He Sat Upon A Hilltop, Watching Out Over The Plane Of Existence He Lived In. He Was A Demon, Minor Lord

“I swear they’re coming around,” said the man in purple robes and a gold crown, as he wandered down the hallway, open to the outside world on the right side, with marble pillars. He had black hair, with a short, well-kept beard growing, giving him the appearance of perhaps a twenty-something year old man.

“That’s all well and good, my king,” spoke the man walking with him, of about the same age. This one was dressed in plate mail, carrying a longsword at his waist. The armor is finely wrought, of steel and adorned with images of lions fighting serpents and the sun rising on each shoulder. His hair is the color of steel, though he does not seem much older. “But it never hurts to be prepared. Especially when they have been routinely sending assassins after you. You barely got away with your life last time.”

“Ah,” said the king, waving the man off as if he had said something meaningless, “What’s a few Drividien Death-Scorpions between the two most powerful families in the realms? Besides, with you there, they may as well have been sending me bouquets, my knight,” he ended, on a sarcastic note.

The knight closed his eyes and sighed, turning to his lord and speaking in hushed tones, “You know even I will fail given enough time. It is better to not give them a chance.”

The king rolled his eyes. “You were much more fun before I became king, Iotharius.”

Iotharius nodded. “Simpler times. Better times.”

The king nodded as well. “I long for such times again.”

“So do I, my king.”

“Drop the, ‘my king’ business, Io. Once you’ve been ‘watching over’ the king for nearly six months it becomes a little bit of a moot point.”

Iotharius began to whisper, “We can’t discuss that here, my lord-“

“Io, they already know. Or at least they suspect. We spend far too much time around each other to avoid rumors arising, and my refusal to appoint other guards to me makes me an easy target.”

Iotharius laughed a little. “What would your father think, Lord TIberion the third?”

Tiberion giggled a little as well. “To hell with what the old bastard would’ve said, I say. He’s dead and in the ground, and I’m here among the living. He can lecture me on proper behavior when I join him.”

“Careful what you wish for, because with the way you’re acting, that may not be that far into your future.”

Tiberion shook his head, and got a little closer to Iotharius. “Well, then, maybe I should give him a little to scold me about,” he said, grinning playfully. “Would hate for the afterlife to be boring, after all.”

Iotharius was now leaning against the side of a pillar, with Tiberius having one arm next to him. Their faces were inches apart. “Tibe, don’t you da-“ he said as Tiberion began to put his lips against his own, and they began to kiss.

Iotharius was almost lost in the passion – for Tiberion was good at what he did – but he was a knight, for the gods’ sakes. Gently pushing Tiberion away from him, he straightened his armor a bit, and Tiberion straightened his own robes, a little bit huffishly.

“We need to be more careful, my lord.”

Tiberion rolled his eyes, and mimed the knight’s stoic manner when he was fairly convinced Iotharius wasn’t watching.

“And I saw that!” snapped Iotharius.

“I think they’re coming around. They haven’t sent any assassins after me for at least six weeks.”

Look, we all make mistakes. Some, more than a few. Some, pretty bad ones in particular.

He was mine.

I was young, foolish, and met him at a cosplay convention. I assumed the short, nub-like horns were practical effects, and assumed he just didn’t want to break character. So, I asked him out, and we went out for drinks.

That’s when things got weird. It was still during the convention, and we both sat in the diner at the end of the street eating soul food and drinking chardonnay. When I asked him what his real name was, he laughed. It was a beautiful sound, like tinkling glass.

“I told you,” he said, “I’m the devil.”

When I laughed in turn, he seemed to pause. Looking pensive, he took out a piece of paper and a ballpoint pen and wrote on it. I can’t read upside down, and after he wrote it he covered it with his right hand. Grabbing his wineglass with his left and taking a sip, he stated matter-of-factly, “If I let you read this, you will see me as I truly am. No glamers, no illusions. But…” he stopped, again thinking.

“Read it at your own peril.”

He flipped the sheet over, and slid it across the table. I picked it up, and began to read.

There were five words written on the paper in Latin. “Ego sum, et videbitis me.”

“I don’t see why this –“ I looked at him, and stopped. He hadn’t really changed in form – he was still a young man, still beautiful, but the horns had shifted, turned into curling ram’s horns, and his eyes glowed red.

“Don’t shout, if you would,” He said calmly, “I prefer to not have to charm an entire room full of people, and I did just do you the service of putting your questions to rest.”

I was speechless, as one would be, given the circumstances. He put a finger to my lips, “I’ve had a fun time tonight, darling. Call me.” At this, he waved his hand over the paper, winked, and got up and strolled out, leaving a hundred-dollar bill on the table. I looked down on the paper. “Luci Morningstar – (666)-DAMNED1”.

Since then, I haven’t been able to rid myself of the cheeky bastard. He showed up at my house a couple weeks later – I came home from work and he was sitting on my sofa, drinking my beer, watching Keeping Up With The Kardashians on MY television!

Before I could even speak, he spoke, “You know, when I traded getting O.J. off for Robert’s soul, I didn’t think his family would make it this far. Maybe I should let him know the next time I visit his cage – I’m not sure he’d be glad or ashamed.”

“What are you doing here? How did you get into my house?”

He scoffed. “I am the devil, you know. Picking one lock isn’t exactly what one would imagine beyond me.”

I put my keys on the rack by the door. He began to speak again, “I’m still a little unhappy you never called me back. I thought we had a spark.”

I walked over and stood in front of the T.V. “Get out.”

He sighed, “I would, doll, but I seem to have made a few enemies. So, I decided to stop in, say hello. Maybe we can go on a second date? While I hide out from a few… less savory individuals.”

It was my turn to scoff. “Less savory than the devil?”

His expression turned from a smile to a stony stare. “Holy shit, you’re serious.”

He nodded. “You ever heard of the Archangels?”

I was raised catholic. Broke ties with my family over the whole ‘gay’ thing. “A little.”

“Well, don’t listen to everything you read. Michael is a brute who’s out for my blood, and Raphael’s the one nice enough to dress it up as procedure.” He sipped the beer again.

I took the beer away from him. “Hey!”

I downed the rest of his beer. “So,” I said, trying like hell to be resolute, “What do we do?”

Luci looked up at me. “Dinner?”

I went into the kitchen and pulled a bottle of vodka from the freezer. “How about shots instead?”

�ՙc[�

“This is ridiculous. You date the devil *one* time and next thing you know he thinks you’re his girlfriend!”

It was a Thursday evening, near twilight when they brought them in. A large, burly man with tattoos, and a skinny man whose skin was clear of mark or blemish – he was, indeed, remarkably attractive to the inobservant outsider, who did not know why they were sent here.

Dressed in orange jumpsuits, they were escorted from the prison bus to the building – a fancy modernist apartment building, surrounded on all sides by desert, and at a nearer radius, a barbed-wire fence. They were brought to the fence-gate – a sturdy, steel affair – where a guard station stood. The guard inside was chewing nicotine gum as the two approached, and he pushed a single button to open the gate. As it opened, he stepped outside the box, to speak to them.

Chained at the hands behind their back and at their ankles, the prisoners were flanked by guards dressed in full riot gear. The man from the guard station raised a hand when they were a  couple meters away, and they stopped.

“Hello, prisoners 22998 and 22999. Pardon the cliché, but welcome to hell.”

The prisoners both looked at the finely-made but arguably poorly maintained apartment building, looked at the guard, but remained silent.

“You see, back a few years, we decided to switch up the usual ‘executioner’ method.”

Gesturing grandly at the building behind him by spreading his arms.

“This is the grand Hotel Del Gran Inferno; jewel of Great Basin. Or at least, that was the plan.”

He looked up at the sky and laughed.

“Here, four hundred years ago, a band of Spanish conquistadors slaughtered a group of native americans that fled here. They say that it’s that blood that created the great evil that stays here.”

He looked back at his prisoners, and crossed his arms at his chest.

“But, I doubt that. I think what’s here is older – something of blood, something that draws tragedy to it, not the other way around. Either way,” he said, “The hotel never saw a single customer, and every worker on it – some four hundred men and women, not to mention their children – has died of some accident working on it. As such, it is partly unfinished. But it still stands.”

He pointed at his prisoners. “You’ll spend the rest of your days here, prey for whatever devil haunts these halls. Don’t worry,” he laughs again, this time a somewhat manic sound, “It won’t be many days. None have lasted the night. Running only ever gets you so far.”

The prisoners remained silent. No one had told them about this transfer, but they handled their surprise well. After all, they’d been on death row for quite some time.

The man from the guardhouse gestured on, and the guards flanking them walked them to the inside of the gate, unshackled them, threw them forward, and shut the gate behind them, locking it with a thick padlock.

“Good luck,” said the guard, blowing the pair a kiss. “We’ll be by in the morning to collect your corpses.”

With that, they all climbed into the bus and left. The skinny prisoner walked to the gates and heard the buzzing. Looking at it, he could tell that touching it would probably blast him back a few feet. Looking at his newfound prisonmate, he hatched a plan within seconds. Waving the man forward, he seized the man by the throat and bodily pushed him back-first into the fence. The larger man screamed as the electricity coursed through him and blackened the flesh it touched. The skinny man then jumped, clambered up the man, and jumped over the top of the fence. Landing with a roll, he looked back and laughed at the larger man, now collapsed on the ground, as he turned and ran towards the sunset.

By the middle of the night, he had made good progress forward and had found enough wood lying around to build a simple fire. Lighting it with flint, he sat at it and looked at the stars. Soon he’d be free again. Licking his lips, he laughed. Demons, he laughed. What nonsense. Soon he’d be free to be the only demon the world ever needed – soon he could kill again.

Closing his eyes, thinking he needed sleep, he turned away from the fire. Then, he heard it. Bolting upright and smiling, he recognized the sound. It was a young girl singing, singing a nursery rhyme he knew well.

“London bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down…”

He looked and saw the source. A girl with her back turned to him. No older than nine, with blonde hair, she was his preferred prey. Wetting his teeth with his tongue, he growled, a low, bestial sound. He snuck up behind her as she finished the tune.

“My fair lady…”

As he got close behind her, she turned, and he saw her face.

It was a face he recognized. One of his… a child he had taken and done away with as he pleased. Her screams were still fresh in his mind. But she was different now. Her throat he had cut, and the mark she bore – dried blood, at first unseen to him, was prevalent across her front. Her skin was bloated, from the bog in which he had left her, and maggots crawled visibly through her face.

Her eyes were white, with no visible iris or pupil.

Too late to avoid, she gripped him by the throat with one rotting hand and threw him back towards his impromptu encampment. She laughed, a childish noise undercut by something much deeper and darker. The very night seemed to shroud her as she approached, and she walked towards him.

He got up, looking for a way out, and tried to run away, for he was a simple creature – fighting or fleeing was all that came naturally to him. But he was unaccustomed to being prey – and what he was fighting was a far better predator than him.

With unnatural speed she bowled him over, and had him again by his throat. Her form seemed to stretch to unnatural proportions as she lifted him by the throat, off the ground. She laughed, “Why did you do it? Why did you kill me?”

He struggled at her grasp, trying to rip his way free, but her grip was solid. Far more solid than any young girl’s should be. The wind stirred around them into a near whirlwind, as she continued to speak.

“Why did you kill me, to sate the beast inside you? The truth is there, no matter how you pretend. You aren’t a demon. You aren’t even a man. You are… scum.”

She lifted her head up, revealing her neck to be not slit like he had done to the girl, but a ravenous maw.

“Burn,” she said simply, and threw him onto his fire. Screaming as he was set alight, he felt his limbs stretched out as if being drawn and quartered, and spiked pieces of ashwood pierced has hands and feet. He could not move as he felt his body burn, and the last sight he had was of the creature’s maw opening wider and wider, as if to consume all he was, body and soul.

Meanwhile, back at the Hotel, his betrayed fellow inmate was waking up, feeling like his head had been split in two. Looking at the fence and remembering what had happened, he found himself cursing the man who had left him there under his breath. “Damned little slippery bastard.”

Looking around, he saw nothing, but the abandoned building, and felt the cold. He decided it was probably best to go into the hotel, regardless of what the guards had said to him. If the place was haunted, it would hardly be a better end to freeze to death. If he was going to die, he was going to die inside.

Opening the door, he found himself in a spacious atrium, with a finely-made wooden staircase with red carpet. The place looked to have been fit for a king. He wandered down a darkened hallway, and tried the light switch. Nothing turned on. Sighing, he wandered still, into what he thought was a kitchen. Finding his way around in the dark, he found a couple full bottles, probably hidden there by one of the deceased workers. Wandering back to the atrium, and by the light of the moon, saw it was a bottle of orange Absolute and a bottle of Captain Morgan. Fit for a king. Taking a swig of the Absolute, he wiped his face, and sat on the staircase. What was he going to do now? He couldn’t run the same way the other had. Even if he did, he’d die of dehydration before he made it there. The liquor wouldn’t help, after all. He took another swig.

And what if the guard had been honest? What if this place was going to kill him? Why else would they put death-row prisoners here?

He sat there for a few minutes before he heard it. Footsteps, from upstairs. Knowing he full well was alone, and recognizing the cliché despite the onset of inebriation, he decided to go up the stairs towards it.

Walking down the upstairs hallway, he heard the footsteps still, and still he followed, still holding the bottles between the fingers of his right hand. Seeing a light beneath the door on his left, he opened it and stepped inside. It was a different scene.

It was the house he and his wife had lived in, when she was alive. He could see himself, holding a bottle of beer, sitting at a table in the corner. He could see her, with her brown hair and eyes, shouting at him and brandishing a knife. He watched as he stood up, he watched as she charged him, and he responded in the only way he could at that point, by hitting her with the empty bottle. She hit the ground like a ragdoll, and he watched as he kneeled down and checked her pulse before getting up and calling 911.

He took another drink from the bottle of Absolute, hoping it would chase away the memory playing out in front of him.

He watched himself go back to his wife and start begging her and praying for her to return to him. It was his fault. He watched as the police arrived, he did not respond, and they beat down the door. He watched himself being led away numbly by the police.

It was then that he felt her. Standing behind him, with a hand on one shoulder and her head on the other. “You did this.”

As he quickly turned, dropping his bottles, she bounced backwards. He saw her, the right side of her head caved partly in from the blow dealt years earlier, blood leaking from her ear. He ran past her, down the hallway, and she followed, jumping rather than running. Keeping a couple feet behind. He ran and turned down the hallway, finding a dead end – an unfinished ledge above a pile of rusted steel beams.

Turning back, he saw her leap and grab his throat. She held him aloft, as he struggled with her grip. “You did this,” she said again, her voice a menacing growl.

“I know,” he said, barely able to breathe, closing his eyes, “I know.”

“You killed me. You deserve death.”

“I did. I deserve death. Kill me. It’s been eating me alive. All these years, Therese. Maybe this is fate. Take my life, like I did yours. It’s… fair.”

She stopped. She seemed shocked. She looked down, and then dropped him. He landed on his feet, not falling over the ledge.

“You… deserve...,” she stopped.

He moved towards her. “Please. I deserve it. Therese…”

“I… can’t…,” she stepped back.

“The guilty must be punished…,” she said, “The guilty… not… you…?”

She sat down, shifting between forms. Therese, a child, a Hispanic woman, a tall man, a thin man, a twisted, shadowy mess. Finally, she settled into a form somewhere between the three most recent – a young girl, perhaps thirteen, with brown hair and eyes, with darker skin.

“You…” she stopped, and looked over the horizon. The sun was rising on the horizon. Turning into a floating ball of shadow, she disappeared.

Running down the stairs, he saw that the bus was arriving again. He saw the guards leave, the one from earlier laughing. He felt the hand again. Turning, he saw the girl again. She pointed at the guard from the guardhouse. “Guilty.”

He looked at her, suddenly understanding. “You… can’t go out into the daylight, can you?”

She shook her head. She began in a different language, then stopped. Beginning again in English, she spoke, “I am cursed to reap vengeance for as long as the sun shines not. Bring him here, to face his judgement.”

“Face his…? Is that what you call this? Judgement? You’ve murdered people.”

She shook her head. “I… am not the only curse this place bears. This is a place of death, to be a place of death for all eternity after.”

“If he’s so guilty, why don’t you get him whenever he comes into the compound?”

She shook her head. “He never comes in. He knows. He’s smart.”

“What has he done?”

“I won’t know until he faces my judgement.”

Watching, he saw the man from the guardhouse send in two guards, to check for bodies. Thinking quickly, as they entered, he grabbed a chunk of brick and threw it down the darkened hallway to the right. Looking at each other, then looking down the hallway, they moved cautiously towards it. When they had moved a safe distance down the hall, he ran out towards the open gate.

“Hey!” he shouted.

The man from the guardhouse turned towards him. “What in the hells-“

He began to draw a taser from his waist, but it was too late. Knocking the weapon from his grasp, the former prisoner pinned his arms behind his back and used his own handcuffs against him. “What the fuck – let me go!”

Dragging him backwards into the hotel, kicking and screaming, the former prisoner looked around. “Where the hell are you?”

Emerging from the shadows game Her.

Taking the form of a prisoner, she walked towards the handcuffed guard.

The prisoner had taser marks on his face and neck, and smelled of burnt flesh. “You did this.”

The guard screamed. “Get away!”

Another prisoner appeared, different person, same marks. “You did this.”

“Go away!”

Another appeared. Then another. Emerging from the shadows, materializing from nothing. The same mantra. “You did this. You did this. You did this.”

He screamed as loud as he could as he was surrounded by the prisoners. Screaming like a banshee as he was enveloped, screaming as ripping and crunching of flesh began. Screaming as blood poured across the floor. Screaming that stopped all too suddenly as he did.

When it was over, nothing remained of the guard but blood and scraps. Only the girl and the former prisoner stood in the room. She handed him a key. “Go,” she said, simply, then vanished, fading into shadow.

Not needing a second chance, he left, got into the empty prisoner bus, and drove. Where he was going, he did not know. Only that he’d never see that hotel again – and never wanted to.

Story Shard 536

A death row prison where the you are killed by what you killed the most in life.

Ash watched the target closely as he went into the bar. She stood on the roof of the four-story office-building across the street, hidden in the dark of the night. She was dressed practically, in simple clothing – black jeans, a dark grey t-shirt, a leather jacket – her purple hair tied back behind her head. At her feet was a black biker’s helmet. At her right ear was a Bluetooth earpiece.

She needed neither binoculars nor night-vision to see clearly in the night; she was Damphyr, the child of one afflicted with vampirism. Beings without most of their progenitors’ strengths, but the few gifts they possess by comparison makes them far greater than humans. Durability, speed and enhanced senses are their hallmark, but the gifts come at a cost. The cost of human blood. A Damphyr can survive on the blood of animals for a time, but they are required to drink the blood of a living human with disturbing and increasing frequency.

For now, she needed only once a month or so. But as her years of life wore on into centuries she would need to feed weekly or even daily. She pondered this as she watched the bar.

“Ash!” buzzed her earpiece. Focusing back in to the present, she barked an answer to the microphone on her lapel. “What, Vesh?”

Vesh responded, “I can see you from here. Stop zoning out! We need you to watch the door. If the target is meeting one of the nine, we’ll need to be able to act at a moment’s notice. You’re our surveillance.”

“If you wanted surveillance, you should have gotten a van,” Ash cracked.

“Who needs a van when you have the sharpest eyes this side of the globe?”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Ash quipped, as she noticed something off with the bar. The sounds of violence were emanating from within, which would not have troubled her unduly were it not for the scent. Her sense of smell was arguably her weakest, but there are some scents she could never miss. The scent of blood, the scent of a damphyr, and, strongest of all, the scent of a vampire.

Vampires are rare creatures; few in number and rare to reproduce. They make up for it in unholy might; a single vampire could lay waste to a small city in a single night. But they tend to occupy their time with petty power struggles between each other and attempts to control large swathes of territory. Their servants, known as Revenants, were humans vested with some of their power. Weaker still than even damphyr, Revenants were slow to age and stronger than mortals.

But the scent of a vampire was what Ash smelled now. How she had missed it for so long was beyond her, but it was clear now. The smell was difficult to define – somewhere between a rotting corpse and a rose, soaked in blood. A smell of beautiful decay.

“Vesh, we need to move. Now.”

“Got it. I’ll get the back entrance. You cover the front.”

“Got it.”

Ash jumped from her perch, flipping from headfirst to a pencil dive and landing on the pavement, cracking it. She was unharmed by the tumble, she got up and charged the door as a man was thrown bodily from the window. Or rather, a corpse. Its head was twisted and nearly torn off, a look of agony on its face. Its limbs were twisted as if it had been tortured, but knowing what lay inside, she understood that it had happened within seconds.

She took a second to spit on the corpse. A fool who had been bargaining with a vampire for extended life. But the artifact that he had found was too powerful. His contact with it made him a liability, not an ally.

She charged the door, knocking it off of its hinges. Inside, an unwelcome sight greeted her. Revenants, a dozen of them, were feasting on the corpses of the erstwhile bar-goers. A couple were holding onto the bouncer by the arms, one drinking from his carotid and another on the opposite side, who had chewed through to his aorta.

They all looked up at her, with bestial glares. Damphyr blood was poison to them, but they were bound to their master’s will, and would be more than happy to kill her.

She reached into her coat and pulled out a long dagger – something caught between shortsword and knife in size, but finely wrought all the same, of some strange, silvery metal. She whispered the invocation. “Carnwennan, feoht for mec, innan thone ciegnes Arthorius.”

The blade sheathed itself in shadow, its magic enhancing her accuracy, speed and strength.

Moving faster than the creatures could even fathom, she had already drove the dagger through three of the creatures’ chests, piercing their hearts before they could even draw breath. “Eallgrene sealt adfyr.”

Green flame ripped its way through the creatures anew, burning their flesh and reducing them to ash faster than should have been physically faster. Continuing, she made quick work of the others, and had destroyed the bodies of those who had died. Little evidence remained, and the magical fire did not burn the objects in the room. She breathed, for the first time since entering the place. “You alright?” asked Vesh, through the earpiece.

“…Yes.”

“Good. Nothing on my end. I’ll meet up with you at the basement doors.”

They had gone through the blueprints for the building before the strike. There was a basement, prohibition era, that led down into the sewer. They had guessed the vampire would use this route to escape after putting down the ‘livestock’.

She went over to behind the bar, went into the backroom, and took the short hallway to the back room, where she Vesh was waiting.

Vesh wasn’t damphyr, nor was she human. She was a Nephilim, the long-lost bloodline of angels. Moreover, her bloodline was the (in)direct descent from King (well, queen, but that’s another story) Arthur. She wasn’t all that much stronger than a normal human, until the bloodline was used in conjunction with an Arthurian one. Ash’s weapon was one, the bloodline only enhancing the weapon’s traits, not granting ones on their own.

But Vesh was more powerful in her own way. For she wielded two weapons – Rhongomiant, an ancient spear, and Clarent, the coward’s blade. With their power, she could take down many opponents with little effort – but at a cost. The two could only be wielded in conjunction for a short time, or she would burn up.

Vesh was breathing heavily, her sword sheathed and her spear at her back. “You okay?” asked the (suitably) concerned Ash.

“Yeah, yeah.”

“There’s no shame in turning back,” warned Ash.

“Yes, there is.”

“Okay, only a little,” conceded Ash.

“I’m not going to sit back and let you hog all the glory. Here,” said Vesh, holding out a thermos.

“I’m not thirsty,” protested Ash.

“Yeah, you are.” Said Vesh, gesturing with the thermos. “You didn’t’ have any blood at breakfast, and I’ve been keeping eye on your little freezer down in the basement. You haven’t touched it in going on a week and a half. Drink.”

Ash could smell the blood, and hunger snarled deep within her stomach. But at the same time, a foul disgust was creeping through her. “No.”

“You’ve got to drink sometime. Please. You need it.”

Vesh hold the thermos close to Ash’s face.

“I said no, damn it!” Ash shouted, batting the thermos out of Vesh’s hand and to the ground. Warmed blood spilled across the ground.

Vesh became more concerned. “Ash…”

Ash was stumbling away from the spilled blood, retching at the smell, reaching a corner and throwing up blackened bile. “We need to follow the vampire.” She coughed out, between dry heaves.

“You’re in no condition to fight a vampire. We can turn back – we can get more…”

Ash shook her head. “Don’t say it.”

“Damn it, Ash. You need to drink. You don’t think I’ve noticed you? You don’t sleep anymore. You can barely get down food, and blood… you barely touch it unless you’re desperate. This isn’t healthy. I’m here for you.”

Ash shook her head. “We have to go on. I know… I know this vampire.”

“What? You can differentiate between vampiric bloodlines now? Are… are you certain?”

“I know this one well. This one is…” she trailed off, and began to make her way down the stairs.

--- A Year and a Half Prior ---

Ash was chained to the floor of the cell, her interrogator standing above her. Throwing down a lukewarm blood transfusion bag, he kicked her in the stomach. “Drink, half-blood.”

“F… fuck you…”

He kneeled down, grabbing her by the back of the head, and held her mouth open. Kicking the bloodbag aside, causing it to leak across the ground towards the drain in the center of the room, he gestured to the door. A man stepped in, carrying with him a bound and gagged teenage boy. The boy kicked and screamed as he was dragged into the room. The man carrying him drew a wicked-looking hunting knife, and drew it across the boy’s throat in a swift, decisive motion. The boy was gurgling his last breaths as blood poured from the wound. The interrogator turned Ash’s face up as the other man put the boy’s throat to her open lips, blood pouring into her mouth, her nose, most spilling but some she felt going down her throat.

--- Present Day ---

They were making their way down the stairs in sullen silence when they heard it. The scratching, the skittering, the sound of rats, moving around them in the dark. Ash closed her eyes, her breathing becoming ragged. Vesh took the lead, and motioned for Ash to sit down for a moment. She whispered in her ear. “I’ll be back in just a few seconds. Wait.”

The sounds of blades being drawn and of the screeching of rats. Finally, Ash heard the words, “Eallgrene sealt adfyr.” A bright flash of green, and nothing else. “You can open your eyes now.”

They continued on their way.

--- A Year and a Half Prior ---

Ash was blindfolded as she was led into the room and tied to the chair. It was a cold, study thing of wood. Chained at the ankles and the wrists, weakened from blood deprivation, she struggled against the chains until she was exhausted. She heard him, chuckling and chiding. “Is the little girl tired? Poor little girl…”

“Maybe the girl needs some friends. Yes, maybe some furry friends.”

She heard the sound of blade against sheath as he drew a knife, and felt it as he drew thick lines every few inches down her wrist and thigh. Blood slicked her skin as he stepped back, and whistled.

It was then she heard them. Skittering across the rafters, across the floor. Ash felt it as they fell onto her body, and tried to throw them off, but they kept piling on. She screamed as they bit into her flesh. She screamed and the man laughed.

--- Present Day ---

The hallway was sparsely lit with dangling, electric lights as they continued on their way. The form of the hallway was made of brick and wood, with a floor of cement. “Are you sure you’ll be alright?” asked Vesh.

“I’m fine,” responded Ash, a little too quickly, having been waiting for the question.

“Ash… for gods’ sakes…”

Ash drew Carnwennan, and began the invocation again. The blade sheathed itself in shadow. “I’m fine.”

They reached the end of the hallway, and they saw it.

Sitting in the center of the room was a finely-wrought silver casket, surrounded on all sides by human bodies, blood splattered against the walls. Not catching her breath in time, Ash smelled the blood, assailing from all sides. Gagging, she began the purification invocation to cleanse the room with fire. “Eallgrene sealt adfyr.”

The room flashed green as fire consumed the corpses, leaving ash behind.

“What is this thing?” said Vesh, looking at the coffin.

“An artifact of great power, so they say. The coffin of the progenitors. Capable of bringing a vampire to an almost godlike state.”

“And capable of purifying the blood of a damphyr, my pet,” came a voice from the shadows.

They turned. Ash gasped. “You… you’re dead. I killed you…”

The interrogator stepped forward. “Only a spear of ash and silver can kill a vampire, as you well know.”

Gesturing to a stitched-shut scar around his throat, he laughed. “All you did was offend my vanity.”

He walked forward, touching the coffin with an outstretched arm. “You hurt me, running away like you did. All I wanted was what’s best for you, after all, little cousin.”

He held out his open arms to Ash. “Come to me, pet, I will take you with me and make you my immortal lover.”

Ash held Carnwennan at the ready, taking a step back. Her stance was nearly broken by her shaking.

“Come here, girl, I will hurt you no longer.”

Vesh stepped forward. “Enough.”

Drawing spear and sword, spear at the ready stance, sword ready to guard against blows, Vesh charged, speed and strength enhanced by the magic. The man just jumped out of the way.

“You’ll have to try harder than that to kill me, child. I am a vampire, not some weak-blooded mockery or halfblood pretender.”

Vesh struck with speed and strength, with each strike gaining more momentum and hitting faster. She felt her muscles burn as she fought him, but he dodged each blow with almost nonchalant ease. Growing tired of this, he grabbed the spear by the shaft and struck quickly, knocking the sword aside and biting deeply into her forearm. Vesh let out a cry of pain, as he threw her backwards.

Ash couldn’t stand still anymore. Half frozen in fear while Vesh struck, she steeled herself and struck. The interrogator laughed. “You can’t harm me any more now than you could then, girl.”

Before she could strike his flesh he dodged under the blow and slammed into her, sending her flying across the room, landing next to Vesh.

He crossed the room to where Ash lay, and grabbed her by the throat. “Your blood will fuel my power,” he said, biting into her throat. She felt herself being drained. After a couple moments, he pulled away, lips slick with blood.

“Watch, now, as I ascend to godhood,” he stated, wiping off his lips, opening the coffin. Inside was black velvet. Ripping off his shirt, he lied back into the coffin as the lid closed automatically.

A hissing sound like hydraulic sealing could be heard as the coffin closed.

“Ash,” said Vesh, trying to get closer to her, coughing up blood from broken ribs, unable to move her legs. Ash lay unconscious. Vesh took her wounded arm and put it over Ash’s lips, letting blood drip into her mouth. Still not conscious, Ash’s mouth instinctively bit into Vesh’s arm, draining blood. Vesh grimaced against the pain, but it was not in vain.

Ash awoke, her body repairing itself faster for the blood. She felt a surge of power from her blood, from Vesh’s blood, as Vesh faded out of consciousness.

The coffin opened just as Ash arose, holding Carnwennan and Clarent at the ready. The blood of Arthur she had drunk felt like fire rising in her veins as she spoke in the old tongue. “Cier asprungennes, Vampire.”

Her enemy had changed. Like some monstrous bat, his features had twisted into a vile mockery of the living. His fangs had grown and his teeth grown sharp. He growled.

They did battle, moving faster than sound, booms echoing off the halls. She dodged blow after blow, dealing small wounds bit by bit. Eventually, he failed – mis-stepping, he was impaled on the blades.

“This cannot kill me, whelp. I will return to hunt you. I will return to end you.”

“I know,” said Ash. “But next time, I will not hesitate. In the meantime, let’s see how well you can reform from my namesake. Eallgrene sealt adfyr.”

Flames engulfed him as he screamed in agony, burning as Ash gathered the weapons, picked up Vesh, and began to return up the stairs.

Story Shard 543

You know what I want? I want a Bad Ass Female Super Hero who is afraid of something small and cliche, like bugs or mice, but whose compatriots don’t make fun of her for it. They just step up and take care of the things she can’t. And her fear does not make her any less bad ass it just makes her human.

Fire, Death, Light, Dark. There are many such abilities beholden to the Awakened. Those powerful souls who can command a fundamental force of nature with their will alone. There are thousands of us, an underground society operating even to this day, under the guise of governmental organizations and secret agents. Some of us are hired guns, sought out to bring down oppressive regimes – at least on paper. Many hone their abilities through such work. Others try their hardest to help those who need it. Some of us, though, hunt down our fellows who break the laws of the Covenant, an ancient document made by the First Council of the Awakened, to bind us all and keep us secret. Those hunters are called the Vyadha

I’m one of the latter; day to day, I’m a private investigator in sunny Miami, but once in a while, a next-to-unused fax machine (which is unlisted and even unplugged) will spring to life and print out my next target. A picture, a name, and some basic information will be printed out and I’m to hunt them down, wherever they be, all costs assured. Who finds out what they did, who sends the commands, no one knows. It’s the job of the Vyadha to hunt them down, and to recruit other Awakened to serve as Vyadha; once they take the oath, they are bound to hunt down all who break the laws until they lay dying. Those who fail become the hunted.

It was one boring Tuesday in the middle of November when the fax machine did just what it does, printed out the face of an attractive twenty-something boy. Long, unkempt but clean blonde hair, blue eyes, a well-defined jawline, and dressed in some combination of black and leather. The name and aliases read as follows.

ALEKSANDER KUZNETSOV

“The Bright One, Sunspot, The Light of God”

Twenty-two, Russian origin, currently hiding out in Crimea. You know what to do.

I looked at his face again. I didn’t know him, but then again, I didn’t need to, to know what he was. I looked closely at his face, and I saw it in his eyes. He wasn’t just one of the hired soldiers, he was one of the “Razbudili Rebenka”, the child soldiers that saw use in the latter days of the Soviet Union, whose use continued into the late twentieth century by the disenfranchised pieces of the disbanded country. When their use became a risk to secrecy, they were killed by their handlers, soldiers who were unawakened. Even against the powers of nature, a single bullet can take our lives just as easily.

I’d guess he probably killed his handler. I wonder if he had even met one of his own kind. I wondered if it would have made a difference. Probably not; it was too late for him, regardless.

Getting up from my seat, I picked up my overcoat and put it on, looking in a mirror. An aged face looked back. I’d been at this for a long time. I was born in 1973, a child of a poor German-Jewish immigrant, whose parents had moved here to avoid the Nazis, and a black woman, and for the first fifteen years of my life I was happy enough. Then, they came.

The Erwechter Henker, a sect of Awakened Neonazis who sought to kill all awakened bloodlines from ‘lesser races’. They tracked down my father and struck. An awakened whose powers were to control fire burned our house down, killing my father, asleep in bed, my mother taking me and running outside. The awakened who had burned down the house was waiting outside with a group of unawakened. They took pleasure in beating me and my mother until I lay dying and my mother dead. That was when it happened, my powers awakened, the bloodline coming alive like fire devouring my blood.

My power is a rare one; the ability to affect matter with my mind. I can agitate it, move it, pressurize it, among other things. Within seconds I’d boiled the unawakened’s brains within their skulls, and shattered the bones in the awakened’s arms and legs. Unable to move, and therein unable to use his abilities, I took my pleasure slowly forcing all his blood into his head until it popped like an overripe cherry. I was sixteen years old.

I’m not ashamed of what I did that night; swearing to never let this kind of man do what he did ever again, I buried my family and left that night, to hunt down the rest of the Erwechter. Thanks to my efforts, their sect will never take root in America ever again. That took a decade and a half to do. By the end of it, I had burned every bridge in my life. I had no family; fascists had taken all that from me. It was then that he came to me, a Vyadha calling himself Jack the Reaper. His power, to control darkness, was used to hunt down Nazis across South America, to inspire terror in them before they died. He was near ninety when he came to me.

It was night, and I was drunk, aimlessly wandering around the streets in the dark, when he approached. He was dressed in a suit and overcoat, looking every bit the sophisticate. I looked like a vagrant, mostly because I was. I had no money, no goals – I had done everything I’d sought out to do.

“You are lost,” he spoke, his voice overlaid with a subtle German accent. “You are better than this, herr Abner.”

I looked at him closely, wondering if he was a spy of some sort. “Are you one of them?”

He shook his head at this. “Do not ever mistake me for one of those shizcoff.”

“Then who-“

“I am like you. I am Erwecht, Awakened,” he interrupted me. “I have spent my life hunting down the scum that have robbed us of our families, and I knew your grandfather and father before they came to America. I had heard he had a son.”

I nodded to this, it making sense even in my relatively inebriated state.

“He was a good man. I am sorry to hear what happened to him. I’m sorry that this is the fate that has befallen you; your vengeance was justified, but it should not have cost you the life you could have lived.”

I nodded again, accepting his statement. I’d have been lying if I had not thought the same thing, many times.

“I am here to offer you a chance at a new life; I am Vyadha, of the ancient order of hunters who destroy those who would break our laws. One such as the Erwechter Henker, and many such groups across the world. I have come to offer you the oath to join. It is a lifelong commitment, and should not be taken lightly.”

Here he paused, thinking for a moment. “I do not have much time left, myself. I have spent my years hunting much the same chaff as you, sending them to whatever awaits them. You can continue my work.”

From there, he handed me a piece of paper with a phone number on it, as well as a cell-phone, something somewhat rarer at the time.

I did not call right away. I continued to wander, the thought never leaving my mind.

But, one night, that changed. Two weeks later, I was taking the subway downtown, and came across a scene. Two muggers assaulting a black woman, calling her several slurs along the way. What charming fellows, with Celtic crosses and swastikas tattooed on their necks and the backs of their heads. I shouted at them, and one of them turned to me, drawing a gun. “What do you want, shitskin?” he asked, pointing the gun at my head.

“Leave her alone.” I stated, calmly. It wasn’t the first time a neonazi had pointed a gun at me. Wasn’t even the dozenth, or even the dozenth dozen.

He laughed, drawing back the hammer on the pistol. “Nah, I think I’ll kill you. Then-“ he gestured at the woman, “Me and my friend will do what we want to her.”

“No, I don’t think you will,” I said, this time cracking a smile.

“And why’s that, you n-“ he stopped as I broke his hand with my mind, dragging it down, and causing the gun to discharge into his foot. Screaming in pain, I picked him up by the throat with one hand, and threw him bodily into his friend. I nod with my head, indicating the woman to leave the station, as I did what I always do to Nazis. Leaving behind quite the gory mess, I pulled the phone out, and dialed the number. The voice on the other end was familiar. “Have you made your decision?”

Looking down at the corpses of my attempted murderers, I answered, “Yeah, I think I have.”

Two days later, I met him in central park. “I used my connections to get the investigations against you to stop,” said Jack, holding a lit cigarette. “Two men dead to gang-related activities, I am afraid.”

We both stop to laugh a little. “What do I need to do?”

He tossed me a silver knife and a piece of parchment with writing on it. “Cut your hand and say the words aloud. That is all that need be done.”

Drawing the blade across my hand, I read the paper.

“I swear on the Powers that Be to honor the first covenant, to hunt down the enemies of life itself, and to keep the secrets of the First Council. I swear this on my life, on the lives of my ancestors, and the power passed through blood. On this day, until my last day, I swear.”

I felt something change – like my awakening, but stronger. Pain, yes, but almost in a good way. Like a cleansing. “It is good to meet another Vyadha,” said Jack, “Welcome, brother Abner.”

That all seemed so long ago. Jack took me under his wing for a few years, introducing me to his contacts and other awakened, like us. But in 2006, at the age of 95, he died peacefully in his sleep, and I made sure he was buried with his dead family in Germany.

He left me a tidy sum, secret bank accounts holding liquid assets nearing a half a million dollars. Funds stolen from Nazis he had hunted.

Now, in the present, I boarded the first plane I could get to Ukraine, calling in favors from some of my contacts for information on the target. He was indeed of the Rebenka, and had indeed killed his handler. He was famous for his abilities, to channel light into his body and out through his hands. The effect could be anything from creating fire to blowing apart a building, depending on the strength of the light and his own desires.

I rued the fact that Jack had died so long ago, his ability to extinguish light would have come in handy in this venture. But, there are other ways to handle this.

Arriving in Ukraine, I was met by one of my contacts, an elderly woman who had lived through worse regimes than the modern Russians and had been a friend to Jack. She brought me to her son, a mechanic who had helped me and Jack in the past. War-torn countries are often havens for Awakened seeking to escape world governments. He gave me a vehicle, I took out a fake passport – one that claimed I was a reporter from the states – and set out for Crimea.

Within a day’s drive, I was in Crimea, and trying to figure out where Aleksander was. I hoped he’d been making a scene, but, as I knew was likely, he’d gone underground. It took a week of searching before I even heard of someone matching his description.

He’d fallen in with a gang in Sevastopol, who had protected him in exchange for his services as a ‘peacekeeper’, an enforcer who hunted down rival gangs. I tracked him to a club, called P’yana Svolota, and kept a close eye on the door, before following him into the club, wearing a thick hood and gloves. A black man in Crimea would stand out like a sore thumb. And there he was – dressed in the leather he seemed to like so much, attempting to woo a dancer – and by woo, I mean he was snorting coke out of her bra. He was laughing and chatting up a couple of suspicious-looking gents in suits in Russian. I couldn’t make a scene, killing him here. I’d probably kill him before he could do anything, but I’d most likely get shot for my trouble. I listened to their conversation.

“I want my salary doubled,” he said, sniffling a little.

“You’re already the highest-paid employer in our service,” said one of the men in suits. “We can’t justify paying you more – despite your valued service.”

Laughing, Aleksander brushed his blonde hair away from his face, and began again, “I don’t think you understand, I’m not asking – I’m telling you what I want, and you give it to me, or I drop more bodies than just your enemies.”

“The boss will hear about this,” said the other man, “You can’t just go making threats like this –“

“I can and I will, you mat’ shlyukhoy,”

The two men in suits stood up and walked out, and I watched as he pushed the dancer away roughly and got up, going to the bathroom. I followed.

Inside the dingy, graffiti-laden bathroom, I stood a couple urinals away from him and when he went to wash his hands at the pair of sinks, and I joined him at the other.

“Hey, man,” I said in English.

“What do you want?” he responded in an accent-laden English.

I turned to him and used my powers to throw him into the wall.

“Sukin syn!” he exclaimed, followed by a stream of likewise vulgar slurs.

Aiming a hand towards me, I dodged out of the way as a burst of flame went from his hand to the far wall, nearly taking me out. Using my abilities, I pinned his arms against the wall, and he responded by shooting light out of every bare bit of skin he had – brighter than a flashbang. Losing my concentration, he dropped to the floor, diving towards me while I was blinded. Recovering quickly, I used my abilities to turn off the lights in the room.

Remembering what Jack had taught me about fighting in the dark. Guard on all sides. Use your other senses, he had told me, be prepared for a strike from any side, but if both you and your opponent are on equal footing, make sure to face wherever they are coming from.

I drew from my pocket a switchblade that I had bought on the trip here, knowing telekinesis would be less than useless without my sight to guide it. I heard his footsteps as he ran towards me, and threw myself forward in a tackle.

Unfortunately, I dropped my knife. We grappled on the floor, and I heard sounds from outside, shouting. As I pinned Aleksander, the door slammed open, spilling light into the room. I rolled off of Aleksander as he blasted a beam of light from his bare hands, at what would have been me, but striking the ceiling. Finding the knife, I crouched as he rolled backwards, throwing himself forward into a standing position. Firing blast after blast at me as I dodged as fast as I could, I got closer and closer to him. A blast grazed my arm, melting cloth and burning flesh, painful but survivable.

Finally, I stabbed the knife through his right hand, causing him to scream in pain. Though he was trained in hand-to-hand, he was mostly a ranged opponent and was unused to physical pain in combat. Pulling the knife out quickly as he tried to blast me again, I drove the knife home, slicing through leather and into his right lung. A scream becoming a gurgling gasp as the lung collapsed, I knocked him off his feet, and finished the job, slicing across his throat. I turned and saw the man standing in the doorway, trying to draw his gun, but it was already too late. I threw him out of the doorway with my mind, ran outside and got back into my loaned truck, and drove.

It took me a week, three cars and a couple thousand dollars, but I made it back to the States, and to my house. Taking a beer from the fridge, I relaxed into my chair, and turned on the television. A rerun of Friends was playing. Taking a sip, I closed my eyes and let out a groan. My bandaged arm still hurt like hell. Then, the fax machine in the corner began to beep and print again.

There are many types of Mages in the world. Fire, Ice, Wind, Water, Death, Darkness, to name a few. But in this world, every type of mage is treated as equal. Everyone can be a good guy, no matter how dark your power. And anyone could be a bad guy, no matter how beautiful their ability…

Sorry I haven’t been all that active these last few days

I’ve been kind of busy, but I should get to posting again soon.

Prompt: Hemoglobin

@basement-boy

He drew the blade across his wrist with a small gasp of pain. He was young, and he was new to this. Perhaps he’d hide his youth behind stubble, the beginnings of a beard, but I have spent too long in this universe to be fooled by such a simple trick.

The room was in disarray, with tomes of daemonic names, magic spells and rituals lying open or even with pages ripped out. On the north side of the room, there was a desk covered in notes, with a single candle dripping wax to provide some meager light in the beginnings of twilight outside the window. The center of the room, carved into the wood floor and then traced with chalk was a hexagram, encircled by runes and the names of angels in Enochian. Anabiel. Gabriel. Sammiel. Names to guard against the thing he was summoning. Me.

He began the ritual as his blood dripped into a bowl on the southern side of the pentagram, and his whisperings caused the room to go cold and the wind to pick up through the window on the eastern side of the room, scattering papers and blowing out the candle. The room filled with shadow, despite the sun merely beginning to set.

“I summon thee, Okiabec, in the name of angels and by the six-pointed star. I summon thee, Okiabec, in the names of the Lord and the name of the Devil. El, Jah, Lucifer, Shaitan, I summon thee in these names. Appear and be bound, Okiabec, I command thee in the names of Metatron, Mikhael, Uriel, the watchers of the gate. I command thee in the name of the fallen; the many names of the Grigori, and the names of the Seraphs. Appear, Okiabec.”

When the words were completed, I appeared, as he said. Not that I had ability to avoid the summons. For his youth, the boy was skilled. I took the form of a draconian humanoid, naked, with black scales and a crown of horns growing in a ring around his forehead. In my right hand I held a curved khopesh blade, and in my left I held a net. Not that this form was corporeal.

Pointing the blade at the boy, I growled out a response to his summons in guttural, unearthly tones. “I am Okiabec, the spirit of disease. I fought besides the Morningstar when he stormed heaven, I was at his side when he forged Hell from the nether. I was there when man stepped from the light and left the garden, I was there when Moshe plagued Egypt; I have wrought destruction in my wake for untold Aeons. What makes you think you can summon me and control me?”

The boy was shivering in his monk robes, and I could tell he was not truly prepared for this. But, he would not relent his control. Which was good for him, I suppose, but his weakness was allowing me to gain ground in the battle of wills that was my tether to this mortal plane.

“I command thee to destroy the house of Osha, the worm who has dishonored me,” he barked, or rather, squeaked.

I laughed, a haughty, raucous sound that sounded less human and more like the squawking of a murder of crows. “And in return for this, what will you give me, boy? For such a task, an exchange of great value must be made.”

“I will give you the riches of the house of Ibrahim!”

I laughed anew, this time with more sincerity. “Mortal riches have no sway over me, boy of house Ibrahim. And this you should know.”

“I will give you the lives of our herds! Ten by ten cows, fifteen by fifteen chickens, four by four hounds!”

I growled. I grew bored of this game. “No riches will please me. No number of wretched beasts will sate my desires. You know but one thing you possess and can give me will make me obey you.”

The winds die, and the candle lights anew. “Give me your soul, boy of Ibrahim. Give me your immortal soul and I will serve you for twelve times twelve years, and raise the house of Ibrahim to the heights of greatness. Bring your foes to heel. End your enemies, not by honorable combat, but through the darkness. Disease will eat their pale humours and reduce them to beasts who grovel in your wake; give me your soul, and their riches will be yours. Nothing more and nothing less will satisfy me.”

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You’re a zoologist. When the alien bombardment begins, you decide to stay behind and spend your last moments with the animals. Your zoo, however, is miraculously unharmed. It’s not a coincidence.

Good stuff.