Ryk E. Spoor's Blog, page 19

Demons of the Past: Chapter 26

It's time for us to hear from our fine upstanding Prime Monitor...

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Chapter 26.
Shagrath:

Varan dodged out of the way of his kick with startling speed. Even though he'd been expecting it, the swiftness of the Navy Commander's reactions caught him momentarily off-guard, and gave Varan an opening to deliver a cannonlike kick to his back. I actually FELT that, Shagrath mused, as he somersaulted across the floor, regaining control before hitting the wall. The Commander's enhancement abilities appear to be fully the equal of all his others. He's becoming a quite formidable human.

He was careful to rise with just enough slowness to show that the impact had really hurt. The power level that he wanted Varan to see was that of someone more powerful than he, but not completely untouchable. This not only made Varan more comfortable – he could believe that Shagrath was vulnerable to him, given more time – but also gave Shagrath a large margin of safety in case Varan was, himself, trying to play a deeper game. The latter was unlikely, of course. He and the Commander had gone mind-to-mind often in the past couple of months, and aside from a few early lingering self-doubts and concerns about whether Shagrath was really as sane as he claimed, there hadn't been any sign of hidden agendas.

The dark-haired, gray-eyed officer was streaking across the floor at a speed impossible for any ordinary human being. To Shagrath's full senses it would still be a snail-slow crawl, but it was, measured objectively, a shockingly large improvement over the original capabilities. Shagrath blocked several blows before allowing himself to speed up a bit, taking advantage of that to return the Commander's prior favor with a punch to the midsection that folded him up like a pocket-tent and slammed him into the far wall.

The hardest part of the entire project was restraining himself. It was excellent discipline, and he had no doubt that the long years he had spent doing this and similar projects had been very useful to him in the long run, but in this case it was very hard not to just kill the oblivious little creature; Varan was so odiously sure of himself. It did not make it easier, either, that he looked so very much like the only enemy Shagrath had any reason to fear. But he would be worth a very great deal for the overall plan if he survived.

As the two of them continued the psi-enhanced sparring match, under the watchful instruments of Doctor Sooovickalassa, Shagrath admitted to himself that he had been wrong about one thing. Varan really very nearly was a paragon of virtue. Most people Shagrath knew had been easy to lead down the path of expediency and self-interest, but it had taken him a week to figure out even an approach that might work.

That approach itself was deliciously ironic; he used appeals to the virtue itself to help undermine it. Varan's sense of duty, loyalty to the Empire and his friends, and so on, could be coupled with his concerns to lead to him rationalizing a few questionable acts in the name of the greater good. Then a few very, very subtle psionic nudges to reinforce those acts, another discussion, another rationalization… and eventually he would be a wonderful mockery of his old self, just as apparently sympathetic, just as self-righteously convinced of the correctness of his course of action… but willing to excuse any action whatsoever on the grounds of preserving Shagrath and himself. The best part of that was that if Varan was loyal to Shagrath, eventually he'd become something even more useful, if less human, and serve an even greater purpose. If he wasn't, Shagrath knew how to break him if necessary – by confronting him with the unalloyed truth.

It was the need for the subtle enhancement of the justification for questionable acts (such as erasing small bits of memory from people who accidentally saw things they shouldn't) that really pointed up how close Varan had been to his own ideal. He had sufficient humility and self-doubt underneath the rock-solid convictions that, left to himself, he would examine each questionable act on its own merits, and couldn't be led to do more such acts just because he'd done it before. This, of course, made the end result more amusing.

A signal from the R'Thann, and the two stopped and bowed. Varan still insisted on giving that ancient Sign in ritual; breaking his faith was going to take some considerable work, and unfortunately might not be necessary. "Not bad at all, Commander," he said, smiling.

"You're… still better," Varan answered, trying to catch his breath.

"But…" he made sure to look as though he was tired as well, "Not by much. You're still improving, and Doctor Sooovickalassa is unsure how long that may continue before you reach your final peak. If you keep improving at this rate, you may begin to outdo me."

"Maybe when Atlantaea rises again," the Commander said as they exited the chamber; he promptly sat heavily in one of the chairs conveniently near the door. "You're going easy on me. I can tell."

That was a bit of a surprise, and not exactly a pleasant one. Judging by Varan's overall emotional attitude, however, he hadn't seen anything particularly damaging. I'd best reinforce the shields and wards, Shagrath thought to himself. "Well, perhaps a bit," he said. "Your perceptions are sharper than they were just a few days ago, Sasham. Excellent. This just reinforces my point, however – you are advancing in all areas at a startling and gratifying rate."

Clearly he'd done the right thing in getting certain allies well out of range, despite the inconvenience this was causing. One touch on those minds and the Commander would start asking very hard questions, which would mean having to either kill him, forcibly erase the impressions (which could easily permanently damage him and reduce his usefulness), try to program him directly into obedience (notoriously unreliable), or hand him over to those same allies. While the latter would produce another entertaining, and to some extent useful, disaster similar to the Black Dragon's rampage some years before, it definitely would set back other parts of the overall timetable. Best to tell them to just leave the planet for the duration.

Besides, if Varan did catch on and was able to get away before Shagrath could stop him, one accusation could turn the entirety of the Empire against Shagrath, Prime Monitor or no. Shagrath had no illusions whatsoever about what would happen then. He was powerful, yes – as far as he knew, the most powerful single being in the Empire and its surrounding stellar nations – but against the power of the Empire, alone, he would die or, at the least, be so sorely wounded it would take centuries or millennia to recover. The Black Dragon had lost,and his powers had been, even by Shagrath's standards, quite impressive. Shagrath was more powerful still, but the energies controlled by an Empire that even had some remaining Atlantaean warships? No, he would fall, and his "allies" would not help him then. They worked for him because he was stronger and could not be used for their purposes, but they had no investment in his purposes, either.

Not to mention that if that eventuality did come to pass, it would also have the extremely unfortunate effect of confirming the truth of what was now mostly believed to be myth and parable. The thought of an entire Empire converted into Seekers like Varan gave even him a chill of fear.

At the same time, he could not simply destroy each civilization at the base level; only huge multi-system star empires such as this one could and would cover enough territory to find significant amounts of the traces of Atlantaea, the things he sought to truly erase, and – more important by far – there were … other forces which made use of the bustling masses of humanity (and, of course, other species) which were only possible with advanced technology, and they would be extremely displeased to find every planet ground back to the stone ages or worse. Shagrath had no intention whatsoever of doing anything to get that monster's attention. Almost better to be caught by the one I fear than … that.

"So, Kerlamin," Varan said, using for only the second or third time Shagrath's first name, "When do I stop playing lab animal? It's been three months now!"

"Developing still are abilities your," Doctor Sooovickalassa said as he emerged from the observation chamber. Do you want to be sent out without full knowledge of what you can do?

"No. And yes, I suppose," Varan answered after a moment. "I guess I can't argue about waiting while the powers themselves are still changing quickly, but I really can't afford to hang back and wait until I'm a master. That could take years."

"I sympathize, Sasham," Shagrath said. "But our plans must be laid for the long term. If events require it, of course one of us must investigate major potential threats, but on the whole it's better if we take what time we need to be truly ready before taking an active role. Especially since you, as the first success of the project, are a crucial element for us to study in-depth to ensure that we can succeed with others."

Varan nodded reluctantly. Shagrath knew the pressures which drove the Commander; as Varan had said to him on their first meeting, even doing useful research wouldn't really feel like doing something to him.

"Don't worry, Commander," he said cheerfully. "Everything's moving along quite nicely. I'll make sure you have a part to play in my next major operation."

 

 

The post Demons of the Past: Chapter 26 appeared first on Ryk E. Spoor, Author, Gamer, Geek God.

French Roast Apocalypse: Chapter 16

Dylan was flashing back...

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Chapter 16.New York City, 1980

The first week was uneventful. Both Anna and Douglas mercilessly drowned him in academics. During the evening he helped at the Muffin House, and they were also in the process of integrating the other members of his therapy group into Anna's halfway house. Between socializing with friends, work, and studies, he barely had time to think about hunting down Keith. His life, despite the odd circumstances, had become strangely mundane.

Save for the fact he, at eighteen, was repeating his sophomore year, while the rest of his friends were lightyears ahead of him. It did motivate him even if he failed to understand half the things he studied and it hurt his head to try.

Around two o'clock, Professor Frasier dropped by to check on him. They discussed his lessons, and Dylan found himself feeling a little better about his academic fears. According to Douglas, independent study tended to go faster than conventional schooling, and he’d still tutor Dylan personally two days a week. Anna would help on the other days. Again, he invited Dylan to his classes with the others.

The idea was almost tempting, but Dylan found he couldn't do it. It just felt too normal to him, and he didn’t feel normal.

Before he left, Douglas reviewed basic algebra with Dylan, and decided Dylan understood it well enough. Bridget had done her level best to pound the stuff in his head, and Dylan felt a moment of pride. At least something had stuck from his summer studies. He would review the units on understanding geometry for the next time, start reading prehistory, read unit one in biology, and begin reading Romeo and Juliet. Douglas also dropped off a packet of English papers to work on with his Understanding Grammar book.

Determined not to be overwhelmed, Dylan set to work; it was better than sitting around feeling sorry for himself, and he’d be damned if he let himself fall behind. He had goals now.

It took him most of the afternoon to get though his math, and he was starting his history, when Anna rose. Together, they went through the first chapter and discussed early humans and the caves in France. Anna claimed they were 17,300 years old. "They’re important because they tell us what humans did back then," she said. "They show us the animals living at the time, the ones they hunted, ate, and made clothing with."

Basically, prehistoric humans were like nomadic tribes. They moved about from place to place hunting animals and gathering other food to survive. They used stone, bones, and skin as tools, built shelters, and lived occasionally in caves. They made art with shells, and made and used paint. Some even buried their own dead. They lived in several places all around the world and according to theories came out of the great African Rift country.

It was an interesting chapter, but Dylan found Anna’s little commentaries more interesting because she actually spoke as though she had visited the places. When he asked, she told him that her sire had lived through a lot of it, so she knew things about the past that even the best archaeologists didn't have a clue about.

"But where do Adam and Eve fit in?" Dylan asked, remembering his Sunday school. He understood that according to science people had evolved from apes, but Adam and Eve had to fit in someplace; they were in the Bible, after all.

The vampire frowned and ran her fingers though her short blonde hair. "Dylan, I’m not sure if they 'fit in' at all."

"Well of course they fit in." Dylan closed the history book and put it down on the coffee table in front of his sofa. He folded his arms and looked at Anna pointedly. "I mean, the Bible can’t be all off, can it? Egypt and Israel and all that happened, so why not Adam and Eve. They just started in Africa, right?"

"There is no fossil evidence of that, Dylan. Just stories, myths to explain things," Anna said.

"But the Bible isn’t a myth, not like the Roman, Norse and Greek stuff." At least he didn’t think so. It had to fit.

Anna didn’t look convinced and peered at him sadly. "Remember biology? People evolved from primates, Dylan. They changed over time, but there was no first man and first woman. At least not the way the stories say. Archeological history is different than Biblical history… and vampire history, well, that's an entirely different kettle of fish."

Dylan understood the basics behind evolution, and a part of him believed it happened, but he still didn’t understand how it fit into the world. The young man scratched his head. "Evolution, that's like, God’s work in progress?"

"To simplify it, I suppose… but I wouldn’t tell Douglas that," Anna told him with an air of exasperation. "It’s completely random. Mutations occur in nature, most of those don't work out, but a few help their bearers survive in some situations that those without that trait would not. Those traits get selected for as their bearers breed more often, and over time, enough of this breeding and selection and mutation results in a new species – something like the original, but different enough that we call it something else. But it has nothing to do with Adam and Eve."

"But why did people make the story? There has to be a reason. You said yourself it was to explain something, so it’s gotta be real someplace." Where he came from, the Bible was just accepted as fact, no one questioned it.

Well, no one except for Bridget, Jackson and the science teachers.

"Dylan, there are many cultures with similar stories. It’s just one of the ways human beings try to explain why they are here. We know that people come from a man and a woman being together, so obviously when it started there had to be a first man and a woman. Ancient cultures didn't have the information to figure out evolution."

Dylan still wasn’t convinced. He wasn’t ready to abandon everything he was taught when he was a boy. Too much had changed around him too fast. So he stuck to his guns; there had to be something real behind the Bible's most basic story, and he was about to say so when a knock on the door brought him to his feet. "Were you expecting anyone?"

She got up and headed for the door. "No. And I gave specific instructions for you to be left to your studies."

Dylan lifted a brow. Anna took this responsibility business seriously. He leaned a hand against the arm of the couch and watched her cross to the door and open it.

Jason, dressed in a warm longcoat, black coat and scarf, dark shirt, and red tie stood at the door. He had his badge hanging from his hip pocket of his slacks, so Dylan could only guess he had come from work. "Anna, sorry to bother you. Can I talk to the kid?" He looked grave.

"As long as it isn’t about a certain case," Anna said firmly. She leaned a hand on the doorframe and fixed him with a stern glare. "He’s not ready to run off and be beaten to a pulp yet. I want him settled in and working before you start that."

The cop’s face twitched a little, perhaps the smallest shadow of a smile, and he nodded. "I get it, he’s yours, Anna; but it’s about his sister. Unless you don’t think he has the right to know about that part of the case?"

The words brought Dylan to his feet with a surge of rage. His fists tightened. "What about Bridget?"

Anna stepped out of the way and let Jason enter. Even she wasn’t going to stand in the way of family.

"Found one of Blackwell’s thugs, Jim Delance, trying to get rid of two bodies; not much left of them, but we have reason to believe they belong to your sister and your friend," Jason said. "I had them released to Doc Smith, and you can arrange a burial."

"Anna, grab my coat, would you?" he said, as calmly as he could manage. They had found his sister, and he wanted to see her. He knew from Jason’s words that neither she or Jackson would be recognizable, but seeing them would finalize what happened. It would be over, at least for them.

Anna quickly vanished though the door leading to her side of the apartment, leaving him with Jason. "What in hell’s name were they doing with the bodies for over two months?" Dylan asked, swallowing hard.

"Sometimes they wait to dispose of them." Jason met his gaze. "In your sister’s case, might have used her for other things. Can’t say, not much left to determine and I told the Doc to leave her in peace; no autopsy, unless you say otherwise."

"And you’re sure it’s her?"

Jason dug into the pocket of his jacket and handed Dylan a small pink wallet. "Took this from a bag of personal effects with the corpse. There's more there, but I recognized the writing and it has pictures."

He recognized the wallet. Forcing his breathing under control, Dylan took the wallet and opened it. Inside was Bridget’s drivers' permit and library card. There was also a set of photos of the family. There was even one of Jackson and Duke. Closing it, Dylan squeezed it in his hands and his rage seethed like boiling water. It took everything he had to control it. He wanted to hurt someone and all he could think of was reaching this Delance guy and working him over for touching his sister's body. "It’s her. And the scum who had her?"

"Locked up. Liam’s… dealing with him now." The way Jason said the words made it clear that whatever Liam was doing was very final. Dylan felt as if the rug had been yanked out from underneath him. If Liam had the bastard, then there was no way Dylan'd ever get near him.

It was out of his hands. The rage took on a life of its own, and Dylan found himself swinging both fists at the wall, but it was Jason caught the blows instead and it sent him several steps back before he could brace enough to hold Dylan back. "For exactly that reason, Dylan," Jason told him, sternly. "Beating the guy to death isn’t going to bring her back. It will make it harder for you to control yourself!"

The words stung with the sound of truth, and Dylan stumbled back, panting in a struggle to contain his anger. He leaned hands on his knees and worked on breathing, like Doctor Smith taught him. His anger had made him stronger; he hadn’t expected it, but the way that he'd driven Jason – much older and a powerful vampire – backwards proved it. Maybe it was too soon for him to leave the Center. He was a monster like the others, he'd just been pretending to be human.

"Upsetting my charge isn’t winning any points with me, Jay," Anna said, entering with Dylan’s coat over her arm.

The anger hovered over him for a moment, but the breathing helped to drain it away until he felt grief settle into his heart. "It’s okay, Anna, fine, I’m fine. He didn’t do anything. Revanant caught me off guard, that’s all."

"Funny how he talks like it’s someone else." Jason said with a smirk.

Dylan waved him off with annoyance. "I know it’s me, dude, just, let me deal my way."

He felt Anna's arm slip around his shoulder and she pulled him into an embrace. "It’s ok, Dyl. It will pass. Just breathe."

He almost pushed her away, but forced himself to wrap his arms around her waist and press his face to her shoulder. Carefully, he breathed in and out, and focused on his own body. He felt the thump-thump of his heartbeat, and the blood coursing through his veins. He could feel the draft in the apartment brush across hair on his arms, and the clothes touching his skin.

The weight of Anna pressed into him, reminding him he wasn’t alone. She wasn’t warm, but he could feel a slight vibration from her body, there was an energy moving though her that was comforting. The scent of her hair was sweet like blueberries and flour, and the skin against his cheek was soft. Her very presence reminded him why he wanted to remain human. If he lost to the revenant, he’d never remember why he was fighting in the first place, to protect and take care of people like Anna and his sister. To let people feel peaceful, like he felt now. He'd become nothing but a vessel of rage and hatred that wouldn't care how many other people were destroyed on its path to vengeance.

Several minutes passed before he eased away and took his coat and hat from Anna. "I’m ready."

"You sure you can do this?" Jason asked. "This'll be three shades of ugly."

Dylan didn’t blame him for doubting; after his sudden display, Dylan questioned himself. He hadn’t realized how much of his humanity he had really lost.

Anna’s hand found his and she squeezed it reassuringly. "I’m not leaving your side, Dylan. If you need me I’m here, and if worst comes to worst, I’m sure Doctor Smith or Doctor Sacco will be around to help out."

"I’m not spending another month in that place." That was a goal, at least. He had to prove to himself as well as those around him that he was capable of controlling his monster. His father had, so could he. "The sooner I get this done, the better." He’d view the bodies, and with Anna’s help make the funeral arrangements. He’d then bury that part of his life for once and for all.

 

The post French Roast Apocalypse: Chapter 16 appeared first on Ryk E. Spoor, Author, Gamer, Geek God.

Demons of the Past: Revelation, Chapter 25

Let's look in on Taelin...

 

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Chapter 25.
Taelin:

"Wh… What?"

Taelin couldn't help but laugh at the stunned amazement on his friend's face. "You complete child, Sash! And I mean that in the best possible way, but by the Fall you're innocent! There was never any doubt that the petition would pass, not now, not after everything you've done!"

Sasham's storm-gray eyes actually shimmered for a moment in a way that made Taelin suspect tears were trying to emerge. Fortunately for the Navy officer's dignity, Treyuusei threw her arms around him and gave him a resounding kiss on the cheek. "Congratulations, Sash! You're going to be one of the Families!"

Sasham wobbled and almost fell, then laughed weakly. "I… I'm sorry. It's just all so much. I –" He cut off suddenly, and Taelin got the impression of someone trying to dam a river at peak flood. "Thank you, Taelin."

"You can thank everyone at the Elevation ceremony. Don't waste them on us, we've been planning this for years, and getting you here is our reward," Treyuusei said. "Now I've got to dash, I'm stuck on two judgement panels today, two of our less well behaved Great Families are having a spat." Taelin slowed her long enough to enjoy a drawn-out kiss, and then regretfully let her go.

"You're a lucky guy, Taelin," Sasham said, watching Treyuusei leave.

"I am at that," he answered with a grin. "And if you can notice, I guess you are getting better."

Sasham laughed, this time more naturally. "Maybe… maybe I am. Diorre sure wouldn't want me to spend my time mooning over the past. That doesn't mean I'm planning on seeing anyone yet, though. That's… not something I'll be comfortable with for quite a while."

"No one will expect you to, unless they're too politically ambitious for their own good." He punched Sash's arm affectionately. "C'mon, you've got just this one day with us before you have to go back to your top-top-ultra-secret work, let's get in all the fun we can! How about some Doubles Targets?"

For a moment he saw a shadow cross his friend's face; something about the question touched on that same loss. But then Sasham nodded slowly and a smile came back to his face and even showed in his eyes. "Yes, I think that would be fun."

Taelin had thought as much, but he began to reconsider after Sasham whipped him the third straight game. I thought I was a good shot. He's amazing. Of course, he's had real under-fire practice, while no one's ever let me out into the field, at least not where I'd have any chance of getting in trouble.

"Don't you ever give a guy a chance?" he said, watching two of Sasham's targets disintegrate before he could get his first to break up.

"Give you a chance? And what would you say about giving me a handicap in Six Towers?" Varan's answer didn't slow him down a bit.

Taelin had to admit that he had a point, but that didn't mean he had to actually let Sasham know that. "I'll bet you weren't that cold to Diorre."

The mention of her name did make the pistol waver the tiniest amount, but that only gave Taelin a chance to not fall behind any more. "You know … knew Diorre Jearsen, Taelin. If I'd cut her any slack, especially after we started seeing each other, she'd have beat me like a Fallday rattlestick. She wanted that competition." He destroyed his last three targets in rapid succession, leaving Taelin several seconds to catch up, and wiping a tear from his eye along with sweat from his forehad. "And so you know, the last thing we did together – before that attack – was Doubles Targets."

"Oh, vorces, Sash, I didn't –"

"Don't apologize! I'm glad we did. It's always been one of my favorite sports, target shooting, and wouldn't it be terrible if I'd let that memory take it away?" He nodded and smiled. "I'm going to remember her every time I do this, and I'm going to be happy I remember her."

Taelin could almost see Diorre Jearsen for a moment, red-gold hair tumbling over broad shoulders, a white-flashing grin in a deeply tanned face, an athletic figure just a bit larger than life, faster, stronger, tougher than anyone she met, standing behind Sasham, almost a head taller. "Then I won't even complain about losing," he said, echoing Sasham's smile. "But I think I've done enough of that for now. Look, let's get back and clean up – Ghelliq's party will be starting not too long from now."

"Ghelliq… they're Tanemell, right?"

"Right! See, you're learning already!"

"Pfah. That's my Navy training – you memorize the unusual ones first. Humans and derived-human are the majority – more of that evidence of Atlantaea, eh?" he said with a sly grin as he got in the dig, "so I always remember the aliens in a group first, and Tanemell are memorable anyway. Not many amphibious sentients around, and the Tanemell are freshwater types instead of saltwater amphibians like the Mydrwyll or Lomdallu." They passed inside and headed up to the secure private quarters; as they passed the threshold Varan winced and wavered, putting a hand to his head.

"What is it, Sash?"

For a moment his friend just stood there, eyes closed; then he opened them and smiled, though with a pain wrinkle still visible. "Headache, suddenly. I think I'll have to borrow an inductor. Probably strained something during Doubles, tracking those darn targets."

"No problem – use the one in my room, it's closer. I'll have someone bring your things down –"

"No, no, Torline's Swords, Taelin, I'm not crippled," Sasham said, waving off the idea. "I can survive another few minutes going to my rooms. Just give me a few extra minutes to run this thing out of my head and I'll join you downstairs." He headed down the hallway.

Taelin watched him for a moment, but Sash seemed reasonably steady, so it was probably nothing. You could strain things at Doubles Targets – you were expected to move around a lot, and the targets could demand a lot of quick movement in reaction – and Sasham had certainly been showing off at points.

He took his time showering off and dressing; the Ghelliq party wasn't that soon, and even though Sasham was getting better at handling the social whirl, there was no reason to drag him there before he'd fully recovered. A good inductor session took at least fifteen minutes and more likely half an hour.

It was more than an hour before Taelin finally made his way downstairs, seeing Sasham coming down the other staircase just ahead of him. His friend's face was much more relaxed. "You look better, Sash!"

"Lots better. Strained muscle or whatever, the inductor and a few run-throughs of the Centers and Visions cleared it up."

Taelin surveyed him, taking in the wrappings of colored silks and carefully-shaped foundation garments. "That's got to be Mishel's influence. She loves the Ankhar period look."

"I don't mind. I wear the same uniform so often it's not so bad, now that I'm getting used to the idea, to just wear something so un-uniform-like."

"It's certainly that. But it's stylish, in a loud kind of way – and it fits for your current social position. Selected candidates are supposed to draw attention to themselves." He grinned. "But that does also make you a target…"

Varan gave a theatrical shudder. "I don't care how socially advantageous it is, I'm not pledging a Tanemell, no matter how shiny her scales are."

They left, laughing together.

The post Demons of the Past: Revelation, Chapter 25 appeared first on Ryk E. Spoor, Author, Gamer, Geek God.

French Roast Apocalypse: Chapter 15

Dylan had gotten REALLY hurt...

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Chapter 15.

New York City, 2010/1980

Dylan wasn’t sure how long he fed; he wasn’t even sure when he came back to himself. The only thing Dylan was sure of was Liam’s mind, guiding his feeding. The Celtic vampire was different than others he had fed from. Liam’s blood had a distinct flavor, but Dylan couldn't quite figure out how to describe it. It was… finer than the others he consumed. Jason’s was similar, but diluted, and both Douglas and Daniel smelled like Jason, so Dylan suspected they’d taste similar. They’d be a step above a regular vampire, but Liam's blood sang. He wasn't a cursed being, wasn't undead; he was alive and vibrant, pure and potent. Nothing else compared.

The rest of his memories were hazy. He might have fed more, but it wasn’t clear. He slipped in and out of blackness and sometimes he found himself lost in the past with Anna, his last years of humanity in 1980s SoHo.

He had spent two months in the hospital and in therapy. They only let him out into Anna's care when Doctor Sacco was sure he wasn't about to kill himself or worse. Dylan was as stable as he could be under the circumstances, but had no place to go, and Anna became his lifeline. He was the first of seven young people she'd rehabilitated at the Muffin house, six of which lived in the building under her supervision full time. Angelus was only part-time, and lived at home with his parents and spent time learning the ropes with his sire Jason.

Dylan dreamed…

*******

It was a cold autumn day with a chilly breeze that whipped Dylan’s hair into his face and threatened to toss his cowboy hat down the street. The Texan clutched his books with one hand and grabbed his hat with the other as he looked around the dark lamp-lit street. "We’re not far from the shop, are we?"

"Just a few blocks," Anna said. She hopped down the last step of the hospital to the sidewalk beside Dylan. She dug into her pockets and pulled on her gloves. "It is nippy out, isn’t it?"

"Freezing," Dylan said. "You Yanks are damned crazy to live in this stuff." He was grateful for his long coat, warm sweater, and gloves. "Not looking forward to snow."

" I could say that about you and all those tornadoes, but I’d think you’d find snow rather novel." Anna told him brightly. "It's very pretty, especially if you don’t have to drive. Though shoveling the sidewalk is dull." While she spoke, she started to walk, followed closely by Dylan. "Besides, a tough guy like you shouldn’t be bothered by a little white stuff."

"We learn to live with tornadoes." Dylan replied with a shrug. "Just rebuild and move on. It makes you tough. And I didn't just live in Texas, I lived in Kansas. I've seen snow, I just don't like it."

"Well, then, we Yanks and you southerners have something in common then; our weather makes us tough, too," Anna said cheerfully. "It’s just a matter of what you're used to." As she walked she did a skip, kick and spin. It was smooth, and reminded him of some of the gymnasts he’d seen on TV.

The shops around them were brightly lit and people walked along the sidewalk, peering inside. Dylan realized it was very late by the positioning of the moon in the sky, but the bars and restaurants along the neon-signed strip were packed.

They passed brand new black Ford pickup parked near a florist. It made him think of his battered old Toyota. "Hey, what about my truck?"

"Repainted, with new plates, and parked in a garage for when you need it," she told him. "We couldn’t find your friend’s car, though." She looked at him apologetically. "But everything he had at your hotel room is at my apartment." They walked in silence for a few more moments. "I’m sure Jason will find something soon."

"Thanks." He wasn’t sure what he wanted to do with Jackson’s stuff. Now that he was out, Dylan wanted to hold some kind of service for Jackson… and Bridget. As he walked, he watched the cracks in the sidewalk pass underfoot. "Can you arrange that service like you promised?"

"Saint Patrick’s has a place in their cemetery; I spoke with Father Ryan when you asked me."

"Is he a vampire too?" The question didn’t seem absurd anymore.

"Of course not, he’s a bloody priest." Anna said. "He’s a friend of Dr. Sacco’s, though. Doc never misses a mass."

How in God’s name did Sacco manage that? As far as Dylan knew, ghouls were as cursed as the rest of the undead.

"A ghoul in mass, I should have figured."

Anna laughed. "Every Sunday and Wednesday. He even says the rosary." She shook her head. "Some people cross over and are unable to let go."

"Nothing wrong with not letting go of God," Dylan told her. It made him wonder why vampires were cursed because of their faith. "So, this priest will do a real funeral ceremony?" He wanted to tell her Jackson was a Lutheran, and his mother converted them to Baptist, but decided it didn’t really matter. It would be hallowed ground, and a genuine service. Their souls would do the rest.

"Yes."

Bodies or no, it would be a proper burial. The young man tilted his hat down, and set his jaw. It would be over with for them. If only he could contact Jackson’s mom and let her know her boy was interred in New York. She’d have closure, at least. If, that was, she was alive. So many ifs. "How long did it take you to let go?"

"Of my old life?" Anna laughed softly. "I never got along with my parents so it was easy to let them go, but I followed my brother and sisters for a bit. I have nieces and a nephew who are alive; two of them live upstate with kids of their own, but I don’t have much of a connection." A flicker of regret crossed her pale face. "It was my decision to let them go. I wanted to be free. I wanted to be independent."

"Do you regret it?" Dylan didn’t want to let go of his life. It wasn’t a choice for him. If he let go, if he forgot, the people responsible for so much pain would walk away free. He thought of Bridget and his good mood almost faded. He could still see her dead eyes staring, terrified, up at him.

"Sometimes, but I enjoy my life, Dylan."

Anna turned down an alley next to the muffin shop. It was dark inside, closed for the evening. "I’m on the second floor. We’re housing together. I hope you don’t mind, but I was told I need to keep an eye on you."

He murdered his own sister; how could they trust him? The Texan swallowed the lump in his throat. How many weeks of therapy had it taken him to accept that simple fact?

A young woman living with a teenager. It would look awkward and very improper, but Dylan had the feeling Anna didn’t care what people thought. He, on the other hand, was downright embarrassed, even if a part of him was grateful for the company. "I’m eighteen."

He tried to repress his shame.

"And that makes it legal for you to be working for me. You have your own apartment attached to mine, so I can make sure you're safe." She stopped in front of a steel door and inserted a key.

"They don’t trust me."

"Not entirely, no, but it isn’t just that, Dylan." She gave the door a shove and it creaked open. "You've gained a whole lot of enemies just by existing. But I’m a tough cookie; been known to crack more than a few heads from time to time!"

At least she was honest. Though her small size made him wonder if she really could protect him if someone dangerous came after them.

Then he mentally slapped himself. Who was it who had saved his sorry rear end? Who had mocked Keith's thugs and beaten them like cheap drums? Anna, that's who. She might look harmless, but he knew better; she was a swift, beautiful angel of destruction. The Texan couldn't help but feel embarrassed; he was no damsel in distress. But he had to be honest with himself; up against vampires as he was, he was pretty much helpless. "For a dancer and a nonviolent person, you have an interesting way of expressing pacifism."

"I’m a flapper, Dyl, from the Big Apple. A girl had to take care of herself back then. And today, even. You’re in good hands with me, pal." She winked.

It struck him, though, that there was also the question of whether she was safe with him, if they were suspicious; Sacco had reminded him of his reputation earlier. "So why in hell bother keeping me alive? I mean, I get you, I get people like Sacco and Bunny, but I don’t get why this Liam, or any of these others you talk about, would feel they wanted to keep a hunter around. Who makes the decisions around here? Liam? Doctor Smith? Douglas?"

"Liam likes to have others around to help him, I explained that to you earlier. Helping also means we get a say in how things are done around here. He actually wanted you dead. Simply put, he was outvoted," Anna said. Once at the top of the stairs, he found himself walking down a dimly-lit hall. It was carpeted, with three other doors and lights set in the ceiling. Anna stopped at a wooden door at the end and inserted a key. "Douglas and I, well, we wanted to give you a chance. Doctor Smith… you interest him, and for him, that's more than enough."

"Liam…"

"…and Jason thought you were a security risk." Anna pushed the door open. The light in the apartment was already on. "They would have killed you on the spot, but since they were outvoted, they let you live."

Dylan wasn’t surprised to hear Jason thought he was a security risk. The man only thought about his job. He was glad Jason had warmed up to him, because if he hadn’t, the vampire enforcer might have taken him out eventually. Still, he didn’t feel comfortable with the thought. No wonder Doctor Smith was so happy to have the cop around when Dylan had his freakout. "Well… thanks for voting for me." He wondered why Smith was interested in him. "I don’t trust the good doctor."

"No one does… well, save for Bunny. He’s her sire and she’s genuinely sweet. If he made her, he can’t be all unhinged."

Now that was a creepy thought. Doctor Smith made Bunny? Dylan frowned, and wondered exactly what their relationship was, and what that meant for Bunny. He was so engrossed in his thoughts he almost bumped into Anna, who stood motionless at the door, keys dangling from her fingers.

The first thing that crossed his mind was how neat the apartment was. It had a hardwood floor studio, with gallery-style white walls covered with a variety of framed prints and photos dating back to every decade through the 1920s. Most of them were dance or theater oriented, though a few of them were prints of famous paintings. A large cobalt-blue suede square-cushioned couch was pushed up against the wall, and the center of entertainment was a bookshelf and a stereo. Her TV was shoved off into a corner on a small stand, and covered with dust. The kitchen was clean, with a few pots hanging from racks on the walls for show, but other than that, Dylan could tell it was largely unused.

The man sitting on the blue couch distracted him from any more details of the apartment. He was tall with dark-brown curls, brushed back from his face and pulled back in a ponytail, and a short beard. He wore a pair of grey pinstriped slacks, blue button-up top, and a red tie, with a silk jacket that matched the slacks. His eyes were a cold sky-blue that sent shivers down Dylan’s spine. His stony features were sharply sculpted, handsome in a severe way like the kings of the past, depicted in the old European paintings of Turkish kings. There was also something familiar about him, like Anna was familiar. But the biggest single feature wasn't one that Dylan could see, just one he could sense.

This man was old.

Not just old, ancient, like Doctor Smith.

"You’re late; I expected you home twenty minutes ago, Anna," he said in a cold, level voice.

"I wasn’t expecting you, Liam. Or I would have arrived sooner," Anna said sharply as she stepped into the room and removed her coat. "Dylan, you can put your things down; I presume Liam is here to speak to you. I can show you your room later."

There was no mistaking the annoyance in her voice; apparently even great age and power didn't excuse rudeness to Anna. Dylan felt the same way, though he knew better than to say anything. Still, he couldn't keep a frown from his face as he placed his books on a stand near the coat closet and removed his backpack. "Do I put my coat and stuff in this closet?"

"Yes, of course; this is your place. You’ll be free to come and go from here as you please," Anna told him, with a smile. She turned to the dark-haired elder, and the smile was gone. "You realize I do not appreciate surprises like this."

"In my experience, the best way to evaluate the character of another is see how they adjust to the unexpected," Liam said flatly, with the slightest twitch of his lip; was it a hint of a smile or a frown? Dylan couldn't tell. The cold blue eyes surveyed Dylan for an instant. "He is a revenant still."

"Not surprising, with what they did to him." Anna took Dylan’s coat and hung it up for him. "I don’t have any regrets."

Liam stood. "Well enough. It is a poor decision that one regrets before it has proven itself wrong.”

Dylan brushed his long hair behind his ear and walked up to the vampire. He was tall, but Dylan was able to meet his stare with one of his own. There was something… different about him. He wasn’t just old; he was something more than just vampire. Liam's skin wasn’t as pale, and there seemed to be a life to his aura the others lacked.

Studying Liam – the same way Liam seemed to be studying him, Dylan came to more understanding of the man. The way he stood was as though he was on guard. His entrance to Anna’s home… it wasn’t about ownership, or entitlement; Liam was detached, he didn’t understand or care about boundaries. Was Liam human at all? Had he started out human, been raised as a human? Was he simply so ancient that he had just forgotten what it was like to be human, like Doctor Smith?

The silence had gone on long enough. Dylan cleared his throat. "I don’t plan on lettin' her down, if that’s what you’re worried about, sir."

"I am only here to make sure you are not a threat to those under my charge," said Liam simply. He held eye contact, and Dylan felt something, a frigid finger passing over his consciousness. It was harsh and powerful, and dark, yet somehow gentle. It only seemed to probe his surface thoughts, and then drew away.

"I see Liam’s checking you out." Anna closed the closet and crossed the room. "I have some Guinness in the fridge, do you want one, Liam?"

She was relaxed; whatever Liam was doing, it wasn't something she felt was dangerous or even worth being concerned about. Dylan watched as Liam shifted his gaze to the woman and sat back down as if on a social call. "That would be kind of you, thank you." He wrinkled his brow. "I remember when the Guinness brothers started making ale."

The casual comment made Dylan wonder: how much history had Liam seen? Dylan had thought his grandfather was a wealth of historical information, but if Liam was even half as old as Dylan thought, he would have seen things going back to… what? Rome?

"Coming right up," Anna said. "Sorry, Dylan; you’re too young, drinking age's nineteen in New York."

A vampire that drank Guinness. He supposed he shouldn’t have been too surprised, what with everything else he’d seen. Hadn’t Jason said he ate regular food? Was there something special about Liam’s line? Anna tossed the vampire a can; it had nearly reached the vampire when his hand blurred, caught the Guinness, and popped it open. "Tell me about yourself, hunter. Why do you intrigue our Anna so much?"

"Because I’m a nice guy from Texas?" The sarcasm was reflexive, and not the smartest response. He saw Anna wince as she squeezed a blood bag into a large plastic tumbler glass.

"He’s has a nice smile too, and likes blueberry muffins!" she said quickly.

The elder's eyebrow gave the slightest hint of a rise, but if he had been annoyed by Dylan's flippant response he gave no other sign. Instead, Liam abstractedly circled his index finger around the rim of his can. "Why are you hunted by the federal government?"

"Father was a Ma Cà Rồng who didn’t do what they wanted sir." Dylan said honestly. No use hiding the truth; if what he'd just felt meant anything, the man was able to read his mind. "And I tried to expose your people. I went to Le Hunt, and managed to stir up a hornets' nest connected to the Blackwell family. The government and the Blackwells, they have an understanding." It was honest enough, and answered the question.

"You stirred the hornets' nest?" Liam repeated Dylan’s words carefully. "Exposing the truth would certainly cause trouble for them."

"And for you, sir." It didn’t hurt to be respectful. Old as he was, Liam wasn’t as terrifying as Doctor Smith. Maybe he should have been terrified of him, but Anna treated him more like an uncle than some ancient monster capable of crushing her at any moment.

"True enough. How did you intend to expose our existence?"

"It was a good plan; we got ourselves an authentic psychic, with good media contacts and filmed a hunt." He took a sharp intake of air as he felt a rush of guilt. "We had bodies and everything. It was going to be on TV, we had everything set up."

"But they stopped you, as they stop everyone," Liam said, in a matter-of-fact tone. He tipped back his beer can and drank from it.

"You’re not pissed at us for trying?" Dylan looked puzzled.

"Many of our kind have tried before. Understand, we suffer injustices as well, enough that sometimes it seems a complete change is preferable to cooperation."

"The sixties." Anna sat on the arm of her couch. "Couple of vampires got all flower child and tried an uprising with the free love movement. They put a stake in that coffin real fast." She stretched her legs. "So, you’re not special… and not all that wrong, Dylan."

"Why in hell don’t hunters know anything about this?" Dylan felt a flood of anger. He hadn’t heard anything about a vampire hippie movement. Okay, he wasn't the biggest bookworm, but hell, Bridget and Jackson hit the books all the time! With all their contacts and information…

"Because our worlds are separate," Liam said. "Not for everyone, as you know, but for the people like you and Anna it is. Tell me, hunter. Would you hunt us if you knew people like myself and Anna existed?" The vampire placed his can on the coffee table in front of the couch and leaned his arms on his knees.

"Hell, no." He saw the blue eyes measure his gaze, and saw approval in them.

"It is useful if we all have obvious enemies to fight; it can keep us from ignoring the real enemy." Piercing blue eyes captured his. "You know who the real enemies are, don’t you, Dylan?"

"I thought I did." Dylan took a breath and turned around. He removed his hat and scratched his head. He stomped his feet in a display of juvenile exasperation and put his hat back on before facing Liam. "Two months ago, I’d've said the monsters, Blackwell, the Feds, you, the League, the Government, the Industrialists. But hell, now I don’t know! The world ain’t what I thought it was!"

"Now I want to make this clear, before this conversation continues." Anna said sharply. "I know I’m living in your territory, Liam, but Dylan is my charge, that means I say what happens to him. He’s to live a normal, mortal life. I don’t want him dragged into any of your politics, no revolutions, he’s not a tool or a weapon to toss at the next highblood you have a problem with, got it?"

"That would be entirely his decision, wouldn’t it?" Liam replied. "And he and I have an interest in the safety of the citizens of New York, mortal or otherwise."

"That I do." Dylan glanced to Anna. "Doesn’t hurt to hear what he has to say, Anna. But I am gonna make it clear, I promised Anna, I’d stay out of trouble."

"You also told Jason you wanted to hunt Keith Blackwell." Liam pressed his fingertips together, forming a sharp peak. "Keith Blackwell is not the only Blackwell here in this city. His mortal cousins are here, throwing their money at our city and politicians. One of them is running for Magistrate. Keith has become an enforcer for the League at their request. This is troubling for both the city, its people and my people. Do you know what that means, Anna?"

Anna folded her arms, worry creasing her brow for the first time. "He’s trying to put a Blackwell into the position of sponsor and League Magistrate?"

"I don’t understand. I thought the League controlled the city." Dylan finally sat heavily on a cushioned chair across from the couch, confused.

"The League lets the rehabilitation center operate because Liam is the highblood who sponsors their office. Registration here isn’t mandatory – that's one reason we're called a free city. We’re open to immigration as well," Anna said.

"Money and successful, independently-funded programs help to quell the violence in the city and convince the Magistrate here to allow us to exist," said Liam. He smiled thinly. "Other places are not so fortunate. There are… stricter controls on paranormal populations elsewhere."

"I know." Dylan threaded his fingers and stretched them. "So highbloods are the old ones like you?"

Liam lowered his head and chuckled bitterly. “Elders for the colonials who invaded this continent yes, ancients like me, no.”

He called the colonials invaders. I wonder what he sees himself as?

And why was he so familiar? Dylan scratched his head. "The Blackwells, are they highbloods?"

"They are a young family," Liam said. "A proud one, and very powerful. I knew the Elder highblood who founded them. He meant well, and sought to protect values of the foundation of this country. Unfortunately, the Blackwells had other ideas. Like many, they clung to the darker calling of their colonial forefathers: the practice of the ownership of men for the sake of greed." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully as if attempting to puzzle out something that bothered him. Then he shrugged, letting his hand drop. "The others should be here soon."

Anna’s eyes widened. She planted her hands on his hips, annoyed. "What do you mean, others? I appreciate you checking my ward out and not killing him on the spot, but holding a council without my permission in my apartment is not appreciated!"

"Do you want me to show the gentleman out?" Dylan asked as politely as possible, though in truth, he was now very interested in what Liam had to say.

It surprised him when Liam laughed. It was a strong baritone that rattled Dylan’s bones and unsettled him to the core. "Your child has a great deal to learn, but he does have the will of a fighter!"

Child? It was as though Liam already assumed Anna would make him a vampire like her.

"I might not be able to do it, sir, but if the lady wants me to, I’ll sure as hell try." Dylan kept his voice slow, even, and as gentlemanly as possible. He recalled what Jason had said about Liam. He was a warrior, and respected honor.

Visibly relieved by Liam's laugh, Anna smiled but shook her head. "That is very sweet of you, Dylan, but unnecessary."

A heavy knock resonated from the wooden door. Company had arrived. The blonde quickly walked over and opened it, revealing both Jason and Douglas standing there. Dylan was struck by how different they were. Jason was upright, tense, as if ready to spring at any danger, Douglas’s posture was more relaxed, as if going to a dinner date. The professor carried a bouquet of yellow roses. "I apologize for this intrusion, my dear, but he insisted." Douglas handed her the flowers and kissed Anna on the cheek.

Smiling, Anna pressed her nose into the flowers and breathed deeply into them. "Very kind of you, Douglas, but I’m used to it by now. I did sign on for this, being a part of the Council and all; what I didn’t sign on for was having my ward dragged into it."

"He won’t be," Douglas promised; he greeted Dylan with a nod and sat down on the couch next to Liam. "With all that studying he needs to do, he won’t have the time." He smiled gently at Dylan.

"Professor." Dylan tipped his hat. "You’d be surprised by how quick I can hit the books, sir."

"Sorry, Anna, but he started the ball rolling when he asked about Keith, way back when he was still in the hospital," Jason said. The tall police officer walked to Dylan, and extended a hand. "Dyl, good to see you out and about."

Dylan gave him a firm handshake. "Good to be out; but I didn’t expect a party, so I guess you found something?" That would explain Liam’s comments about Keith and Blackwell.

Jason’s features darkened with disgust. "I spoke to my contact in Independence. I think you're right about Keith and Le Hunt. I also think his Uncle arranged for the town to go under the way it did. We’ve had two more child deaths come into the precinct since Angelus and Minami, both of them exsanguinations; one was a Pakistani girl, the other a Latino boy. They were beheaded after their murders – probably to cover up cause of death, but that doesn't fool modern forensics. I’ve petitioned the League to investigate Keith and they tell me their investigations have them looking elsewhere."

"We have seen this before." Liam pressed his fingertips together.

Lost, Anna ran a hand though her hair. "Before my time."

"Afraid it was before mine too." Douglas wrinkled his brow. "By the way, will Doctor Smith be here?"

"No."

Dylan wondered why. "So when was this 'before' you're talking about?"

"1891," Jason said. "It was one of my first cases as an immortal. We had a series of killings, all of them poor, all black or immigrant women. The highblood involved considered himself an artist and someone doing a public service, preying on the those with 'low morals'. He even took out a few of our own, mostly revenants, the unwanted, and even the lucky ones who got though the madness." Jason had opted not to sit; instead he paced, reliving the memory as he spoke. "Undead society isn’t very different than human society. We have our elites. Demon and vampire or demon-vampire crossbreeds are on the top, everyone else is on the bottom. In the end, it all depends on how well you can blend in."

Dylan noted the anger in his voice. Jason was no stranger to racism and bigotry. And it looked like the undead brought it with them beyond the grave. "What happened?"

"As far as the League is concerned, deaths of the poor, blacks, immigrants, sex workers, ghouls and revenants are pest control. They spoke with him and he moved to Texas. If he had been one of us, he would have been executed."

The League didn’t sound any different than the government officials his father encountered. Dylan folded his arms. "So, same thing's happening here?"

"I can’t touch Keith. He’s now working with the League. Not only that, he’s investigating the case. He’s claimed upper Manhattan as his territory, including Harlem. Everything except for SoHo." Jason stopped pacing for a moment and shot a glance to Dylan. "Blackwell’s mortal kin are trying to buy out properties in the lower-rent districts including SoHo, Harlem and Greenwich Village. If they succeed, they’ll drive us out."

"Gentrification," Douglas said with distaste. "That’s all we need. We’ll have quite the battle ahead of us then, lads."

Dylan wasn’t familiar with the word. He scratched his neck and glanced at Anna hopefully, but she appeared to be lost in the discussion. He had no doubt she knew what gentrification meant.

"Why are they coming here?" Anna twirled a foot, and arched her toe up so it pointed to the ceiling. "Most of us here are artists trying to make a living. We’re not hurting anyone. In fact, we’ve done the exact opposite. Why buy us out?"

"You’ve improved the property, brought in profits, raised the value of the neighborhoods," Douglas said. "It’s only natural the bigger predators come in to gobble you all up."

"Territory grabs are common among our kind as well as mortals. This isn’t unusual. The Blackwell family is just attempting to make a statement to their European and Eastern cousins." Liam stood up and crossed the studio apartment. He lifted a shade and peered out at the city beyond. "The United States has been a battleground for two hundred years. It’s a young and powerful country, and for good or ill, the mortals here succeeded in breeding her own kind of immortal." He looked over to Anna and Douglas. "They are young, but they are independent and do not like their older, more established ancestors doing business on their hunting grounds."

"'Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed, to me: I lift my lamp beside the golden door,'" Dylan recited. He remembered memorizing that in grade school. "From what I understand, people came over here to be free of the East India Trading Company, as well as repressive governments and aristocracies. A man could work his way up from nothing in the United States. At least, that was the idea behind our Constitution." Despite everything he had gone though, Dylan still believed in the Constitution. Sure, people mucked it up, but the document meant something when it was written. "I don’t like the Blackwell family, certainly don’t like the influence they have on things, but I don’t blame them for not wanting to let in the ones who caused this mess in the first place."

"Just cause? They committed their own atrocities, Dylan." Liam’s voice was dangerously calm. “They came here to maintain slavery when the rest of the world was starting to abandon the practice. They invaded indigenous lands, enslaved and murdered indigenous people and destroyed their culture. The endeavor was disastrous for anyone who was not of Western decent.”

By the cold anger in his words, Dylan wondered if Liam identified with being indigenous. I suppose he would, if he’s old enough. Or is it something else? “Sir, why do they dislike the European Elders? And how did they make their own kind of immortal?”

"Alchemy was how, with the Franklin Formula, a Philosopher’s Stone. They believed they were protecting this country from the old world's vampires by becoming its immortal guardians. Why do they dislike the European Elders? It is difficult to gain status and immortality in the European courts. You must be born to royalty, or be related to one of their clans or a Faeish pet. But they were shortsighted, and followed quickly in their European brethren’s footsteps. They neglect most of our people by only paying attention to their own family lines and the industrialists who matter to them. In that, they created their own royalty. They wish to keep out the corruption of the ancients, but they are corrupt themselves.”

The mortal and immortal worlds reflected each other. Dylan closed his eyes and wondered about how many hunters were out culling innocent vampires, revenants and ghouls currently when the real villains sat in government buildings. “And where do you stand in all this?”

“I am my own person, Dylan.” Liam said. “I find my methods for keeping the European ancients out to be sufficient. I don’t need Blackwell’s assistance, nor do I approve of his depraved offspring. I want my city left alone, cull free, and my people at peace. "

The key words were my city. Liam meant those words.

"Opening up a dialogue with the family would be better than using a child against them," Douglas said firmly. "Even if he is a revenant, he’s mortal."

"He’s a hunter, and has a vested interest in this." Jason leaned against one of the white walls near a Cats poster. "Might even help cure him of his revenant problem."

Anna gave a sigh of annoyance. "There are other ways of doing this. And he’s my ward! I’m in charge of his welfare!"

"Then understand that as long as Keith Blackwell is alive, and the Redfangs are enforcers, your ward’s life will be in danger. Unless he proves himself to be more trouble than he’s worth." Liam abruptly turned from the window. "I am afraid this will not be simple for him. The League wants him dead, and I can only do so much to protect him. He’d not a child, he is a hunter."

As he spoke, the old vampire deliberately studied Anna with cold blue eyes. "You can only protect him for so long, Anna. He’ll have to fight for himself. You understand, as Douglas is so fond of reminding me, we are ultimately, like our human brethren, animals – competing for dominance and position. I have other things to concern myself with, like supporting the community I care for. They need medical care, education, youth programs, jobs, and job workshops. We need to rebuild and we can only do that by make sure the city elders are in line with Jason’ s and my vision.”

Dylan lifted a brow. He remembered what Jason told him. Liam was a warrior. He believed one had to prove themselves with a display of power. In the end, it was how vampire society was run. It was all about archaic ideals of honor and proving one’s power - if not economically, or by the elitism of blood, then by sheer physical might. Dylan had neither economic power, nor was he raised with royal blood. He did have tenacity and physical strength, and the willpower to push his way through just about anything. "What are you saying? They’ll just keep coming after me unless I do something to prove my worth?"

"More than worth, Dylan; you have to show them it’s more trouble for them to bother with you than they can afford. You are an outsider, you don’t need to play by our politics; Keith and his gang are fair game to you. You can use that to make a statement." Liam smiled thinly. Dylan knew the vampire was playing him. The young man felt like a pawn on a chessboard. "I am an old warrior; I understand honor and revenge, such things are easy for me to turn a blind eye towards, even to expect from a fellow warrior living in my territory. Especially if he is providing a just service for the protection of the charges in my community."

Keith’s victims. Dylan side glanced Jason. The man folded his arms, mocha features grim as he nodded. The cop was just as involved with the hunt, that much was obvious, but was as tied to the politics as Liam. "I can teach you everything I know," Jason told him.

"I am nae gonna just stand here while the two of ye ignore me!" the Scottish professor shouted as he lunged to his feet and waved a furious hand, his accent becoming overpowering. "Damn it, canna ye see, he’s a lad! I’m nae going to let the two of ye take him and toss him at those beasts! Can’t ye see he’s wrestling with his own demons? Ye dinna do this to revenants! Liam, you of all people understand this! That’s why ye started the Center! Use that cold unbeating heart of yours; I damn well know you're capable of it! Let the boy be a boy, and save his own soul following a path of peace!"

Frasier barely knew him, yet he had already decided Dylan was worth protecting from the darkness of the world around him. Was it even possible to protect someone like Dylan from men like Keith? How much did Douglas know about the dark forces lurking in the shadows?

Was it Dyl's job to cling to his humanity or help others to cling to theirs?

A brief glance at Liam told him that was exactly what the elder did. He made the same choices. He had started the Center not for the sake of his own humanity, but for others. He kept Jason and Douglas around because they grounded him, and he recognized Dylan had to make that choice on his own: to continue along the path of peace and humanity, or to protect those who needed to keep theirs - people like Minami, Anna, and Angelus.

"Professor, I can only fight my own demons if I face them," Dylan said as he turned to Jason. "It’s what I want, Professor Frasier; I’ve been a hunter since I was twelve. I was raised in a militia since I was eight; it's pretty much all I’ve ever known. I want to protect people."

"Dylan, don’t rush into this," Anna said, and gently took his hand into hers. "Sleep on it first, okay?"

"I don’t need to sleep on it, Anna. It’s all I’ve been thinking about for a month."

"Because you are a revenant!" Douglas snapped in a firm, scholarly tone. "It’s their curse, lad, revenge. The more you let it take you over, guide your choices, the more trapped by it you become!"

Before Dylan could respond, Douglas continued. "And ye’ve been hurt. You haven’t recovered! Now, I dinna know your story exactly, Dylan, but you’ve been in therapy, and you’ve fought hard to get let out. Don’t jump back into the fray!" He then turned to Liam. "If this is a Council meeting, I’m here to put in my vote, which is no, to this affair. Let the boy heal. He’s still alive, he has a chance to free himself."

"I don’t think this is a Council meeting." Anna snapped with annoyance. "Is it, Liam? You’ve already made up your mind on this one?"

"Yes, I have," Liam conceded, "but I thought it would only be fair if the two of you had your say about the child. It is his choice, after all." Dylan could see Anna wanted to say something cutting in response, but she didn't; maybe from respect, maybe just from seeing that it would be pointless.

The older vampire rose, then inclined his head to Jason. "I believe I have said all I need. Patrick," he said, clearly using what must have been Jason's original name, "send my affections to Kae and Minami. I look forward to their visit!" Looking back, he smiled at Douglas. A hint of softness filled his gaze when he looked at the professor. "I will see you at home, Douglas; we can discuss these matters later, if you wish." Carefully picking up the ale can, the vampire tossed it into a box next to the garbage bin. "Thank you for the Guinness, Anna."

With another curt incline of the head, Liam made his way to the door, and was gone. Yet his presence lingered long after he left, and Dylan found himself sitting back down heavily with a sigh of relief.

"Damn Celtic bastard," Douglas cursed. He swiveled his gaze to look accusingly at Jason. "You bloody well knew this all along, didn’t you?"

"I don’t tell him what to say to people, Doug. You’re the ones with the dysfunctional relationship. I just don’t insist the old man change his way to fit a kinder, fluffier new world. I got nothin' to do with it. We get along perfectly fine."

The Scott grumbled another curse, scratched his head and turned away.

"Can’t get too down in the dumps, Douglas; at least he left Dylan alive," Anna said, consolingly. "And we're no pushovers; Dylan's a smart lad. I'm sure he'll do what's good for his soul."

"With Liam's nephew encouraging him down the other path like a good little copper? No offence, Jason."

"None taken; but not all of us can be flower children, prof," Jason said with a sharp grin. The other man didn’t look amused.

"You don’t need to goad him into this!"

"No one is goading him into anything, Doug," Jason retorted. "You heard the kid. Some of us are just born warriors. You need to accept that."

Some people were just born warriors. Dylan understood Jason’s thinking. Anna and Douglas weren’t in his world. They didn’t understand. Anna was an artist, and Douglas, from the looks of it, was an academic dweeb, an ivory-tower idealist. "Listen to the man. No one is pushing me into anything," Dylan said firmly. "Jason is right. Some of us get to be born warriors, and sure as I'm Texan I’m one of them."

He turned to Anna. "—but I’m not going to rush into it, Anna. You and the Professor are right, there. Keith nearly killed me once. I want to bide my time, make some kind of peace with what happened. And I wanna learn all I can about fighting him, 'cause this is a fight I intend to win." He looked from face to face, noting the pain on Anna's features. She was listening, but neither she or Douglas liked his decision. "This is as much as my world now as it is yours; I can’t go back. And Liam is right too; I have no choice here, I have to make a statement. I’m here to stay and by God no one is gonna mess with me or my friends ever again!"

 

*******

 

"Dylan, any path toward violence will turn you into a revenant, even in life!" Anna said insistently. Both Douglas and Jason were gone, and it was just the two of them. "It's not the path you should be following, not if you want to save your soul."

It was still difficult to believe a living man could turn into a monster, but Dylan heard real concern in her voice, and she had to know more about this than him. "But if I succeed, then I'll be free, right? I'll have destroyed the thing that drives my vengeance. That's what makes you a revenant. Right?"

"If you don't die in the process." The young woman folded her arms and scrutinized him closely. "If you ask me, Dylan, you're being a fool. You have a life ahead of you. Let it go."

"Easy for you to say; you left your life behind on purpose – you told me that. It was taken from me, after I was fed a life of lies," Dylan snapped, feeling a surge of anger. He had made up his mind, after all. Counselor or not, Anna had no right to keep questioning what path he wanted to take. "Like I told you, I'm a warrior. Born one, raised one, and it's all I've ever been, really."

And he needed to protect her, but that was harder to explain. Dylan looked down at the smaller woman. He had failed to protect Bridget; he needed to make up for all his failures, and that meant he had a lot of making up to do.

"You're human, Dylan. You can't take on an awake vampire. I don't care what half-baked capper Jason's plotted out, hunter or not, you're delicate. "

She was right. He needed superpowers to take on Keith. He wondered what Jason and Liam had planned; he looked forward to the training they had mentioned. Dylan leaned his hip on the back of Anna's conch. "I trust that Jason knows what he's doing. He might have weapons and a strategy I can use."

"Liam picked you because you're dispensable to him, Dylan," she said, bluntly, and took his hand again. "Please, listen."

"I told you, I'm not rushing into this. I'm biding my time. And… maybe you're right about Liam, but sure as hell I'm not dispensable to Jason. Guy's a straight-arrow cop, right? Well, for him this is all about catching the bad guy, and taking some sucker and using him as, what, a distraction or bait? That'd make him the bad guy. Just not in him."

He saw her unwilling nod. He wished Anna could be happy with that, but he supposed he needed to give her more time to come to terms with it. It always took his mom time to come around. At least she wasn't arguing any more. Dylan squeezed her fingers gently. They were soft, and fit perfectly in his calloused hands. "I'll be okay, and honestly? I don't mind being dispensable. It's my job to protect people and this time, I'm protecting the right people, everyone, not just humans from the bad guys. And I'm stopping Keith from hurting babies."

The woman bit her lip. "You're impossible."

"Yup, that's me, Mr. Impossible. Stubborn as an ass." Dylan told her. "But you'll see, all that worry will be for nothing in the end, 'cause I'm taking it slow and easy. Even if it takes me years to master what Jason has to teach me, I'll take the years." He looked out into the night. "Because like they say, revenge is best served cold… and tempered like steel."

 

The post French Roast Apocalypse: Chapter 15 appeared first on Ryk E. Spoor, Author, Gamer, Geek God.

Demons of the Past: Revelation, Chapter 24

Varan had allowed Vick to do... something... to allow him to fool Shagrath... and apparently he wasn't even to know WHAT...

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Chapter 24.
Varan:

I focused my attention on the test bar. Of one piece with this test chamber's wall, the bar had embedded strain sensors to return data about how much force was exerted on it. As the chamber itself was completely sealed, only a window allowing a view inside, any force it registered would have to be delivered by psionic means. "How hard to you want me to pull?"

Not hard at first. Increase pull once I have calibrated my instruments and verified the readings. Speaking by mindvoice made Doctor Sooovickalassa's speech much easier to understand, but did nothing to remove the cold, vaguely hostile precision of his tone. It wasn't really personal – he seemed to have the same attitude towards Shagrath – but that didn't make it any more pleasant.

"Understood, Doctor." I had tried to get a little closer to the R'Thann scientist in the days since the process had first proved itself, but he wasn't a very companionable sort. Not surprising, I supposed; he was the only one of his species here, he might be contributing to the capabilities of the Empire that would quite possibly be attacking his homeworld, and – I suspected – he was slightly jealous of the fact that I now had more psi abilities than he did, when his species normally had them as a matter of course.

Back to work. I returned focus to the bar, visualized settling my hands around it and pulling very gently.

Excellent. Do not reduce or increase the pull. A few moments passed. Very well. Now increase the pull slowly until you reach your limit.

I took a breath and felt my body tensing as though I was actually trying to pull the bar. I'd found that I often had some physical association with my abilities, even nonphysical ones. I tended to close my eyes, when possible, to do telepathy, for instance. It seemed to help direct my focus, but I was trying to reduce that; it'd be a dead giveaway if I made it a habit.

Still, as I increased the force on the bar and felt its resistance building, I couldn't help but react by tensing myself. Just as an Exsheath system in a combat suit or fighter converts sensor readings like approach vectors and weapon discharge spikes into visuals of approaching fighters and sounds of airborne weapons firing, psionics apparently translated the indescribable sensations of psionic effort into some sensory analogue which the psi could easily understand – and probably for the same basic reason, though one was a deliberately engineered system and the other some quirk of evolution.

The bar was still almost immovable, but I thought I "felt" it give, just a tiny bit, and threw everything I had into one last pull that strained both mind and muscle before I relaxed. I was sure it felt like it bent that time. "How'd I do?"

Impressive. MOST impressive. The R'Thann's mental voice conveyed considerable surprise and gratification. You have actually bent the test bar slightly. Peak forces were… well, roughly equivalent to lifting a current-model Streetwing such as that which your friend Taelin drives.

I couldn't restrain a grin. "Too bad I couldn't demonstrate it without getting shot."

"Not quite true, Commander, not quite true," the cheerful voice of the Prime Monitor boomed out from behind me. "You just have to be very careful who you demonstrate it to."

"Sir!" I stood to attention.

He waved me back down. "Commander, I've told you before, no need to hold to the formalities, at least not at that level. You and I are working together in this; it is no longer a matter of my commanding a subordinate. In truth, there are some aspects in which we literally have no equals save each other."

I couldn't deny there was an element of truth in that. If what he and Doctor Sooovickalassa believed was true, I was a sane human psi, which made me only the second one known; the first one was, of course, Shagrath. There were definitely going to be areas that only we would understand fully. "Still…"

He laughed. "Yes, I know. You're an excellent Navy officer, Commander. But that must give way to, in this case, a higher calling. We are the only two who can truly save the Empire. You've seen some of the files on the R'Thann. They're a small, but growing, star nation, and quite formidable. Not our enemies, at least not yet. But if we encounter anything like them that's at all advanced…" Shagrath shook his head, light mood already darkened. "We barely keep the Zchorada at bay, and they are, compared to the R'Thann, at best moderately powerful and skilled in the use of their abilities. By human standards, the ability to form a mindshield at all is significant; Doctor Sooovickalassa can make one stronger than yours was, but by his people's standards he's a complete cripple – apparently he was exceedingly fortunate to be able to escape with exile." I felt the weight of his concern descending on him. I had gotten very sensitive over the past couple of weeks; I could now sense moods in people even when they were partially screened. "The Empire needs people like us – but tens, thousands, tens of thousands. But with the past knowledge against us, we cannot yet even speak out. We will have to do this all in secret."

"Can't we tell them the truth? Sir, there has to be a way. We've learned a way to make sane psionics, or so we believe. Can't a proper campaign of education –"

"Of course it can, Commander. But not quickly, nor easily. You are not a socioanalytic specialist, but I have a large number of them at my command. The overall analysis is quite clear: changing this reaction to the point that the public would accept – even reluctantly – a force of psionics in the Empire will take years – a generation, possibly more given that life-extension therapy prevents older individuals from leaving the picture as they would have a few thousand years ago. "

"So we have to work in secret even while building up numbers? Isn't that risky – to say the least?"

The smile he gave was wryly humorous. "Risky? An excellent word, Commander. A bit… mild, but a good choice. Risky indeed. And demanding, both of our vigilance and, to some extent, our consciences. You know the stakes, Commander. We cannot afford to be discovered. If, by mischance, someone discovers what we are doing here, you know what will happen."

I knew, all right. I remembered Taelin's cold look, and my own revulsion and hatred. It was hard to imagine a riot and lynching happening here, in the very core of Empire, but that was exactly what would follow if the public learned that two powerful human psionics were there, trying to hide some secret project.

"Indeed. And so, if by any mischance someone does discover us, or even begins to suspect us, we must prevent them from ever conveying that information. And, if possible, make sure they forget it."

"I can't do that," I said automatically, my stomach trying to turn over. He was talking about mindtwisting, like that Zchoradan monster had tried to do to me, and about doing it to our own people.

"Commander – Sasham – you must." He had removed his visor to rub his eyes, and looked up at me. The gleaming space-black eyes were surrounded with red, and under them were dark circles that the datavisor hid. "Don't you think I know how terrible that is? Do you have any idea how hard it is to do? Morally, I mean; in terms of effort, it's hardly anything for someone like you or me. I very nearly failed to establish this project at all, because I hesitated. The Emperor was fractions of a second from sounding the alarm when I stopped him and made him forget."

I felt my hand make a reflexive twitch towards a gun that wasn't there. My reaction was nearly as violent as the gunshot could have been. "You dared touch the EMPEROR?!"

     He shot to his feet, glaring at me, pain written across his face. "Yes, I did. And I would do it again. And I have nightmares about that, and about what it could mean that I would come to enjoy it too much. But I – and you – have no choice."

I glared back, my own powers just barely restrained by the fact that I knew he was a lot stronger than I was.

And as I forced myself to calm down, I knew he was right. The very laws we knew were against us. Not even the Emperor was immune to hysteria and emotional decisions. I might have to do the same… or end up dead and leaving the Empire undefended against the threats that were undoubtedly out there. The sacred rights of all the Empire, versus the sacred rights of a few people who could learn too much and destroy all chance… it was a rotten choice. But it was also a pretty sinking clear choice. I sat down slowly. "Sorry, sir."

"Forgotten," he said, tired but with a faint, sad smile. "As I said before, I was looking for a very specific sort of person for this project. Anyone worthy of the responsibility would have to have responded in that fashion." He looked up. "Apologies, Doctor, we've rather thrown off your tests."

"Notified I be, starting for ready when you are," the R'Thann said shortly. We have much to do and your incomprehensible difficulties about doing what is obviously the most rational actions for your people are wasting your time and mine. But it is you that have more at stake. His mindvoice amplified.

"Quite so," Shagrath agreed. "Well, Commander…?"

 

 

 

The post Demons of the Past: Revelation, Chapter 24 appeared first on Ryk E. Spoor, Author, Gamer, Geek God.

Demons of the Past: Revelation, Chapter 23

Sasham Varan had a really big problem...

(this chapter is crucial for understanding what happens to Varan over the next few chapters)

-----

 

Chapter 23.
Varan:

"Evaluation you ready for are," Dr. Sooovickalassa said.

That was, in a way, a relief. The past few days had been filled with hidden tension – tension mostly on my part, but I sensed there was some for the R'Thann exile as well. Given the conversation I'd partly overheard, I wasn't surprised. Failure to produce the desired results and an inclination to arguing was something that the monster called Shagrath probably didn't tolerate well, and even if he had to keep playing a human role, there wasn't much doubt that Sooovickalassa's career and possibly life were entirely in Shagrath's hands.

Still, since I didn't know what effect these tests might have, I couldn't help but look nervously at the "evaluation tank". It was a sort of ovoid shell which opened on each narrow end to reveal a seat, surrounded by probes and sensors and other less identifiable contact elements. "What exactly are we going to evaluate today?"

"Stability, control, focus baseline telepathic today evaluated," the scaly doctor replied. Someday I might figure out the exact rules by which he selected the words, but I suspected I'd never quite get it perfect. Waving in a grand gesture at the evaluation tank, Dr. Sooovickalassa went on to explain that the tank was designed to create total isolation of the target mind and the evaluating mind, permitting measurement of the specific actions taken by the target and their resulting effects on the evaluator and the target. It also protected the evaluator from attempted attacks or other possible hostile actions, based on parameters set by the evaluator. There was also a simple external monitor with an automated trigger in case of certain events – for example, Dr. Sooovickalassa said in a tone that indicated it was possibly a warning as well as a description, it was relatively easy to detect the pattern of an attempt to control the evaluator, and this would trigger a full area psiscreen, an alarm, and possibly worse depending on the exact event.

"I see. So if the treatment had rendered me insane and I tried to grab hold of your mind to make sure you wouldn't give me away… I'd give myself away."

"Understand situation good to see do you," he affirmed. "We begin shall."

I sat down in the target seat, seeing Dr. Sooovickalassa disappear into the other end of the ovoid. Shagrath had already left; while the tank's shielding should prevent interference, both the Prime Monitor and the scientist wanted to take as few risks as possible. The sensor array descended gently, molding itself to my body, and everything went dark. Then Dr. Sooovickalassa spoke in my ear, obviously through a microphone arrangement, and instructed me to slowly open my barriers and check to see if I could hear anything but his thoughts.

Cautiously, I did as he said. Silence. I could sense Sooovickalassa's presence, but he had his own mindshield up – apparently he could at least manage that much psionic ability – and so his existence introduced only an incomprehensible whisper into what was otherwise dead mental silence. None of the uncountable voices I would hear when I dropped my defenses. "Nothing. I barely hear your own mind's presence. You have a shield?"

A cripple I may be, but not dead. Of course I have a shield.

If I hadn't been restrained by about six tons of machinery around me, I probably would've jumped a meter into the air. The voice had spoken in my head, sounding in tone quite like Doctor Sooovickalassa, but with perfect enunciation… and grammar, for that matter.

Of course. You are "hearing" my thoughts. Thoughts, concepts, interconnected structures of idea/action/fact. There was an undercurrent of slight amusement. As you receive these directly, they are interpreted by your mind in whatever way makes most sense to you.

You heard me?

That is the purpose of this procedure, is it not? To test your abilities and to evaluate your reactions. An impression of a deliberate smile. Being more experienced than you, I can also sense many minor impressions that you would not. For instance, your thoughtform of myself encapsulates everything from my appearance to my name – a name which you find unwieldy.

Well, I wouldn't have put it – I answered, while realizing the potential danger if he could read stuff from me that I didn't know I was sending.

Obviously. Your concept of courtesy, in this case, is reasonable, though many of your people's behaviors are possibly counter to logic. I take no offense. Indeed, select a shorter version of my name for spoken conversation, if you wish; I will then be less formal in my address of you.

All right. Let me think about that for a minute. You can hear stuff I'm not sending you?

Not exactly. Not if I refrain from probing. It is more that I can extract more information than you think from what you show me. Thoughts leave impressions on thoughts. Few thoughts are simple and direct; they are usually combined with many others. You can filter out direct components and large thought-concepts, but smaller pieces and components of the large ideas you send must of necessity come through.

     I sealed myself back inside my mindshield. I needed to think for a minute. The R'Thann would be watching me more than anyone else – even Shagrath. Shagrath had, at least, told some clear truths, and one of those was that he had a hundred other responsibilities and demands on his time, no matter what his ultimate purpose actually was. Sooovickalassa, on the other hand, had no other purpose outside of this project. He could be the single greatest danger I would have to deal with… or, possibly, the only ally I had. To give me a little more time, I opened for a second. Thinking about your name. It may be a bit short, but how about "Vick"? From the middle portion of your name?

A bit… short? Yes. Let me consider for a moment.

     That gave me a few more seconds to consider the possibility that had suddenly presented itself. It was a sinking risky idea, but his reactions during that conversation I'd accidentally overheard might indicate that he had some scruples, and he was certainly being bullied. I heard him speak over the intercom, ignored it for a moment, realized that it had been an acceptance of the name "Vick" which he'd tried to convey to me mentally, but since I was so tightly shielded, he couldn't. And he was now asking that I open up. "Just one minute, Vick," I said. "I'm just getting myself set for the process. Mind-talking was… pretty strange to me."

It suddenly dawned on me that I could possibly solve two problems with one answer – find out if he could be an ally, and verify – for my own relative peace of mind – that what I had experienced was, in fact, real, and not a delusion. I took a deep breath and then sent out a mental question. I don't hear anything from external thoughts in here. Would that be true outside, or is this a one-way shield?

     Both ways. No one-way shielding possible from simple mechanisms. Intelligent psionics can manage such things, but not devices.

     So if I was standing outside, I couldn't hear your thoughts at all?

     Correct. Not without either shutting the tank systems down, or being a powerful enough psionic to smash through the shielding – something which would be very obvious both to those you were trying to read, and to the mechanisms themselves. Now, shall we proceed?

     Just a couple more questions, Vick. Is it possible that I would have been receptive to thoughts at certain points during the process, if I had been conscious? Or was this a situation where the capability would only emerge at the end?

     I felt slight puzzlement and a moment of thought. Certainly possible, if you became conscious. The process is progressive and may at any point have triggered certain abilities.

     All right then; you did mention originally that I would probably be unconscious for most of the procedure. Is it possible that I could have become conscious for a short period in the middle of the experiment?

     Why?

     Just tell me.

     Vick hesitated. I felt a solidification of the shield, a feeling of great caution. Yes… yes, it is. To monitor the progress of much of the work, you must be very close to consciousness, in fact, because I must observe the behavior of your mind at many points.

     From your readings, could you confirm or deny whether at any point during the process I did, indeed, gain consciousness, even for a few moments?

     The R'Thann's shield went entirely opaque; I was alone in silence as complete as that of a tomb. I was suddenly aware of how entirely at his mercy I was; this machine could be a tomb for me, if he wanted. What seemed like many minutes crawled by sluggishly. Then, You believe you did awaken at some point, and you want me to verify it. Is this correct?

No point in performing a triple orbit when I could just come straight in. Yes. If there were no points during the time you performed the procedure that you might have been distracted, then I would presume you would already know.

Let us assume that, in fact, there is evidence you may have reached a state of consciousness at a point in the procedure.

     Now here was where things were really going to get interesting. If I were to say that I overheard a conversation between you and the Prime Monitor during that time, would that also be possible?

     Very warily, Possible.

If such a conversation had taken place, would it be possible to reasonably characterize that conversation as… heated?

His shield was so tight that literally nothing leaked through this time except the word-thought. If it was…?

If it was, I would be curious as to whether your reluctance stemmed from purely scientific caution, or whether you actually concerned yourself with my welfare.

A long pause. Few are the things that are, in themselves, worthwhile. The essence of a thinking being is one of them. I would not destroy one lightly, especially one who has passed his Testing as you have. The word "Testing" carried with it a thousand overtones that I couldn't sort out – it seemed as fraught with import and emotion for Sooovickalassa as the word "Fall" would have for me. I have seen many destroyed of late.

Is it possible to show to someone something you perceived while receiving such thoughts as I would have been in this theoretical state?

     Certainly.

Can such things be fabricated – that is, if I were to show you something I had perceived, could I be lying?

I felt him think for a moment. Yes, and also no, he answered finally. It is difficult, but possible, for a skilled telepath to project a sensation that they did not, actually, perceive. However, this requires great skill and practice. You have – for several reasons – considerable inherent talent and some instinctive skill, but it is quite impossible for you to be creating convincing fabrications now, or at any time in the near future.

I hesitated. But I'd come this far, and, now that I'd done enough of this telepathic interchange, I realized that the chances that I could conceal a secret from Vick during long and careful examination and experimentation were very low anyway. Time to find out whether the pistol's charged or not. Then let me pass from theory to fact. I would like to have your opinion on something I perceived for a moment during the process. It has been very upsetting to me and I need someone to verify what I think I saw.

Now I felt a real flicker of worry that momentarily flared through the shield. But there was also curiosity, and perhaps something else lurking in the background. Very well. Show me.

I carefully focused on that day, and then released at full force the impressions I'd gotten in that single splintered moment when Shagrath's rage had screamed silently in my head.

The R'Thann's mind vanished immediately. I knew he must have disconnected, and when no corresponding release came for me, I began to panic. He must be calling Shagrath. I tried to move, but there wasn't a millimeter's give in this comfortable multiton prison. Discipline was again my only comfort; I slowed my breathing, which had begun to go ragged as I felt the walls of this high-tech tomb closing in on me, and methodically stepped my way, this time, through each of the Visions and Centers. There wasn't anything else I could do; my newly-created psi abilities were contained, and even if I could manage to activate them, I didn't know enough about the designs to know how I could safely inactivate or unlock the chamber.

Then I felt the presence return. I must apologize. My reaction to that… impression was sufficient to cause the system to interpret it as my being under some form of attack and ejected me from the system. Fortunate for us both, I think, that I had inactivated the external alerts when our conversation proceeded to certain subjects. That was the mind of Shagrath?

Inexpressible relief washed through me. Yes. I know so little of these things – I thought perhaps that was just a matter of seeing the base impulses within someone.

An impression of a violent gesture of negation. Such impulses are intertwined with what we are, true, but they are thus of necessity always accompanied by controlling impulses, unless released. The fact that I did not die in that instant shows that the latter is not the case. Thoughts flying back and forth in his mind, too fast to follow. I had suspected something was wrong, based on certain facts which my studies on psi abilities had shown me, but I had no actual evidence to show that it was Shagrath who was the problem. And this is, of course, only evidence to another psionic, which is utterly useless in your crippled Empire.

I couldn't restrain my inherent reaction. What do you mean, "crippled"? We're the most powerful force in the Galaxy, as far as I know.

In terms of technological power and resources, yes. But as Shagrath's stated purpose in the project already emphasizes, you are severely crippled against forces which use psi. And that is a much larger factor than you currently comprehend. A waving of a mental hand. Irrelevant now. We have already been fortunate that he did not sense the truth. There is no possibility that he will not be able to do so later in the project. Part of your training will involve sparring with another psionic, and obviously he is one of the foremost trainers in this area. So far you have managed to avoid detection partly due to great luck, and partly due to the templates and built-in reactions constructed in your mind during the process.

Templates? What do you mean?

Vick explained that a normal psi grew up with the abilities, had them develop within them naturally, and in most species was raised with people who would help him learn how to control and direct them. This usually happened during the species' growth, during their equivalent of adolescence. As I was well past adolescence (though, due to life-extension therapy, not all that far past it) and had lacked both power and education in the field for my entire life, he had felt it appropriate to impress some equivalents upon my instinctive and biological reactions. This he did based both on his studies of human psi powers and on his extensive knowledge of R'Thann abilities. Some of those, he continued, may turn out to be the most useful of any you have gained. I was unsure earlier as to whether any of that would transfer successfully or not, but it appears that it will, and does. I look forward to observing how much of it really functions; how well will an alien soul learn the Way of the R'Thann?

     Scientific curiosity is rather damped in me at the moment, due to a concern that Shagrath seems certain to discover I know what he is. That triggered a ripple of something that could only be amusement. It suddenly occurred to me that there was a different feel to his mind than my own, yet it felt oddly familiar… similar to that cool, alien presence that had appeared on occasion to force/guide my use of certain abilities. That's your "templates", isn't it?

An affirmation. Correct. The ones most strongly derived from my people. You should be aware, however, that they would do you little good without your own inherent discipline. That was clearly what saved you from the Zchorada attack.

Nice to know they were of use. But you say I won't be able to fool Shagrath, even with practice?

     Grimness. We would truly be fools to think we could. Perhaps with a very large amount of practice. But we have no knowledge, even, of exactly what he is, the full extent of his powers, his actual age and experience, or what talents he may possess that we have never encountered before. Once the two of you meet mind-to-mind in some conflict, he will know what you are hiding, or at the least that you are hiding something… and he will then make sure he knows what that something is.

Torline's SWORDS! Then it looks like my only hope is to escape. Really fast.

The R'thann scientist seemed to laugh humorlessly. Escape? From the most secure facility in your Empire? When all that Shagrath needs to do is say something about you being a psi in order to turn every word you say to dust? You have no vessel of your own, no allies save myself within thousands of light-years, and – at a generous estimate – would at best have perhaps ten to twelve hours between even the most clever attempt at escape and the sounding of the alarm. Sooovickalassa was thinking furiously. No… escape, at least of the simple sort, is not possible.

I was at a loss. I couldn't just submit meekly to the testing until such time as I had to face Shagrath and then get shot or brain blasted or however he decided to finish me off. But what Vick said made too much sense. At first I'd wanted to respond that I did have other allies, like Taelin and his family… but I remembered that cold look in Taelin's eyes when he mentioned what might happen if he had thought I was actually a psi. Maybe I would be able to talk to Taelin, under the right circumstances, but the instinctive reaction from him or anyone else would be to shoot me or turn me in. Then what in the name of the Fall can I do? There has to be something. There has to be. Sinking hells, I'm Mada, Navy, I swore to serve the Empire to my death, I can't just sit here and let that monster destroy it, or worse, somehow make me help him do it!

For long minutes, Vick said nothing, either vocally or mind-to-mind, and I had nothing more to say.

Then, quietly, his mindvoice spoke again. There is a way.

There is? Tell me!

It is of course dangerous. And in a way, far worse than dangerous for you.

I grimaced at that. How can it be "more than dangerous"?

     It will demand a great deal from you that no other course of action would. I could feel cold calculation combined with a sense of grim certainty; whatever it was, Vick knew it would be hard, but felt it was the only way.

What will it demand?

Suddenly, I saw into the R'Thann's mind. A flicker, that he permitted me, to make me understand what he was. The Testing, yes, a species that saw every aspect of life as a test for worthiness; a mind that was undoubtedly smarter than mine, larger, coldly calculating yet filled with a resolve of purpose that made my dedication to the Empire look positively weak by comparison – though I could not quite make out the entirety of his purpose. What I could see, though, was that he was at that moment being deadly honest with me. It demands that you place everything – your life, your mind, and your very soul – in my hands. Willingly. Without reservation, without fight, without any control whatsoever over what I will have to do. And even then, I have no absolute guarantees. I will still be the weak point, one who could at any time give you away.

I took a deep breath. Tell me what I have to do.

He did, and as he explained I realized – with a sick shock of absolute conviction – that he was completely right. This really was the only way I'd ever escape. But that I would never know if it succeeded until it was all over. I realized Vick had stopped explaining long minutes before. My mouth was dry and I felt my stomach trying to rebel against the very thought of what was being asked of me. Trust him? He was an exile who was working with people who might soon be making war on his own species! But I remembered Diorre, and Taelin, and even Zakhla, and how those were just three faces of the countless trillions that made up the Empire. Did I have the courage of my oath, to face something that terrified me – that I'd already fought so hard to avoid? THIS is your Test, a cold alien thought whispered through me, but not from Vick; this was from whatever part of his people he'd made a part of me. It was a part of me, too. I didn't know or understand their philosophy, but that essential question made sense. Sometimes it's a single choice that defines who and what you are, and that's the Test.

I swallowed, feeling painful dryness in my throat. All right. By the Seven Towers, let that be the right decision. How long will this take?

Either it will be done by the end of the next few testing sessions – before you begin training with Shagrath – or it will never be done well enough. So… soon. Then, with a sincere feeling of empathy which, more than anything else, convinced me that I had, indeed, chosen well: And I thank you, Commander Sasham Varan of the Imperial Mada, for placing this trust in me. By the Choice of the Past and the Testing of the Present and the Ascension, I promise that I shall prove worthy of that trust… a trust that I, perhaps, might not have been able to give myself. I felt odd adjustments starting in the screening field around me. So … we begin.

The post Demons of the Past: Revelation, Chapter 23 appeared first on Ryk E. Spoor, Author, Gamer, Geek God.

French Roast Apocalypse: Chapter 14

We had a different point of view at the beginning; it's time to start finding out what happened to him...

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Chapter 14.

Dublin, Ireland, 2010

Pitch darkness, tempered only with the whirl and thunder of sea against shore. Cool salty air kissed his cheeks. He wasn’t sure where he was as he came to himself, only that he was floating in dark, and arms held him tight as he was gently carried.

His head ached when he moved it, and there was an emptiness inside of him he couldn’t explain. Fingers touched his head as the hold on him shifted, followed by the deep wooden creaking of a door.

"He is alive?" It was a deep, sophisticated voice that he should have recognized, because it sent terror rippling through him; but for the moment he could not put a name or face to the sound, only the fear.

"He is stronger than you thought," the voice of the man holding him replied; that voice too held the accent of nobility, of high station. He felt the arms around him tighten. "It seems the brat is more resilient than we would have believed."

Who was this? He couldn’t place the name. He couldn’t place his own name. He tried to open his eyes, to at least get faces to put to the voices, but they would not open, not even a flicker. In fact, to his horror, he realized he couldn’t command his own body to move at all. It hurt – everything hurt, and the fire in his mind just grew hotter and more intense when he thought about it.

"The council will look here. He is a weapon and we promised he would die." Footsteps. The comforting scent of the sea vanished and was replaced by the smell of jasmine.

"They would be foolish to try to take him."

There was a long pause. "Still, they may. Let us put him in his father’s tower."

"A prison?"

"A fitting place for him, is it not?" The deep voice resonated around him, and the boy struggled to place it, but nothing came.

Why couldn’t he remember anything? Who was he? Where was he? What had he done to deserve a prison? The burning in his brain grew, and the boy felt his body convulse as flash of images flooded his mind. Voices, thousands of voices screaming in his head, and one, very loud all-consuming dark voice echoed in the well of his soul its insubstantial claws tearing at him. "To hell with you, boy! To hell itself!"

Keenan twitched and howled in anguish, his voice thin and hoarse; but his eyes finally flared open to dim candlelight.

The room jostled, and colors blurred as he was laid on a sofa. The hawk-like features of an olive-skinned man leaned over him, and hands curled around his head as he trembled and thrashed. "Keenan ! Keenan! Still yourself, brat! I, your master, command it!"

The voice bored into his brain… and that was not just a figure of speech, not just an illusion. Keenan felt something worming its way into his mind. He struggled more, terror building with his pain.

The screams grew louder and he saw them: faces, so many faces, children, women, men, old and young, all twisted in agony and horror. The horror dissolved into laughter, a chorus of voices laughing hungrily.

"BOY!"

His master’s voice once more shouted above the din, and this time he focused. The face, the red eyes, the long dark hair, Keenan felt his heart thud against his chest. His head swam as he struggled to recall the man’s name, and his lips trembled.

The hand in his hair stroked back the blue locks from his face. "Good boy, broken, yes, you are broken, but you are still with me." The vampire smiled thinly. He glanced over to the other man. "His mind has been shattered, but he is aware now."

"Put him to sleep, then. Perhaps we can use this to our advantage," a tall, massive man said from over the other’s shoulder; his skin seemed to be of a different shade than anything human should have. Was it red? "We shall tell them he lost control; the operation was a success but, after all, he was unable to withstand the strain. To an extent, that will even be true. They will accept this, and his death will satisfy their need for compensation."

Fear filled him, and Keenan struggled to move; but the hand in his hair tingled as it tickled the base of his skull and massaged behind his ear. The fear began to ebb away; the boy settled back against the fingers. He felt his eyes droop. It was then he became aware of the voice was still in his head. They can’t hurt you now, I’m here, you foolish little prat. I’ll take good care of you.

"He is mine, and I do not wish to toss such a useful tool to the sharks," the vampire snapped. "We will find another answer." He gently stroked Keenan’s hair. "Keenan, you’ve pleased me. I promised you would be rewarded, didn’t I?"

Keenan remembered no promises. All he could do was stare in those crimson eyes and drown in their depths. They were beautiful like the man, and Keenan knew at once he was devoted to this … vampire. Yet there was something else there; anger? hatred? He couldn’t be sure; yet why would he hate someone who was so kind to him? He strained though the pain, and tried to speak, but nothing but soundless air whispered from his lips. The man’s arms lifted him from the sofa and cradled him close.

"You are fond enough of the little child that you will disobey a direct order?" The other older man asked sternly. He didn’t sound pleased at all.

The boy’s eyes fell shut. He was unable to keep them open now. He was too tired and weak, and the pounding of his head lured him into the dark reaches of his own mind.

"See it as you will, but it is not mere fondness. He is irreplaceable, and you know this. If and when he recovers, the boy belongs to me. I will deal with the consequences if I must, but he is mine."

Vaguely, Keenan grasped at the words, tried to understand them, to remember. He belonged to this man. He was something for others to possess. That was right. It felt… proper. He had a master: yet… the idea of not being free to go where he wished bothered him. Why was that? He was suddenly aware that his kind needed Masters; they killed without someone to control and direct them.

The voices in his head were a distant murmur and he felt the pull of sleep tug at his brain. He would worry about these things later. For now, he felt safe. His master would make sure nothing happened to him while he slept.

 

 

 

 

 

The post French Roast Apocalypse: Chapter 14 appeared first on Ryk E. Spoor, Author, Gamer, Geek God.

Demons of the Past: Revelation, Chapter 22

There was another point of view or two in this book, wasn't there?

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Chapter 22.
Taelin:

He wandered the halls of the Mel'Tasne estate, not quite sure where he was going. Treyuusei was off at the Dellitamas, since their vacation had been put on indefinite hold – the only thing I really hold against Sash, but it was hardly his fault – and now Varan himself was no longer available. Wonder what the hell they've been doing to him. He was so secretive, it was like they'd put a vacuum-seal on his mouth. That worried Taelin; it wasn't so much the secrecy, which Sasham had basically said was required; it was the worry that Sash couldn't really hide. There was something really dangerous or frightening involved and that wasn't usually the kind of thing that affected Sash. Sasham Varan didn't run from things that scared other people; he met them head on and broke them, even when it should be the other way around.

And if he didn't, I'd be a dead man. Taelin shuddered, realizing one of the reasons he was awake: that scene was waiting behind sleep, waiting to spring out at him as though it was happening again. Rather than fight it, Taelin let the memory wash over him, hoping this would let the tension be released…

The tiny dome-tent, warm inside yet chill with the knowledge of the howling storm outside and above. Trying to rest, the keening wind a constant that might lull you to sleep elsewhere, but here keeping you on the edge of consciousness, as Taelin tried to prepare his mind for what he hoped would be the last day of Arctic Survival here on the ice plains of the northern reaches of Wyllas, one of the Guardsmen training worlds. Just a few more kilometers to make it back to base…

Then Varan's shout in his ear, over the communicator link that they shared despite being perhaps half a kilometer apart. "Taelin! TAELIN! Wake up!"

The wind held a new note, a rising and falling shriek that was growing louder by the moment. His sleep-fogged brain trying to understand, and sudden panic burning the fog away. "That… that's a windwailer!"

"It's not from my comm! That's yours, Taelin! Arm yourself and get out of –"

The shriek suddenly blotted out everything his friend was saying, and something out of nightmare rent the tough dome-tent as though it were paper, and in the fading last light of the illuminators he saw the bladed, grinding maw and screamed. Something struck him a double blow and he felt a stinging, felt the world start to fade around him.

Slow. Slow. Everything was slow. Light filtered in, a dim and chill light that seemed to draw the warmth from him. He tried to move, found his body was sluggish and almost incapable of movement… and it was held down, encased – now that he could force his eyes open – in what seemed to be layered ice. Then the full horror galvanized him, caused him to gasp within the mask that prevented the deadly cold of Wyllas from literally freezing his lungs.

A chittering shriek answered the gasp, and he saw, in the ice-tinted light, the huge jointed-legged windwailer turn slightly in his direction. This was its home, a shaped-ice palace many meters below the snow above, a lair to which it brought prey … and ate it alive. Taelin realized his communicator was dead, and fought against the rising terror, but he could see the scattered bones and exoskeletons of the thing's prior victims.

It moved towards him now, mouthparts working, multiple gem-blue eyes still steaming in the cold; a part of Taelin's mind, the rational part that was shrinking ever-smaller, remembered that the windwailer had a frighteningly efficient biological cooling system for its eyes, one that actually allowed it to chill the eyes drastically below even the temperatures found on Wyllas, making them almost as good at detecting heat and tracking prey from heat signatures as the best Imperial equipment.

And then the far wall exploded. Through the steam and broken ice, Sasham Varan stumbled, almost unable to stand after somehow tracking them through more than a kilometer of snow deep enough to swim in, Diorre Jearsen following him immediately behind.

The windwailer whirled on the intruders, screamed a challenge, and lunged. Exhausted as they were, Varan and Jearsen weren't able to get a good shot before the monster barrelled into them, smashing both into the wall like dolls. One of the main claws snatched up Varan, and the young Navy trainee struggled desperately against the windwailer as it tried to pull him into the grasping, crushing mouth. Jearsen had lost her sidearm and had no time to regain it; instead she leapt up and kicked one of the jointed legs hard, forcing the windwailer to half-drop Varan and kick out at the Guardsman novice, sending her spinning to the ground.

It readjusted its grip and tried to pull Varan in again, and Taelin saw Varan suddenly do something that looked insane: legs trembling, braced against either side of the windwailer's carapace bracketing the hideous mouth, Varan stripped off his right glove, exposing a hand that Taelin could now see was broken badly, part of a bone projecting from the back of Varan's hand… and then calmly, deliberately let the creature pull him down until he could suddenly jam that exposed hand into one of the windwailer's blue-gem eyes.

The eye shattered on contact with something hundreds of degrees warmer than itself, and the monster dropped Varan, screaming in agony and fury. But before it could recover, Jearsen fired, joined by Varan, unleashing rannai-fire into the thing until it collapsed, a burning ruin.

Taelin found his heart pounding again on the recollection. Well, that didn't work. I'm more awake now than ever. This wasn't good; he had a race on for tomorrow, and then he was scheduled to preside at an administrative meeting for the Greater and Lesser Family heads; such meetings required someone from one of the Five to preside, and everyone else had ducked out this time; that kind of watchdogging was the least-favorite responsibility of the Five.

Taelin noticed a light from a side room – one of the second kitchens. What's that doing on? Everyone's asleep. As I really should be, but can't.

Glancing in, he saw a familiar figure. "Lukhas?"

His brother raised an exhausted face. "Oh, hi, Taelin. What are you doing up, little brother?"

"Couldn’t sleep. Too many things bothering me. You finally home? You've been gone for days."

"Busy." Lukhas was eating leftover grittan roast from last night's dinner. "Can't sleep with Trey there?"

"She's not here, unfortunately. Borell had just gotten back from Fanabulax and he got a call, had to go running out again. Some kind of disaster. So Trey got stuck running things, since Wannana's also off to deal with some emergency on one of their other planets."

"Heh." His brother's laugh was tired. "Lot of that going around. Half the monitor corps got dragged out of bed or wherever they were a day or three ago, sent out to a couple border problems. I had to send Intelligence agents on every ship with them. Don't know exactly what it was all about yet, but initial reports for the first are a Ghek'nan outbreak."

"Chiss! Where?"

"Somewhere out towards Uralia. The rest of them might be headed for that planet Varan's lizard-type friend is from. Right general sector."

"Didn't the Controller go along with your idea for an expedition after what you told her about the Monitor working with one of those things secretly?"

Lukh nodded, taking another bite. "Yeah, but the mission would barely have gotten there by now, even if they got all the breaks along the way. Whatever trouble there is started before that." Taelin noticed dark circles under his brother's eyes.

"Hey," he said slowly, "you haven't been sleeping at all, have you?"

"Noticed that, did you? Yeah, the Controller herself had to ship out to oversee some of the action. Wasn't going to let the Monitors run the whole show."

"Lukhas, it’s not going to do anyone any good for you to collapse. You're not going back in until you get some rest."

"You're sounding like Dad used to. Sorry, kid, but I've got things that've got to get done –"

"Don't make me wake up Mishel."

"You wouldn't dare." A pause. "You would. Okay, I surrender. But only on the condition that you get to bed right now, too. You might just get a few hours of sleep before your race."

"Okay." He almost fell for that one. He stopped just before he left the doorway, then turned. "Oh, and Lukh – no going to bed and getting up after five minutes once you're sure I'm asleep. You sinking well better be still sleeping when I leave."

"You are getting just a little too smart for me these days. Okay, promise."

"Good." Taelin noticed, with some satisfaction, that he did feel tired. Doing something – even the small task of getting his overachieving brother to take the rest he needed – really helped.

Maybe he could sleep now.

The post Demons of the Past: Revelation, Chapter 22 appeared first on Ryk E. Spoor, Author, Gamer, Geek God.

French Roast Apocalypse: Chapter 13

Dylan and Angie had been rescued in just the nick of time...

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Chapter 13.

New York City, 2010

"What the hell was that?" At least, that was what Dylan tried to say. But the sounds were barely recognizable as words, accompanied by a splutter of thick crimson-black blood. Dylan struggled to pull himself to his hands and knees, but his body refused to listen. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Angelus rolling the kid to his lap, and Jason quickly running over to them.

The unknown boy’s chest and belly were slashed and he was bathed in his own gore. His dark features were overlaid by a deathly pallor, his thick kinky curls hung into half-open eyes. He couldn’t be more than fifteen or so; Dylan was surprised he was still alive.

The pistol was still clenched in one hand, and the bloodied fingers of the other seized Angelus' arm. "Se los mató! La bestia! Debe matado! Para mis amigos!"

"I got him, Jason. Get Dylan," Angelus said, looking over to the cop. To the boy, "it’s okay, kid, I’m here, I got you! You did good, it’s gone."

What happened next was a blur. Angelus, his blood and that of the kid all mixed in a hideous mess. Jason, letting Angelus take from one of his veins before helping the two to his car. Sensations of someone carrying him, and his own inability to make his body do anything useful. Dylan remembered Angelus talking to him as paramedics loaded him on a gurney. Across from him, the boy was also laid on one with a bloody blanket over him. The child hadn’t moved or spoken since the one outburst of Spanish.

After taking the blood from Jason, Angelus looked okay, but was unsteady on his feet and like the boy and Dylan ended up being loaded into the ambulance, with two attendants whose features were shadowy.

“I’ll follow in my patrol car.” A voice, Jason’s voice, said from the threatening darkness.

His mind wandered, and he suddenly wondered if Jason had remembered to arrange for his truck to be moved back to the café. The last thing he needed was to get the thing towed; New York City fines were hell.

Of course, you had to live through everything first before the fines would matter. The world seemed to want to just gray out on him, and it took an effort to shake that feeling off.

Angelus’s attention was on the body of the boy as the ambulance attendant set up an IV. “Shashar, I gave him some of my blood, but he’s bleeding a lot.” The vampire’s voice was vexed.

“IV will help boost the regeneration, if he’s going to heal.” Said the voice belonging to a darkening brown face. Shashar, Dylan seemed to recall the name belonging to one of the hospital’s emergency paramedics.

“Sit down, Angie.” A bulky form eased the injured vampire back from the boy and took its place at the boy’s side. The was the living and they always took precedence over the undead the man’s face leaned low, listening and sniffing. “His vitals’ are dropping.”

Even in his weakened condition, the revenant smelled the stench of death in the air. Angelus’s mahogany face paled as he craned his neck to see over the paramedics told him everything he need. “No! He can’t die! The kid has a mother! His dad just died in Iraq last month! Damn it! She needs him!”

The world vanished on his words, just as Shashar removed paddles and pads from the jostling ambulance walls.

"Dude, don’t be a hypocrite and die. You promised Skeletor’s pooch we’d come back and break it! I’m keeping that promise, bro! You better fuckin' keep yours!" The voice shifted. "You are fucked up! You’d make a Ghoulie Girl centerfold for hottie of the year! But this isn’t enough to take you out, bro. I’ve seen your blackened bones before, this should be easy to regenerate!”

Conscious slowly returned with the realization that it was Angelus’ voice. His friend sat grimly at his side. The boy on the gurney next to him was still covered with a sheet, and his IV was still hooked up. His chest wasn’t moving.

The Ambulance lurched around a corner. Dylan wanted to tell his friend he appreciated the pep talk, and that Angelus tried his best to save the kid but he couldn’t even speak; was his jaw even attached?

"Hey? Rufus! I think we’re losing Dyl! He’s all gray! Why is he gray? Why isn't he moving? I thought revenants got all bloodthirsty and attacked when they got this far down! He shouldn’t be dying!"

Angelus’s voice was strangely calm.

Rufus, that’s the big guy. Why couldn’t I sense skinchanger?

I'll be fine, part of him tried to say, but nothing came out. But he was sure it was true. Anna’s vampire blood coursed through his veins. He wasn’t an ordinary revenant. He was something different, something far more monstrous. That overgrown dog couldn't kill him. Why was everything fading in and out?

“You can’t die, you dumbass!” Angelus grabbed his shoulders roughly. “You’re a disorganized micromanaging asshole, Louis, Filipe and Qui would never be able to sort through the Cafe’s paperwork without you!”

He was exaggerating. Louis understood the books better than anyone. He had 200 years' worth of accounting experience. They were meticulously disorganized in a cluttered mess both men understood. Especially Louis, as the musician was also a pen and paper accounting genius who once said, “Computers were for kids who couldn’t do basic sums.”

The panicked pleas faded away, and Dylan found the world shading over, receding into a cold murky nothingness.

Awareness sluggishly returned again in a glare of white fluorescent lights. He tried to move, but his body refused; he couldn’t feet it, it was numb, as if it didn’t exist at all. Voices blurred and echoed as if far away, and he saw Jason looking down at him saying something, but he couldn’t make out the words. Bunny was there too; she hurriedly hooked up an IV blood drip, and touched Jason’s arm.

Even his thoughts were muddled. What had happened? What was he doing here? He faintly recalled something about a barghest, Angelus, and a boy, but he couldn’t quite recall the details.

"Stay with me, kid, you can’t die on me yet," Jason was saying. "What would Anna say? Jesus, she’d kill me! I’m supposed to be looking out for you!"

The words him like an anvil. Looking out for him? He was supposed to be looking out for Angelus. Instead he'd brought the kid along on one of the most dangerous hunts he'd ever tried, and got Angelus and some kid with more balls than sense trashed against a barghest. The revenant winced, and Dylan strained, trying to see. All he could see was hall; his vampire friend was nowhere to be seen. "Angie?"

Another shift; he must have blacked out again. He was on a gurney. Rufus, a burly skinchanger nurse, helped Bunny run the bed down the hall. "Angie?" he repeated, the words still mangled by his nearly-ruined jaw.

"Doctor Smith is with him, he’s arranging transfusions," Bunny answered, as soothingly as though he'd been a child. "His mother is here too. He’ll be okay, Dylan, we’ve been through this before." Her hand touched his cheek. "But you – you’re a mess! It’s going to take time to patch you up."

She glanced behind her to the police officer. "Jason, you’re gonna have to wait outside," she said firmly. She and Rufus pushed the gurney into a glass walled operating room. "Ruf, if you could get the sutures and bandages ready, I’ll arrange an IV."

"My blood is better than the stuff in the bag." Jason said, pushing his way into the room. He rolled up his sleeve and pulled up the chair. "I’m older than you, Bunny, and he can’t donate." He nodded to Rufus.

Rufus glanced back momentarily as he placed bandages, suture threads on a stainless-steel tray. "Not unless you want to really change things up," he said with a touch of humor.

"Oh, very well," Bunny said, with a sort of fond exasperation. "Sit down then, Jason, while I prep you."

The room faded to gray again, and Dylan found he couldn’t open his eyelids. His body was shutting down again. Damn barghest, it had torn his spirit, ripped his soul, and his essence was leaking out, just like blood from a real wound. Jason was right; things like him needed more than just blood to heal soul injuries. If he couldn't find something… alive to feed on, he'd just lie there and fade away.

The world blackened again, and Dylan’s awareness only returned in spurts of brief intervals of light, fragments of sound and flashes of movement behind closed lids. Unlike earlier, though, the feeling in his limbs returned. He felt pain, all over, his chest, face, head, legs, gut, throbbed and pulsed. Even if he could move, the thought of doing so was instantly dismissed.

"You’ve given him what you can, Patrick," It was Doctor Smith’s voice; only he and Liam called Jason by his real name. "Susan wants to know what happened to Angelus. She is absolutely livid. I told her you’d be happy to explain things to her, since he’s your charge."

"How thoughtful of you, Doc." Jason said, voice dripping with sarcasm. The rustle of cloth was followed by a few footfalls. "They’ll be okay?"

"Angelus is young and quite strong; he will recover in time, as will his new child," Smith said. "I’m afraid I am not finished with Dylan yet; you will have to leave now." He heard his friend hesitate, then leave as another set of footsteps paused at the door.

Child? What the hell were they talking about? Dylan struggled to piece together the doctor’s words but couldn’t quite grasp what he meant. None of Angelus’s charges were with them that night; they were either with their parents, or living safely above the coffee house.

"Do you need my assistance?" Bunny asked politely.

"You’ve done all you could, my dear; I trust he won’t spring a leak," Doctor Smith said cheerfully. "We have things well under control now."

The woman’s footfalls tapped around the bed and vanished out the door.

We? What did he mean by we? How much time had he lost? Dylan struggled to open his eyes. It was an effort but the ceiling’s bright lights blinked into focus.

He gave a disgruntled hiss, and tried to move an arm to cover his eyes, but both pain and weakness kept it down.

"Oh, you’re awake! Your resilience is most impressive!" Doctor Smith’s delighted face appeared before him. Despite his pedestrian Western name, "Doctor Smith" was a dark-haired Englishman of Japanese descent, with glasses and a head of long dark hair pulled back in a long ponytail. He was dressed in a lab coat and a stylish yet out of date dark blue pinstriped silk Edwardian waistcoat and slacks. "Barghests are known to tear creatures like you apart; not much substance to most revenants from the point of view of a thing like that. But not you, no indeed!"

He straightened and glanced over his shoulder, the manic expression fading. "We made the right decision keeping him alive. He has provided infinite hours of entertainment."

"As you say, Smith." The soft footfalls of a tall dark-haired man made their way around the bed. Dylan didn’t need to focus to know who it was. He knew the voice. It was Liam.

"Your dedication to protecting upper Manhattan is admirable, revenant." As he spoke, the blue eyed, golden-chestnut skinned Celt leaned on the bed rail, his hands curling around it slowly, with the same deliberation Liam used in everything. "According to my friend Yoshi, you will not survive the evening. Perhaps, however, you will surprise us. You have in the past, but I do not like gambling with my knights. You’ve done well with the young people here."

Liam's presence brought back the thing that drove him most strongly. "Anna. Bring back Anna." The words were barely comprehensible through his broken jaw and battered lips, but he could tell Liam heard, and nodded.

"Anna was our first, you know. She was brought to me, and I adopted her, and the Center was born with her." As he spoke, he lowered the rail. "Finding her is important to me, Dylan. I know how important she is to you."

With careful deliberation Liam sat on the edge of the bed. He was dressed in a simple button-up shirt and jeans. The ancient vampire never seemed to care about impressions or displaying his wealth. The only thing he valued was strength, and there was never a time that Dylan could recall him showing weakness.

Doctor Smith turned away, a thin smile on his face. "I will leave this to you. Will you need any refills when you are finished?"

"I plan a trip to the opera with Douglas," Liam told him. "That should suffice."

The doctor nodded, and closed the door behind him. It was just Dylan and the old fossil.

He wanted to tell Liam he planned to go with him when they found Anna, but as he drew a breath to speak again, he became aware of the ancient vampire’s scent. He had only been this close to Liam once before, and that was when Liam had rescued him from his own rage, using his mental power to quiet the berserker and restore Dylan's mind.

He inhaled, fighting the rise of hunger. He thought of Filipe’s gazpacho, it was more his speed, after all, and civilized too. He didn’t want Liam’s blood; it would bind him to the older vampire. In most cases, that meant mindless slavery. That was the last thing he wanted with this old Celt.

"You have done much for my city." Liam said. He loosened a button on his sleeve and rolled it up. "In return, I shall offer you some of my life. It will heal you." He turned to face Dylan. "I have no intentions of using this against you."

With a fingernail, he slit his own wrist. It took all of Dylan’s willpower not to lunge at the arm in a berserk frenzy. The sweet iron nectar was overwhelming and his will ebbed. Different. He's not like the others, that smell, it's like nothing else.

The revenant stirred. He was starved, and needed flesh. Dylan’s eyes rolled and he felt his teeth sharpen. The pain hammered at his thoughts, and the revenant found himself forcing his weakened broken body up, reaching for the arm.

Liam lifted the limb to Dylan’s lips. Gently, he eased the revenant to rest against him. "You will have to wait for flesh, but I have made those arrangements as well. There are enough vermin in this city that will suit your needs. They… will not be missed."

Dylan barely heard or even understood the words. He let his teeth sink into the limb presented to him, and tore into it. Red, sweet bliss overwhelmed him as the revenant within took over.

 

The post French Roast Apocalypse: Chapter 13 appeared first on Ryk E. Spoor, Author, Gamer, Geek God.

Demons of the Past: Revelation, Chapter 21

Sasham Varan had apparently survived a very dangerous encounter...

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Chapter 21.
Varan:

I got away with it.

That thought was just about the only one in my head for a long time after Shagrath left. I could still barely believe it. A combination of luck, my newly-awakened powers, and – I was sinking sure – the fact that Shagrath suspected nothing was what had saved me. If he'd even wondered about what I thought enough to bother, the mind I'd felt brush me with its uttermost edge would have torn my barrier apart like smoke in a hurricane. Like a hunter watching a windwailer from a snow-blind, the only protection I had was that the creature didn't attempt to kill me.

In the first instant of discovery, my mind had gone almost totally blank, the barrier staying up only because, I guessed – and then confirmed to myself – because it was an active effort to change the state of one's psionics. You had to decide to shut off the barrier. That blankness of mind probably saved me; I didn't HAVE an immediate reaction based on what I knew Shagrath was, because the fact that he was psionic knocked even that horror out of my thoughts for a moment. And so it just happened to mimic exactly what Shagrath must have expected – the shock, surprise, fear, and revulsion were directed at him being a psionic.

Then High Center caught up with my thoughts and I managed to keep from panicking a second time over the thought of the monster I'd seen in Shagrath's thoughts possessed of psionic abilities. Was that how he managed to walk around as a human being? Shift his shape or maybe just hide his appearance, and use his unsuspected powers to cover up the telltale differences on things like physical examinations and psychological profiling and conditioning? If so… he must be almost unimaginably powerful, an ultrapsi for sure, to be able to get away with it even in places like this base where there would be many areas that had permanent or near-permanent psionic dampener fields.

His long, self-serving monologue – which, I had to grudgingly admit, would have convinced me before, no question – had given me time to work in. I'd noticed that my thoughts seemed faster, and I'd had what seemed to be a very long time to work on the idea I'd had just before Shagrath arrived – that I might be able to "sculpt" the externals of the shield to show what I wanted, rather than what was really there. That weird cold sensation had come back, sometimes feeling almost like a set of strings, or the guiderails on a transfer capsule, pushing me or pulling me in certain directions as I tried to figure out how to make a shield that would let through only what I wanted, keep in that which I had to hide. It was an eerie and not at all comforting sensation; it did seem to be getting me to the results I wanted, but what was doing it, and why? Was I programmed somehow – did Shagrath, maybe, have some kind of override command already set up? That would explain his apparent lack of concern about bothering to read my real thoughts. He didn't need to. If I turned on him, he had a Tower still ready to play in this game.

Regardless, I'd followed that enigmatic guidance as well as my own disciplines and guesses, and… I must have pulled it off. He'd shown no sign of suspicion. Oh, he could be playing a deep and subtle game with me – the fact that he was here sure by the Seven showed that he was more than capable of it – but if that was the case, I was already sunk with Atlantaea. I had to assume that, so far, he hadn't a clue that I had seen into his real mind. That was easy enough to believe; during his speech, he'd let me "sense" and "feel" certain things from him which reinforced his explanations; I couldn't sense a single trace of the monster I'd detected before. I had a moment's misgivings; maybe what I'd detected before was some terrible fluke of the process, a … a channel to the subconscious, the uncontrolled savage child that lies somewhere behind every impulse. I so very much wanted to believe that. I wanted to believe in the Shagrath I'd known just before the process.

But that wasn't really what I'd sensed. Yes, there was a level of childish hostility, in the sense of that extreme reaction to being balked momentarily, but in that timeless instant I'd seen far more. That was a thinking mind, a very old thinking mind, and while it seemed to be a bottomless well of hatred, anger, and pain, there was an equally infinite structure of icily controlled, focused intellect that weighed every action and its consequences against a million, a thousand million, other factors, before unleashing that noisome brew of cold-fire hatred. I simply couldn't dismiss that as a momentary nightmare or delusion, much as I wanted to. It felt far too terrifyingly real.

Enough musing. Now the hard part was starting. Not only was I going to have to maintain this façade until I figured out some way of either escaping or of exposing Shagrath for what he was, I was going to have to do it while playing the part of Shagrath's best new agent. And I couldn't manage that if I let myself get too exhausted. So I was going to have to actually sleep. Get rest. Follow the Healer's instructions, and Doctor Sooovickalassa's if he had any for me.

Using Tor discipline like a tranquillizer, I lay back and forced my muscles to relax, my breathing to slow, and my racing mind to slow down. Somewhat to my surprise, during that process, aftereffects of the process and the exhaustion of terror and tension caught up with me. I fell asleep.

 

 

 

 

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