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| >> Campfire Creative >> Fiction >> Supernatural >> ID #1563983 |   |
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[Introduction]
  The only eyes that you have are red That feel with the ash of The quick and the dead There’s no trick and no surprise You're like the devil in the way That you terrorize Powerman 5000 So here's the deal. Life is a shithole. People are born and from the moment they enter the world they're already crying and bloody and getting smacked around by some asshole in a white coat they've never met before. This is pretty much how it goes for the rest of their lives. They get fucked with and fucked up and then at some point they die and it's probably the same way they come into this world, crying and covered in blood. That's life. Except sometimes it doesn't always end like that. Turns out your momma wasn't lying to you when she said there are monsters under your bed waiting to eat the naughty girls and boys. Probably the only time in your whole damn life she was telling you the truth, and isn't that just a laugh riot. Because guess what? Yeah, the monsters are real. I should know, I'm one of them. - Syd - Welcome to Seattle. Like every major city in the U.S.A., mortals aren't really in charge anymore. The supernatural are. Unlike every major city, it's about to have a run in with "the Light." "The Light" is dedicated to one singular purpose. Eliminating every and any supernatural entity they find, good or evil, end of story. † † † Pick a card, any card. Vampires - Created when a mortal exchanges blood with a vampire. Drink only blood. Always led by a female Queen/Mistress. .Wolfie.  cyril STRENGTHS -  Super speed/strengthMind reading/controlMild shadow manipulationWEAKNESSES - SunlightWeapons made of poplar wood.Religious iconsWerewolves - Created when a mortal is brutally mauled by a werewolf. Prefer eating raw meat. Always led by an Alpha male. neohuman  STRENGTHS - Super speed/strengthShapeshifting into wolf formIncreased strength during Full MoonWEAKNESSES - Decreased strength during New MoonWeapons made of silverFae - Cannot be created. Have a King and Queen of Fae, don't always obey them. Generally vegetarians, love milk and honey. STRENGTHS - Magic of different variationsGlamour - ability to take different appearances, generally of humansWEAKNESSES - TechnologyWeapons made of ironWitches - Cannot be created, can be learned to some extent. Cannot create inherent talent. No leader, though some work in covens. TYPES - White Witch - Specializes in Healing/Helpful magics. Cannot cast harmful magicsBlack Witch - Specializes in Hurtful/Violent magics. Cannot cast healing magicLdyPhoenix Blood Witch - Requires a blood sacrifice to work magic, therefore generally harmful or demonic in nature.Quaddy Death Witch - Specializes in raising the dead, also known as necromancers. Can control zombies.Wenston  † † † FOUR basic rules, you follow these, we'll get along fine: 1. No Mary Sues/God modding. Your character is not perfect. Your character cannot solve every problem with a wink and a perfect smile. It is also not you. Your character does not magically know everything you as a writer does, and I expect your writing to reflect that. 2. Please try to write with the same quality you would write anything of your own. 3. Please try to add within a reasonable time limit. (1 week?) 4. Please write your addition in Third person, past tense! Thanks! † † †
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 .Wolfie.  The night club was called “Heaven’s Gate” and it was every cliché ever written about in a campy vampire romance novel. It was constantly surging and drowning with the twenty-something Goth kids that liked to play dress up and smoke their clove cigarettes and pretend that they were vampires when deep in their gut they didn’t really think they existed.Janie Landers wasn’t one of them, because she knew vampires were real. She shivered in her seat at the bar and drank her drink by herself and wished she weren’t a little bit afraid every time she walked in here she would meet the real thing. “Hit me again,” she told the bartender when there was nothing but ice in her glass. He just smirked at her and filled her up before turning his attention back to the pretty girls. A little sigh escaped her lips and she sank deeper into the bar stool, staring dismally at the glass in front of her. She had been coming in here every day for the last week and a half, to drink alone and leave alone. The only man who’d hit on her was a lonely frat boy who was so drunk he thought she was Carmen Electra. Except Carmen Electra didn’t drink alone and she didn’t have bifocals or the face of a librarian. Carmen Electra wasn’t just scraping by as a B-cup, and Janie doubted she really knew what it felt like to be alone. She didn’t hear the man approach so she was surprised when he slid into the seat next to her. She shouldn’t have been. It was hard to hear anything over the music and the people all shouting to be heard by people that never listened. She took a drink from her Irish Mist to hide her surprise, but she saw him smirking and thought that maybe he knew anyway. His head tilted to the side and he spoke to her without looking at her. “Noticed you were alone,” he smiled. “Well aren’t you Captain Obvious,” she snapped, and then bit her lip immediately. It wasn’t that he wasn’t attractive, but she didn’t trust anyone, anymore. His hair was bleach blonde and spiked, piercings running through his ears and one eyebrow. One arm was covered in a tattoo and she was sure there were more underneath his clothes and she wondered where that thought came from. He wasn’t her type, she told herself. But he wasn’t running away. He laughed quietly, shifting in his seat to glance at her with pale blue eyes. “Well yeah, I’m the brilliant type, you know? I’m a grade A fucking genius, but don’t tell. Wouldn’t want my secret identity getting out.” She couldn’t help but smile a little. “Don’t worry, I think your secret’s safe. In fact, I doubt anyone will ever know.” “Ouch,” he laughed, shaking his head. “You are a nasty little girl, aren’t you?” “I’m not a little girl,” she snapped, the smile gone as quick as that. He was just another drunken, chauvinistic man, out hoping to score some action. She wondered how many others had turned him down before he had finally turned his attention to her, probably his last hope for the night. “I’ll remember that.” He nodded to himself and then turned in his stool, eyes meeting hers. He held one hand out. “Sydney. Syd for short. And you are?” She raised an eyebrow and started to stand. “None of your business.” She wasn’t sure what happened next. She was fairly certain she had been intent on leaving, but then one of his hands covered hers and she was staring into eyes that she swore a minute ago were blue and now looked red, red like the monsters of her nightmares. She blinked once, twice, and then the feeling was gone and she was looking at blue eyes again. “Come home with me, Janie,” he told her. She opened her mouth to say no, but the word felt sticky on the roof of her mouth and didn’t quite make it out into the air. “Yes,” she told him, and she didn’t know why. His hand was still around hers as he stood. She wondered distantly if she had paid for any of her drinks but the bartender didn’t seem to notice them leave, or if he did he didn’t care. Strange that, she thought, but it was as if she were grasping for thoughts through a fog. The only thing she could still feel was the sensation of Sydney’s hand around hers as he pulled her out into the chill night air. She gasped for breath, stars bursting in her vision, but she couldn’t focus on anything but those blue eyes that kept dancing across her face. He led her into a back alley and then she felt her back being pressed against a wall and he was kissing her. A little voice in the back of her head told her that she should push him away now, but she didn’t. Instead she felt her mouth open against his, lips sliding against each other as he pressed her against the bricks. Something sharp nicked her lip and she tasted the metallic tang of blood on her tongue. He pulled his head back and she would have sworn his eyes were red again. He licked a little drop of crimson off his lips and then his head dipped to her neck. “Janie, Janie, Janie, you aren’t a little girl, are you?” His lips pulled away from his teeth in a smile and she saw the fangs, inches from her skin. Close enough, her mind told her, and then she pulled the wooden stake from inside her coat. A harsh gasp and a strangled scream escaped his throat as she jammed it into his chest as hard as she could. Her heart was pounding loudly in her ears as her other hand clawed at her shirt, yanking the silver cross out in front of his face. “No,” she told him as he snarled. “I’m not.” “Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck,” he cursed, stumbling back away from her. “Well aren’t you just full of surprises?” She couldn’t help but smile, advancing on him with the cross held tightly before her. “He is driven from light into darkness and is banished from the world,” she said. Her hand reached inside her coat, grasping at the second stake there. His eyes never wavered from her face, his eyes a blazing crimson now. “Fuck it, you’re one of them?” She just smiled, raising the stake to attack him again. She was surprised when he moved, because he was faster than she thought he’d be. She thought she’d had him, thought the stake already through his chest should have slowed him down, should have crippled him. That was all she had time to think as he batted her arm aside and thudded heavily into her chest. Her head cracked off the ground with a sickening thump and she blacked out for a moment. When she opened her eyes, all she saw was red. Then she felt cold hands on her neck and then she felt nothing at all. Sydney scrambled off the dead woman, breath coming thick and heavy now. He didn’t need to breath, but he was young still and it was a habit he hadn’t managed to shake. “Fuck, she’s going to kill me,” he muttered, yanking the stake out of his chest and tossing it to the ground. His hands hissed and smoked where he’d touched it. More profanities slid from his lips as he groped for his cell phone and a cigarette. It rang three times before someone finally picked up and he cursed even more when he heard who answered. “Hey Cal,” he said, biting off the words with his teeth. “Tell the Mistress I had a bit of a situation.” The woman on the other end said something and he snarled back at her. “I swear it’s not my fault this time, so fuck you too. It’s not like I wanted to kill her.” Harsh words were spat back at him and his head twitched away from the cell phone. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Just… tell her we might need a clean up.” He snapped the phone shut with a sigh before the woman could say anything else and ran a hand through his hair. He glanced at the body on the street and cursed again. “Dammit, and I’m still hungry.” Wenston The gate to the cemetery opened with a loud, rusty creak and closed with a rushed, “fucking shit,” from Aida Sinclair as a half shot of her meager supply of tequila sloshed out of the bottle she’d been nursing all night. She watched as the golden liquor seeped into the dusty ground and couldn’t contain a giggle as she thought about a ground full of drunken worms. Someone should make a cartoon. Zigzagging through the tombstones, she made her way drunkenly deeper into the cemetery. The night was particularly cold tonight and if she hadn’t been buzzed to the point of numb lips and a failing equilibrium, she would have been appreciative of the Vietnam era army jacket she’d bought at the army surplus store. Dropping out of college and trying to make a living working next to freckle faced teenagers selling fried chicken to overweight, gluttonous Americans had created a love for any store she could buy clothes for less than a buck. Twenty-two years old. To think, she could have graduated this year. But who’d give up this wonderful life of poverty for a degree and a life that was worth something? She was doing great. Doing just fucking fantastic on her own. Stopping suddenly next to an angel shaped gravestone, she glared at it menacingly and then sighed, realizing she’d taken a wrong turn somewhere. Jamming her fists to her eyes, she tried to sober herself enough to figure out where in the cemetery she’d wound up. “Jimmy?” she called out, not really expecting an answer. “Jimmy, I’m lost,” she added a giggle to accentuate the drunken atmosphere. “Shit. Jimmy! I’m serious, where are you?” Walking in the direction she thought could possibly be the right one, she took another swig of her tequila, swearing as she missed her mouth and some of it dribbled down her chin and onto her black t-shirt advertising some punk band she’d never heard of before. She laughed, wiping the drops of liquor from her chest before looking back up again, getting tired of being lost. “Jimmy! Ollie Ollie oxen free!” She called, turning in a circle. “Ah, there you are.” She moved forward, spotting what she’d been looking for. She half fell half sat in front of a gravestone marked James Shepherd. “Hey babe, long time no see. You’re a mess.” She reached a hand up and scraped the dirt and grime from the engraved lettering in the marble stone. “Well happy fucking birthday! I told you I’d never forget.” Smiling, she took another swig and looked back at the gravestone, eyes tracing the lettering. Slowly, the smile slipped from her face as she stared at the cold marble, lit only by the bright moon in the cloudless, starry sky above. She reached a hand up again and placed her hand on the marker, palm flat. It was freezing beneath her touch. Just like Jimmy had been. Just like he always would be. They’d been high school sweethearts, her and Jimmy. They’d gone off to college together, she’d promised him she would follow him to the moon if he ever went. Things had gone great the first year. Then things changed. She wasn’t sure what did it, what pushed him over the edge, but most people who lose someone they love to suicide never really do. He was there one day, smiling at her and running his hands over her face, telling her that he loved her. The next day, she found him with a hole in his head and his brains splattered on the wall behind him. He’d had the forethought to cover the wall with a shower curtain. He’d always been thoughtful. Some days she thought about following him. Maybe she’d do it a different way. Razors maybe. But it was too much effort. And what was the point? He obviously hadn’t cared about her that much to stay, why should she care about him so much to follow him now? To the moon, she’d said. But even the moon has its limits. So she’d tried something else. Something darker, so she wouldn’t have to follow him into the abyss. She’d tried to bring him back. Only whatever she’d brought back hadn’t been Jimmy. Someone had failed to mention to her that Necromancy required years of practice and a hell of a lot of strength and will. She’d brought back a monster. Night of the Living Dead hadn’t been too far off the money. It was a rude awakening to discover the truth: she was just a girl with a spell and a few parlor tricks. She was Aida Sinclair, not Jesus Fucking Christ. Bringing the bottle to her lips again, she sighed without taking a swig and the smile returned to her lips. “You’re right,” she said, setting the bottle down next to the gravestone. “I’ve had enough.” She leaned forward and kissed the stone above the carved letters of his name. “Happy birthday.” Standing, she swayed a little, taking in deep breaths in an attempt to sober enough to find the way out of this cemetery and back to her apartment. As she turned around, she startled to find a man standing behind her. He looked homeless, except for his haircut, which looked fresh. She squinted at him. “You lost?” he asked, his voice husky, deep. He had his hands in his pockets. “I was just leaving,” she answered, trying to keep the smile in her eyes. She took a step to the side, intent on going around him, but he matched her step, effectively blocking her way. “You know, it can be dangerous out here, alone, in the dark.” “I think I’ll be okay.” “You sure about that?” They stood for a moment, eyes locked, Aida taking in his appearance, his stature, his build, the intent streaming out of his dark eyes. Neither of them moved, waiting for the other to say or do or think something. Aida was the first to move. She turned to run but the alcohol, coupled with this stranger’s muscled, athletic body, worked against her. He tackled her in her lower back, bringing her down sharply, her head hitting the corner of Jimmy’s gravestone. She saw stars for a moment, pain shooting through her head and neck. He grabbed her roughly and rolled her onto her back. She was surprised when he hit her, closed fist, in the eye. She cried out as he did it again. She felt her eye swelling immediately. She turned her head to the side, not knowing if he was going to hit her again. Her eyes caught the gravestone next to her and she started whispering. “In Vita, ago-” “No you don’t!” The man growled, slapping her across the face and planting his hand firmly over her mouth, the other hand grabbing a fist full of her dirty blonde hair and slamming her head into the ground, dazing her. She tried to scream through his hand and he laughed, pinning her to the ground with his body. “You know, I think I’ll have me a little fun tonight. I figure God’s got his hands so full with all the sin in the world, he’ll overlook this one. Especially if it involves a heathen like you. You aren’t even human anymore.” She cried, feeling tears sting at her eyes as his hand went to the button of her jeans. She pounded her fists against his broad shoulders and he caught her wrists, squeezing them to near breaking point and shoving them away, going back to her jeans. She grabbed the hand that was clamped tightly over her mouth and with all of her strength, moved it enough so she could get her teeth out. She bit down harshly onto the fleshy part of his hand, tasting blood as she did so. The man roared in pain and sat up, yanking his hand away from her. She took the opportunity to turn her head to the side again and began whispering once more. “In Vita, ago. In nex, ago iterum.” She repeated it again before he caught on to what she was doing. He reached for her neck, wrapping his hands around it. She choked, but kept whispering. The man squeezed harder and she couldn’t draw breath. As he did so, the ground began to shake. He looked to the side, to the gravestone next to him. It was the distraction she needed. She reached towards her tequila bottle, grabbing it’s neck, and bringing it crashing into the side of the man’s head. He yelled, falling off of her, hands going to the bloody gash on the side of his face. Aida rolled away from him, her whole body shaking with adrenaline and pain. She turned and saw the man kneeling on the ground, brining his hands in front of his eyes so he could inspect the new coat of red now washing over his skin. Aida felt the now broken bottle twitch in her hands and before she could stop herself, she was charging him. The jagged edge of the bottle found its way to his jugular and his scream was cut short as she sliced it across his throat, withdrew, stabbed it into back, watched him fall to the ground, withdrew, stabbed it into his back again and again and again and again until finally she withdrew the bottle and found not only his blood on her hands, but her own as her rage and fury had shattered the bottle neck in her fist. Gashes crisscrossed along her palm. She was crying. She sat back, sobbing into her hands. After a while, she looked up, staring at the bloody mess she’d left him in. She crawled forward, gingerly grabbing his shoulder and flipping him over so his lifeless eyes stared at the sky. She stood, wobbly on her feet, nursing her cut hand to her chest. She stared at him. She hated him. Fury built again and she lashed out, kicking him in the ribs, hearing his bones break beneath her sneakers. She let out another sob and turned to leave, looking around to see if anyone had seen the event, but the cemetery was reserved for the dead, or those who made friends with the dead, and there was no one else there. She brought her good hand to her eye, touching it gently and wincing as she realized it was swollen and probably black and blue. A cell phone ringing caught her attention. She turned to look back at the dead man. His pocket was vibrating. She leaned down slowly, pulling the phone from his pocket. It was a pretty high tech phone for a homeless guy. But by now, she was pretty sure he wasn’t homeless. Only pretending to be. But why? Curiosity piqued her interest and she set the phone down on his still chest, running her fingers through her still bleeding palm. She smeared blood on both of his cheeks in symbols then brought her bleeding hand to her lips, coating her own lips with blood. She leaned down, hesitated a second, then planted her lips against his. As she pulled away, she whispered another incantation and grabbed the phone, laying down next to the man so her mouth was next to his ear. She flipped open the phone. She formed words with her lips, but the voice that was heard wasn’t her own, the dead man’s body spoke for her. “Yeah?” His voice was rough, lower than normal, but it seemed to work. The person on the other end of the line fell for it. “Mac? Is it done?” Again, she mouthed the word and the body spoke for her. “Yes.” “Good, get back here, we’ve got another bitch to deal with. Damn witches are fucking everywhere.” “Okay.” She closed the phone and sat back, wiping the blood from her lips. He was sent to kill her. He wasn’t here by chance. He’d been sent to kill her. She grit her teeth and turned to look at him. She hit him in the nose, shattering it. She pulled her hand back, shaking it. He had a hard head. “Bastard, I ought to bring you back just so I can kill you again.” Aida stood, the adrenaline wearing off and the pain setting in. Her head was pounding, her hand was burning and she was exhausted not only from the whole ordeal, but from the minor incantations she’d used. They were draining. She sighed, looking at Jimmy’s grave. “ Shit, I need a drink.” Mynt The bed shifted a bit as the body beside him rolled. Its warmth pressed against his bare side and chest. He reveled in the feeling of heat, of blood pumping through this human. Sometimes he missed the warmth of his own skin, the sound of his own heart beating against his chest. But not often. He missed the warmth of another body waiting for him at the end of the night. He missed sleeping in his own bed instead of a different motel every morning. But more than anything he missed him. His smiles, his laughter, his strange fashion sense- all of him. A soft sight whispered against his breast and drew his attention downward. Still asleep. He remembered when he and his lover used to lay like this, their bodies tangled while they waited for the sun to go down. But those days were just memories now. Absently, he ran his fingers through the tangles of tawny hair splayed across his chest, brushing them aside gently to expose the rhythmic pulse throbbing in his neck. Curious, he traced his fingers over it, feeling that familiar flutter of life traveling up his arm. Humans were so fragile. The thought made him withdraw his hand. He wanted nothing more than to tear into that delicate flesh, to possess that painfully rocking pulse. No, it was something deeper than want. He needed it. He yearned to feel that pulse struggling against his tongue, futilely pumping blood into his all too eager mouth. He clenched his teeth, setting his jaw in a hard line, and willed his breath to still. He didn’t want to hurt this human. He enjoyed the kill and the hunt just as much as the next vampire, but he also enjoyed them for other reasons. “Vocal? Is everything okay?” At the sound of his name Vocal blinked and searched those light brown curls for the eyes. How could he have missed him waking? A slight smile pulled itself over his lips, trying to veil the scowl he’d had. “Did I wake you?” Various responses trickled from his mind, and Vocal smiled at each one of them. Coy little fucker. “Not really.” He was a bit disappointed with the reply, but nodded anyway. He wanted to ask why he chose that reply bit he decided against it. It would be difficult to explain off and he tried not to let people know he could read their minds. He was hard to lie to. “Tell me something about you,” he said suddenly, drawing himself up and away from Vocal’s chest and revealing his own nude frame. “What do you want to know?” “I don’t know, anything. We’ve been having sex for a while and I still don’t know anything about you besides your name!” “Yes, I suppose that’s true,” he replied with a laugh. He tossed tendrils of ebony hair from his face and locked eyes again with this human. “All right, you may ask me three questions, but I might lie.” “Is Vocal your real name?” “Of all the questions, you’re going to ask me this one?” The silence and the expectant look were enough for an answer and he shrugged his broad shoulders. “All right, no. It isn’t. It’s a nickname I’m rather fond of.” He paused, watching the cogs turn in his head before he smirked. “And no I won’t tell you my real name.” “Hee hee, okay. Uhmm,” he placed his finger to his chin in thought. “What do you do for a living?” “I tame lions,” Vocal replied automatically. “I’m a lion tamer.” “Liar!” And he gently pushed his much broader chest. “I told you I might.” He grinned. “Besides, you never know. I could tame lions for the circus or to ride those tiny tricycles.” He ran his hands over the thin body opposite his. So frail and beautiful. “That’s bears.” “Whatever. What’s your last question?” Vocal knew the answer as the words left his lips. “What do you want to do now?” He grinned. “Why don’t I show you?” Quaddy Alrik Magnussen sat back and shuddered, wiping at his nose and sighing in repletion. “Ah, God…” That last hit had been fucking awesome. Nothing like a good twelve year old just after her first bleed. Puberty added such punch and pizazz to a girl’s vintage. Only a couple basking in the afterglow of a good tumble provided more power and better release.Of course the guilt, the crash from such a high, would wrack him for a week at least. He didn’t really like having to kill people for their blood, but the time had long since past that a drop of his own blood would do anything more than light a fucking candle. Alrik had never meant to take it this far, to use another’s life force to power magic completely unlimited by notions of good or evil, but it felt so good and it had given him everything he ever wanted. It was a fucking addiction, the blood. Not like vampires, of course, but close. Riding the high, Alrik reached down to swoop up the tools of his trade, making especially sure that his athame was completely free of blood, and stumbled down the hall to his bedroom, a monster of a space that could only be called palatial. Oh yes, blood magic had done him well. But oh the fucking price. “Shoobee doowop wop ow…shoobee doowop wop ow…my heart is cryin’, cryin’…lonely teardrops…” Alrik was a wonderful singer. Thanks, of course, to a sixty-year-old retired Marine and Silver Star recipient whose Vietnam-tainted blood was useless for anything but a basic cosmetic procedure. That had been after he’d tried to quit. He’d gone almost an entire month before the shakes and muscle aches had gotten the better of him. After a week of sleepless nights, cold sweats, and hallucinations, Alrik had needed a fucking fix so bad he’d killed the first unlucky bastard to cross his path. The police had investigated the veteran’s death for nearly two weeks following the discovery of his body. Alrik had only needed maybe a tablespoon of that guy’s parasitic brew, but hey, what was another dead guy against the unrelenting pull of a blood addiction? It made him a hit at karaoke. And God had the ride been intense. Alrik shuddered as the magic went to work now. He’d saved the girl’s blood for something special. It wasn’t like a midnight trance, a hit for the sake of a hit, where any old asshole’s blood would do. No, no. Blood that powerful was meant for something important. A big working. If Jessie lasted until the end of the week, there was no fucking God. That cheating bitch. She deserved everything she got. Alrik wasn’t sure what the ritual would do, but he’d used his special stock and poured every bit of malevolence into it he could drum up, which was not insubstantial. No one fucked around with a Magnussen, especially not one that was also a blood magician. His alter, the focal point of more than just his bedroom, smelled faintly of dragons blood and Nag Champa—his favorite incenses—and glowed with the light of more than a few candles. Alrik hadn’t been able to perform his ritual there tonight but he could leave the blood mixture to burn there while he took a shower. Some of the blood had splattered all over his chest and he wasn’t going to let it dry on his skin. It was a bad fucking omen if there ever was one. As the fire spread through the girl’s blood, Alrik felt the magic detonate within him again, another wave of ecstasy a thousand times more explosive than his best orgasm. He groaned as his body shook, the magic working through him as it altered the universe as he and everyone else knew it. It was all worth the pain, the agony. The guilt was more than worth it. For this. For the feeling that God was slowing down the universe just to give him more time to experience perfection coursing through him body and soul. For getting everything he wanted with a will, some candles, and stolen blood. It was all fucking worth it. The ring of the doorbell nudged at his ears, poking insistently, dragging him out of his trance. “What the fuck?” What asshole was knocking at his door at midnight? Alrik slipped into a robe, making a mental note to have it washed since it was now covered in blood. “Coming.” Alrik had almost opened the door when he chanced a look at the mirror, checking to make sure he didn’t look like some low class junkie coming down off of a bad trip. No. Not this time. Just a womanizer who’d had his world rocked by some thousand dollar hooker. He’d done it before. Gotten the clap, too. A twenty three year old newlywed had taken care of that. He’d gotten her (and her husband, whose blood still sat in the cooler waiting for something to come up) on the way to their wedding reception. They’d screamed, but a knife to the throat had quieted them both. It’d taken a small fortune and another working to clean the blood from his car. Taking a last minute look at his sleepy eyes, Alrik bit back a curse. Fuck! He’d forgotten that detail. Where were his sunglasses? He’d dropped a few C-notes on those things—they were fricken Hugo Boss, man—and they always managed to disappear right when he needed them. The asshole at his door stopped ringing the bell and turned to knocking now. “Hold your horses, I’m coming!” Alrik shouted, looking frantically for his shades. The questions that would ensue if some unsuspecting jerk-off saw his eyes right now…frankly, Alrik didn’t want to worry it. There they were! How the hell had they ended up on top of the piano? Alrik slipped them on, sighing with relief. One of the unfortunate side effects of extensive blood magic use, Alrik had found, was a blood red iris after each working. It usually faded after a few days, but it meant he had to be one of those guys…the ones that wear sunglasses at night. Just as the knocking got unbearably incessant, Alrik threw the lock and pulled it open. “What the fuck do you want?” “Just a world free from scum like you.” Alrik barely had time to jump before the gun barrel, so recently pointed at his chest, fired. He watched the bullet in slow time as it soared into his right arm, burying itself in the flesh just north of his elbow. The heat was worse than anything else. It felt more like his flesh was burning away than being ground through a tiny thresher. Alrik hissed as he ran, keeping behind the furniture as he headed for his bedroom. If he could get to his athame and hide before that son of a bitch found him, Alrik could get the knife into his throat. So he was planning on bringing a knife to a gun fight. But blood magic didn’t react so well with firearms. It was one of those things no one could ever explain to him. Even when he was a kid and his dad gave him his first lesson using a drop of blood from his middle finger. It messed with the magic mojo. Alrik could hear the plodding steps of his assailant behind him as he scrambled toward his bedroom. His arm hurt worse than an amnesiac’s blood at midnight and his hand seemed to be doing a piss poor job of stemming his own blood flow. This was bad. This was worse than bad. This was fucking disastrous! His blood was the conduit for the spell and he was not about to let this working be for waste. That blood was too damn rare! It was nearly impossible to get the menstrual blood from a girl’s first period. He’d had to pretend to be a doctor for months, for God’s sake. Which had used up some of his best stores! This spell was not going to hell, damnit. “Little blood whore,” the attacker sang out. “What’s behind those sunglasses, hmm? Will I see red eyes? Proof of your treachery? You’re worse than the bloodsuckers and monsters, you know that?” Alrik pulled his athame from his alter, glad to see that the blood had all but burned away. If that son of a bitch, that bullshitter, wanted to kill him at least he was at the height of his strength, with all the power of that little girl pumping and glowing within him. Fuck the Light. He only needed Blood to survive. Jumping into his closet, Alrik pulled out a tie and wrapped it carefully around his arm, tight, to stem the blood from the bullet wound. The round had taken a chunk of his arm with it as it flew, but it hadn’t stayed buried in the flesh, which would save Alrik a trip to the doctor and a hell of a lot of questions. But it stung like all the nine hells and blood loss was blood loss. Using another tie to cover the wound itself, Alrik grasped his athame and watched for that Light bastard. He was staring at the alter, back to the closet door. The man was dressed in jogging sweats and a hoodie. Obviously, he’d come to Alrik’s house on the pretense of exercise. Maybe he’d even pretended to fall, using Alrik’s house as a place to call for some help. “Sickening. Absolutely sickening. You’re the worst of all these scum. Because you choose this crap, this evil!” Alrik bit down on his lip. His blood magic was inherent, bred in him by both of his parents. He’d been born with this addiction in the way children of crack whores squirmed from the womb needing crack more than his mother’s milk. If he’d given in to his addiction, how did that make him the worst of all the magicians? The fuckers. “You can come out of the closet now, you monster.” His assailant cocked his gun and walked toward Alrik’s hiding place. Alrik took the blade between his thumb and forefinger, prepared for a quick flick of the wrist and a satisfying thud at the other end of the throw. Sometimes slitting a donor’s throat wasn’t feasible. Alrik had learned how to throw knives as an alternative means of collection. “I mean it, you son of a bitch, get the hell out of the closet!” Alrik waited just a few more seconds, holding his breath, waiting for the man to get just close enough, legs cocked back for a kick. If he could knock the gun from his hands—or at least stun the man—his attack would work a hell of a lot better. Hopefully, this worked. If not, Alrik was going to probably have to take another bullet before the night was out. Almost…almost…now! Alrik kicked hard, sending the door flying into his assailant’s nose. His head flew back and his hands flailed, but the bastard kept his grip on the gun. Oh well. Alrik growled and palmed the athame, deciding to go for it. Fuck throwing the thing; he wanted to fight the bastard face-to-face. Launching forward, Alrik slammed into his attacker, taking him to the ground and knocking the gun away. “You son of a bitch…It’s no choice for me!” Looking down at the man, Alrik pulled off the sunglasses that had somehow remained on his face. “But your righteousness could prove awfully useful. Night night, Mr. Light.” Smiling, Alrik brought the knife to his attacker’s throat. His blue eyes showed no fear, only contempt. “You’ll burn in hell. Your evil burns even God’s eyes!” Alrik shrugged. “Oh well. Then he just won’t look, will he?” Sniffing at the man’s throat, Alrik smiled. “Hmmm…good blood. You take care of yourself. You’ll be very useful to me, I think. Dunno. Sleep tight, love.” With a quick motion, Alrik sliced across the man’s throat, watching until the light left his eyes. Then, standing, he picked up a bowl and pushed it under the cut. “Hmm…a little angry, actually.” Bringing a drop of it to his tongue, Alrik tasted the blood like a chef checking the flavor of a sauce as it boiled. “Hmm…It might rebound if I don’t work it right. Oh well, waste not, want not.” Looking down at the man, Alrik felt the vestiges of a migraine pulling at his temples. “Now I’m gonna have a killer headache because of this, you ass. And my high is wearing off. Fucker.” Alrik was in for a long night. Light bastards. He’d kill the whole damn lot if he could. neohuman Four Months Ago… I could taste my own cold sweat, and the scent of blood in the air. Somehow, I remember such sensations being… sharper. More pungent. Was I dreaming? Yes, and the memories of dreams came at once. Sickening sights and sensations slithered through my head like parasitic worms, draining at my vitality and sucking my will. I remember the claws, tearing and ripping. I remember feeling adrenaline and excitement coursing through me like electricity. I remember my wife, screaming in terror, looking up at her attacker, clutching her broken leg as she lay helpless upon the ground. I remember the scent of blood… The scent of blood hung in the air. It was much fainter now, but still there. But how? I had been dreaming. Hadn’t I? Dread and bile arose in my throat. My head throbbed fiercely and my whole body ached. My bones were sore and my muscles felt swollen and stiff. Where was I? Slowly, I opened my eyes. I lay on my side on the carpeted floor in the living room of my apartment in Fairfield, Montana. On the floor before me was a dark, wet spot, already staining the carpet. Blood. Wide-eyed, I quickly sat up and looked around. The entire room was spackled with crimson spots and smears. A foot from where I sat, the table lay broken in half, splinters strewn everywhere. The couch was ripped, as if by knives (or claws), and cottony stuffing sat in piles upon the cushions. “Oh God…” I whispered to myself. “Oh my God… no…” Covering my mouth with my hand, I slowly arose to my feet, scanning the grisly scene. Holly, my five-year-old daughter, lay face down on the kitchen tile. I felt like vomiting, but I swallowed hard. “Hol… Holly?” I said quietly, tentatively. “Holly, baby? Are you okay?” She didn’t move. She wasn’t breathing. “HOLLY!” I shouted loudly, rushing to her side. Kneeling, I shook her by the shoulders. Still nothing. I turned her over onto her back. She stared up at me with empty, lifeless eyes. “Oh God…” I whispered again, turning and walking away. “Oh God.” I leaned against the wall for support. I was shaking, and my stomach felt horribly tight. I started retching, and couldn’t stop for a good thirty seconds. And then, suddenly, I heard the sound of sirens. The panic already pumping furiously in my heart escalated to a terrible crescendo. I gripped my hair in my fists. “Oh, shit. I killed them. I murdered them!” I was whispering loudly to myself. “I need to turn myself in… I’m… I’m a psychopath. Shit! I don’t… I don’t even remember doing it! I need help!” I walked over to the window and peeked through the blinds. Three police cars pulled into the parking lot of the apartment complex. “Fuck this.” I ran to the back door. I took one glance at where my wife, Beth, was slumped against the wall, eviscerated and partially eaten, a look of horror and agony frozen on her face. I screamed loudly in rage and despair as I ran through the back door and sprinted past the pool, making a beeline for my neighbor Steve’s shitty Chevy truck I knew he always kept it unlocked and left a spare key in the glove box, because he tended to drink a lot. As I drove out of the lot and past two more cop cars, an image flashed through my mind. A black wolf, baring its fangs. It was the wolf that attacked me last Wednesday, while my best friend and I were hunting ducks near Lake Catahecassa. I looked briefly at the scarred bite mark on my left forearm. Strangely enough, I felt as though that attack was somehow connected to my family’s murder. But how? Present A handmade dream catcher blew lightly in the wind on the termite-ravaged front porch of Brian Medicine Wolf’s rusty trailer. The ageing Indian sat peacefully in his rocking chair, smoking his pipe and looking at me with wise yet tired eyes. I sat in the broken, torn Lay-Z-Boy recliner next to him, watching right my hand, focusing on my instincts. As I watched, my muscles rippled painfully, and my nails grew sharper briefly, before returning to their normal shape. With incredible strain, I managed to form a claw, but it took all of the concentration I could muster. I sighed. “I can’t do it,” I said. “It’s just too difficult to control, during the day, without the moon.” “Stop fighting it, William,” the old Indian replied. “Trust in your instincts, don’t hide from them. Follow the primal desires within you. Follow the hunger, the yearn for the hunt. You are not a monster.” “I know,” I said quietly. “I know I’m not. But it’s hard... it’s hard to forget the monstrous things I’ve done. Brian Medicine Wolf shook his head. “It was not your fault, William. There was no possible way to know the wolf that bit you carried the curse, even if you knew werewolves were real at the time.” “I know,” I said again, closing my eyes and recalling the image of Beth’s face, smiling and looking at me with love. “But my wife and daughter are still dead, and nothing I do can change that.” “Then keep such a thing from happening again. Learn to control your instincts. Learn to keep from changing during the full moon, and to change at will in broad daylight. Learn to control the wolf, not hide from it, for when you hide from it, it becomes your master. You are a wolf now, William. Though you are a white man, you are also one of the Protectors of Women, sacred to the Shoshone people.” I looked at my hand, trying to focus once more. “Don’t force it. You cannot tame the wolf by force, only befriend it by empathic touch.” I relaxed my mind, and beckoned for the instinct, the spirit of the Wolf, to return. Slowly, as I watched, the muscles in my hand rippled and changed. It happened very slowly, but this time, it didn’t hurt. I felt my skeleton change, my skull growing longer, my senses growing sharper. To the east, I could pick out the sound of a jackrabbit running through the trees. To the north, I could pick out the scent of a lone stag less than a mile away. My teeth became sharper, and soft fur began to cover my skin. The process was usually quick, and painful as hell. This time, it was very slow, gentle, and it felt painless and natural. I regarded Brian Medicine Wolf with my keen wolf eyes. “Very good,” he said, smiling. “The spirit of the wolf is strong in you, and its strength is yours, once you learn to stop fighting it.” The Shoshone reservation was made up of trailers and shacks, not teepees and wigwams. It had all of the aesthetic charm of a third-world slum. Stray dogs slept in junked cars, and dirty children in poor-fitting clothes played with a half-deflated basketball. Still, the Shoshone people held their heads high, daily thankful for what they had and the happiness shared with family. They all carried out their chores without complaint, for the good of the tribe. Jane took a drag on her cigarette and looked at me with her dark eyes and playful smile. “So it looks like the Rez is getting used to you, Billy Boy,” she said. “The kids don’t give you dirty looks every time they see you much anymore.” Jane was the woman I lived with now, the one who first brought me to the Rez. She was a brave woman, to say the least, as illustrated by her bringing a strange white man into the Shoshone reservation, and defending my right to be there. ‘He may be white, but he’s a wolf,’ she had said, against the arguments and accusations of her people. She was about 5 foot 6, with long brown hair and sharp brown eyes. She always wore torn jeans, cowboy boots, a T shirt and a black leather jacket. She kept a feather in her hair and a cigarette between her lips, and always seemed to have her hands in her pockets. Yeah, she was exactly that kind of girl. “Yeah, it may be getting used to me,” I said, watching two mangy dogs fight over a bone, “but I’m not so sure I’m used to it. There’s still so much about the Shoshone I don’t understand.” Jane slapped my shoulder. “And so much you never will. Don’t let it bother ya. You’re doing fine. I hear you’ve been helping my grandma with her laundry, and she appreciates that.” I smiled. “It’s the least I could do. I don’t know what would’ve happened to me if you hadn’t brought me here.” “Try not to think about that,” Jane said, putting out her cigarette and sticking it in her pocket. “You’ll just depress yourself.” Average Joe Tears came to Ima’s eyes as she knelt in submission before the altar, from the cathedral’s beauty, the like of which she had not seen in ages, and also from the heavy gazes of the saints. They could see her, oh yes. Her father used to say that she was naked to them, that their gazes were ever fixated upon her bare form. The thought brought redness to her face, as it had when she hadn’t yet reached her tenth year. In many ways she was still the same girl.The ecstasy was gone; Ima stood, her thoughts of the past pushing all else from her mind. Her sin was heavy, and though she remained faithful, she could not bear to stay in this holy place. She would carry the sin till death, for shame and sorrow kept her unrepentant. Everyone called her Ima, but her true name was Feast of the Immaculata, which her father would never let her forget. She was named for the celebration held on December 8. Hers was a holy birth, for the Madonna and her son had come to Cardinal John in a dream. It was her destiny to take up arms as a man, to be forever a virgin and unwed, to never bear children unless the Lord saw fit to bless her. This was the story her father told her above all others. It was why he cut her hair (oh how Ima envied her sister’s hair!) and trained her in arms along with the men of his order. It was their sacred duty to enter the darkness and cleanse it of fell creatures, the witches and shapechangers, the dead come to life, and the evil men who sided with them. As she turned to leave, the hair on Ima’s neck stood up. She was aware of no danger, but her training ran deep, as deep as her training in the word of God. Some called it the holy ghost, some said it was her mind sending her messages of danger that she wasn’t consciously aware of. They all agreed, though, that it should be taken seriously. She wanted to run, but she forced herself to assess the situation. It wasn’t as if she was helpless, for she had weapons. For humans she had her machete, strapped to her leg and hidden under her long pants. She had cut a hole in the cargo pocket of her pants, sticking the machete handle through the hole, putting it within easy reach without revealing it. For the creatures of the night, she had another weapon, specialized. It was a cunningly crafted dagger, the silver plated blade almost square, the edges tapering to a point only out of urgency, it seemed. She had to carry it in a leather sheath, for the crossguards were wider than her pockets. The crossguards were also straight and square, and attached to the dagger was an image of the Christ’s passion, making the dagger a crucifix when the blade was pointed downward. She looked around as she exited the church, trying to catch the details that her subconscious was warning her of. It came on her all of a sudden, the recognition of a smiling face in one of the upper pews. Ima tucked her head down, hoping that he hadn’t noticed her noticing him. The boy’s name was Charles, and he was of her order; Ima had long worked with him. She fled to the thickest parts of the crowd, knowing that he would come swiftly and silently, without anger or passion, as they had been trained. Temperance, they had called it. She bolted into the night, running down the streets as fast as her well-toned legs would carry her. She dared not go back to her apartment, but she hardly thought as far ahead as a place to sleep. Her mind only said, “Run.” .Wolfie. There was a crunch as Syd’s face hit the pavement.The taste of blood filled his mouth and he gagged on it a little bit before spitting it out on the ground. He may have lived on human blood, but his own tasted bitter on his tongue. Someone kicked him in the side and he stayed where he was and took it because if he stood up they would probably hit him in the face again. He was too damn pretty to be hit in the face. They kicked him one more time and then he saw the booted feet plant themselves in front of his head. “Get up,” the woman snapped. He glanced up at Cal, careful to keep his hands over his head. “Are you done brutalizing me?” She rolled her eyes and grabbed his arm, yanking him roughly to his feet with inhuman strength. “No,” she snapped, twisting the same arm behind his back and shoving him towards the door. “I’ll be done ‘brutalizing’ you when you stop being such a stupid fuck up. What the hell were you thinking? God, I’m surprised the Mistress ever lets you leave the building.” A heavy sigh escaped her lips and she pushed the door open with her foot, still cursing him as she went. She shoved him through the doorway and down the long hallway, keeping up pressure on his wrist. “I’m surprised she lets you out of your cage,” Syd snapped miserably back. “You know I can find the way without a guard dog. And Christ All Mighty I told you both that it’s not my fucking fault the bitch attacked me.” Cal shoved him into the wall, twisting his arm until it felt like popping out of the socket. “You’re already under a ‘no-kill’ order Sydney. And what do you do? You kill a woman who is working for the Light and we are trying to avoid trouble with them, in case you’ve forgotten.” Her fingers tangled in his hair and slammed his head up against the wall. “Or did you just not fucking care?” “Oh fuck you Calandria. She tried to kill me. Not the other way around.” His stomach rumbled miserably at him and the derisive laughter in his ear didn’t help any. “And what? You couldn’t control one tiny little girl? You ‘accidently’ snapped her neck? Did she attack you with kittens and you got scared?” She was still laughing at him as she pushed him one final time into the wall, and so what if he found that a little sexy, and then released him. “You’re pathetic Sydney. Pathetic and stupid and why the Mistress ever saved your hide is anyone’s guess.” She spit at the ground by his feet and then turned to walk away. Sydney rubbed the feeling back into his arm and watched her go for a moment, his head tilting to get a better look at her assets as she walked away. Her long dark hair was falling down her back in tendrils and the short skirt didn’t leave much to the imagination. Hell, there were worse women he could’ve been brutalized by. “Hey Cal?” he called when she was at the door. She paused and looked back at him, eyes already narrowed with annoyance. Yep, definitely worse women he could have been tossed around by. He grinned when he saw it and began to back up down the hallway just in case. “Nice ass,” he told her, and then turned and slipped through the door. He heard her shouting something back from behind him and he would probably regret that later. He had enough to worry about right now. Two men stood on either side of the door to the Mistress’s den and they were all too familiar to Sydney. Chas rolled his eyes when he saw the vampire strolling down the hallway, leaning back against the doorway. “Man, if I had a dollar for every fucking time I saw you in here… how the hell are you still walking around out there Sydney James?” He shrugged back. “Hell if I know.” Marco laughed and then wiped at his mouth. “You got a little blood right there Syd. You and Cal going at it again?” “Yeah, if only it was in the happy fun way.” He cracked his neck, running a sleeve across his face as he did so. He couldn’t see the red against the back, which was good enough for him. “Is the Mistress ready to see me?” he jerked his chin at the door, trying to hide his nervousness. He kept rubbing the back of his neck and he had to fight the urge to turn and run out of the building. It wasn’t that she would be mad at him because she was rarely that. She would be disappointed. After all, she was the one who saved him. Maybe Cal was right, and he did just fuck everything up. “Yeah, watch your step in there tonight Syd. Everybody’s up in arms. Seems like the city’s crawling with Light folks tonight and they’ve been in there for an hour already arguing about what to do about it. I can’t imagine you’re going to make the situation much better.” Marco hesitated, crossing his arms over his chest and biting at his lip. His voice dropped and Sydney had to lean forward to hear his next words. “Everybody seems to think the Mistress can fix it… but she’s just worried about Dani…” Sydney jerked, startled. “Danielle isn’t here?” Marco shook his head grimly, leaning back against the wall. “Went out a while ago to bring Vocal in and hasn’t come back yet. No word from either of them, no idea if she made it to his place or if she’s alive or… well… you know. Anyway,” he shrugged his shoulders back, letting his hand drop on the doorknob. “You ready to face the wolves?” Sydney licked his lips. “Ready as I’ll ever be.” Wenston Aida had found an Irish Pub, hidden in some hole in the ground, nestled between an office building and a carpet store. They didn't card her, which was a first, but she figured it was because she looked like she'd just went a few rounds with a psycho killer - oh wait, she had. There were two bartenders on duty. One was walking over to wait on her, while the other she was sure had just picked up the phone to call the cops. That's okay. It gave her at least a little bit to have a drink before she was taken in for questioning. She'd killed someone after all..."Are you alright?" the bartender who had come over to her asked, leaning against the countertop with a lazy swagger. No, she wasn't alright. Her left eye was swollen shut, she had a goose egg on her right temple, blood was smeared over her face and her hands and dark bruises stood out starkly around her neck, making her voice scratchy and husky. She kind of liked it. "Can I just have a drink?" she asked, looking up at him. "I've had a rough night." The bartender quirked a smile, which kind of surprised her. "Sure, what do ya want?" "Bourbon." She paused. "Three of them." He laughed at this, but nodded, starting to pour the drinks into three rocks glasses. She watched him work, but her mind drifted. She felt tired, most of all. A dizzy emptiness crept along her mind. Maybe it was a concussion. Maybe she was drained of energy from her incantation. She wasn't sure. It was probably a little of both. The other bartender who had been on the phone hung up and turned, his eyes widening a moment when he caught sight of her watching him. She flipped him off just as her three drinks were placed in front of her and the bartender who'd been waiting on her laughed again. "You don't like people watching you?" he asked her. The question confused her. Did he really think she was stupid or had the other bartender really not called the cops? She chose to ignore him and take a drink. She finished one without a breath between and slammed the glass down on the counter, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth. The alcohol stung. She hadn't realized her attacker had cut the corner of her mouth. She closed her eyes for a moment and could almost hear her own ears ringing. "Are you going to answer that?" The bartender asked. She frowned, opening her eyes to look at him. "Answer what?" she spat at him, head spinning now. He lifted an eyebrow and pointed to her jacket. "Your phone. It's ringing, sweetheart." She looked down at herself. "Phone?" she bit her lip as her hand found its way inside her jacket and she withdrew the cellphone. That bastard's cell phone. Damn him. It was probably his friend again. Long pass their meeting time. She contemplated ignoring it. Maybe the guy would give up. She doubted it. She looked at the bartender again. "Can you do me a favor?" she asked. The bartender looked amused. "Sure." "Pretend you're not about to hear this." She flipped open the phone and put it to her ear. "Where the fuck are you, Mac?" The same voice asked on the other end of the line. Aida grit her teeth. "Mac's not able to come to the phone right now," she said, as pleasantly as she could muster. She heard the man quiet on the other end of the line. Then he started swearing. She grinned. "And you listen to me, you sick fuck. This bitch witch is still alive and the next time you send someone to kill me, you make sure they get the fucking job done, asshole." She flipped the phone shut and shoved it down the bar. Immediately, she grabbed her second drink and downed that one too. Shaking off the nausea she felt and the sudden shaking of her hands, she looked back at the bartender, who was smiling now. She snorted at him. "Did you have your earmuffs on?" She asked sarcastically. He nodded. "Boyfriend troubles?" She shook her head, reaching for the other drink. "I wish," she said. The bell above the door rang and she didn't turn around to see who had entered. She didn't care at this point. She pulled the last drink to herself, swirling it a little. "Did you really have to call the cops?" The bartender looked at her, his smile faltering a moment. "Cops? We didn't call the cops." The rocks glass froze midway to her mouth and she looked up at him. She sipped the drink. "No shit?" He shrugged. "I don't call cops on bitch witches." he said. She was unable to read his voice. She downed her last drink and placed the glass down gently on the counter. "No shit..." she repeated, not questioningly this time. She turned on her stool, moving her face slowly to look at who had come through the door. It wasn't who she'd expected. Quaddy He was beginning to regret taking that last hit. Not for the more obvious reason that he’d been attacked by a member of a vigilante-style Inquisition group, no, though Alrik’s night had been next-to-ruined thanks to that most excellent adventure. No, it was for the far more ridiculous reason that he’d wasted his best stuff on a woman that didn’t even really matter. It was a first bleed, something that could have probably wiped the Light off the face of the earth with enough force behind it, and he’d wasted it on getting back at a chick who’d screwed a bartender behind his back. Not to mention that being attacked had completely wasted his high. It’d brought him back to the world, dragging him kicking and screaming from his own, personal Nirvana into a hellhole that no hair of the dog could fix. But here he was, dragging his crumbling ruin of a temple to the nearest bar in the hope that a couple of stiff ones would ease the throbbing behind his eyes. Alrik was pretty sure that the dead guy would go noticed, so he’d whipped up a quick grave—that part he’d done by hand, too tired to bother with another spell—and tossed the fucker in. Maybe he’d fertilize the lawn and Alrik would have something besides dead weeds to look at next summer. He would definitely have to go in and hide the grave better the following morning, but right now he couldn’t be bothered. It couldn’t have anything to do with someone trying to kill him or anything. Nah, that would make too much sense. Maybe he should’ve whistled a jaunty tune while he worked, for once in his life putting physical labor into something instead of magick. But something in him told Alrik that he didn’t have the energy for another spell that night. And so to the bar he went. The local pub, one of those places that didn’t water down the beer even if the waitresses had the annoying habit of pretending to be from Ireland to give the place “authenticity”, probably knew Alrik better than any place else in town. He half expected everyone to cry “Norm!” whenever he settled into his favorite barstool at the end, but he suspected that no one there really gave a rat’s ass how much he drank himself into a stupor. And that suited Alrik fine. It was too soon to expect the guilt to start tugging at his chest, but Alrik could already feel the crash coming on. Within a few hours, he’d have decided for the nine-hundredth time that he was done with the stuff, that he would kick the habit, that he would stop killing people for their blood and, mostly, stop doing magick for the sake of a high. He’d cry into his beer until it was more salt than barley and hops, then he’d order another one. First, though, he’d dull the edges of his conscious thought with several fingers of the house’s best whiskey, so when the guilt did come, he didn’t have the cognitive ability to truly act on it. He’d make his empty, drunken promises to himself and then wake up, just like every other time he’d cast a spell, practically shaking for the need to take another hit. To feel the power coursing through his veins like lightning, rushing and burning, changing the world around him as he breathed in and out. In one moment, when the spell reached its zenith, Alrik could control…everything, change anything, mold the universe to his exacting expectations. And it was less the result of his meddling, usually selfish and cosmetic in nature, than it was the feeling of supremacy that pervaded his very being that kept him going for his knife. For the rush of Godlike omnipotence, Alrik knew he could never stop. But since the guilt tore his soul to shreds anyway, he slunk his way toward the bar, knowing he’d never be able to stop, even if he desperately wanted to. The door didn’t jingle, which was honestly one of his favorite things about this joint. He just pressed it forward and it slid, silently and well oiled, like it knew he didn’t want to be bothered. Inside, it was mostly quiet, only a couple of people sitting at a table in the corner and one other unfortunate at the bar. As Alrik attempted to swagger confidently, but probably just slunk, over to a stool, the person turned around and looked full at him. Alrik gasped. “Aida? What the fuck happened to you? You look like hell.” Aida’s lips twisted in a wry smile. “Nice to see you too, asshole. But, yes, I imagine that I don’t look quite the thing.” Slipping onto a stool next to his former classmate, Alrik held up three fingers. He’d been there enough over the months for the bartender to know what he wanted. Whiskey, the good stuff, on the rocks, but only a couple of cubes lest they water down his liquid ambrosia. “No,” he repeated, softly this time. “You don’t. What happened?” The magickal community wasn’t huge, and there was just enough cronyism for Alrik to know Aida and vice versa. They’d met in school, but there had been surreptitious meetings in basements and nighttime liaisons for each of them to know just what exactly the other was. “Did someone…?” The unspoken question lay between them, palpable as it floated in a miasma of secrecy and understanding. For a moment, Aida turned back to her bourbon and Alrik thought that she wasn’t going to answer him at all, but then she nodded. “Some bastard tried to kill me, yeah. I think he was one of them. He called me a heathen.” Alrik’s eyes reddened for a moment. The shock of his attack and forced any magick from his bones, so his eyes had returned to their icy blue, so he hadn’t worn his sunglasses. Aida turned to look at him, noticed the shift, and smiled softly. “How sweet of you to be angry on my behalf,” she whispered, voice sardonic. “It’s almost as if you give a damn about something besides yourself.” “That was uncalled for,” Alrik replied sharply. “I was just concerned. I mean, we were friends when we were kids, and…” “And then you started killing people for blood, Alrik.” Aida’s whisper was harsh. “You started using your magick for no fucking reason other than your own pleasure.” Here Aida sighed and downed the rest of her bourbon, signaling the bartender to bring her more. Alrik turned and found that his own had been on the bar in front of him for some time. Taking a sip, he savored the flavors rolling over his tongue for a moment and then knocked the rest of it back in a single gulp. Aida’s shoulder slumped. “Not that I’m much better.” Alrik’s arm throbbed from the gunshot wound. He’d bound it pretty tight, but it still hurt. Rubbing at the wound, Alrik must have grimaced. Aida, perceptive as always, noticed. “What’s up with your arm?” “Same as you, only less successful.” Alrik sighed, thinking about what Aida had said. “Probably a good thing. I’m beginning to regret the last spell I cast.” Aida’s look was a mixture of concern and disdain. “Well, you look alright, so I think I’ll berate you. Your regret, like as not, is due to the fact that your spell didn’t go as planned. You don’t regret killing that person…” “I didn’t! I didn’t kill that person! I harvested her blood from the hospital!” Alrik protested, voice just a little too high. The bartenders studiously ignored him, used to Alrik’s frenzied ranting, but the couple in the corner stared with horrified fascination. Alrik glared at them, then ran a hand through dark hair and returned to Aida. “I…it’s been months since I’ve actually killed someone, actually.” “Oh, good for you,” Aida spat back. “You’ve not murdered someone in a few months. What, using up your stores?” Alrik colored. “Yes,” he admitted. “I tried to quit. You know I did, Aida! I tried…” Aida softened. “I know…” “Are you sure you’re alright?” Alrik asked, reaching forward to touch Aida on the elbow. “Do you want me to clean those up for you? I know you don’t want to go to a hospital. And I promise to do it the old-fashioned way, with stinging alcohol and bandages.” Aida smiled, this time with gratitude, and Alrik lit up. “Sure,” she replied, pulling out her money. Alrik shook his head, laid a fifty on the bar, and stood, helping Aida as she stood. Strange, though, but he didn’t feel any guilt tonight. And he sure as shit didn’t feel like doing any magick. Maybe, just maybe, he could quit. And he could figure out how to do it right. © Copyright 2009 .Wolfie., Wenston, Mynt, Quaddy, neohuman, Average Joe, (known as GROUP). All rights reserved. GROUP has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work. |
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