Ryk E. Spoor's Blog, page 5

Jamaica Blue Magic: Chapter 8

Dylan has to clear his head and get ready for the important things...

-----

 

Chapter 8.

"Your phone doesn’t work because it’s crap," John said bluntly. He placed his laptop on the end table next to his lawn chair and leaned back to watch the ocean in the distance.

"And you get reception on that thing?" Dylan hooked a thumb at the computer. He stood in the doorway to the cabin and listened to Tina and Louis as they talked investigative plans. Paula and Henry were already out, with a long list of supplies.

"Of course I do. I hook in with my phone, which has great reception, because I don’t have cheap service."

"Rub it in, why don’t you."

"Okay," John obliged. "Your service sucks and your phone is a fucking fossil. Get a new phone."

"Why should I, when I got nerds like you with all the new and cool gadgets around to enable me?" Dylan pulled up a chair and sat down. He kicked his feet up on the deck rail. "Louis picked up a few things at the store. I think I can make you and Tina something real nice tonight with what you guys brought. It will be something for everyone. Louis picked up some red snapper for Paula and him."

It was hard for him to focus on mundane affairs, aware Dobson was out there, and there was a murderer still loose on the island. It was even harder knowing that the twins were in trouble. But Anna had taught him to use his culinary skills to tame his temper, and he hadn't forgotten her lessons.

"What I want to know is, why did they send a jerk like Desmond to New York in the first place?" John scrolled down his computer screen and checked his comic blog.

"Desmond?"

"The guy the twins killed, Paul Desmond. He’s an accountant, been around for hundreds of years. Of course, rumors have it he does more than accounting. He works for the Elders. There’s some irony for you: two inexperienced kids killed him at dawn. They got lucky, believe me. Demons like him are weakest when it’s light. The fact they’re kids and pure hearted fae spirits really must have hurt, too." John peered up from his computer. "No great loss as far as I’m concerned."

So, the girls had caught a cambion hunting mortals in the park, someone connected to the Elders of the European League, and killed him? Dylan fought desperately against an immediate urge to return home. "They could have gotten killed. Not to mention that now the League is on their asses." Dylan banged his head on the back of his wooden chair. Why the hell hadn’t Filipe or Angelus told him any of this?

Well, duh. They wanted him to stay put and let them handle it.

"I’m surprised you have brain cells left," John said, watching Dylan bashing his head against the wood.

"Fuck off, man, I’m serious here."

"Is Jason doing the investigation?" John held his gaze until Dylan nodded. "Then they’ll be fine. Isabella is Magistrate now. She’ll cut them a break."

Even if John was right, he didn’t feel any better. He wanted to be there for the girls. "Lou and I gave them a call before we got here. They told us the same thing."

"Good thing Isabella turned down the trip, eh?" John rubbed it in. Dylan had done a good job forgetting he’d been a roommate with the vampire politician at one time. "Even if she should be here."

A moment of silence fell between them.

Dylan looked down to the sandy deck. "She wasn't with us long, and I don’t think she likes thinking about that part of her life."

"You know, Dyl, you need to get over what Isabella did. She’s still one of us."

Dylan shrugged. Isabella was a sore spot. "Yeah, whatever."

"You’re a pretty open-minded guy… until you get to Isabella’s transition, then you get all redneck about it." John sighed angrily. "Get over it. She’s the same person. She didn’t abandon us. She grew up and found herself, just like the rest of us."

"It has nothing to do with that, man, he blew off my wedding! She never stopped by to visit, she never called, she never even sent a card." Dylan.

"You can tell yourself whatever you want, dude, but there’s baggage between you two." John closed his computer. "And did you just say he blew off your wedding?"

"Sorry, she," he corrected himself, feeling stupid and, yes, bigoted. A total asshole. At the time, he’d been so busy working out his revenge that he’d been blind to his own friends’ struggles. John and he were often on the same page, both of them revenants, both of them out to change the world. But people like Julio—now Isabella—and Henry were just trying to live their lives. Henry went with the flow, Isabella struggled to fit in, even though she knew she wasn’t comfortable in her own skin.

"Better." John stretched. "Guess you’re gonna have to trust her to make sure things go well in New York for your girls?"

"Guess so. It’s just gonna take me time, John. I mean, Isabella was a friend, we all hung out, worked together, went to those crazy conventions together. Hell, I remember her dressing up in that…" He struggled to recall the name. Isabella loved the old Star Trek and dressed as one of the green aliens. "…Orion Girl outfit."

"And even you commented she had good legs." John smirked as he remembered. "It was a great hall costume."

"Better than those wax Spook ears you had."

"That’s Mr. Spock, and you’re an insult to all geekdom, Dyl." John in turn banged his head into the back of his wooden chair.

"Does make you feel better, doesn’t it?" Dylan asked, looking off at the sea. Waves rolled in as the ocean climbed slowly up the beach.

"Which one, the act of violence on my cranium, or the landscape? Both, if you’re asking." They both sat quietly for a while and looked at the water. "We all miss the old days. We had no real responsibilities then and life was an adventure. We thought we were superheroes." John shook his head and laughed.

"Anna had her hands full."

Just like he had his hands full with the twins, Yu, and the others. When had he become Anna? Or was that his problem? He wasn’t Anna, and was trying way too hard to be her? He was a hunter, after all. Dylan watched the waves and whitecaps peak in the distance. Anna hadn’t relied on others like he did. Was that a sign of weakness? He needed to do it all, right? His dad sure would have. But he also knew that Louis would kick him for thinking that. Maybe I shouldn't think so much about what my old man would've done. Didn't work out so well for him. "So, about last night."

"I think it’s a dumb idea to challenge him, Dyl. If your old man couldn’t blow him up after you blew his head off, shooting him a second time makes you a dumb shit and still won’t kill him."

John just assumed he was going to go after the demon. Well, yes, a part of him wanted to. "In theory, if I did go after him, he can die, John." Dylan drew one knee up and wrapped an arm about it. "I just need to know the right kind of spell to use on him. Hell, the right kind of prayer would work, if I knew what kind of demon he is."

John shrugged. "Well, I’m not a sorcerer. Nor do I have much use for it. That’s Filipe’s and Paula’s expertise, and you’re the monster hunter. I’ll just have to take your word on it. So… are you going to go after him?"

The real problem was that one thing he really understood was hunting. Dylan rose to his feet. The Blackwells and their friends had a way of destroying children. If his gut was right, and the fairy kid was connected to the demon, he would eventually have to face him. Then again, Louis’ concern about the fae war was possible. "Depends on where the evidence takes us, John."

Either way, it made Dylan wonder if the girl was savable? He really didn't know. Too many things he didn't know. Hell, he didn't even know what kind of creature the girl really was. Saving her would depend on how salvageable she really was. "Well, getting to be time for dinner," he said, with a slight smile.

Like everything else, information for a hunt came with time. With luck, the revenant part of him hoped Dobson would be his old nemesis; then only one head would roll.

But there was still New York to worry about. He sighed. "I’ll be back in a few."

It took three tries and walking entirely around the cabin to get through. One of these days, Dylan thought, he would get a phone like John’. The geek was right. His was crap. The only problem was… Anna had bought him this phone. Dylan’s grip on his cell phone tightened as he finally heard the click of someone answering.

"Yes?" came the soft voice of a teenage girl.

"Hey, Christie! How you doing?"

"Dylan?! It’s Dylan!" she said excitedly. She was definitely not herself; she didn’t even attempt to play the twin game with him. Instead, she just sounded very relieved to hear from him.

"You’re having a good time, right?" came a second voice. "No hunting?" That was Cheryl; she was the mother hen of the two.

"I’m having a good time and I’m…" He didn’t want to lie to them. How could he not say he wasn’t hunting, when he was, well, he was investigating, so was that hunting. "Well… There was a man…"

"Angie told us all about it," they both said at the same time. "You saw a fairy. Is she trouble? Or is she in trouble?"

"Might be." He drew a breath, thinking about the flying girl. He forgot sometimes that the girls viewed themselves as fae as well as shape-shifters.

"She had wings, didn’t she?"

That’s not the point at all. "She murdered someone, honey; she might be unseelie." He drew a breath. They were still waiting for his answer. "Yes, four wings, transparent wings, like a dragonfly."

"Fairies can be very malicious, Dylan." It was Cheryl. "Old Bear kept us well away from them. Some of them will take you away to dark places and rip your flesh off your bones. Even if they’re pretty, they’re fallen, and not a part of the United Fae Alliance. They don’t care about pretty things, honor or love."

It was her way of saying be careful. "Are you two all right?"

"Still shaking. He… Desmond… was scary." It was Christie. "He was going to eat a lady. And I panicked. I kept thinking of Stonebear." Her voice shook, and he thought he heard her sniffle and Cheryl whisper something to her. Yeah, no surprise there. Stonebear had been the monster that had killed the Twins’ parents, left them orphaned so that Old Bear had to raise them, after killing Stonebear himself.

"It’s okay, Christie," he said, reassuring her. "Angelus called in a lawyer and Qui will make sure no one removes you from the halfway house, and Liam will back her. You and Cheryl will be okay."

"Killing is unseelie," she whispered. "He was really bad in my bones, bad. He was evil. He was going to eat us. I don’t ever want to become like that."

"Did you talk to Doc Sacco?" Dylan asked. He should have been there. He understood what it was like. The first kill hurt, and he had been a kid, too, when he’d made his.

"Some. But talking isn't making it go away." She sharply inhaled. "The League’s gonna kill us."

"Tell him we’re talking to them soon," Dylan heard Cheryl say, obviously talking to her sister. "The League wants the trial in their court." Cheryl said. Her voice was brave, but he heard a hint of tears. She was crying, too.

"I heard that. Don’t you worry, Isabella will keep it in New York. She’ll kick those League bigots out of town if she has to. When I was your age, I did stupid shit, too. My ass was in Jason’, Anna’, and Liam’s hands more than once." As he spoke, Dylan paced back and forth along the water’s edge. It took most of his strength to keep from losing his temper. If only he had better control over his own shadow-walking skills, he could be there in the time it took to argue. "You’ll be fine. Angie, Qui, Filipe and Jason have this in the bag. You’ll be better than fine."

"Dylan, we’re really sorry. We didn’t plan on hunting. Is she gonna be safe? The lady?"

"Jason has a plan to find her."

"When are you and Louis coming home?"

"Soon, honey. When I’m done here, I’m flying back. Now, did Angie tell you to say NOTHING to the EuroLeague investigators?"

"Yes." Cheryl replied. "And he said let the lawyer talk."

Of course he did, you dumbshit, you’re worrying your fucking ass for nothing. While Louis and the others are sitting cool and pretty on the beach, you’re being a big old hen sitting on her eggs again. Let it go man, gotta trust in your pals …

"Good. You do exactly that. When I get back, we’ll talk more about it, ok?"

"Thank you, Dylan." Once more they spoke in chorus. "Take care, and you and Louis come home soon?"

"Will do, and you don’t let anyone take you guys away, regardless of how guilty you feel, got it? If worst comes to worst, you go with your grandparents."

"Okay," they said. "Louis said to call them if they tried."

Fuck that chilling Elder "let it go" bullshittery, he called, too.

"Yeah, you do that, we’ll make John shadow-walk our asses there." He heard them giggle.

"Ok girls, gotta go. Keep together and good luck."

He found he felt better, just having talked to them. He could tell from their voices that hearing from him had made them feel better. But more than that, Christie and Cheryl were in good hands, Not only did they have Angelus, Filipe, Qui and Jason, they had the SoHo Psychological staff and counselors, the same people who had taken care of him when he’d had his problems as a kid.

He needed to get a grip and let go. "You know I love you girls like family, right?"

"We love you too, Dylan. You and Louis stay safe, okay? No chasing bad fairies." They both sounded worried.

"We’ll be ok," he assured them. But it took a few more exchanges to convince the girls that Dylan really would be careful. He couldn't blame them for being maybe a touch over-worried. Before they had come to O’Reily’s, the twins had lost a lot; it hadn't just been their parents; most of their clan had been killed by Stonebear. Their grandparents were only able to save the twins; the rest of their family had perished in front of them.

They didn’t want to lose their new family now, and they knew all too well what abominations could lurk within fae and spirits that went bad. "Thank you, ladies, your concern is well taken. I’ll be very careful. Now I have to go. Talk to you later."

"Good-bye, Dylan," they said. Their voices were noticeably more cheerful.

He hung up, also feeling a little of that weight lifted. Now I can focus on the real problems: a flying fairy killer, and a demon named Dobson!

 

 

The post Jamaica Blue Magic: Chapter 8 appeared first on Ryk E. Spoor, Author, Gamer, Geek God.

Jamaica Blue Magic: Chapter 7

Dylan is conflicted -- and conflict and agitation is not a good thing for a revenant to feel...

-----

 

Chapter 7.

Sitting on his bed, Dylan stared down at Paula’s photo album and a series of photos of them from their old rehab days. They were old, faded Kodak pocket camera photos, taken from inside the Center. Several were in the recreation room, and others were from the roof, one of their favorite hangouts. Even through the washed-out color paper he could see the rich color and glow in his then-living features. Even if his own gaze was hollow with loss, he was alive then, and more innocent. It felt like a century ago. He was broken then, and dependent on the monsters around him to put him back together, when just a short while before he had been determined to destroy them.

"I spoke to Qui; she insists that we stay," Louis said, entering the room.

"Yeah, Angie said the same. I really don’t know what to do." Dylan looked up from the album, troubled. "You see, Angie and Qui, they want to be trusted."

"I could have told you that." Louis leaned against the door frame. "Do we trust them?"

"Yeah, I trust them, but Angie has Javian and Vera to worry about now. What if he’s taking on too much?"

"And Qui has her brother Yu," Louis added with just as much concern. He scrubbed a hand down his face. "Running a café, and the halfway house, then add in the twins in trouble? That’s a lot of stress."

What would Anna do? She’d let his gang have a great deal of freedom. When they started to run the halfway house in SoHo with her, she had even let them deal with problems, but she had always been there to help them out. It wasn’t until Tina and the rest up and moved to New Orleans that they had officially graduated. But Angelus and Filipe were different, they were older undead, familiar with the world, and Qui was just brimming with streetwise. I’m being a micromanager again. Gotta let go. Just how in hell do I tell the revenant in me to do just that? "Filipe said he’d do what he could to help. But… Hell, Lou, the twins are little sisters to me. I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place here. If we don't go back and things go south, I'll never be able to live with myself. But if we go back, we’ll be sending a message to everyone that we don't trust them. That we don’t think they’re adult enough to deal with an emergency." He sighed in frustration. "Dammit, Quintessa is still a kid!"

Louis lifted a brow. "In the supernatural world, Dylan, you are a daisy-pusher, a fresh pile of rocks, a mere child, in someone’s eyes." He said it in a way that told Dylan that Louis saw him as a boy. "They can call the girl’s grandparents if things get really bad. And to keep you from really getting yourself in trouble, let me remind you Qui does not like to be told she’s a kid. She’s been taking care of her brother since her parents were killed. She is in her 20s. She’s resourceful and will take it personally if we underestimate her."

"She’s organized, a survivor, together in an emergency," Dylan said, half to himself, half to Louis. Christ, am I this irrational? This Dobson shit is fucking with my brain. "It means a lot to her that we stay here."

Louis was right; age didn’t mean maturity; youth didn't mean foolish.

"Filipe and she really wanted us to have downtime." Louis leaned his head into the door-frame. "They want to prove they can operate without us, and we owe them that chance."

Closing the album, Dylan collapsed back in his bed and dramatically messed his hair with his hands. "Christ, I just can’t sit here! I’m a fuckin’ revenant! I tried to call Old Bear six times; reception sucks out here!"

Louis shook his head. "Let it go, Dylan. Besides, who knows if Old Bear’s anywhere within a hundred miles of a cell tower? He probably isn't. He likes being as far away from civilization as Canada will allow, and that’s a long way. This is not your problem. Besides, the last time I looked, I was not put on this earth to put your ass together. I’ve got my own baggage. Maybe the girls’ situation isn’t as bad as we think it is."

He smiled sheepishly. "I am just as worried. Don’t you think I want to hop on some big-ass plane and make sure my little bear sisters are safe and sound? Hell yeah, I’m all down with that, but I think our brothers and sisters in the café need to be trusted more than I need to control the situation. So, my baggage needs to be put where it belongs: with me. I trust them to take care of it. I want to focus on this murder, and the demon because mortals are in danger with him here."

"We don’t even know if it is connected. It’s just my fucking gut, and I can’t even trust that because I’m a revenant, and when it comes to my family and what killed them… Tina’s right, I can’t think rationally. "He stared at his closet of weapons. It had been an effort to not pick one, or a dozen, out, and hunt down the demon that evening. Instead, he had focused his thought on his other drive, his present living family, those in the halfway house. They needed him, they were concrete, living beings in the present, and people he deeply cared for who relied on him.

Filipe was just trying to redirect him because they didn’t want him to worry. He knew Dylan’s revenant nature and thought he could use it against him. Which was why Dylan knew the situation at home was worse than they were letting on.

The revenant sat up and crossed his legs and placed his hands on his knees. First rule about revenantism, it wasn’t about him. It was about a dead vampire and the mortals, like Louis said. "Ok, the murder. We got a dead vampire, killed by some kid. Why?" They were still waiting for Filipe’s email.

Louis’ features darkened as he looked down, considering the mystery before them. "The creature you described who did the killing? I never heard of a demon like that. Hell, I never heard of a fae like that, either."

"Yeah, well, she made my Sight go haywire. Pretty certain she was a fairy, like a Tinkerbell on acid."

"She could be a spirit. They’ve been known to have different auras. I wouldn’t be surprised." Louis now looked very interested. "This could have to do with this fae War, Dyl. If that’s the case, we might be obligated to deal with the situation."

Liam’s war? Dylan studied Louis, confused. "That doesn’t include you, dude. I wouldn’t worry about it."

Rubbing the back of his neck, Louis stepped away from the door. "Well, you see Dylan, I got a feeling too. Liam’s war is my war, too. I don’t expect you to understand. I’ve avoided him and Doctor Smith since I’ve arrived here, like a part of me is terrified of what they’d say to me." He drew a breath. "I’m a man of peace. I don’t want war. I assume that’s it."

"Might be." There had always been something… different about Louis. Not bad, good, but different, and Dylan could tell Louis’ reluctance had something to do with that difference. "So, I guess it’s decided: we stay?"

"Unless they call for help. Yes," Louis agreed. "Now, I need a beer."

"Beer? How can you think on that? I need to meditate. I got a lot to think about."

Louis shrugged as he fished a brown bottle out of the fridge. "Everyone has their go-to for chilling, Dyl. A beer, or a smoke, and some music usually helps me to see the world clearer."

Dylan closed his hands into fists on his knees as he watched his friend step out the door. It was going to be difficult NOT to think of his mother’s soul, Beckmann, the Blackwells, or his past with this case. Damned difficult.

He really could use a toke, or a beer, now that he thought about it. Let it fucking go, dude!

Cursing his irrationally obsessive nature, the revenant closed his eyes and began the long chore of forcing peace on a nature born of anger and vengeance.

 

 

 

 

The post Jamaica Blue Magic: Chapter 7 appeared first on Ryk E. Spoor, Author, Gamer, Geek God.

Jamaica Blue Magic: Chapter 6

There's a second viewpoint character in this book, and it's time we met him. He's very different...

 

 

Chapter 6.

"Mr. Engelshand, might I speak with you a moment?"

Jared turned to face Professor Burroughs. "Of course, Professor." He wasn't sure why the Professor wanted to speak with him, but this was the last class of the day, and—in all honesty. Jared had no plans after school, save the usual studying. "Is something wrong?"

Burroughs—a middle-aged man with thinning hair that had once been brown, but eyes as sharp and bright as razors, studied him a moment. "Actually, Jared, I was going to ask you precisely that. Is something wrong? Something bothering you?"

The question caught him off-guard—a startling thing in and of itself, and Jared immediately berated himself for it. I am an Engelshand. I cannot allow myself to be surprised by such mundane and, if I were honest with myself, predictable turns of events. Still, he was not thinking as clearly as he might, and so he stalled. "Has something given you the impression that there is, sir?"

The professor surveyed him—eyes tracking up inevitably to the hilt of the immense sword that projected over Jared’s shoulder, then across the much younger man’s face before finally looking away, out the window of the classroom. "Your recent project made the top grade in the class," he said. "This is of course not a surprise by itself. But—in all honesty—it was not what I expected. It was… brilliantly pedestrian. Perfectly executed, yes, but I saw no trace of your usual spark, Jared."

Looking back over the engineering project in his mind, Jared realized with a dull startlement that the man was right. I simply did whatever the project required. I did it well, but I did not do more, and that is inexcusable.

Suddenly he felt tired, exhausted, and sank into one of the seats. "Scheiss," he muttered, a rare lapse into his native German that only happened when he was too upset and tired to maintain the control he prided himself on. With the word came the wave of loss and anger, and he clenched one fist tight, using the physical effort to force himself to concentrate, to stay calm. "I… Yes. You are correct. Professor. Very perceptive of you." He took a breath, let it out, realized that it sounded too much like a sigh. No. It was a sigh. "A very good friend of mine died just a little while ago. He was the last child of his family, too—his sister," his voice caught, exactly as he had sworn he would not allow it to, as he spoke, "his sister… had died a few years before."

"Oh, my. How terrible, Jared. How…?"

"He was in Paris."

There was, of course, no need to say more. The explosion that had centered on the Cimetière du Peré Lachaise—at first thought to have been nuclear, now a mystery to most—was the greatest disaster of Europe in the modern age, having killed tens of thousands and injured far more.

The professor looked aghast. "My God, Jared. I do apologize for intruding."

He shook his head, still startled by the effect of a simple memory, triggered by a few questions. "No apology needed, Professor. I will endeavor to bring my work back to its accustomed level as soon as possible. I am just… not quite myself now."

"Perfectly understandable. If you need any extra time…"

"No!" The thought of changing his course—admitting defeat by his own emotions—was in some ways worse than the loss. A part of him knew this was foolish, self-defeating, perhaps merely another way of hiding, but he wasn't ready to face that, either. "No, sir. I will be fine."

He forced himself to stand quickly and gave a short bow. "Thank you for your concern, Professor. I must be going."

Burroughs did not detain him, but Jared could feel his concerned gaze following until Jared disappeared into the hallway. Jared Engelshand strode as quickly as he could down the corridor. Other people, consciously or unconsciously, stepped out of his way. He knew what they saw—a young man over one hundred ninety centimeters in height, muscled like a swimmer, slender yet powerful, long, blond hair tied back in a single ponytail away from a long, patrician face, signs of something harder and more rigid than flesh under the shirt, and an immense sword slung over his back, a figure unique and perhaps perilous.

But walk as fast as he might, he could not outrun the images in his mind. The red-headed girl and her brother, twins in birth yet almost opposites in life; one practical, all business, yet warm and kind behind her calculations and plans, the other impulsive, a rebel, a punk, interested in parties and music. Both of them good friends.

Both of them gone.

And that is no accident, he thought to himself, feeling his fists clenching at his sides. Fiona was murdered, and I do not think it was an accident that took Keenan’s life either.

He remembered one of his last conversations with Claudius, the ancient witch-hunter’ voice and words giving a rare glimpse into the man’ hidden heart. He knew something terrible was going to happen to Keenan, and all he could do was try to prepare him for something beyond anything I can easily imagine. They would not involve me, but I know it had something to do with the life of the world itself.

It was odd, really; he had hardly seen anything of Keenan for months, a year, maybe more. Yet his friendship with the deliberately rebellious, uncontrolled heir to the Murray shipping empire had been deeper than he’d imagined. When he had heard the news, it had struck him with a sharp, burning pain in his heart that ripped open the older, deeper wound that Fiona’s death had left.

It was then he realized how very much he had cared about both of them. He had called them "friends", but never realized how completely he meant that word. I hope they knew, at least, how I felt about them.

He shook his head. Of course they did. Fiona did. She… told me as much. Let me tell her. And Keenan, too. We did… much together. He remembered an island, a ritual contest that turned out to be far more—and far more deadly—and how it had centered on Fiona’s status as the Faerie Queen.

Another shake of the head, this time at himself. No, it was not then that I realized how much they meant. It was then that I stopped making myself forget how much they meant to me. Because I had been running from that, running away in my own head.

With a tremendous effort, he forced his hands to relax, his jaw to loosen just a fraction. The hunt for Fiona’s killers will take time. And if Keenan was killed… I will begin that investigation too. But dwelling on it now does me no good and will do me no credit. Everything in its time, everything done when it must be done. And done as well as it can be done.

THAT is the Engelshand way.

That thought was enough to bring his head up. He was an Engelshand of Engelshand, and that was all that need be said to remind him of his duty and his pride—and of what his heritage was. The investigations continue without my immediate intervention. I have my own responsibility here. Mourn, yes, but do not let it divert me from my duty. Mourn in a way they would appreciate.

That was, actually, a cheering thought. He would go to one of the clubs that Keenan would have liked, filled with one of the ridiculously loud variants of punk music that proliferated in London, and raise a glass of something appropriately Irish for his friend. For the first time in a week, a smile touched Jared’s face. That was the way to say farewell to Keenan.

As he was about to call for his car, his phone lit up.

It was Ophelia.

Ophelia? What in Father’ name is she calling me for? If Jared was the somewhat spoiled youngest brother, Ophelia was the black sheep of the family. Rrather than following the political path of many of the siblings, or becoming a future titan of industry, Ophelia had taken her studies in biology and turned them to the use of organizations like Greenpeace, becoming a crusader for the environment and against many of the industries around the world.

She was rather typically Engelshand in that she was terribly good at her job, and very successful at gathering people to her cause. Still, when your family ran a country with a reputation for heavy industry—especially military—it put something of a crimp in the family relations when you were running around promoting conservation, environmentalism, and pacifism.

Not that Jared entirely disagreed with her, but Ophelia did tend to be a bit… militant at times.

These musings, however, were not getting him anywhere. He activated the phone. "Hello, Ophelia. To what do I owe this call out of the blue?"

"Jared," she said, and at that single word he was suddenly alert. Ophelia’s voice held none of its usual unconsciously confrontational tones; instead, it was worried, shocked, sad. "Jared, you are the only person I could think of who might be able to help."

I? What an odd development. "Help? Ophelia, what’s wrong?"

"It’s Antonio, Jared. He’s been murdered."

"Antonio?" For just an instant, he couldn't place the name. Then it suddenly came roaring back to him. "Antonio Niccoli? Aphrodite’s husband?"

"Yes."

"My God." He was momentarily speechless. Who would possibly want to kill them? They were some of the finest people I’ve ever met!

Then it occurred to him. "Ophelia? How did you know him? Or, rather, how did you know what he was?"

That was, after all, the real question. Antonio and Aphrodite had been very dedicated workers for the betterment of the world, fighting against pollution, injustice, and other causes that Ophelia favored. Knowing that side of them was not a surprise. But it was clear that Ophelia would only have called Jared if she knew how he knew them, and that would mean she knew that Antonio was a vampire, and Aphrodite one of the noble fae.

"They had informed me of the issues having to do with the Mother," his sister replied. "As you had already opened the subject in Engelshand, they thought it was no great risk to do so in order to get my full cooperation."

The Mother… what the fae and their allies call the spirit of the world. "I see why you would call me, then. What can I do for you?"

"Not for me, Jared. For Aphrodite."

He was puzzled. "For the lady? I would gladly do anything in my power to help her, of course, but she has her own resources—"

"That’s the question, Jared… does she? And will she live to claim them, even if so?"

Finally, his mind began to catch up, to grasp the entirety of the situation, to throw off the anger and horror and depression, and begin to think. "Of course. She has lost her match, her lifelong partner, and while he was vampire, she is fae. She was one of those who told me what can happen to a fae who loses their match."

"That is part of it, yes," Ophelia said, her voice showing some relief. "But that’s the more straightforward part. Either she will decide to carry on their work and live, or she will not. But the way in which the League handles inheritance does not in any way guarantee that she will inherit. And there will be those who neither want her to survive, nor, if she lives, to inherit anything of Antonio’. They have not approved of our activities."

A mission. A quest. Jared felt a full, unrestrained grin spreading across his face, and even though the news and mission were also very grave, did not make the slightest effort to stop it. "Say no more, Ophelia. Where is she?"

"Jamaica. And hurry, Jared."

"I will take my plane out within four hours. You have my word."

"Thank you, Jared."

"Think nothing of it. Take care, Ophelia—I must move now!"

He pocketed the cell and turned, strides lengthening as he headed for his rooms. A great Lady in distress in a distant land; can a knight do anything else but go forth?

He thought of Fiona, and this time she was saluting him with one finger and a wink.

 

 

The post Jamaica Blue Magic: Chapter 6 appeared first on Ryk E. Spoor, Author, Gamer, Geek God.

Jamaica Blue Magic: Chapter 5

They say it never rains but it pours, and Dylan's about to find that out...

-------

 

Chapter 5.

"Christ on a pogo stick! I’m away for, what, a few days and the world goes to hell in a handbasket!"

Dylan paced restlessly across the parking lot of a Jamaican grocery store. It was better reception out here than his cabin and Louis had wanted to pick up some beer.

"Sorry to freak you out, dude," Filipe said apologetically. "But it’s better I told you now than wait for Qui to tell you. When things get too hot around here, we will call you; but for now, don’t worry. We’re fine. Angie and Qui have it in the bag. Now, about this thing you want me to look into?"

"Hold on, still trying to deal with what you just told me. The twins have been hunting in Central Park? Jesus."

He shook his head. The problem was that the twins didn't get it. Being a shape-changer and controlling it, especially in a hunt for monsters instead of just food out in the wild, that was not easy.

"You sure they’re ok? No trouble with the cops? They weren’t injured?"

"None of that, they are fine, dude. We’ll handle it. You and Lou, enjoy your vacation."

Filipe was being too quick to answer, too reassuring. Dylan frowned, but let it slide for now. He’d talk to Angelus later; Angie would have a lot harder time hiding anything from him.

"Now," Filipe continued, "you wanted me to look into something?"

"Yeah. I need you to run a background check on this guy, name of Dobson. He runs a school, Liberty Cross. See if he has any unusual students. Specifically, any that might fit this profile: white or very light hair, bichromia, one red eye, one gold, around the age of 14. It’s a long shot. John will email details. I also want you to check out a vampire from Italy named Antonio Niccoli."

"Ok. Other than that, how’s the vacation?"

The voice on the other end crackled. Dylan shook his phone and moved to the center of the parking lot.

"It was going great. I discovered that Angie set me up; the whole old gang’s here. Lou and I ran into John, Tina, Hen and Paula at Alfred’s the other night." He shook his head. "Damn shame I had to run into the demon who helped murder my parents, and then witnessed some kind of bat-bug-chick make antipasto out of Niccoli."

"You know, they have authorities to deal with that sort of thing," Filipe told him. The phone clicked and Dylan heard the voice of a woman on the other end

"Jeez, Filipe, you’re not entertaining, are you?"

He felt a rush of embarrassment. The Zombie had a better love life than most vampires he knew.

"Yes, but nothing naughty, just a little programming and research, Dylan. Susanna is here, you know, my model friend."

How could he not know Susanna? She was the Ghoulie Girls centerfold for August. She was a blonde, blue-tinted Zombie with the bloat in all the right spots. At least, that was how Filipe described her. She was the background on his laptop screen; Dylan had to admit that aside from the color, she didn't look dead at all. How Filipe managed to convince her to visit was a mystery. The mummified zombie was a lady magnet for some inexplicable reason.

"Are you planning on hunting this thing, whatever she is? Remember, brother, there is no protection for you in non-League territory. Free it may be, but the authorities are still hard on our kind. We’re secret, and they like to keep it that way."

"Yeah, I get it."

Dylan looked down abstractedly. After checking out the victim’s ID (without leaving prints), he and John hadn't stuck around to be questioned by the Jamaican paranormal police. Neither of them were comfortable with the idea of being the only supernatural witnesses to the crime, and the fact the assailant had up and flown away, leaving only ash behind, made it easy for the police to pin it on anyone capable of killing the vampire. The fact they were both vampire-made revenants didn’t help, either; vampire-revenants had even worse reputations than some others.

So, John had simply shadow-walked their way back to Alfred‘, neatly bypassing the long walk, and encouraged the others to depart back to the hotel John and the rest were staying in down the street. It was almost daylight by the time they finished, so Dylan was forced to crash at their place.

The revenant wasn’t sure if the murder was connected with Dobson. It had occurred a distance from Alfred’s, and the target sure wasn’t who he’d assumed it would be.

The only reason to think it was connected was gut instinct and the killer. She was a girl, fourteen at most. School age. When Dylan had been a boy, Beckmann had been collecting children: half-breeds and fae-blooded. What if he’d continued that charming hobby? Was it possible she was one of his projects?

The kid sure would fit the bill, though hiding her in a Christian school would be a little difficult. The wings and big eyes would stand out, unless she hid them with magic. That would certainly fit Beckmann’ sense of irony. An innocent child, in a Christian school, who appeared part demon. The funny thing was that Dylan’s senses didn't think she was a demon. In fact, her very presence had muddled his senses. Don't know that I've ever run into anything like that before.

"You know, Dylan, Qui sent you and Lou on vacation so you’d relax."

"I did relax, dude. I swam, had a drink, saw a murder, all’s good. Gave me a sense of purpose. Good thing I bought Stella, Ethel and the girls."

Using his nicknames for his weapons was probably silly. If someone was listening in, they would already have been hearing way too much. But it made him feel better not to explicitly mention he had firearms that he really shouldn't have in Jamaica.

"And what does Lou say about this?" Filipe sounded amused. In the background, Dylan heard him tapping.

"He’s getting a couple of six packs of beer. We’re meeting the gang at the cabin, and after you find out where Dobson is staying, we’re going to do a good old-fashioned stakeout. Hell if I’m up to it, just might just set up a duel. They still have dueling laws in Jamaica for our kind."

He paused, looking back at the store. Louis shouldered his way out, carrying a bag of groceries. "While you’re at it, check into flight records and tell me how many League highbloods are in the area. I want profiles on them, and anyone they’re scheduled to meet. Especially ones that stand out, just in case. You know how there’s bad blood between American highbloods and European. There might be a connection."

"Sure. Dueling and spying in a Free country? Boy, the League’s gonna love that."

"The League can go fuck itself. They know Blackwell and anyone to do with him is my business, and I made that damn clear to them," Dylan snapped, revenant rising momentarily before he wrestled it back down under control. "Oh, another thing: can a demon necromancer take the soul of someone who rejected them before death, without a ritual?"

"Did they mark the person beforehand?"

Dylan didn’t rightly know. Looking up, he saw that Louis had placed the bags in the back of the jeep and was now looking at him with his arms folded.

"Damned if I know. He didn’t kill her, though, Blackwell did."

"I’d say very unlikely then. He’d have to have done it. Why, Dyl?"

"She was enthralled by Beckmann, this Dobson now, for a couple of years. She even participated in his religious services."

As he spoke, Dylan felt his gut tighten. There was a pause.

"Dude, that changes things. She was definitely marked. He had all the time in the world to do it. Depends on if she made peace with herself. They can get souls like that through guilt. With that said, he just might actually have her. The only way to free her is to make her forgive herself."

That was what he feared. If I can't forgive myself, how can I convince Mother to forgive herself, when she did invite in the people that ended our family? Dylan frowned.

"Thanks, Filipe; just send John an email with all the data."

"Sure. And you tell the slacker I’m still waiting for issue 210. He left us at a fucking cliffhanger."

Filipe was an avid reader of John’s Revenant comic book.

"Okay, okay, I’ll tell him to send a signed copy. And Filipe, let me know what’s going on. I’ll be back in a heartbeat if things get bad. You guys are family."

Filipe’ voice was cheerful.

"We can take care of ourselves, dude. The twins are fine, the lovely Qui, Angie and Jason are dealing with the police, and whatever legal matters; but, we appreciate it. Same goes for you too, you know. There in a heartbeat, if I had a heart!"

The zombie gave a deliberately unearthly chuckle.

"Take care."

The line went dead.

He’d been too cheerful, too easy. There was something Filipe wasn't saying. The twins were in trouble.

Dylan switched off his phone and rubbed his eyes. Mother or not, he was just about ready to get on a plane and tend to the girls. The League would eat them alive if they had the chance. A cambion of all things. They mixed it up with a goddamn cambion. I haven't even seen one of those in years. What in God’s name were they doing chasing after a cambion in Central Park? Damnation, the old bear is gonna have my ass.

"Time to go back to the house, Dylan. At least we can try and enjoy a little of this vacation, Louis said, coming up behind him.

"Yeah, sounds like a great idea. But you might change your mind after I tell you what’s going on at home."

Louis frowned darkly. "Trouble? What happened? Who did not have the sense to keep their heads low while we were gone?"

It took everything Dylan had to keep his calm. His features became very serious.

"Long story short? The twins played super-bear in Central Park. They’re okay, but Jason is running an investigation. Filipe says everything is cool, and Angie and Qui are dealing with it. But me? I have one of those 'shit’s gonna hit the fan' feelings."

Louis rubbed his temples.

"I wish I could say I didn't know what you mean, but I do know exactly what you mean. By the Gods, what in the name of all that’s holy were those girls thinking?"

"I dunno, Louis, and I'm sure there’s more they aren't telling me. One of us will have to squeeze it out of Angie." He took a deep breath. "But they are asking me to trust them to handle it. And me?" He looked into the distance, as though he could somehow see Beckmann. "I've got someone else in my sights."

 

 

 

 

The post Jamaica Blue Magic: Chapter 5 appeared first on Ryk E. Spoor, Author, Gamer, Geek God.

Jamaica Blue Magic: Chapter 4

Dylan doesn't know it, but things are about to get a lot weirder...

 

------

 

 

Chapter 4.

"His name is Dobson," John said, as they walked along the white sand beach. Behind them the soft tones of the band echoed in the distance. The crowd around the stage had grown considerably, making it impossible to hear, so Dylan and John had decided to take their discussion to the beach, while the others enjoyed the band and each other’s company.

"That was quick," Dylan said. "You guys haven't lost your touch. But, Dobson? He’s not using the same family name? Demons tend to reincarnate in the same family line."

Dylan stopped and pulled off his shoes and socks. Next to him, John did the same and rolled up his jeans.

"He married Beckmann’s daughter Sarah, and became headmaster after her father retired." John sank his toes into the sand. "Apparently, she wasn’t allowed to take over."

"Sexist son of a bitch." Dylan brushed his hair from his face. "Any idea why he’s here?"

"Honestly, no idea. I’m a psychologist, comic book writer, and artist, Dyl; a hacker only like a distant fourth. Tina has to keep her nose clean, she’s running for Magistrate next November." He scrubbed the back of his head with a hand. "You’ll have to ask Filipe. I wouldn’t be surprised if Dobson’s looking for financial supporters and students for his school. Lots of Americans with money come here on vacation. He can pimp all he wants here."

"This isn’t exactly the establishment where you’d find those kinds of supporters, John."

Sometimes John failed to consider the social differences between groups of people. He lumped everyone together. You were either a friend, a victim, an oppressor, or someone who didn’t give a damn.

"Social groups, man; rich people have their own circles. They don’t mess with us little folk."

"He doesn’t seem to agree with you, Dyl. Him being here says something different. I doubt he flew all the way to Jamaica to be a pain in your ass."

John made his way to the water’s edge and walked along the surf.

The younger revenant was right, which once more brought them back to why Dobson was at Alfred’s.

"He was meeting someone he didn’t want his usual crowd to know about."

"Bingo!" John snapped his fingers and turned on his heel, so the water rolled against the back of his legs. "He brought goonage with him. So whoever he’s meeting with makes him unfucking-comfortable, too."

"Maybe the entire fucking place put him on edge. Face it, John, Alfred’s is full of ghoulage and other not-vampire-or-demon types."

In the distance, Dylan could see the moon. It hovered over the sea, spreading its light over the wavelets. The Blackwells and their allies were known for their dislike of other beings, so it stood to reason that Beckmann… no, Dobson now; Dobson would be nervous anywhere there were a lot of revenants, ghouls, and other beings that weren't demons or vampires.

"Possible." John shrugged. "Crowds put me on edge in general. The restaurant makes me feel like I’m underwater, too crowded."

"He’s a demon, John, not Asperger’s."

"Whatever. Maybe demons have Asperger's, too. Hell, I’m living proof that revenants can be," John snapped. He folded his arms. "Not everyone thinks like a PC, Dyl; some of us are Mac or Linux. He’s born in a human body. You get what you drive in and take it with you into undeath."

"Okay, okay, got it."

The revenant waded into the water and let it slosh up to his ankles. It was cool and felt nice against his skin.

"I’ll make no assumptions on how his brain works, okay?"

He wanted to ask why it was important, but knew John would just launch into an argument about deducing behavior from people’s personalities and habits. How people thought was very important to John. Understanding it was how the revenant got along with others.

"Good. He’s still a fucking racist butthole. Did you notice him talking to anyone in particular?"

"Not that I remember."

Dylan thought back to when he had first noticed Dobson. The demon had stood out like a beacon, but hadn't appeared to be paying attention to anyone in particular.

"Christ, whatever happened to the Sight? Years ago, you never missed a thing, Dyl."

John kicked at the water and sent an arch of spray across the surface.

"John, you know my Sight’s been crap since I died. I’m just starting to get the psychic shit back."

"As a superpower, your goddamn Sight sucks, you know that, right?"

Up ahead, the lights from the hotel cast blue, red, and gold lights off the ocean surface. There were three hotels up ahead—two three-stars with a harbor, and one five-star beyond that. The beach wasn’t empty. People walked along the edge, some of them leaving Alfred’s, others closer to the hotels.

"It would have been nice if we could use your psychic shit to see who he met. Or better yet, see why he’s here?"

"It doesn't work like that, dude. Hell, I wish it did."

Throwing up his hands, Dylan nearly dropped a shoe into the water. Wait a minute. He did recall a couple, dressed in more expensive clothing. The woman was fae; the man was a vampire.

That should have gotten his attention right away. Fae/vampire combinations were rare, even in the aristocracy of the American League. The EuroLeague was the opposite. Fae were a commodity and, from their point of view, dangerous creatures that could only be properly controlled by being either segregated away from all mortals, or by being paired-bonded with a vampire, married to them with the vampire the dominant of the pair. According to the European traditions, this was a happy symbiosis. The fae, bonded to the vampire, was kept under control; and the vampire was strengthened by the fae blood. A vamp who regularly took fae blood could walk in daylight and eat regular food, and even get a lot stronger if they took more blood.

It was totally different in America, and even more so in New York City. American vampires avoided fae and generally chose other vampires as companions. This was mostly practicality. When the American vampires had essentially declared their independence from Europe, along with the mortal American Revolution, they’d cut themselves off from the support network, too. The "Franklin Formula" that made America’s vampire immortals was homegrown, and didn't require fae. Fae companions had been made illegal when the slave trade was ended in the eighteen-hundreds, the two being seen as essentially the same. Nowadays, the official policy with fae was don’t ask, don't tell. If the fae was close enough to human to pass, they were just treated as human. America also had a gourmet blood trade, that sort of made up for the lack of fae; although Dylan knew there was a strong black market for fae blood, often in control of families like his constant nemeses, the Blackwells.

Still, he should have noticed that.

John had gone on talking about psychic powers.

"No offense, I like the stuff in the comics better."

John’s words barely registered.

"Okay, John, I got one of those gut feelings all of a sudden."

"What kind of gut feeling? Same kind you used to get when we were about to be jumped by imps in the park?" John asked, looking over his shoulder to the beach.

"Sort of." Dylan squinted. "I saw a woman and a man. They were there for the music. She was fae, one of those leanan sidhe."

It made sense. Leanan sidhe liked music, and if the vampire wanted her satiated, he’d please her with a loud, energetic crowd and a concert before they fed for the night. Dylan’s gut tightened. Leanan sidhe fed off spirits.

" Why would Dobson care about a leanan sidhe?" John looked skeptical.

"Because," Dylan said, starting to walk faster, "they’re all-you-can-eat buffets, for a vampire or a demon."

The younger revenant’s dark eyes widened.

"Crap! We’ve gotta find her."

Without delay, both revenants sprinted up the beach, splashing up along the shoreline, past the trickle of weary humans making their way back to their hotels.

Ahead, the beach thinned. The green foliage thickened along the shore with tropical large leafed plants, twisted-branched trees and brightly colored flowers that hugged the shoreline as the tide brushed against their roots. A few figures dotted the beach ahead; some walked in the shallows, water to their ankles as they passed the groves and admired the moon shining on the ripples beyond. Some were so distant Dylan wasn’t able to make out their features, even with his night vision.

Only the man closest to them was visible. He was tall, dark haired, dressed in tan shorts, brown leather belt, and a blue silk button-up top. He wore a gold watch, and a panama hat, and a short tan knit scarf around his neck. He held his loafers in one hand as he walked, while the other hung at his side, and his gaze wandered the shore and coast ahead of him.

The man’s steely gaze focused on Dylan as he studied him tensely. He was a vampire.

Jesus, are they having a goddamn convention? No, wait… he was the vampire at Alfred’s! The thought had just cleared Dylan’s mind when something fast streaked from the brush and slammed into the vampire. The man’s hands moved, but not fast enough, as the small blonde form blurred by, in a flurry of movement even Dylan had a difficult time following.

There was a fountain of blood as claws tore across the man’s throat and his head toppled from his shoulder, eyes wide, barely registering his death in their glazed stare.

The figure stopped for an instant, as her other hand ripped the black heart from its victim’s chest. The heart crumbled in her fingers, and she giggled as the blood stains ashed away from her clothing.

She looked young, barely in her teens. Long, white-blond hair was neatly cut around a pretty, innocent, childlike face, and she was dressed in a dark pink top with short sleeves and a white wrap skirt with a bow in the back. On her head was a large white hat with a pink ribbon, a big flamingo feather and a wide brim, and she wore a jeweled choker around her neck. Her eyes were huge and wide-set; one red, the other gold, and four beating wings kept her feet from touching the ground. The girl turned in place, a hovering dragonfly, and looked in their direction.

She smiled unnervingly, a childish yet knowing expression, and shot up into the sky, leaving Dylan and John stopped in their tracks, staring.

Then she was gone, leaving only ripples, a heap of empty clothes, and a gold Rolex watch behind her.

John slowly turned his head so his incredulous gaze met Dylan’s.

"What the fuck did I just see?"

 

 

The post Jamaica Blue Magic: Chapter 4 appeared first on Ryk E. Spoor, Author, Gamer, Geek God.

Jamaica Blue Magic: Chapter 3

Dylan's life gets a bit more complicated in Chapter 3, because his past isn't as dead as he thought...

-------

 

Chapter 3.

Jamaica, 2010

Alfred’s Ocean Palace was a beachfront motel, painted brilliant blue, a two-story building with a peaked roof and a partial third floor. The windows were heavily shaded, and the siding of the building was weathered and over-painted. It was surrounded by palms and cotton trees and brush-like vitae trees.

The restaurant itself was open-air and covered by a wooden awning that was supported by two adjacent yellow and orange walls and wooden beams. Inside, the floor was green concrete and sandy, with a bar set in the center with benches around it. Round and rectangular wooden tables with old schoolhouse style chairs were spread out around the interior.

Across from the restaurant was a raised stage with a painting of palm trees and blue skies, and the Alfred’s logo written across the face. Lights hung from the white ceiling, and the walls were cut at an angle so they met at a point in the back. Christmas tree lights dangled from the walls and ceiling, and speakers were positioned around the front of the stage. A band of young musicians with keyboards, drums, guitars and bass played to a lively crowd of dancing, drinking patrons on the beach.

Dylan sat at the bar and waited for Lou, who promised refreshments before they went outside to look for space at one of the many brightly painted picnic tables. The room was filled with sweating, living forms that assailed his senses in every direction. Hearts beat, veins pumped, lungs drew in air, mouths chattered or chewed. He was surrounded by life.

The salty ocean breeze barely kept the scent of sea-touched flesh from his nostrils, and Dylan found himself wondering how many people packed the restaurant club. Inside and outside there was a sea of pale, sun burned, deep golden, ebony, and chestnut skinned people, flowing in and out of the building and the ocean, and up the beach.

The revenant closed his eyes. He was used to the rhythm of the living, but he rarely clubbed, hadn't since Anna left. It wasn’t about control; the coffee house often filled with customers, and he rode the subway frequently. He’d never attack a mortal. It was more about living. Dylan wasn’t alive, and living like the living had no point unless there was purpose behind it. Cooking for others had a purpose, it made people feel good. Fighting monsters helped people and was one of the few things that gave him a rush, but going to clubs? Drinking and socializing with strangers? That just didn’t do anything for him, not now.

Instinct drove him to scan the moving bodies and focus. His Sight helped him to see them clearly through their concealment spells. Most of the people were human, but some of the auras were dim, others were dark or gray. There was a woman with pale blond hair, next to a handsome Mediterranean man. She was not vampire, but her aura was a pale blue.

Fae, like Danny’s kid. Except she didn’t have vampire blood in her. He hadn’t seen a fae without vampire influence before. He had thought they were all like Liam.

This woman practically sparkled to him. Dylan saw her laugh, and place a hand to her mouth as the man touched her shoulder, and she leaned into him. They were definitely together.

The man was vampire. They both were well dressed, he in shorts and a casual shirt, she in a short, tight, blue ruffled lace dress.

There were others: revenants, ghouls, vampires, shape-shifters, and half-bloods. The undead and their relations were out tonight. One in particular caught his attention: a slender man with thin features. He was tall, with snow-white hair, and dressed in an expensive white suit with a matching waistcoat. His aura was black, like a demon-blooded vampire, but it was stronger, a more pure black than any vampire. The man was no undead; he was a demon.

The Texan tensed, and watched the man weave his way around the crowd. There was something familiar about him, though the face was not one Dylan had seen before.

A tall glass of red liquid, similar to a bloody Mary, slid in front of him. Startled, Dylan peered up to see Lou grinning.

"They have a special menu, Dylan." He pointed to a tall waiter with a red shirt and apron behind the bar. "Ask Frank; he’ll set you up with another."

"Frank’s one of us?" Dylan watched the large, dark-skinned man glide over to three lovely women in sundresses and chat with them. He had been so focused on the other man he had failed to notice that the barkeep didn’t have a heartbeat. Great work, hunter. That kind of thing could get you killed.

"He’s a vampire." Lou confirmed softly. "They don’t discriminate here, either. Even against your kind. Tourism."

That was welcome news; most places catering to the undead didn’t like revenants, zombies, or ghouls. Though some tolerated them, almost none served zombies. He looked down at the drink and sniffed. A very high-quality blood vodka and Tabasco, mixed with tomato juice, made his mouth water. Stirring it, he saw an eyeball pop up. He quickly poked it down with his straw. Eyeballs and human blood were easy enough to get. They were removed at most funeral homes and tossed, but no reason to call attention to his drink.

"Jeez, man, this stuff legal?"

"Do not worry, they’re legit." Lou added and slapped him on the back, and held up his own drink. It was a piña colada with a red umbrella. "They’re going to bring dinner out to one of the tables on the beach."

He gestured to one of the tables outside. There were a few people sitting there already, but the beach was crowded, and Dylan was unable to discern who they were. He shrugged, hoping his friend hadn’t any social plans for him.

"They do what they can here to make a living, Dylan. This isn’t a League controlled country. No League restrictions, though they do have community oversight and federal restrictions. You can relax. Try to enjoy tonight!"

Relax? How could he relax? His life was in New York.

Warily, Dylan sipped at the drink. When it came to paranormals, one never knew, regulated or not, where food came from. "I’m trying. Been a hunter too long." He was more concerned about the demon than the food, but he didn’t want to mention it to Lou in public.

"Remember, you’re not a hunter tonight." Lou straightened, and looked over the crowd toward the stage. "Hear that angel’s voice? There is a diva on the stage! It would be a shame to miss her set!" He gestured for the revenant to follow him. "This way!"

Dylan picked out the woman’s deep sultry alto over the speakers. It was warm and inviting as it floated over the low rumble of casual conversation. Maybe Lou was right; even demons took a day off sometimes. He was thinking too much. He needed to feel peace. Not every demon was a problem. Sure, the USA was teeming with them, and he had had a bad run-in with a few, but it didn’t mean there would be a problem tonight.

Besides, Anna would have wanted him to have downtime. Music always made him feel better, and it had been years since he had just listened and enjoyed someone sing, or watched someone dance. They didn’t have to be Anna. Letting go was difficult, though. He was so used to looking for trouble. Lifting his glass, Dylan climbed to his feet. Lou was well into the crowd, on his way to the table outside.

"I didn’t realize they served your kind here," remarked a smug Midwestern voice. "But I should have expected it. These kind of tourist traps only care about money."

Dylan swiveled, nearly spilling his drink.

Looking down at him, drinking a large clear martini with a green olive and matching umbrella, was the gray-haired, pale-skinned demon. He smiled thinly, revealing sharp canines.

Strangely, the mortals seemed not to notice them, people still chattered and laughed, as if their conversation wasn’t happening.

Narrowing his gaze, he let his hand slide towards the knife. It wasn't his preferred weapon, but it was a lot better than nothing.

"I wouldn’t do that here, Mr. O’Brian. You’d draw attention. Many of these people are well armed, but you must know that. Your father did teach you how to recognize concealed weapons, did he not? If not, that fae cop friend of yours must have." The demon pressed his glass to his lips.

"You have me at a disadvantage." Dylan said evenly. Asshat knows my real name and about Jason. He has shit manners, too. But those manners were probably on purpose; he wanted to provoke Dylan. With an effort, he let his hand move away from the weapon. Asshat or not, the demon was right. There were at least ten other people in the establishment who were armed, two of whom were undead, not to mention security staff with weapons. If he drew a knife, he’d be in for a world of hurt.

"And I thought that sight of yours was keen, boy. Then again, you always were dim." The man studied him, that faint, thin smile playing about his lips.

"Not dim, just needed to work a little harder than others," Dylan corrected him. "I’m a genius at what I do," his words were low, and he fixed the demon with a steely gaze, "and there’s a whole territory in New York City that knows it. Now, begging your pardon, sir, I’d think a well-bred gentleman like yourself would have been taught manners. If my mama heard me talk to a stranger like you have me, she would have whipped me within an inch of my life."

"There are those who deserve respect, Mr. O’Brian, and those who are no more than puppets to be used. Your kind, living or dead, have always been puppets." He stressed the word kind, which didn't make sense right away; living wasn't anything like the same kind as revenant, that was for damn sure.

Was he with the Blackwells? He’s downright dickish enough to be with them. As he recalled, Elias and his brother Wilfred were neck deep in every prejudice he could imagine, they were a vampires-only club; to them, revenants were nothing but mindless beasts, and they hated fae-bloods.

Dylan felt his revenant rage stir. It took all his will to drive the rage back. Can't lose it, not here, not because he wants me to.

"Lucky for you I’m on vacation, and I’m not planning on letting you bait me into causing trouble tonight. So, are you going to be a gentleman and get to the point? Who the hell are you? Or are you going to keep being an asshat and taunt me for the rest of the evening? Because I got better things to do with my time, like listen to some good music and hang with a friend."

It occurred to him how much like Angelus he sounded. Thirty years in New York meant that part of the city was in him now. He was no longer the boy the man claimed he knew.

The smile twitched. For a moment, the world appeared to stop around them, and the demon leaned close. "Your mother sold her soul to me to save yours and your sister’; such a desperate creature. She thought my school would fix both of you, a murderer and a whore."

Wilfred Blackwell had murdered his mother. But he hadn't had a school; that meant that the demon before him could only be one man.

The room darkened and spun out of focus, leaving only the cold-smiling face clear before him, the center of the sudden boiling fury within him. Dylan began a lethal lunge, but before he completed it, before his mind completely lost itself, a large, sunburned, strawberry-blond woman with bright tropical flowers in her hair boldly pushed between the two of them, planted a hand on Dylan’s chest, and shoved him back.

"Well, some things just never change, do they?" she remonstrated gently, speaking with a thick southern accent. "I’m so sorry, Dylan, you’re still an asshole magnet."

Stunned, Dylan stared straight at the freckled face of his old friend, Paula Swan. The anger ebbed away into shock. Of all people, he hadn’t expected to see the fiery Creole were-puma in Jamaica, but there she was, all five-foot-six, two hundred and fifty pounds of her. She hadn’t aged in thirty years. She was still lovely, with a round, bright, perfectly made-up face and plump lips. Her curvy hourglass figure was adorned in a loose, short, flower-covered red skirt with a slit up to the thigh. She wore a matching tight top and gold jewelry and her hair was styled, with curls on top of her head.

The rage was forgotten.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

From behind, Louis plucked the drink from his hand, "Do we have a problem here, Dyl?" he asked, directing his attention to the demon.

Disappointment crossed the former Reverend Beckmann’s face. Apparently the additional numbers did not appeal to him. "No, no problem. I was just leaving."

"Very kind of you, sir. It would have been rude to make the nice people of this establishment have to clean your guts up off the floor," Paula said sweetly. "Which is exactly what would have happened if I hadn't happened along to keep Dylan off you."

"Come on Dylan, let him go," said another voice, and a dark sienna arm slipped around his elbow and eased him from the bar. "I had no idea you were this pathetic."

He was that pathetic? Looking over, Dylan found himself being led away by another old friend. Tina Marty, a Harlem University Law student, and like Paula, one of Anna’s old charges from SoHo. Tina wore a pair of jean shorts, and a pretty peasant blouse with a wide beaded neckline. Her dark, springy hair was pulled back, and her face was focused with a confidence she had never shown in her youth.

Glancing behind him, he noticed one other figure joining Lou and Paula, a taller, very fit man in his early forties, with blond hair and broad shoulders. Henry, Paula’s husband. Jesus, is the whole Muffin House Gang here?

"What the hell are you guys doing here?" he repeated.

"Anna is dead, Dyl. Do you think we’d let you deal with this alone?" Tina asked. "She was a part of all of our lives! If anyone understands what you’re going through, it would be us."

A tall, skinny kid with tan skin, short messy black hair, and coke-bottle glasses bulled his way out of the crowd. "He’s not alone," the young man said, shoving his glasses up his narrow nose with a knuckle. "He’s got two goons sitting at the table, at three o'clock from the bar. They are armed. One’s got a medicine bag on him, as well. He’s a magician, but like nothing I’ve seen. You know how to pick them, Dylan."

The young man wore an Iron Man T-shirt, and a pair of jeans. He looked about sixteen, but Dylan knew better. His fellow revenant was two years younger than he was.

"John? You too? Qui called you guys?"

"Angelus," John corrected him, folding his arms. "He said you were having a mental break of epic proportions, and they were sending you to Jamaica. Good thing we came, too, Wonder-Bread boy, because you would have splattered douchebag’s brains all over the floor and gotten yourself hexed into a grave."

Tina’s eyes narrowed as she placed her hand on Dylan’s arm and glared at the seemingly young man.

"John, so help me God! You could be a little politer about it!" Gently, she led Dylan by the arm. "It’s all right, Dylan. We’re all upset about Anna. We all wanted her to come back."

The crowed started to thin as they stepped out onto the sand. The music was louder, and most of the people were dancing near the stage. Tina led Dylan to the table Lou had picked out for them.

"Aw, c'mon, it’s Dylan, he can take the truth, T," John protested as he plopped down at the table and folded his arms. "He appreciates bluntness."

"I would have splattered his brains, Tina," Dylan admitted. He looked at his empty hand, missing his drink. "But thanks." He noticed his two revenant friends had plates of fried food. He licked his lips and peered down. "Guess they have a full menu?"

"Yeah." John popped something in his mouth. "Make the best blood eyeball poppers on the island. As good as Sardies in New York; not better than mine though."

"So what happened? Who was that guy?" Tina asked, worried. "Was he a Blackwell? We put a restraining order on them! They’re forbidden to bother you!"

And vice-versa.

"We're in a non-League country," Dylan pointed out. "All those rules don't apply here. And he’s not a Blackwell. He worked with them. He’s a demon." Dylan felt the anger trying to rise again, pushed it down. "Says he has my mom’s soul."

"That’s bullshit. How much do you wanna bet he’s one of their pals? He was just trying to piss you off." John replied. "Revenants have a short fuse. He wanted you to make a scene. He thought he could make you go batshit and nearly succeeded. You’re predictable, Dyl."

"Not that predictable. I can control my temper now." Dylan stretched his legs. "Paula had no problem stopping me, and I didn’t try to go through her."

"And if Paula wasn’t here? Anna’s gone, Dylan," Tina pointed out. She fished around her plate and jabbed a fried crinkly thing and placed it in her mouth. It sort of looked like a clam. "That’s gotta affect you, Dylan."

"Ok, I can sort of control my temper."

Lou placed a glass in front of Dylan and sat down next to John; they were joined by Paula and Henry. The Renfield looked over his plate of baked seafood.

"Your demon friend left. He is powerful, Dylan. He is not an ordinary demon. Something about him is different. Very different."

"John says he’s a magician." Dylan cupped his glass between his fingers.

"What in hell is he doing here?" Paula asked as she picked up her fork and studied the plate in front of her. On it was a lobster tail, cut in half, and several braised shrimp. "He didn’t come out here to give you a hard time, did he Dyl?"

"No one knew we were coming," Lou told her. "Filipe bought the tickets in secret, and that man knows secret." He stirred his drink. Beside him, Henry drank from a tall glass of red liquid. He had no food.

Dylan frowned, distracted, just for a moment.

"Wait a minute, Hen; you’re dead? When did that happen?"

The vampire shrugged. "’Bout five years ago, no biggie. Fell off the roof trying to fix it and broke my neck. My mom was a little freaked, she was worried about the kids, Paula, the Sports Center, and our charges; but well, you know, I rose, so everything was cool."

"We’d just lost his dad the year before, so it’s been hard on her," Paula said.

"Yeah, I know how it is."

Sometimes it took time for mortals really to understand the implications of the vampiric infection. Death was just as complex and filled with contradictions as life. Humans needed to rethink it. Henry, unlike Angelus, was lucky enough to have stayed alive until his mid-forties, married, and had a family before he became a full vampire.

"Now, about this gentleman?" Lou said pointedly.

"Beckmann? I don’t know what he calls himself now," Dylan told him. "Honest to God, Lou, I was about to let it go. I knew he was a demon. Then the bastard comes over and said my mom sold her soul to him. But that should be old news. Hell, it was thirty fucking years ago."

Placing her fork down, Tina pressed her fingers to her lips, troubled.

"Exactly how did your mother sell her soul?"

Dylan shook his head. "He tricked her. It’s how demons usually work. They convince you they’re something they’re not, trick you into believing in them. And my mom, she believed he was going to save us from the vampires and undead, enough to give Brig and me to him."

Yet it had been Blackwell who had killed his mother, not Beckmann. His mother had also betrayed him. Was it possible she had freed herself before she could be taken completely? After all, John was right, demons lied, and his mother wasn’t weak, she was stubborn.

"This could be a coincidence," Henry said cheerfully. "He didn’t want to press the issue after Paula and Lou showed up. Maybe he just saw Dylan and tried to get rid of him by pissing him off because Dyl just made him nervous? Now that we’re here, he’ll just go someplace else to hunt."

Henry always was a glass-half-full kind of guy, and infinitely more down-to-earth with his theories. A demon hunting for an easy meal at a swinging Jamaican vacation resort? That made sense. Dylan bowed his head and ran a hand over his face. Beckmann had been a demon! How had he missed that?

"Still, that’ the problem," Dylan said reluctantly. "They don't just hunt, Henry; they’re not like Vampires. They settle into a place, make themselves a nice big congregation, or school, or fancy club, and get people to believe in them, and then feed off their rancor. Like the Westboro Baptist Church that pickets all those military funerals? Run by demons."

Henry looked worried.

"Doesn’t mean he’s not scouting a territory." John proposed. "Though you’d think he’d pick a place inland. People are poorer, easier to manipulate, lots to feed on."

"Poorer actually aren’t easier. Oh, a politician can feed them good lines, but when it comes to survival, a lot of them tend to be harder sells. The working poor and middle classes are a lot easier to lead, especially by someone promising prosperity and hope. They have lots of anger, and wealthy demons make them feel good about it. Influencing the rich and powerful helps a demon get a wider reach, but feeding off the working poor and middle classes is how he gets his power."

Lou stirred his drink, thoughtful. "Tomorrow, while most of you sleep, I will see if there are new churches with white ministers in the area. Dylan… this Beckmann, he is part of the American League, is he not? They have an influence on this island, so I wouldn’t be surprised if he had an estate here. I could look into that as well, after we find out his name."

Which was a problem, because the man no longer looked like the one Dylan had known, and the only connection Dylan assumed the man still had was with the Blackwell family. "I hate to say it, but the only clue’s the Blackwells. He worked with them, but I have no clue what he’s calling himself now."

John waved his fork in irritation.

"I did not plan a demon hunt and am not prepared for one."

He jabbed another fried thing with his fork, exasperated.

"And, I left my laptop at the hotel." He dropped his fork, and fished into his pocket. "But I did bring my iPhone. I can do a search from the beach near the hotel."

"John, not now! This is a healing and mental health day for all of us!" Tina reminded them. "We’re not here for trouble. This is a vacation. If we wanted trouble, we could have stayed in New Orleans! No offense, Dylan, but when it comes to your family, you can’t think rationally. He might have been saying it to get a reaction out of you. After the Blackwell situation, demons don’t like you."

Tina hadn’t changed a bit. She was cautious, and still concerned about their welfare, even now, when they could hold their own.

"Tina, John, Dyl, Paula and I have been pounding the tar out of troublemaking paranormals for thirty years now," Henry said, his voice slightly muffled by the glass he was sipping from. "This is no different than what happens at home when some vampire is trying to bully one of our charges or someone hexes one of our neighbors."

"No offense, T, but we can’t let some unholy bad thing gobble up tourists and feed off the locals." Paula stirred her frozen margarita. "Besides, I’m sure there are places on this island to find supplies for hunting. Since sorcery is illegal, it might be hard to find the right magic supplies, but I have connections."

"Excuse me, I’m the one who talked with Angelus, here. Dyl’s been obsessing and breaking his back over this hunting shit. He needs to step back and focus on dealing with the loss that’s been driving him!" Tina snapped bluntly. She glanced back to Dylan and fixed him with a stern glare that reminded him of Sacco when he was certain Dylan wasn’t facing something important. "No more running from losing Anna. And we all know he does that by hunting."

"Not anymore, T. And this is important and dangerous." He held her gaze and leaned his arms on the table. "It’s about my mom. The man didn’t kill her, but he says he has her soul. Can I honestly let that go?"

He watched John as the gangly nerd noodled around on his phone.

"I can get on Safari, but the connection is SLOW!" He wiggled the phone, frustrated. "Oh, and T, soul hoodoo is serious business, if it’s not bunk."

"John’s right. And this is my mother we're talking about. Can I take the risk?" Dylan asked.

Not all demons were capable of taking souls, but some understood necromantic arts, and those who did were very formidable. He had a medicine bag, and that meant magic. Maybe it was someone else doing the magic, but maybe not.

Tina sighed. "Not alone, Dylan. We’ve always been a team," she said, finally conceding the necessity. "This fight can’t be about your revenant. It’s gotta be about saving people, and Anna would agree. You’ll lose yourself someday, Dylan, and we’ll be the ones hunting you."

Dylan shrugged. He wasn’t going to argue. Tina had used the Anna trump card, and he knew she was right. They had to work together, and Anna wouldn’t want him hiding from his hurt by letting the revenant take over. They had been a team in the past, and they should be again. John and Tina were the thinkers; Dylan and Paula were the heavies; and Henry was the heart of their group.

He studied Louis as the tall man seemed to focus on the stage and the woman singing there, and wondered where he’d fit in.

This was also a different kind of fight. He wasn’t sure how to say it to Tina. It was a hunt, not a political statement like in the past. The Muffin House Gang had been big into politics, and they’d been making a political statement, getting people like revenants and ghouls their first chance for recognition. But this wasn't politics; this was dealing with a monster.

Dylan watched Tina turn to John, pull out her own phone, and waited while the two of them tag-teamed web surfing for information.

"We’ll search for Blackwell and his associates, start from the eighties and go from there. Maybe there’s a new Headmaster for this school your mother was so fond of. What’s the name of it, Dylan?"

Dylan recalled pamphlets lying around the house. "Liberty Cross," he answered. He smiled. Tina and John had always been the brains of the group. He had forgotten how much he’d relied on them. They had been the ones who came up with the plan to challenge the League of Vampiric Peoples by using the territory battles to convince the League to give revenants, zombies and ghouls a chance to join, to become citizens. Back in the eighties, the League generally just culled other races, but Tina had confronted the League with a legal argument that forced them to accept all undead, even zombies, as members, so long as they could control themselves sufficiently to fit into society in some way.

Not, Dylan thought, that it had completely changed. The less-respected supernatural races were still really only safe in the few Free Cities, of which New York was the largest. The American League viewed them as something between experiments and nuisances. Change took time. At that, they were better overall than the European League.

"Be sure to check to see if there have been any recent Blackwell graduates from the school. That would confirm a connection with the school still exists." Paula leaned over so she could get a better look.

"If any of them were in sports, you might be able to find articles on them," Henry added.

John rolled his eyes. "One thing at a time, Hen!"

"Thank you, Hen," Tina said, countering John’s oblivious rudeness.

Dylan leaned his chin on his palm and watched his friends as they argued back and forth. It seemed like just yesterday they had all been in group therapy, a bunch of frightened victims of paranormal violence struggling to get control over their lives.

"You’ve all graduated from the Muffin House with honors." Lou said quietly from beside him. "What do you think?"

"Sometimes you talk like you knew her." That was possible. Lou had been around a long time. He could easily have met Anna. Dylan drained his glass. He looked at the eyeball on the bottom and quickly passed it over to John, who popped it in his mouth like a maraschino cherry.

"Might have," Lou said, shrugging. "Sometimes when I look at her picture, the one you have in the café? I think I remember her, but then it doesn’t mesh with what I recall."

He looked across the beach, beyond the crowd of swaying, dancing club patrons.

"Did you ever feel like you belonged to something, even though you know you don’t?"

"Once."

A breeze cooled his face, and Dylan’s attention was drawn to the ocean as the waves lapped at the sand, just beyond the tables.

"When I first saw Anna. I knew I belonged with her. I belonged in New York City, and they were my family."

He gestured toward his friends. John was waving his hands in aggravation, trying to silence the chaotic flow of helpful and less-helpful ideas, while Tina jotted them down, organized as ever.

"How about you?"

There was no hesitation.

"I knew I belonged in New York, too. The café, it felt like home, my calling. Everything felt familiar, the office, even the damn spinny chair, even the smell of the place. I knew I’d come home."

"Funny how things work out, isn’t it? If it’s worth anything, you do belong. You've got that special kind of crazy need to work at O’Reily’."

The desk and the spinny chair had been Anna’s and were with her before Dylan had entered her life. They had belonged to Reggie, according to Anna.

Lou gave a full, rich laugh. "Crazy, eh? I suppose you can call it that."

Looking back to the others, Dylan nodded. His life was all kinds of crazy, but then again, it seemed right, especially the people in it. People he trusted, which was the important part.

"Wouldn’t change it, Lou. Not for all the porn on the Internet. Hell, I think I’ve lived the best years of my life in New York, so I see it as a blessing."

The tall man nodded and turned his attention to the stage and the band. They were playing a slow piece. It was soft and pleasant, and floated up like a breeze in the clear night, blended with the cool hush of the ocean waves.

"Count those blessings every day, Dyl. Because you never know when things will change."

Like Anna, he thought. Life moved so fast, it was easy to lose track. Dylan had already lost the most important person in his life. He needed to learn how to slow down and enjoy the people around him.

Anna had taught him that.

 

 

The post Jamaica Blue Magic: Chapter 3 appeared first on Ryk E. Spoor, Author, Gamer, Geek God.

Jamaica Blue Magic: Chapter 2

We saw some of the past -- now let's go to the present, where Dyl is supposed to be relaxing on vacation...

-----

 

Chapter 2.

Jamaica, 2010

It had been years since he thought of how his parents died. Was it a memory or a vision? Memories and visions were often difficult to tell apart, especially now. Did it matter? Anna’s death had dredged up a whole dark load of baggage. It was hard to sort it all out. Why couldn’t everything stay buried where it belonged? Then again, he hadn’t stayed dead, so why should bitter memories?

Dylan floated face-down in the crystal-clear water of Jamaica and stared at the sandy bottom below him. It was quiet and still, save for the occasional fish that darted into his vision, then fled when they got a sense of the revenant energy animating his body. He could float in the water for hours, staring at the flickering moonlight reflecting off the sandy bottom. Dylan didn’t need to breathe, and being undead, nothing in the ocean would dare eat him, not even the bull sharks skulking about the shallows; they could sense that here was a far worse predator than any of them.

The memories, as always, dredged up more memories. One of the most essential facets of being a revenant was that you dwelt in the past. You existed because you refused to let go.

And here he was, trying to let go.

He chuckled at that, releasing a few bubbles. So much had happened after that terrible day; some of it even worse, like Bridget being turned and him having to stake his own sister in a combination of terrified self-defense and monster-hunter delusions of saving the damned; some of it far better, like the first time he’d seen Anna, an avenging angel with a belt-whip.

Most of it… most of it had just been growing up, he realized. Coming to understand that nothing about the world was simple, and almost none of it was what he’d believed. Realizing that the LeHunt job—the attempt to rip the lid off of the hidden world of monsters—hadn’t just been a terrible failure, it had also been another in a long series of murders.

For an instant he saw the child-vampire in her hidden grave-bed, and it was as vivid as the moment he first saw her. His body shuddered in the warm water as he managed to wrench himself back to the present rather than let that memory take him on a flashback tour of the past again.

But even that didn’t banish all the memories, or the lessons he’d learned. Like the fact that most of the so-called "monsters" were just people with unusual problems. They weren’t the accursed of God; they weren’t possessed by fallen angels or created by satanic magic. Or if they were, it wasn’t the way he thought. Vampires, ghouls, revenants, zombies, fae, demons—all of them were people. Even demons weren’t necessarily evil, even though they did have to feed on negative or selfish emotions and drives. They could find harmless sources for those, just as vampires could find ways to feed on blood without ripping out throats. Hell, one of the absolutely nicest people he knew was a succubus who managed to feed through explicit games on the Internet.

It was Anna who’d taught him all that, and more. She’d saved him from that younger punk of the Blackwell family and his little gang. She’d convinced Liam, the most ancient of the immortals of New York, to give Dylan a chance, despite having been a hunter. She’d made him … better. And when Dylan fell in love with her, she held him off without hurting him, until she was sure of what both of them felt.

He felt the pure electricity of their first real kiss in the New York underground, where he was about to duel a vampire to the death, and fought free of that memory, tears leaking into the crystal sea: the same tears he’d been trying to escape for a long time.

Dylan hadn’t wanted to go on vacation. But there he was, under the clear, star-filled, velvet night sky of the Caribbean on an isolated Jamaican beach.

Qui had arranged for them to stay in a private cabin on the west side of the island in Negril. The cabin was private, on a white sand beach, surrounded by palm trees, hook-rooted mangroves, and exotic yellow and orange flowers. It was warm and beautiful, and the night was clear and dark, but Dylan was too caught up in losing Anna to care.

Letting go of the past was almost impossible for a revenant, but nevertheless, that was what he was here for. What he had to do, because he had to accept that Anna was dead, that she’d been dead for a long time. He had to accept that, not just for his sake but for hers, and for everything they'd been to each other—and everything they’d built together.

Had it been three weeks since Liam had showed up in his apartment to tell him? Close to it. He'd spent most of the time working, after. If Qui and Filipe hadn’t insisted, he wouldn’t have come, but they said Louis wouldn’t go unless he did. So he went.

And that was really it, wasn’t it? Liam may not need his protection, but Qui? Filipe? Vic and Yu and Angelus and Raven, the Twins, poor Sam, Alice? Even Louis, sometimes. He had to take care of himself so he could take care of them.

It was twenty-four carat irony, really. He’d gone from monster-hunter to renfield to, eventually, revenant, and somewhere along the way he’d become someone running a halfway house for all the outcasts: zombies, ghouls, demons who didn’t fit highblood society, shapechangers, accidental vampire spawn… anyone that would be culled in other cities, so-called monsters who just wanted to live their lives like anyone else.

So there he was, barely in Jamaica, floating in the Caribbean, looking at the sandy bottom, wondering how Louis would surf on calm seas, or if he’d decide the vacation was a bust and drag them both back to New York, where Dylan could go back to work.

"You are lucky no one can see you. They would think you drowned," Louis said. "I thought revenants sank."

"We should; dunno why I don’t." Dylan rolled over in the water and stiffened his back so he floated and looked up at the cloudless sky. Everything was calm.

Louis lay on his surfboard, arms folded under his head, legs dangling in the water. "It’s Anna’s blood, my friend. You’re not all revenant. She is still with you."

His face twitched. He wanted to smile, but how could Anna be with him if he hadn’t even felt her death?

"I just go back to the same thing, Lou. Both of us knew when I raised as a revenant that her blood was either going to play a part or do very little, because she made me, effectively, after I became half-revenant. Then I died, and she wasn’t even sure if I was going to come back. It was all a crapshoot."

He almost never talked about what had happened after his duel with Keith. He floated in silence a moment, attempting to gather his thoughts. It had been years since he’d thought about it.

"I was dead for about a week. Didn’t rot, just didn’t move. Anna was going to give me a week before she put me in the ground."

"Vamps raise in 24 hours."

"Yeah, vamps do; revenants, on the other hand, raise whenever the soul feels like it."

"You didn’t decay, though. That’s a sign of vampirism," Louis added, a thoughtful expression on his face. "I think you think about these things too much. We reflect our natures differently. Just because you don’t drink blood and sleep in a coffin doesn’t mean you don’t have her pumping in your veins. Magic is magic. It affects everyone differently."

"Lou, I’m more revenant than anything, and whether there’s enough vampire in me to keep me from sinking isn’t going to change the fact she left because she was worried about me. She’s gone, I didn’t feel it happen, and I miss her."

He felt a pit of grief open in his gut and Dylan closed his eyes. Wasn’t that why she’d told him she wanted to find Reggie? She wanted to ask him about Dylan. She wanted to find a cure for his revenant curse. He realized that the depression was starting to lift. He was thinking sense now. He remembered Anna’s concern about him when she left. She saved me, she taught me, she loved me, and I need to remember that. Not live in that.

"You don’t need to hang out here, Lou. I mean, the waves suck, but I’ll bet there’s some nightlife you’d be interested in."

"I could use the quiet tonight." The man smiled lazily. "Maybe we can both go out after a few laps?"

"Laps?"

"Why not? A little exercise helps to ease a troubled mind!" The Cajun slipped off his surfboard and started to guide it into the shallows. "I will drop my board off on the beach and we will make our way to the pier."

The pier? Straightening up, he treaded water, squinted ahead in the dark. The pier was a good mile off. "Are you sure you’re up for that, Lou? I mean, you’re still breathing."

"Of course I’m up to it, I surf the fucking Atlantic in January. The sea is my mother," Lou called back.

The revenant shrugged. There was so much he didn’t know about his friend. Louis was resourceful, and a very shrewd businessman. Between Lou and Filipe, O’Reily’s stayed open for business despite the drain of the halfway house and Dylan’s weekend activities. And it wasn’t just the life of his business; Lou walked the daylight when Dylan slept, so Dylan’s life was literally in Lou’s hands every day. But he trusted Lou implicitly.

As Louis dove back into the water, the swirling currents seemed to part around him as though they were alive and he were a respected Elder.

Dylan leaned forward and began swimming smoothly towards the distant pier. Water parted before him and trailed behind in swirls of faintly luminous foam, the ghost-light of bioluminescence. Even for a revenant, pushing through water for yard after yard took effort, keeping on course demanded focus, and he had to admit Louis was, once more, right. This swim was just what he needed. It kept him moving, his mind from focusing on Anna and how depressed he was, replacing brooding with a sense of purpose and motion.

By the time they were done, both hands slapping the rock of the pier at the same time, Dylan felt energized, ready to explore the island. Negril was known for its clubs and nightlife. They quickly made their way up the beach to the bright red beach house.

The house was set back into the palm trees on a sandy hill surrounded by mangroves and brush. Its deck was painted white, with delicate molding along the edge of the roof and red clay shingles. It was homey and private, with no other cabins for about a mile around. There were two bedrooms, a small kitchen just off the living space with a TV, wicker shelves, and a red leather couch with two matching easy chairs. There was no cable, but there was an air conditioner, although Dylan didn’t figure they’d need it much. Lamps sat on tables near the chairs and gave the room decent light, plus there were track lights on the ceiling in the kitchen.

The kitchen itself was equipped with a microwave and a gas stove, but that wasn’t all; it also boasted a food processor, a variety of measuring tools, an espresso machine, and many different kinds of pans. Dylan was impressed. Granted, he was dead and unable to eat, but Lou was still very much alive, so he planned on cooking in for his friend some night, and the small kitchen had everything he needed. The kitchen table was small, just right for two people, and there wasn’t much counter space. But they had a decent amount of room to move around, and there was a butcher’s block in the center of the marble kitchen floor. Really, a nice little house.

Luckily, his room had only one window, and the black shade was solid and tight around the edges, making it easy for him to sleep without having to go into the closet or under the bed. Dylan liked his room; it was simple, with a bed, dresser, adjoining bathroom with a shower, and nice homey closet. He liked the hardwood floors, and the bold green and red bed-spreads, and the palm tree paintings. It even had a big round wicker chair like in the old movies. It was… different, and what he’d imagine from a place like Jamaica.

It didn’t take Dylan long to shower and dress. He didn’t need to worry about hunting. He’d promised Louis he’d relax and try to enjoy himself. Still, he had brought his hunting bag, and hidden it in the closet. He never left unarmed. Even tonight, he strapped on his magnum out of habit.

Then he gave a mild curse and took the gun off, packing it away. We paid a hell of a bribe … well, Louis paid a hell of a bribe, I wouldn’t know who to pay… to even get this gun into the country. Yeah, I’ve got a permit, but Jamaican gun laws are vicious. Dylan had no intention of being caught with a firearm and trying to argue with the police; ending up in Jamaican prison was not an entertaining idea at all. Instead, he took one of his cold-iron knives which he could mostly conceal, even wearing shorts and a T-shirt.

Now he was ready to go, except for the fact that he kept thinking about the coffee shop and the halfway house. This time of night, he’d be playing games with Raven, Vic, and Nickie because they needed someone to keep them company when they were done with the center. Raven’s probably knocking down the twins’ door by now. Hope they don’t bite her head off. That was a potentially literal concern when dealing with twins who could shapeshift into full-size Kodiak bears.

Then there were Angelus and Jaivin. How in hell was Angie going to keep up with everyone and his classes? Qui would have to pull his time, and Qui did not work well with the kids. The thought made him pick up his cell phone.

The cellphone’s wireless signal blinked one very short bar. Damn, reception sucks out here. He forced himself to pocket the cell. He finished dressing and stepped out into the living space. Louis was already dressed and standing in the kitchen.

"Hey Lou, lookin’ sharp!"

Of course, Lou didn’t need to try to look sharp; he looked good in anything he wore. The Cajun had decided to dress casual in tan cargo shorts and a red "surfing evolution" T-shirt. His long dreadlocks were tied back.

"I wonder how Raven and the other kids are doing?" Dylan said aloud. He quickly pulled his blond hair back and tied it. He glanced in the mirror, seeing the blue jeans and the dark-blue T-shirt he’d chosen. He added his hat for flavor. "I should give Angelus a call once we get better reception. I know Vic and Sam were still having problems. Raven was still acting up. She might be mad we’re away now, and Angie’s got Jaivin to take care of. Qui and the Twins… they’re still being trained."

"Raven will be fine. Angie is there, and Sacco and Martin are helping out." Lou took his wallet from the cabin table and put it in his pocket. "You need to relax, Dylan. Your problem is that you insist on micromanaging. You gotta trust your friends and focus on what’s important now: you."

Focus on what’s important? Dylan grabbed the cabin key from a small tray on the kitchen table. He didn’t think that taking a vacation was what was important, and he didn’t agree that he took on more than he could handle. But he knew better than to argue with Lou.

"Where to?"

"Alfred’s Ocean Palace. Good music, nice pace, great shows. I was there the last time I was here. And I’ll drive."

Together the two men stepped out of the cabin.

"The last time you were here? When was that?"

"I have no idea, sometime in the nineties," he said. "I think." Lou’s voice dropped as they climbed into the rental blue white canvas topped jeep.

"What do you mean, 'I think'?" Dylan looked at his friend curiously. "I was under the impression you were sharp as a tack, Lou, not suffering from Vampire senility like Liam and Doc Smith."

"I think you need to add the word selective when it comes to them." Lou gunned the engine. "As for me… There are times where my life is crystal clear, and then I have dreams or flashbacks of other things that I can't recall, and everything just stops making sense." He backed the jeep out of the parking lot as he spoke. "Vampires have a way of messing with your memories and changing thoughts."

Was he talking about his maker? The one who’d made Louis a renfield in New Orleans?

"Do you want to talk about it?" Dylan reached up and pulled down the seat belt and snapped it. "So you remember more than three hundred years?"

"Might. I remember the island pretty clearly. I’ve come here a few times. I do remember a colonial marketplace and old sailing ships. Other memories say I was a slave in New Orleans at the same time. Those are the ones I told you about when I first came. There are times, though, that they don't seem real to me." He shrugged.

"Trauma does that." Like being a renfield, Louis had PTSD. "When my sister tried to kill me as a vampire, that doesn’t seem real either." Neither did the death of his father and mother. "Heck, the Blackwell business never felt real either. Especially the night my parents died. It felt like a bad horror flick." Maybe there was a reason he had finally recalled what had happened. He rubbed his brow.

Lou steered the Jeep on to A1, and headed south.

"It is different than that. It is layered, like two different events happening at the same time. But eh… Time will work it out."

"Layered?" Dylan leaned his arm over the door of the jeep. A warm breeze whipped into his face as he looked out the window. "Like marketplaces in Jamaica, and working at a plantation in New Orleans?"

"Exactly."

"Is there anything that feels right and real to you?"

Lou smiled broadly, looking out at the shore. "The ocean. It seems to be the only consistent memory I have. I am connected to it. Every memory I have is of somewhere on the ocean."

"Well, that’s something, at least." Dylan thought about how the sea appeared to part around Louis.

Plains of grass and brush rolled by as they drove, and Dylan thought about the day Louis had showed up on his doorstep. It was two months after Anna left. Dylan was just getting his feet back on the ground and used to life after withdrawal from blood addiction. A revenant who was also a renfield, living with and off a vampire like Anna, came to rely on their blood for a lot of things. Going cold turkey off it was not fun. Louis came in looking for a job. A week later he had told Dylan he was a renfield and in need of blood to survive.

Unlike revenants and other undead, the living just died when broken of blood addiction, and Lou had no interest in dying. Dylan had hooked him up with the center, and he became one of Dylan’s charges.

In return, he had started to work the day shift. As his counselor, Dylan didn’t push the man. Dylan knew most renfields had it rough with vampire patrons. If Louis wanted to discuss his past, he would. Instead, their relationship became one of professionals rather than counselor and patient. Louis appeared to prefer it that way. In fact he thrived, and was more independent than any renfield blood addict Dylan had met. The man was more together than Dylan himself.

It was after Dylan’s second mental breakdown that he made Louis a full time partner of O'Reily’s (Filipe ran his own business and Angelus wasn’t interested in being a baker or a barista). He had found that they thought alike and shared the same laid-back approach to business, and both of them enjoyed cooking. Louis also had an uncanny habit of speaking like Anna. He was carefree, very intelligent, loved the arts, and didn’t like dwelling on unpleasant things. He also liked playing jazz. Working with him just felt right.

Over the years they had developed a strong friendship, though Louis kept as independent and aloof as possible. Dylan never pushed it, fearing he’d step too far. Over six years, the man had remained an enigma and appeared happy that way.

"I don’t know, dude. Surfing the Atlantic in November is fucking crazy." Dylan said. "Then again, guess hunting in Central Park isn’t the brightest thing either."

Louis laughed. "That is why we are in the Caribbean, is it not?"

"Point. Guess Qui got sick of our batshit crazy stunts, overworking, and antisocial behavior." He leaned back into his seat and closed his eyes. "So, Alfred’s Ocean Palace? Sure it’s still there?" Centuries-old people often found themselves thinking something sixty years ago had happened practically yesterday.

Lou grinned. "It was on Anthony Bourdain and YouTube, so yes. Seafood, performers, music, drinks, beach; you shouldn’t get too bored there."

"At least there’s more than just food and women, since I can't do the one and I'm not ready for the second," he said, then closed his eyes. "Anything to take my mind off the last six years sounds good. What about you?"

"I’m there for the food, music and women. Gotta live in the moment. Who the hell knows how long the good times will last?"

Six years without Anna. Six years of disappointment, or had it been 6 years of denial? That was when she’d left to look for her sire. When had she died? Four years ago? Daniel had been with them almost four years now. Now Daniel’s son was with them, without Anna. Life, no, unlife was unfair. Had he made the right choice staying behind and tending to the café, or had that very choice burdened his friends? Sometimes it seemed to. "I guess."

He glanced at Lou, and thought of Angelus, Qui and the twins. It had started out all right. He did stabilize after the first year. He had thrown himself into his work. But they were right. Over the years he had started to stress, slowly sank deeper in denial. WHY? Was it just the way revenants were? It was more than just Anna. Had to be. He had sought out hunts, and started to relish the violence again. It had helped him to escape, but that wasn't a good thing.

"I guess I’m going back to two sessions a week with Sacco before I end up getting my ass locked up again," he said absently.

Lou glanced at him, brow cocked. "That bad? I’ve been slacking off myself. My jazz eases my soul better than talking about it."

He shrugged. "Hard to say for sure. But it could be. I wish my baking was like your jazz. Right now, I don’t wanna risk it? Would you in my shoes?"

Louis turned his attention back to the road. "Nope. No, I don't think any of us want to risk that. Revenants are bad news. Jason will have to put you down."

Dylan knew why, too. He was the revenant who had terrified the Blackwell family by taking out most of their enforcers and several family members in NYC, on his own, with nothing but a baseball bat and a shotgun. He hadn't even been a full revenant at the time, just a slightly boosted human, a renfield. If he lost control over himself now, with the full powers of a revenant? Dylan shook his head, shuddering at the thought. He knew what kind of a monster he could be, and if that happened, putting him down would be a nightmare.

 

 

 

 

 

The post Jamaica Blue Magic: Chapter 2 appeared first on Ryk E. Spoor, Author, Gamer, Geek God.

Jamaica Blue Magic: Chapter 1

I'm doing some snippeting now of Jamaica Blue Magic, the second in the Fall of Veils series (but still a fine place to start), coming soon from Ring of Fire Press. Fall of Veils is an urban fantasy series that will touch on pretty much every subgenre from action to murder mystery, courtroom drama and political thriller, and during which the world is transformed; Kathleen is the prime mover in our writing of this series; I'm supporting and co-authoring.

On to Chapter 1 -- it's a long one!

------

 

Chapter 1.

Kansas, 1980:

It was early evening when they arrived home from the hunt. Dylan tossed his blood-covered clothing in the garage trashcan and washed up quickly with the hose before entering the house. Fortunately, his parents were still at church, so he and Bridget were able to sneak baths. Dylan kept his gear in the chest on the back of the truck but helped Bridget carry hers into her closet.

Still troubled, the eighteen-year-old refused to discuss their encounter in the ghost town, Le Hunt, and set to studying, despite Bridget’s concerned prodding. It was just a hunt, and it was going to be their last. He didn’t want his sister to worry.

Their parents arrived shortly, and Bridget spun a yarn about camping with some of her schoolmates. Their mother looked convinced, but Dad didn’t. He commented on Dylan’s silence with a suspicious tone in his voice, but Dylan convinced Dad that he was concerned about the upcoming test and was too exhausted to study.

Dyl let his father lecture him on the sins of partying on the weekends and maintaining grades and how Dylan’s exhaustion was a consequence. Dylan reluctantly agreed with everything Dad said, and went, with a deliberately sulky face, off to study. Dylan’s lies turned out to have been true in one respect, though; he ended up nodding off at his desk.

The phone’s ring drew his mind out of dark dreams of Le Hunt’s cement underground tunnels and back to the safety of his room. Dylan cracked open an eye. His cheek lay on his math textbook, pencil in hand, with his notebook hanging precariously over the edge of his desk. The lamp blazed yellow light on his face and brightened the dim bedroom.

In the distance, he heard his mother talking to a voice he didn’t recognize. Strange; Mom wasn’t answering. She always answered the phone.

"Shit."

He hadn’t even wiped the sand out of his eyes. Yawning, Dylan fumbled for the receiver next to his lamp, dragged it off the hook and got it to his ear.

"Yeah. Dyl here."

That wasn’t the proper way to answer the phone, but that was all his tired mind could muster as he drew himself up into a sitting position and rubbed his aching neck.

"Dyl?" It was Jackson. The older boy’s voice sounded urgent. "Is everything ok?"

"Yeah, peachy. I just passed out at my desk studying algebra. Jack, what’s up? You know, you just woke me up from a beautiful dream with a gorgeous redhead."

Holding the receiver between his shoulder and ear, Dylan stretched. The clock on his bed stand read 8:30 PM.

The voices outside were continuing their low-key discussion. Dylan recognized his father’s voice now; he didn’t sound happy. Dad was on edge, and there wasn’t much that did that. The young hunter tensed.

"Dyl, you need to get out of there! All of you! Remember my grandma’s photos? Meet me at the theater she was standing in front of."

Puzzled, Dylan shook the sleep from his brain and held the phone closer.

"Whoa, what in hell are you talking about? We’re fine, dude."

"Men in Black, Dylan! The MIBs came after Doctor Blavatsky. They have everything, and they’re after us. I’m not fucking around here, Dyl. I can’t reach my parents. Something is wrong. Get the fuck out of there." Jackson’s normally calm voice was frightened. "You wanted attention, well, now we’ve got it."

Oh, shit. The shock of realizing just how bad the situation was had Dylan standing before he knew it, the chair screeching backwards on the bare wood. His notebook flopped to the floor.

My grandma’s photos… Jackson didn’t even feel safe telling him which photo of his grandmother Rosy. But there were so many pictures on her wall, memories of her long and sometimes checkered past… wait. Dylan snapped his fingers; he knew which one. It had to be the one with Rosy and Anna, Rosy dark as brown topaz, Anna white as snow. They were dancers at a ballroom with a big glittery mirror ball; he thought it was somewhere in Harlem. Since scant few clubs had hired both black and white dancers in the twenties it would be easy to research. "I’ll keep an eye on the papers and news. Are you going home?"

"Yeah, but I have a bad feeling," Jackson said. "Okay, gotta run."

"Wait, what about Paul?"

"They have him, dude. I couldn’t do anything about it but run like hell. Gotta go."

Before he could say anything, there was a dial tone and Dylan was left staring at the phone. His gut tightened as he hung up the receiver. The MIBs had arrested Doctor Paul Blavatsky and were after Jackson, who couldn’t reach his family. It didn’t feel real. Yet he knew it had to be, even if he didn’t want to believe it. Jackson wouldn’t lie. Dylan let his fingers trace over the math book. What was that about a normal life?

How did the MIBs know what he was up to? The vampires couldn’t be that omniscient… could they? He knew his father believed they were watching, but Dylan found it difficult to believe they watched everything.

The young man walked to his door and opened it. Looking out, he saw his father standing in the hall. By the sound of her voice, his mother was in the living room with an older man who was just in Dylan’s field of view. He was dressed in an outdated black suit with a crossed white collar. On his lap was a flat-topped, wide brimmed hat. He didn’t recall Mother announcing company that day, but he recognized the man: Reverend… Becker? No, Beckmann, that was it. He was relatively new, associated with some kind of school. A school that Bridget might be sent to.

Dylan swiftly entered Bridget’s room and went into her closet. Her backpack was still in the car, but her duffle bag of emergency gear was hidden behind a box of Teenbeats. Without pause, he grabbed it and carried it down the hall. The young man padded down softly, stocking feet silently tiptoeing so not to alert his mother downstairs.

As he drew closer, he saw his mother in the living room beyond the stairwell. She sat on the couch with the oddly dressed, cadaverous man. The Reverend had a head of pale gray hair. His face was tight and thin with wrinkles around the eyes and mouth. A smile split his thin features as he listened, and his dark eyes reminded Dyl of a snake’s. Dylan stopped in mid-step, inches from his father. The Reverend made his gut tighten. Something about him was wrong. He wasn’t a vampire, or a ghoul, but Dylan was sure he was something. If he were to put money on it, he’d bet on a renfield. He wondered if the Reverend was one of the beings watching them.

Bridget sat across from his mother in an armchair. Her face was pale, as if she was nauseous.

"It’s a wonderful school, Bridget, and Reverend Beckmann will help you adjust," Jenny reassured her daughter. There was something about her voice that sounded off, someone repeating something she had memorized, and her gaze was blank, as if under a spell. "It’s so much better than the public school!"

"But I like the school I’m in, Mom!"

Damn, he had never gotten around to doing the background check on the Reverend, and his mother was still trying to drag Bridget into some kind of Christian school program. Well, none of it mattered now. They had to leave Kansas and take out the good old reverend too.

"Dad, gotta talk to you."

His father glanced over, the same uneasy feeling written all over his face. This was the first time he had met the Reverend. Damn again! They both should have kept a better eye on his mother. Dylan just assumed she was okay because she was involved in church activities. We never thought they could hide in a church like this!

"We gotta get out of here, Dad. Something bad is going down. I’ll explain later, but we gotta leave now." Dylan’s fingers tightened around his father’s shoulder. "I should have listened when you said they were watching."

He kept his voice low so his mother and the Reverend didn’t hear, yet the old man looked in his direction, and his thin smile grew.

"And this must be the boy. Dylan, is it?" The Reverend slowly stood up and waved to him. "Please, come in. Your mother was just telling me all about you and your lovely sister. You’ve both been accepted in my school; did she tell you?"

"Accepted? With my grades, sir? She didn’t tell you I was a dropout?"

He couldn’t help himself; no school with any worth would accept him. He wasn’t the brightest bulb in the box and had to work his ass off to get anywhere in his studies. If this school had accepted Dylan, the Reverend obviously wanted him for something other than academics.

Dylan felt his father’s fingers touch his arm, and the older man’s gaze narrowed. The teenager recognized animosity brewing there, the same kind of anger he saw when his dad made a kill during a particularly difficult hunt. Dad understood; he wasn’t pleased, but he understood the urgency of the situation. Dylan’s father gestured for them to go downstairs, gaze focusing on the couch and what Dylan knew was hidden under it.

"Go and speak to the Reverend, Dyl. I’ll go fetch us some drinks. What would you like, Reverend? Wife makes an excellent lemonade."

As his father spoke, Dylan trotted down the stairs, quickly assessing the room. Bridget sat on the edge of the leather chair. The curtains to the picture window were shut. A lamp sat on the end table next to the couch, and the hassock lay near the leather chair. The only useful weapon in the room would be the wooden coat stand near the door; if he dug into Bridget’s bag it would take too much precious time. No, his father wanted them to run.

"That would be very kind of you, Brody, but unnecessary. Now that you’re all together, I think my friend should be arriving."

"Friend?" Dylan glanced to his mother, who looked just as surprised as he was.

"Reverend, I wasn’t aware you invited someone to our home." Jenny, his mother, frowned and rubbed her eyes, as if becoming aware of something very wrong.

"Oh, you didn’t, my dear; your beautiful children did, and your husband by default as the man of the house, since he didn’t discipline them properly."

Faster than Dylan was able to follow, Brody O’Brian leapt from the stairs and bolted across the room in an instant, hand reaching down under the couch, stretching, finding what Dylan had expected. Brody whipped the shotgun up and aimed it at the Reverend.

"You son of a bitch, you serve them, don’t you?!"

Stunned, Jenny started to her feet with a gasp.

"Brody! What are you doing?"

"Saving our family! Get to the car! Now!!"

Dylan reached over to pull her toward the kitchen just as the door opened. The temperature in the room dropped as if an arctic storm hovered over the horizon, and something that made his flesh spring out in goose pimples walked in.

"Now, how un-neighborly, Captain O'Brian. Here I thought we were just going to have a pleasant chat about your children’s schooling."

A man in a white and gray suit with a short-cropped gray beard entered the house, followed by four heavies in black suits, with pale skin and cold, hard gazes. By the lumps under their expensive suit jackets, each thug was packing, a pistol in a shoulder holster. "Now put that toy down, and let’s discuss this little matter like men."

Dylan’s heart lurched as he pushed his mother behind him. Blackwell! What in God’s name had brought Blackwell to their home?

Brody swung the gun so it covered the Reverend and the newcomers. His gaze was now frantic. "Dyl, leave NOW!" He looked back towards Blackwell. "I will not discuss handing my children over to you, or any of your kind!"

At those words, Dylan pulled his mother and dashed across to the kitchen, with Bridget fast on his heels. He had no intention of abandoning his father, but he had to get to the car. Behind him there was a gun blast, followed by a scuffle. The vampires moved fast; they’d be lucky if Dad bought them enough time to get to the garage door. Skidding into the kitchen, Dylan raced to the door, but before he closed his fingers around the latch, a heavy body slammed into him.

The bag on his shoulder jerked down and the weight smacked him headfirst into the door. The force cracked the thin wood and drove him to the floor. A veil of black and neon spots assailed his vision as Dylan struggled to stay conscious. Distantly, he heard his sister scream his name and the impact of wood against muscle.

The young man struggled to roll over, blurry gaze barely focused on his sister as she backed up, hips pressing into the drawers next to the sink. In front of her was one of the vampires from the living room. The remains of a broken chair fell to the floor as he turned on the girl.

"Lively one, aren’t you? Well, someone needs to teach you some manners!"

It bared its pointed teeth and lunged.

Jenny O’Brian ripped a knife from the knife block and plunged the blade into the vampire’s back. "Bridget! Get your brother and get the hell out of here!"

The vampire turned its gaze to their mother, a cold laugh drumming dread into Dylan’s heart. It painfully ripped the knife from its own back and dropped it, useless, to the floor.

"You guys are a real laugh."

The thug backhanded her, slamming the human woman against the wall effortlessly.

"Leave my mother alone!" Driven by adrenalin, Dylan sprang, fist connecting with the vampire’s cheek. But the monster didn’t budge at all under the impact; it felt like hitting a wall. With barely an effort, the vampire grabbed him by his arm and flung him into the stove. Dylan felt splintering pain rip through his side, the feel of ribs cracking as he slammed into the range.

Damn, these vampires were strong. Even as he fell, Dylan stretched out his arms, ignoring the pain and scrambling for the bag near the door. But he felt fingers grabbing his long hair, driving his head against the door again. The room swirled and blackened; he lost his senses for scant seconds. It was a battle to force himself back to consciousness through the throbbing of his skull.

But even as he forced his vision to clear, the familiar cha-CLACK! of a pump action shotgun froze him. For one crazy moment, Dylan thought it was his father, but the form stepping into sight was one of Blackwell’s toughs. He was broad, with dark hair and a square jaw, more a bruiser than a gunman. "All of you, into the living room. The little game is over."

Shaking, Jenny went to help Dylan to stand, but the thug grabbed her arm and pushed her in front of him. "Go."

Wiping the blood from his brow, Dylan steadied himself and stood. His vision dimmed again, and he staggered, only to be caught by Bridget. She let him lean on her shoulder. "You okay, Dyl?"

He rubbed the front of his head; it was already swelling, and he could feel more blood as it oozed from a wound in his brow. His head hurt so much that he barely noticed the ache from his ribs. "Woozy, that’s all; head’s clearing. Took a hell of a crack."

"Hey, my brother is hurt, let me get the first aid kit!" Bridget grabbed the jacket of Mr. Bruiser.

Bruiser brushed her away and with the gun waved the two of them on after their mother passed into the living room.

"It’s okay, Bridge, need to see if Dad’s okay," Dylan said, as they walked into the room. With every step he made, his head cleared a little. It still hurt like a son of a bitch, but at least he didn’t feel like he was going to pass out. His side, on the other hand, was starting to throb, and he knew it wouldn't be long before the adrenalin wore off and every breath began to hurt like a knife.

Blackwell sat in the brown leather chair, legs crossed as he carefully watched Brody. One of the two thugs held the vet’s arms from behind. There was a swelling bruise over his eye, and blood oozing from a wound across his cheek.

The Reverend stood beside Blackwell, holding his hat in both hands as though he were far too polite to wear it in the house. The smug smile from earlier remained on his face as the three of them were ushered to the couch and seated.

"Well, well, it’s about time you boys corralled them. You’re slipping, Joe; two does and a young buck shouldn't be much to handle, you know," Blackwell said with disappointment, and Bruiser Joe winced. Blackwell returned his gaze to Dylan’s father. "No offense, Captain; I’m sure you raised them to be formidable. But the fact is that compared to our kind, you’re pathetically limited and fragile." He gestured to Dylan’s brow. "You break easily."

"Just gave him a little shove," Joe said quickly. "He’ll live."

"You were to be careful. How am I to instruct them if they’re damaged?" The Reverend looked hungrily at Bridget, then at Dylan. "Children need to be handled with care."

"No one’s gonna touch my kids!" Brody twisted against his captor, who jerked him back.

"I… I don’t understand," Jenny looked at Beckmann. "I thought I found you. I thought you were a minister."

The thin lips smiled. "But I am, Mrs. O’Brian. You just never really listened to what I was saying. Most people don’t, really, they want someone to blame for their problems and a nice, clear-cut solution; they don’t care if that solution means condemning others. They just want simple rules to save their own souls. They want to make their own money and keep it. They want to believe they’re not breaking the rules of their own professed faith by seeing the poor and others as thieves," the Reverend said quietly. "And I did say there was a way of fighting the evil, didn’t I? I just didn’t explain what I was calling evil."

The woman leaned into Dylan and shivered, ashamed. "I’m so sorry, Dyl, Bridget, what have I done? I brought them to us."

Dylan slipped an arm around her. She had no reason to blame herself; he was the one who had brought them down on his family. "It’s okay, Ma. If Dad was right, they were always there. If it wasn’t Beckmann, it would have been someone else. Am I right, Colonel Sanders? You guys were always watching because you’re the government, right?"

Blackwell’s smile flickered for a moment. "Kansas and Missouri are my… territories, Dylan. I make sure things are in order here. The government is its own entity, separate from us, but we’ve been known to work together frequently to better our financial status. In this case, I was asked to allow your family to hunt in my territory as … well, call it pest control. And I have done so. I’ve been nothing but supportive, including assisting your father’s carpentry business. And this is how you repay me?" He turned his attention to Brody. "You should have taken their offer, Captain; it would have been better for your family. This would have never happened."

"Become a monster and let them make my children monsters?" Brody spat.

"You’re already a monster, Brody; you know what will happen to you when you die; Charlie infected you back in Vietnam with his special troops. Uncle Sam only let you go back because they hoped you and the missus would produce more beautiful children. Pity things fell out between you and Uncle Sam. Still, you did teach them rather well, even if the doe is troublesome."

Blackwell stood and strolled over to Bridget. With undisguised contempt, he scrutinized her as if she were a bug under glass.

"The Reverend will shape you up in no time, though, just a little shove in the right direction. No more experimenting with high school girlfriends, no more delusions about college. You’ll have yourself a nice little family with whoever I choose."

His glare slid to Dylan. "The same goes for the buck, of course." He then looked with sanctimonious reassurance at Jenny. "Just like you want, a nice normal family."

"Normal? You call slaves to monsters normal?" Jenny said with a mother’s barely contained fury. "Why in God’s name are you here now? They left you alone, my husband didn’t break any of the rules, he did exactly what he was supposed to! He even stopped hunting! We’ve done nothing!"

Brody lifted his head, and swallowed, defeat written across his face. He glanced at his son.

"What did you do, Dylan?" he finally asked.

Dylan’s gut clenched and he pressed his palm into the side of his aching head. "We went on a hunt."

The look of hurt on his parents’ faces etched in his mind. Both of them were disappointed. He had lied to them. Dylan clutched his hands into fists. "It was the last one, I swear, I was going to stop after today. I did it to help all of us."

"Which I am eternally grateful for." Blackwell opened his hands as if making an offer. "In return, I’ve decided to go lenient on you." He placed his hands behind his back and stepped back, smug. "Your resourceful little boy set up a hunt with that n----r militia friend of his. They went to Le Hunt and cleared out a nest. Now, granted, the vampires there only preyed on a few vagrants and occasional fools who entered their woods, but they would have eventually become a problem. The child was an unfortunate error of my overzealous nephew who has a liking for young blood. Couldn’t have her getting out, could I? Family doesn’t need that kind of scandal, especially in the vampire community."

"You sick son of a bitch!" Dylan bolted to his feet, but pain in his head made the room tilt. Bridget pulled him gently back.

"It wasn’t me who made her, boy, but it was necessary. We couldn’t have the cement factory have a comeback. That little experiment failed with the depression. It was the best way to discourage people: killing their children. Maria was an immigrant, not fit for a proper burial. They buried her outside of the graveyard," Blackwell explained cheerfully. "Nonetheless, Dylan did a fine job cleaning out the nest. My only objection was that he sent his friend and a TV psychic away with a film and a corpse, with instructions to expose us on national television. It was an unpleasant inconvenience for all parties involved."

"If you hurt my friends, I’m gonna personally shove my fist up your tight ass!" Dylan growled. If it wasn’t for Bridget’s hand on his shoulder, he would have decked Blackwell … or tried to, and likely fallen on his face.

"Someone has to take the fall, Dylan. How else are you going to learn consequences?" the Reverend said with another thin smile. "Think of being under my care as a blessing."

Jackson and his family were taking the fall. He had dragged his friend into this and now it was going to be his friend paying the price for all of them. Dylan leaned his head into the couch and closed his eyes against tears. "Doctor Blavatsky?"

"A true psychic of his caliber won’t be wasted. On the other hand, if I don’t get full cooperation, we might have to cull your numbers."

"I’m not good with this 'do as Colonel Sanders says'." Bridget glared at Blackwell. "I’m gonna pluck and fry your ass."

The Reverend’s head snapped up, and his cold, serpent-like gaze held Bridget’s. "On the contrary, young lady, you will do exactly as I tell you. Or your mother will die and burn in eternal damnation!"

The big vampire holding the pump action gun turned it on Jenny.

Blackwell spoke of them as if they were cattle, and he wasn’t giving Bridget or him any choice in what happened.

"What will happen to us?"

"Dylan, don’t even consider what he has to say."

Brody’s voice rose as he fixed Blackwell with a stare. Dylan saw a glint. Had his father come up with a plan? If only he could get to the bag in the back or take the shotgun back.

"No, I wanna hear it. I wanna know what they want us for? Making babies? You want people with the Sight. That’s why you let my daddy live, even though he’s been a hunter."

"Bright boy. The gifted make exceptionally powerful vampires. It’s in your blood. We just breed it into our family lines to keep them pure and in the family, so to speak," Blackwell explained. "As for your daddy, we were curious. He’s a ma cà rồng. Blood fillers saved him, but he’ll undoubtedly raise as one, even if it now lies dormant in his blood. The question was whether it showed in his new children. Pity, he never seemed able to have any more, and certainly no more now that the cow is too old."

"Brody?" Jenny looked at him, gaze filled with understanding and grief. "Is that why? I thought it was me. Why didn’t you say?"

The older man drew in a breath, loss filling his cornflower-blue eyes.

"I’m sorry, Jen."

"My mom’s not a cow, freak!" Bridget stood, and Dylan caught a hint of the butt of a gun tucked in her waist, just below her baggy Indiana Jones T-shirt. "You’ll take that back! It’s Dyl and me you want, and we’re not going to do anything if you hurt our parents!"

"Girl’s right." Dylan unsteadily joined her. "They’re left alone, or nothing doing."

"And in exchange, you’ll take my blood? Both of you?" Blackwell leaned on the cane he carried. It was a carved ivory head of a cougar, with a shiny black shaft. "Bind yourselves, and I’ll consider their release."

The two youngsters exchanged glances. By the haunted horror in Bridget’s hazel eyes, Dylan knew it wasn’t the response she had planned. He stole a quick peek at his father, who was now motionless, and breathing deeply, as if concentrating.

"I’m giving you one warning, Blackwell. Leave this house peacefully. If not, I’ll kill you and all your men."

Dylan had never heard his father use that tone before, not with anyone. It was cold, filled with venom.

Dylan knew why. Blackwell planned on killing their parents regardless of their decision. Dylan felt it in his gut. The vampire wouldn’t keep his end of the bargain, and his father sensed it.

Blackwell chuckled. "Threats? In your position?"

Before Dylan could say anything—before anyone else could react—his father suddenly twisted, knocking the vampire holding him into the lamp near the couch. The light sparked and the vampire let go with a curse.

Adrenalin was a beautiful thing; Dylan grappled for the shotgun, pulled it up, away from his mother, giving her space to run. The monster held it like a vise and Dylan’s still-aching body was not helping him wrench the weapon away.

Bridget whipped out the pistol and fired at the thug Brody had just knocked aside. Two shots rang out so closely together they were almost one, and the creature fell, head a red ruin. Their father sprinted at Blackwell. There was a flash of movement, and Blackwell’s bodyguards were holding automatic pistols.

The vampire grappling with him jerked the gun to the side, and Dylan found himself nearly slammed into the TV set.

His mother and Bridget were hoofing it to the kitchen, when Blackwell himself appeared out of nowhere.

"Mom! Look out!" Dylan screamed out, just as Blackwell grabbed Jennifer and gave her head one swift jerk, breaking her neck in an instant. Jenny O'Brian fell to the floor like a broken doll.

Fast, too damn fast. Dylan’s heart wrenched painfully; it was as if he could feel her life fading away into nothing. He closed his eyes against tears. He had thought he was saving his mother, but the vampires were stronger than he had imagined. They were awake: awake and organized. How could Dylan and his family expect to win?

Bridget screamed in fury, and turned her gun on Blackwell, who grabbed her hand and snatched the weapon away before she could pull the trigger.

Driven by his sister’s cry, Dylan slammed his vampire in the crotch with one knee. The thing’s grip faltered; the Texan yanked the gun away and fired on Blackwell.

Blackwell was forced to dodge, giving Bridget the breath to sprint into the kitchen, but Dylan was frozen between his mother’s body, glassy eyes staring at nothing, and his father, fighting alone, against two monsters, using nothing but his fists and brute force to give him a chance.

Gunshots swiveled his attention to his father, just in time to see the vet, bloody holes exploding from his side and shoulder collide into one of the vampires. The blow knocked the creature off his feet. The other thug swung his weapon on the man, only to have it round kicked out of his hands.

"Dylan! Get your sister out of here!"

Dylan hesitated; he couldn’t leave his family. So he did the next best thing, he pumped two shots at one of the vampires fighting his father, sending it to the ground convulsing in anguish. He spun towards the reverend, but Beckmann was gone.

Then he heard the furious curses from the kitchen.

Dylan charged, aware that Blackwell had now turned to his father.

"Bridget!"

The Reverend held her up against the wall, his bony fingers digging into the girl’s neck. She gasped and writhed, kicking at the unmovable monster.

"Shame about your dear mother; if you had just listened, girl, there was no need for her to die. There is no one that can protect you now."

"I beg to differ, Chuckles."

The blast of his shotgun tore a hole straight through the renfield’s head, splattering his brains on the wall next to the door. The creature fell, taking Bridget with it. Dylan quickly yanked her to her feet. "Get to the truck, start it up. Go, go, go, now!"

Wide eyed, the girl nodded, tears streaming down her face. "Yeah; but no, we’ve gotta get Dad outta here, Dyl." Her voice shook. "They killed Mama."

Removing a capped grenade, Dylan refused to meet her gaze. "Take the bag and MOVE!"

Swiftly he shoved the bag into her hand and forced himself to keep going, ignoring the spreading weakness. Dots of color and black danced at the edges of his vision, and every movement ached. He guessed he had a moderate concussion on top of broken ribs. He was moving on sheer determination.

Bridget wrenched the door open and dashed into the garage. He hoped and prayed Blackwell hadn’t brought anyone else with him, or they’d never escape. The boy raced to the edge of the kitchen.

What he saw made his heart sink. Three of the vampires they had taken down were already standing, and two new thugs, likely drawn in from the outside, cornered his father, who was battered and bleeding from multiple bullet wounds, and smeared with blood. He sank to his knees, attention on the body of his wife. Slowly Blackwell approached Brody, his smile growing.

"The place is surrounded; they’ll never escape, Brody, even if they’ve made it past my renfield. I’m impressed. You are strong; pity you never allowed us to teach you how to use the blood in your veins." He knelt down and pulled Brody’s head up. "Time to die, my friend, but I just thought you should know: your family line will continue. You should be proud."

"Dad!" He tossed the grenade. With it, his father could use it to bargain his way out—or take a better way to heaven. To Blackwell’s shock, Brody caught it and slipped his finger around the ring.

As much as he detested it, Dylan hadn’t much choice. His job was to get Bridget out. Clenching his teeth and swallowing his grief, the boy turned and bolted for the garage door. He was diving out of the kitchen when he heard Blackwell shout, and he tossed himself into the back of the humming truck as the world around him blasted red fire. "GO!"

The truck’s wheels squealed, and the vehicle hurtled forward, into and through the garage door. The wood buckled and shattered from the impact and the solid steel Toyota Hilux streaked down the driveway. Behind them the house erupted in flames as the heat ignited Brody O’Brian’s explosive collection.

Clinging to the floor in the back, his adrenalin spent, Dylan’s world faded into one of a throbbing blackness and aching flesh. Before consciousness completely faded, one thought occurred to him. With the Walker family hunted, and his parents dead, Bridget and Dylan had only one place to go: New York, and hopefully their friend Jackson.

If they haven’t got him too…

 

 

The post Jamaica Blue Magic: Chapter 1 appeared first on Ryk E. Spoor, Author, Gamer, Geek God.

Just For Fun: The Five Greatest Swordsmen of Fantasy

The Five Greatest Swordsmen in Fantasy

 

This is a frequently passed around meme on the lists I'm on. Sometimes it's sparked by someone just asking the question of "Who's the best swordsman in all fantasy?", or it's from some website making a list purporting to list said best swordslingers.

 

But it seems, invariably, that not only don't I agree with their top pick, I don't even agree with ANY of their candidates.

 

So I figured I might as well make my own list.

 

Some ground rules: I will nominate only one candidate from any given fictional universe. Given what I see on other lists, I will also include particular powers or abilities the character has that apply to their sword-based combat but not, say, their ability to cast spells or otherwise use abilities not relevant to sword combat. This isn't about the baddest-ass motherf***er in the universe; it's about the baddest-ass swordfighters in the universe. I will include both written and media universes, since both sides have some excellent candidates.

 

I'm also leaving anyone from my universes off the list, partly because very few people (relatively speaking ) have read any of my books, and partly because MY greatest swordsman has only been seen in legend and from oblique views; we won't see him actually demonstrate his skill until one particular story is written. This also eliminates any obvious prejudice on my part.

 

On to the list!

 

Benedict of Amber (The Chronicles of Amber, Roger Zelazny). Full stop. There is but one True City, and it is named Amber. All other cities – all other universes – are but Shadows of Amber. Its true children, the Amberites, are all immortal, stronger than human, tougher, faster, able to heal better… and are also gifted with the power of the Pattern that allows them to walk in Shadow and, if they are so inclined, bend the Shadow to their will. They have contested for the Throne of Amber for time untold, although none have unseated Oberon, their father. But even Oberon might have feared Benedict, had Benedict been inclined to take the throne.

"I fear Benedict. He is the Master of Arms for Amber. Can you conceive of a millennium? A thousand years? Several of them? Can you understand a man who, for almost every day of a lifetime like that, has spent some time dwelling with weapons, tactics, strategy? All that there is of military science thunders in his head. He has often journeyed from shadow to shadow, witnessing variation after variation on the same battle, with but slightly altered circumstances, in order to test his theories of warfare…" – Corwin of Amber.

It should be noted that the speaker, Corwin, is a man who fought his way up hundreds and hundreds of steps, taking on uncounted numbers of men, in an attack on Amber that nearly succeeded. And he wasn't as good as Bleys, his partner. And neither of them thought they were even VAGUELY good enough to take on Benedict of Amber. No one in all reality is. He can prepare by challenging a thousand versions of you to variations of combat, taking a hundred or a thousand years to do so, if necessary. He is stronger and faster and tougher than anyone would think. And he has the power of a Prince of Amber, which is to say, he can bend the world to his will if he must. Benedict of Amber: the greatest swordsman in the worlds.
Rorona Zoro (One Piece, Eiichiro Oda): Some might say I should choose Zoro's sensei, Dracule "Hawk Eyes" Mihawk, instead, and I wouldn't argue them… but I'm not sure that even Mihawk has done some of the things Zoro has without using Haki.

First of all, we'll start by the fact that Zoro uses one of the most ludicrous swordfighting styles ever portrayed: Santoryu, or "Three Sword Style", in which Zoro wields one sword in each hand… and one in his mouth. Do not try this at home, kids, you'll break your teeth or your jaw. But ridiculous or not, Zoro has demonstrated time and time again that he has absolutely supernal skill with his weapons, striking things more powerfully, more precisely, more quickly than anyone would believe. Before he learned to wield Haki (basically the One Piece equivalent of Ki), he was able to swing so hard and precise that he could send what amounted to air knives flying out and striking like cannon shells. He has matched other sword masters of his world one-on-one, taken on almost uncountable adversaries, and survives horrific injuries without slowing down. Now trained in the use of Haki with his swords, Zoro has literally carved a mountain into successively smaller pieces as he sought out a being who could hide within earth and stone. He seeks to become the greatest swordsman in the world; he may well have achieved it.
Jack (Samurai Jack, Genndy Tartakovsky and Cartoon Network): Trained to defeat an immortal, nigh-indestructible demonlord named Aku, Jack became one of the greatest wielders of a sword ever imagined. He has defeated countless men, demons, constructs, and monsters, and survived everything from being run through the chest to falling from orbit. Jack has an unbreakable will, unmatched skill, and a sword forged by multiple gods to aid him in defeating something that would otherwise be unkillable. There is a reason that Aku sought to exile him to a distant time in which Aku would have vastly greater power… and why Aku still feared him.
Garet Jax (The Wishsong of Shannara, Terry Brooks): Garet Jax, the Weapons Master. Lacking the superhuman attributes of our prior three candidates, Garet Jax makes up for it with demonstrated superhuman skill. He is, apparently, purely a human being, but he takes on dozens of human opponents, monsters of any size, and defeats them all with a calm certainty of purpose that leaves one feeling that he has yet to be challenged. In the end, he dies after defeating a Jachyra – a creature that grows stronger with pain – with nothing but sword skill, when such a creature frightened and matched Allanon, the immortal Druid. Garet Jax has truly earned his title of the Weapons Master.
Goemon (Lupin the Third, Monkey Punch): Goemon, too, is apparently an ordinary human, but one of mindboggling skill. Among many other feats, he once cut an entire suit of burning clothes from a man in a single stroke, without the strike even touching the man's skin. As another example, when Lupin and the others were up against an aircraft armored with effectively unbreakable armor (made from the same material as Goemon's sword, which is otherwise unique), Goemon was dropped from a smaller plane to then proceed down the aircraft, cutting along it in a single stroke, then be caught by the smaller plane and brought up, to be dropped again, repeating the process five times or more so that he could repeatedly cut it in the exact same spot, controlling his sword-stroke to micrometric precision while free-falling from a biplane onto a moving aircraft. Goemon's skill with a sword is nothing short of awe-inspiring, and he, like Garet, deserves a place on this list despite lacking the world-shaking power of the others.

 

There are other great candidates that one might put forth that are often left out of these lists; Ingold Inglorion, from Barbara Hambly's The Time of the Dark and sequels; D'Arbignal, from Jeff Getzin's King of Bryanae and others in the Bryanae series, self-proclaimed "Greatest Swordsman in the World" who appears, despite his clownish ways, to be fully equal to that title; Gart, from Stephen Donaldson's Mordant's Need dualogy who, even crippled, is more than the equal of Artegall, the best swordsman of the opposing side; Erza from Fairy Tail; and on and on. Make your own list, if mine doesn't work for you!

 

 

 

The post Just For Fun: The Five Greatest Swordsmen of Fantasy appeared first on Ryk E. Spoor, Author, Gamer, Geek God.

GODSWAR: The Mask of Ares, Chapter 21

Today's the last chapter to be posted, and we see our adversary in a bad mood...

-----

 

 

Chapter 21.

He stood over the open grave with his fists clenched, such venom boiling in his veins that there were claws starting to cut their way into his palms. Gritting teeth that had gone pointed, he took hold of his anger and forced it, immaterial step by immaterial step, back into the cage he had forged over the millennia to hold it. There were times to let it free … but not now, not here, where his transformation into something inhuman would betray far too much.

The grave was empty.

Just seeing that, thinking that, again was enough to cause the incandescent rage to wrench against its confines, nearly break free. There should have been a corpse there, one moldering to bones by now, after two years and more.

With control that he thought his mother would be proud of, he raised an eyebrow and looked to Phobos. "There appears to be something missing."

Phobos snarled, his rage uncontained, and kicked the memorial so hard that the enchanted stone chipped. "How? How? We were both there, we saw her corpse!"

A gesture quieted Phobos. He glanced over, saw the reborn Deimos staring with knitted brows at the empty hole. He has only very tattered memories of his prior incarnation; the damage done to him was extreme. We were fortunate to salvage any of it.

And fortunate was only the truth; having to create another "Deimos" from power, will, and word would have been a tremendous undertaking at this point, especially since as Aloysius-Ares he had to be visible frequently throughout every day. Even the tattered fragments of the prior Deimos had sufficed as a structure to be placed in another of the waiting bodies, a template that could be built upon once that body was properly converted.

"It matters not how," he said finally, his voice fully controlled. "There are any number of ways. A subtle magical duplicate, a truly powerful illusion – since we were not watching for such deception – or perhaps some technological trick of the Camp-bels. We saw a body buried, we believed it was Berenike's. It seems we were wrong." Even the scent could be faked in more than one way. Since it was dead, there was no soul to be detected.

"Someone dug here before us," Deimos said.

"Are you certain?"

"Yes." The new Deimos' voice still held a hint of an inhuman timbre, which was one reason he'd been kept out of the public eye thus far. "The layers of earth, the compaction, other factors I can smell and sense. The grave was opened at least once before, quite a long time ago."

"Hm." There was an obvious reason to un-bury a corpse – two of them, really. The first would be if it wasn't a corpse, which certainly would make sense. It would have been difficult to hide signs of life in an apparently-dead body, especially from a soul-sense … but not impossible, given that he hadn't suspected subterfuge, and therefore had not looked for it.

The other reason would be to have the body ready for a resurrection. Raiaga rather doubted that possibility; while it certainly happened on occasion, it was extremely rare, and most spirits that had gone on really did not want to return – nor did the powers that ruled the afterworlds generally like releasing their charges back to the world that had destroyed them. Though, admittedly, Berenike was certainly the sort of spirit that would choose to return, given the chance.

But as he had said, the details did not matter. What did matter was that this was as close to proof of the detestable girl's survival as he was likely to get. Berenike was alive, and if he put any credence in Deimos' words, she was the Spear of Athena already.

Damn the Cards anyway. They had given him just enough hints, but not quite enough knowledge to ensure that his actions had succeeded. Then again, the King had warned him that this was their way.

And they had been absolutely right on several points. Most telling right now was the threat that this single human girl posed to his entire plan. If she appeared in Aegis – if she declared herself the Spear before the citizens, and challenged Ares' power – it would divert the entire course of the war. He hadn't finished half the campaigns he had planned out, and all of them had to be finished before he could prepare to declare his final victory.

Berenike must be kept out of Aegeia. She must not be allowed to return, or if she was already here, she must be drawn out and, if not killed, at least somehow prevented from making her move here – and she would do so soon, of that he was sure, if he couldn't stop her.

He turned away. "Fill it back in," he said to the semi-human figures who waited respectfully a short distance away. "Make it so that none can tell it was ever opened." He strode out of the graveyard, pulling a veil of deific power over himself and his two companions as they left.

Once they were well away and in a deserted side street of Aegis, he transported all three to the High Temple. Most powers could not teleport up the Aegeian Path – not far up it, anyway – but as he was Ares, he could do so easily.

Sure they were now safe from any possibility of observation, he looked at Phobos. "You had something else to report?"

"One request, and one thing to report, yes. You will not like it, Lord."

"I have not liked a great deal of recent news. Consider me warned."

"Your Coins have proven inadequate."

He blinked in startlement. "How?"

The question resonated with puzzlement and shock, and honestly so. He had used the Cards to forge that enchantment. They had to work. Even the King would agree with that.

"They seemed to work at first," Phobos said, glancing at a crystal that projected alien symbols into the air; Raiagamor had never bothered to learn to read his allies' script, but he was starting to think he probably should. "But they have twice, now, shown a sudden shift of the target towards the east, in the direction of Elyvias. After the first such shift, which lasted approximately two weeks, the Coins abruptly turned back to the west and south. The next shift occurred within a day, and indicated, once more, that east was the direction of movement. This lasted more than two weeks, and has just recently ceased. The current indications from most parties are that the direction is to the south and east again."

Raiagamor frowned, then snarled. "Someone was redirecting the spell."

"It would seem the most likely possibility."

"That would not be a trivial effort. Depending on how it was done, it might require more ingenuity … or more power. Perhaps even a touch of godspower, to be sure it worked." He thought. Something causes a shift to the east; dropped for a short time, then re-established; lasted for two weeks, dropped…

Ahhhh. "I believe I see. Clever, indeed. A mage, almost certainly, one who used their personal power as a relay, to transmit the localization signal onward to one of the Coins as it moved; presumably some form of enchantment to make the selected Coin continue moving in the chosen direction." He bared his teeth in an appreciative, but still furious, smile. "But that stretches their reserves, so they can only hold it a short while. A week, two weeks at the most."

He paused. "How many of your search parties have failed to report in?"

"Four, sir. Do you wish to see where on the map?"

"Yes."

Four sparks of light appeared on a phantom map of the main continent. Raiagamor immediately leaned closer. One of the dots was an outlier, not far from Salandaras; they'd probably met some of the dull but formidable inhabitants and, well, that had been that.

But the other three…

Two sparks glowed close by Zarathanton, just to the south of the great city. The third, farther south, deep in the Forest Sea's southernmost extension.

"These two first, yes? And then this one…" another thought struck him. "This one, in the Forest Sea; that's Deimos' group?"

"Exactly, sir."

"But he was originally following the river…" his finger traced the path from the river; yes, if he'd been moving due east, the distance would fit someone like Deimos and his forces moving for two weeks. "Interesting. Interesting."

He decided to wait a few moments before deciding how to proceed. "You said you had a request?"

"Yes, sir. You recall that Deimos spoke of 'a survivor?'"

"And indicated, to be blunt about it, that it was not precisely my business. Are you about to tell me he was wrong?"

"Not … precisely, My Lord. Although it does concern a project you were … involved in."

He tilted his head, then realization struck him. "You mean a survivor of the Nests?"

"That is the only thing he could have meant. He spoke to me, not you. It is our people who are concerned with the Iriistiik; we are fully aware that you helped us for your own purposes."

"True, true. But still … those annoying insects are inherently against the sort of country I'm going to create. And I did pledge to aid you in their extermination. So not only was Berenike there, but also there was at least one of them?" He looked back towards the map.

A slow, sinister smile began to grow on his face. He reached up, touched the first pair of dots, trailed his finger down, passing through the third, and continuing on. "Oh. Oh, yes. My friend Phobos, I believe I have a most enjoyable mission for you."

Phobos' eyes glittered, with a hint of inhuman light within those brown orbs. "Yes, My Lord?"

"I need to be assured that Berenike is not in the country. You need to find and destroy any survivors of the Iriistiik – and that interest lies with my own, as well. We have no need of a species that is led by such powerful beings as the Mothers."

He pointed at the map. "To do what our adversary did, they needed two Coins. One to serve as the diversion, one to be the focus and … transmitter, one could say. Of course, once they dropped their concentration, the first Coin was far, far away.

"So how, then, could they have done that trick a first time, let alone a second?"

His fingernail – lengthened to a glittering claw – stabbed into the phantom map, where two sparks flickered. "Here is where they were. They were caught, but somehow defeated two parties of searchers – and gained two Coins. Then," the finger moved south, "they traveled for two weeks, diverting the search parties in the wrong direction. But when they dropped it, or shortly thereafter, the searchers who had been west of them were now in their path: Deimos' group."

"Ah. It is clear, My Lord. By defeating Deimos' group, they gained another Coin, and thus were able to repeat the trick."

"Precisely." A fanged grin. "And so if we assume they continue their movements, then after two more weeks in the Forest Sea, they will be … here." The finger indicated a small blue dot, marking a suspected lake. "They are heading south. They intend to make their way into Aegeia by rounding the base of Wisdom's Fortress."

Phobos looked at him attentively.

"Send your people here," he indicated the points south of the lake. "Here they will find your enemy, as well as mine, and if Berenike is not with them, she will be forced to come to their aid if you press them. She aided them once; I cannot doubt she will aid them again."

"What makes you so sure?" Phobos asked, an inhuman timbre in his voice.

"She is the Spear of Athena," Raiagamor answered, smiling a lethal smile. "She must know something about that group, if she is not with them – something vitally important. Otherwise why did she appear there, so far from Aegeia? Yes, she will come."

"Do I lead them, then?"

"No. You will follow them, but do not expose yourself, as did Deimos. I want you to watch, and when Berenike appears," he handed Phobos a small, red crystal, "you will break that crystal. That will tell me that Berenike is outside of Aegeia … and I will take care of the rest."

Phobos nodded. "As you command. Should I bring our other ally?"

Raiagamor considered. That "other ally" was extremely powerful and dangerous … but also a secret weapon. And the point of this action was not really to kill Berenike – though it would be a fine, fine thing if that were to happen.

Best to save that resource for later, he decided. A secret weapon was best saved for moments when your opponents seemed unstoppable by your not-secret weapons.

"Not for this mission, no. Take as many of your people as you think will be needed."

Phobos studied him, and then smiled – a smile which showed little trace of humanity. "I am the only one required to survive."

"Exactly. I will not object to you having a complete victory over all your opponents, of course … but all I require is you to witness what is necessary and ensure I have word of it."

With a bow, Phobos turned and swept from the room. Deimos blinked slowly, then followed after.

Not quite recovered to his role yet, Raiagamor mused. But soon.

He smiled again, a grin of blades and death. And soon, as well, will be the failure of Berenike!

 

 

 

 

 

The post GODSWAR: The Mask of Ares, Chapter 21 appeared first on Ryk E. Spoor, Author, Gamer, Geek God.