable walls to keep him out!"
"E-elder? He knows? We must move sir. If he should find us..."
"No!" Gemmel's voice cracked over the tense atmosphere like a whip. "If we move her now, we risk ruining everything we've worked for. We're too close... She's too close... I will not have this fail at such a crucial stage!" His eyes were maniacal in their intensity, his voice barely discernable from an animal growl.
"Do what you have to. Rebuild your defenses, magical and otherwise. Strengthen them ten-fold, I do not care how! If the Elder should find his way here, he will not come alone. I want us to be prepared for every available attack. Let me repeat that I will not accept failure when we are so close to our goal." Gemmel's gaze lingered on Jade for a moment longer before slashing across his subordinates.
"Go!"