“He’s gone then?”
Tennesen nodded solemnly.
The deaths of Tennesen’s followers was all that was needed for those who already had been keeping a skeptical eye on him to bring down the hammer. Though there was no evidence to link the old priest to the event, it was enough to put doubt in the minds of those who had once called him a good man.
With his status tarnished and the worst mistake of his life running amok, Tennesen set out with the few who would still join him in hopes of righting things. Like it or not, what this C.H. had become was more than he or his new “army” could handle, and he knew that it would take somebody—or, more to the point, something—with far greater power and strength than any of them could ever have.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Nathan Squiers (“The Literary Dark Emperor” and the author formally known as “Prince”) is a resident of Upstate New York. Living with his loving wife & fellow author, Megan J. Parker, two incredibly demanding demon-cats, and fur-baby husky who answers to the name of “Virgil,” Nathan leapfrogs between being a total nerd, a wannabe body builder, and a borderline recluse. When not immersed in his writing or sweating buckets at the gym, he often escapes reality through movie marathons, comics, anime, and gnarly tunes. While out-and-about, The Literary Dark Emperor can be found in the chair of a piercing studio/tattoo parlor, at the movies, or simply loving life with friends & loved ones.
Learn more about Nathan’s work at www.nathansquiersbooks.com
Read on for a thrilling excerpt from
the second novel in Nathan Squiers’ thrilling action-horror Crimson Shadow series,
“SINS OF THE FATHER:
A CRIMSON SHADOW NOVEL”
(Coming soon)
Xander vs. The Demon
Cyrus Harper.
He had once been a vampire—a sangsuiga if the accounts were true—and a well-respected one at that. But who and what he had been meant little for what he’d become and what it was making him into.
Xander had heard of this type of thing—had dealt with his fair share of risen corpses driven by foreign auras and even met a few unique cases of people who’d been “possessed” by auric beings—and, most of the time, it wasn’t worth a second glance. However, he had read of cases that led to unnatural transformations from Estella’s collection of spell books and the few pieces of literature that Marcus had lying around the apartment as makeshift coasters. Nothing in either his witch-friend’s library or on his vampire-mentor’s worn-out coffee table had offered much on the subject. What information was present, however, was limited and usually contradicted one of the other sources. The anomaly—Xander found himself growing less-and-less fond of that word with every time he encountered it—had different names and explanations that spanned both culture and history, and not one of which he agreed with wholeheartedly. While he wasn’t about to deny the obvious existence of vampires and therions and all other breeds of mythos gallivanting the globe, there was a point where reality took a swirling trip down the crapper and the steaming load of fairy-tale bullshit took over.
Either way, whether the source was anchored more in science or in religion, the overall theme was clear…
Outside energies from taking control of a body that wasn’t theirs.
Words like “angels” and “demons” and “ghosts” seemed to be popular and downright overused for documented situations, but from Xander’s experience all of that “life-after-death” jazz boiled down to one constant:
Souls.
Essences.
Consciousness.
The proverbial driver behind the wheel of everything with mind enough to be self-aware.
In a word: “auras”.
Like the people they represented in life, these energies were unique and followed an equally unique path of morals and focus, and, even without the body, they still existed in their most basic essence; the driving forces behind them lending to either “angelic” or “demonic” labels from any who observed them and their activity.
And while it wasn’t in Xander’s interest to decide if “good” auras were angels or “bad” auras were demons, there was no denying that Harper’s experience was pretty damn far from heavenly.
If nothing else, he certainly looked like hell.
When all the lectures and scriptures were wiped away, though, there was one certainty:
It could be killed.
And that was all that Xander needed to concern himself with.
Shifting gears and cranking the accelerator on his stolen BMW motorcycle, he followed after the winged creature that Harper had become. The engine roared, sending its angry echo over the barren concrete as he banked into a hard turn that brought the tip of his right knee once again in contact with the street. With the denim long-since stripped from the area, his kneecap skidded across the paved surface and left a bloody trail in its wake that served as the only testament to the lingering injury, which healed over moments after he’d leveled out. Though the sensation was far from pleasant and, moreover, avoidable, slowing down wasn’t an option; especially when the only reason to do so was to spare himself the lingering discomfort from fleeting wounds.
Besides, he knew that every drop of blood he left on the street was driving Harper’s thirst nearer and nearer to the unbearable.
Demanding more from the already tortured motorcycle, the young vampire tore through the back roads like the shrieking horror that he pursued. Looking up into the night sky, he could make out the outline of the bat-like wings that had exploded out of Harper’s back. According to his employer, these were a somewhat recent mutation, which—along with most of the more unsettling changes—had turned him into something that looked like it had crept out of a Wes Craven picture.
Something with a newfound control of its aura.
As the two raced deeper and deeper into the darkness of the winding roads and ever-deepening surrounding forest, an unseen battle waged between them. While Xander wasn’t in any mood to ponder the “how” or “why” behind it, somehow the change had given the once limited vampire the ability to not only see the otherwise invisible energy force, but to also use it. With this new control and sight, Harper used this new gift to roll and dodge each blood-red bolt that Xander threw at him. Finally giving up and pulling his aura back into himself, Xander swore under his breath and shook a sweaty patch of his black hair from his brow as it threatened to spill into his vision like an oil slick.
An unearthly screech sounded then, echoing through the trees from above. Seeing his target arc around through the canopy of trees, Xander swerved the bike out of the path of Harper’s attack. The motorcycle wavered briefly and threatened to topple beneath him as he wrestled it upright before screeching to a noisy halt and steadying it on one leg as he watched Harper’s bony and misshapen feet touch down onto the street.
“You…” the creature’s voice sounded stale and echoed, like a ghost calling out from the bottom of a well, “You have been sent, yes? Sent to kill me?” He stood—his twisted body going as straight as it would allow—and his aura raged and flared like a stoked fire.
Xander frowned at the sight as he analyzed the creature’s writhing energy signature and couldn’t help but to compare it to the color of old dog shit. He shook his head and sneered.
Everything about what Harper had become was repulsive.
Using the toe of his boot, Xander pulled the kickstand out and steadied the motorcycle against it before climbing off. “Yes, I was,” he answered, stretching his shoulders beneath his red leather jacket, “by a friend of yours, no less.”
Harper’s oversized jaw stretched into a hideous grin that exposed his teeth, some of which had grown out of proportion while others had fallen out, leaving him looking like a rotted jack-o-lantern, “Yes! I was certain that Father Tennesen would be”—he wet his cracked lips with a long, festering tongue—“disappointed by the outcome of our brief meeting. I was expecting him to try something, but THIS?” He leaned on his knuckles and scu
ttled forward a bit; intrigue twisting his expression further. Xander narrowed his eyes, unsure if his mind had just been read or if Harper was just astute. “Has the old fart really become so desperate as to ask a vampire for help?” He chortled—a sound that made Xander’s insides wretch—and shook his head, “My my! The lengths a desperate human will cross.”
Xander nodded once as he reached for Yang’s handle, “From what I’ve been told he’s traveled with far stranger company. And besides,”—he pulled the bone-white, custom-made, eight-chambered revolver from its holster under his left arm and held it at his side—“the priest knows when it’s time to admit defeat and call upon someone who can get the job done before something like you can get out of hand.”
Harper leered at that and stood upright once again, trying his best to appear regal despite everything about him working against the effort. His misshapen head rolled about on his twisted shoulders before cocking to one side as he sized-up his opponent. “And for this he sent you? You? A boy; nothing more than a fledgling? The priest must be far, FAR crazier than I’d guessed,” he snickered, “That, or you are far stronger than you seem. Strong enough to be called upon to handle an exorcism of such”—he paused to look at his own hand and grinned, making an example to wave the mutated limb at Xander—“grand proportions.”
Xander smirked at Harper’s assumptions. He understood that his appearance wasn’t at all intimidating, especially not to a creature like Harper. Having been changed into a vampire only a year earlier on his eighteenth birthday, he still retained the same boyish features he’d had as a human. And though he wasn’t short, his scrawny frame—hidden beneath his bulky jacket—and his wind-licked shaggy black hair did make him look like an overgrown child who’d just woken up and decided to play dress-up with his biker-daddy’s clothes. The only menacing feature he could think of that might work in his favor was his blood-red right eye and its pitch-black pupil that, along with its hazel partner, now narrowed at Harper. “There’s not going to be any exorcism.” Xander tapped the gun against his hip several times, “And I can’t vouch for being something special, but I guess it got Tennesen’s attention”—he smirked—“when he heard that the son of Joseph Stryker was taking on jobs.”
There was a flash of intrigue in Harper’s sunken eyes and he gave Xander a once-over in this new light, “You are of Stryker’s blood?”
Xander smiled, letting his fangs extend and fall past his lips. “That’s right,” he said in a mocking tone, knowing full-well that he had heard of his late-father, a powerful and world-renowned auric that had co-created the once-proud Odin Clan. “Does that mean anything to you?”
Read more in Sins of the Father: A Crimson Shadow Novel
PREVIEW OF NOIR: ISSUE 1
(Comic adaptation of noir: a crimson shadow novel)
Noir: A Crimson Shadow Novel Page 35