Alterverse

by Keith B Darrell

“Already?”

  “Time flows differently in the Dreamscape. The dreamwalker’s been busy laying the groundwork to establish the Dreamscape as a meeting place for the Resistance.”

  “The dream merchants have been keeping their bargain and spreading the dream of freedom,” Nitrate said. “And speaking of bargains...”

  Alaric arched an eyebrow.

  “You did promise to take me with you when you returned to the earthly realm.” He adjusted his derby.

  Alaric sighed. Asabi glanced at him and said, “We did agree to that.”

  Alaric nodded reluctantly. “Don’t blame me if you combust into flames the moment you leave the Dreamscape. I suppose Morgan can handle things here. Our time is better spent back in our own realm.”

  Asabi nodded. “I’ll open a portal to the spot in Las Vegas from which I transported you.” She raised her hand and a nearby faerie spot shimmered. A moment later, a rift appeared between the realms and Alaric led Asmodeus, Kita, Katsumi, and Nitrate through it. Asabi followed and the tear in the dimensional fabric sealed behind her.

  The schoolyard; Las Vegas, Nevada:

  Kaya waved to Quinn and Ursula. “Where are the others?”

  Ursula frowned. “We couldn’t get anyone else to join us.”

  “A bunch of losers,” Quinn said. “They talk tough but when it’s time to actually do something…”

  “Ya cannae blame them for nae wanting tae take on the Dark Gods,” Síofra said. “Ya’ll be lucky if they dinnae report ya as subversives.”

  Quinn eyed the changeling. “I thought you left an hour ago.”

  “Síofra changed her mind,” Kaya said, beaming.

  “Really?” Ursula arched an eyebrow.

  “Like ya said, Alaric is our friend,” Síofra said. “And friends stand by one another, dinnae they? I mean, for example, if I were e’er in trouble ya’d have my back, would ya nae?”

  Quinn shrugged. “I guess.”

  Ursula punched her brother in the shoulder. “Of course we would be there for you. That’s what friendship is all about.”

  “See?” Kaya asked ebulliently. “I told you they were your friends.”

  “Friends, um yeah,” Síofra repeated, adjusting to the unfamiliar concept. “One for all and all for one, protecting each other from anyone who threatens us.” She pictured Artemus and shuddered at the thought of the boy vampire discovering what she had done. He would be too powerful an adversary to face alone. As a hypnalis, Kaya could probably defeat a vampire but her transformation into a giant snake was beyond her control and tended to occur only in times of extreme stress. Síofra was uncertain what powers the others might possess, but she knew the twins had werewolves and vampires as relatives that would likely come to their defense – and that of any friends whom they were protecting.

  Several yards away, the air shimmered and glowed as a dimensional rift opened. “Look, it’s Alaric!” Ursula cried, racing toward him.

  Quinn followed her. “Who are those people with him?”

  Kaya started toward them but Síofra grabbed her arm and pulled her back. “Dinnae say a word tae anyone about me gaeing tae see Artemus.”

  Kaya grinned. “Did you two kiss?”

  “I dinnae even see him. He was nae there. But nae one must e’er ken I went tae visit him. If anyone e’er asks, ya must remember tae say I was with ya the whole time taeday.”

  “Síofra, you’re hurting my arm,” she said in a tremulous tone.

  The changeling squeezed harder. “Dae ya ken what I’m saying?”

  Kaya nodded, confused and slightly frightened by her friend’s behavior. “Sure. You were with me all day.”

  The changeling released her grip. “That’s right. ’Tis what ya’ll tell anyone who asks: especially Artemus.” She smiled at the young girl. “Let’s gae see that motley crew Alaric has brought back.”

  Artemus stepped into his apartment. “Natasa, you left the door unlocked.” When there was no response, the boy vampire set down his packages and walked through the living room. His eyes fell on the desiccated corpse on the floor with the wooden chair leg protruding from its chest. “Natasa!” He rushed to his childhood friend and companion, and knelt over her body. He was no stranger to death. After nearly five centuries, Artemus had seen it claim every mortal he had known, and even helped it take many more. With each passing century his humanity had faded and his emotions had been gradually replaced by a cold rationality required to endure immortality. He felt something wet on his face and it took several minutes for Artemus to recall what tears were and the last time he had felt them, centuries ago.

  He also felt pain: more specifically, grief. Artemus couldn’t remember when he had last grieved or felt any emotion deeply, but then there was no one who meant as much to him as his childhood friend. Natasa had been the only one to know him as both a mortal and a vampire. For his entire existence she had been his closest friend and confidante. He stared down the corpse realizing, that for the first time, he would now be forever alone.

  Artemus clasped her cold and rigid hand. “I will find out who did this to you, old friend. And I shall avenge you.” A teardrop fell onto her face as he leaned over her.

  Chapter Nine

  Ursula rushed to Alaric. “Where have you been? We’ve been worried sick about you.”

  “I’ve been recruiting. I’m organizing a resistance movement to oppose the reign of the Dark Gods.”

  “We thought you might go off and do something crazy,” Quinn said. “But challenging the Dark Gods? That’s completely insane. They’ll squash you like a bug.”

  Alaric smiled. “Bugs are annoying precisely because they multiply rapidly and are nearly impossible to eradicate. Cockroaches can survive a nuclear holocaust.”

  “I still say you’re insane.” Quinn’s eyes scanned Alaric’s companions. “What did you do? Raid a mental asylum and free the inmates?”

  “Meet the Resistance, or at least part of it,” Alaric said. “This is Asabi: she can teleport between realms and also open interdimensional wormholes for us to travel through. Asmodeus is a demon from Hell and one of my father’s best friends. Kita is a kitsune from Japan who can transform into a fox-spirit and traverse the Dreamscape. Nitrate is an emotive from the Dreamscape who can release pheromones that control people’s emotions.” He reached out and grasped Katsumi’s hand. “And Katsumi is a trained assassin and spy.” Katsumi looked at him with doe eyes.

  Ursula noticed the look and her heart leapt into her throat. She appeared as if she had swallowed a frog. She was quick to volunteer. “We want to help, too.”

  Quinn’s eyes widened. “Are you nuts, too?”

  Ursula elbowed her brother in the ribs.

  “Of course we’ll help you,” Kaya said. “Isn’t that right, Síofra?”

  The changeling grimaced. “Ya, we have tae stick together. One for all and all for one. We’ll watch out for each other, right?”

  “That’s the idea,” Alaric said. “In the Dreamscape we learned the importance of functioning as a team. It’s not enough to act as mere individuals with a common goal. Our true strength is derived from each other. That’s how we’ll win: by being united and supportive of each other.”

  Síofra felt relieved, believing she was allying herself with a growing and powerful coterie that could protect her from Artemus.

  Nitrate tipped his derby. “A pleasure to meet you, children.” He tapped his foot against the ground several times and turned to Alaric. “I haven’t blown up. The tomes I studied in the bibliotheca were right – the Age of Magic has altered all the rules – Dreamstuff can now exist outside the Dreamscape.”

  Quinn noticed the Devil’s Pitchfork. “Is that your father’s trident?”

  “How do you know about the trident?” Alaric asked.

  “My father told me Lucifer had a trident he could summon that shot daemonic energy from its prongs. He saved my stepmother’s life with it.”

  “Asmodeus gave it to me. Poseidon used it
long ago to overthrow the elder gods. Now, I’ll use it to find my father and take retribution on the Dark Gods.”

  Quinn admired the weapon. “Wow! That must have some kick-ass firepower.”

  Alaric grinned. “As Nitrate keeps reminding us, in the Age of Magic anything is possible.” He raised the trident. “Even victory against the Dark Gods.”

  Rhiannon felt her stomach churn. “That was unpleasant.”

  “Teleportation can be unsettling for some,” the landdís said. “Especially here at the base of Yggdrasil, the great ash tree that stands at the center of the universe.”

  Rhiannon gasped. “The cosmic tree!”

  The landdís nodded. “Its branches extend to Heaven and its roots descend into the Underworld, which we call Niflheimr but you refer to as Hell. Of course, that is purely metaphorical. Yggdrasil is actually an interdimensional gateway. That’s why the side-effects of teleportation feel so strong here.”

  At Yggdrasil’s base was a great well that nourished the tree, whose evergreen leaves continually shed dewdrops into it. Beyond the well, Rhiannon observed three women: a maiden, a mother, and a crone carving runes into the tree. They paused, looking up at her arrival.

  “Hail, Norns. I am Rhiannon, Keeper of the Sands of Time,” the toga-clad brunette said.

  Skuld raised the crescent knife she had been using to carve runes into the tree. “You do not belong here.” The crone faced the landdís. “You know better than to bring her here.”

  “Do not blame the landdís. I am the only one responsible for my visit.”

  Skuld prepared to throw her knife. “Then you shall learn why it is unwise to tempt the Fates.”

  “Hold, sister,” Verdandi said. “I would first learn why she would risk her life to see us.”

  Skuld sheathed her blade. “Then speak, Rhiannon, Keeper of the Sands of Time. But do so quickly, for my knife craves to carve either wood or flesh.”

  “You are the Norns, the three sisters, dísir that preside over the destinies of gods, men, and preternatural beings: Urd, That-Which-Is; Verdandi, That-Which-Is-Becoming; and Skuld, That-Which-Should-Be. But I suspect all is not as it should be. I believe reality has been altered. The destinies so carefully woven by you and the other agents of fate, including the Parcae and the Moirae, have been callously disregarded and changed for the benefit of others, I would assume without your knowledge or consent.”

  Urdh, the maiden charged with overseeing the past, frowned. “The past is not immutable. Observe the dewdrops falling into the well and rippling the timestream. We may change fate if we so choose.”

  “But have you chosen to do so?” Rhiannon challenged.

  Verdandi, the Norn who weaves the present fate of individuals on her loom, stepped forward. “No, we have not. If someone else has altered the tapestry we’ve woven that would be different. Tell us more, Rhiannon.”

  “As the Keeper of the Sands of Time, my celestial hourglass reveals to me the past, present, and future. But it has also revealed something is not right. Things are not as they should be. My hourglass has shown me glimpses of a previous reality, one in which the Dark Gods do not rule the multiverse. Someone altered the tapestry of fate you and your sistern have spent eternity weaving.”

  “The Dark Gods do not have the power to alter fate,” Skuld said.

  “Nor does Destiny by himself,” Rhiannon conceded. “But there are others that do. Others whom the Dark Gods might have persuaded.

  “That is a serious allegation,” Verdandi said.

  “We live in serious times,” Rhiannon said. “The Age of Magic is upon us. That which was once thought impossible is now merely improbable. To alter reality on such a scale would have been unthinkable, in other times.”

  “But who would do such a thing?” Urdh asked. “And why?”

  “Who might have reason to aid the Dark Gods?” Rhiannon asked. “Perhaps the dark goddess Nyx’s own children, the Moirae? Of course, this is pure conjecture. I’m not in a position to obtain any proof to support such a supposition… However, you would be able to investigate further.”

  “The Norns may change fate,” Urdh said. “But the Parcae and the Moirae may not. We shall look into this matter.”

  “We shall also spare your life,” Verdandi said. “You may return to whence you came.”

  “If the tapestry of fate has been altered to favor the Dark Gods, what will you do?” Rhiannon asked.

  Verdandi’s stoic countenance remained unchanged. “If that is the case, then we shall re-weave the tapestry and see that those with the hubris to commit such an act face condign punishment.”

  “Who could mete out punishment for the gods themselves, let alone for other Fates?” Rhiannon asked.

  “That is not your concern,” Skuld said.

  “Be assured, they would not be treated kindly,” Urdh said.

  Rhiannon gasped, comprehending the clue hidden within Urdh’s words. “The Kindly Ones!” she muttered in a tremulous tone. She knew better than to name the Furies by their true name and thereby risk attracting their attention. The Furies were not descended from Nyx and therefore owed the dark goddess no fealty. Rhiannon shuddered at the thought of the legendary goddesses of vengeance: crones with ebony bodies and leathery bat wings, whose canine heads were topped with writhing snakes in lieu of hair and who peered through bloodshot eyes. Though only three in number, the Furies – Tisiphone, the avenger; Megara, the jealous; and Alecto, the unresting – unyielding in the torment they would inflict on their victims, inspired terror in both gods and Eternals.

  “Go,” Skuld commanded.

  Rhiannon turned to the landdís, signaling her desire to depart.

  The drumbeat of the Sakara drums was almost hypnotic. Amadi followed the echo of the voodoo drums through the African jungle. The young, dark-skinned vampire feared neither voodoo nor zombies. There were more terrifying things to be afraid of in the African jungle. Like Mamba Anyiewo — his grandmother.

  The drums grew louder. His recent visit to Paris for the Conference of Nosferatu Lords seemed surreal now. The jungle, with its overgrowth of lush green vegetation and assorted sounds and cries from its exotic array of wildlife, was nothing like the culture capital of Europe. The gaunt African Nosferatu Lord was at home in the jungle, where he had been born and raised among the Yoruba people. He eschewed city life, venturing into the West African cities surrounding his village only long enough to hunt approved prey. But despite his comfort with his environment, Amadi never forgot the jungle was a constant source of danger.

  Coruscant spheres of light streaked across the grasslands, leaving them sere. The swirling balls of illumination crisscrossed the deadened grass before freezing in mid-air and transforming into humanoid forms. Blinding light radiated from their mouths, armpits, and other orifices. Amadi recognized the obayifos: vampires that had been zombified and turned into mindless slaves by, and of, Mamba Anyiewo. They were followed by mindless, maladroit zombies shambling forth, eyes locked in a fixed gaze, oblivious to their surroundings. The ashen zombies trampled the lush vegetation beneath their shuffling feet as they trudged along the path in their torpor. The awkward creatures staggered, stumbling at times, unaware of where they were headed. Their pallid skin, long dead and dried from lack of blood flow, flaked and dropped off in small patches as they walked. Watching them, Amadi realized zombies embody man’s greatest fears: hopelessness, a loss of control and free will, brain dysfunction, and even death. Fear may well be Mamba Anyiewo’s greatest weapon, he thought.

  Amadi knew bokors like Mamba Anyiewo use the force of zombi astrals – souls or spirits they’ve captured – to enhance their power. Mamba Anyiewo carried a staff with a glass ball – the ti-bon anj– filled with stolen zombi astrals, the source of her power. The soulless corpses left behind, lacking any free will or motivation, served as empty vessels awaiting the substitution of the bokor’s will for their own.

  Vipers and cobras slithered forth from the underbrush presaging the arrival of the
high priestess of an African offshoot of the Naga Serpent Cult formed by the Dark Gods. Mamba Anyiewo stood before Amadi, her ti-bon anj raised high and a black mamba coiled around her neck, resting on her shoulders. The venomous, eight-foot black mamba was the fastest and most poisonous snake in the world. Ironically, it was olive-colored; its name was derived from the blackened interior of its mouth. Its ominous coffin-shaped head portended its deadly nature: two drops of its venom would kill a human. But like the black mamba, Mamba Anyiewo was equally deadly and as near-invulnerable.

  “Amadi.”

  “Grandmother. You summoned me?”

  “I sent my messenger nearly two weeks ago.”

  “I was in Paris at a conference of Nosferatu Lords. You may not realize it, but I hold a prominent position in the vampire hierarchy.”

  “Bah! There’s no such thing as prominence among slaves. And that’s what the vampires are; merely servants to their masters, the Dark Gods.”

  “The Dark Gods are everyone’s masters. We all serve the dark deities in one way or another.”

  “Mamba Anyiewo is no one’s servant.”

  “You’re lucky there’s no one in the jungle to hear you. Such utterances might easily be considered blasphemous, or at the very least, seditious.”

  Mamba Anyiewo spit on the ground. “My son raised a fool. So, you’re a Nosferatu Lord; so what? You’re still nothing more than a glorified vampire. And vampires are merely servants who’ve been given a fancy title and designated high priests for the dark deities. You’re a slave boy. Life is about freedom, not servitude.”

  Amadi grimaced. “I’m practically immortal. I have the strength of fifty men. I’m more powerful than—”

  “Power?” You don’t know what true power is.” Mamba Anyiewo raised her ti-bon anj and the clouded glass ball pulsated with a phosphorus purple glow that intensified as she spoke. “This is power. The astral spirits of mortals and vampires. I command a legion of zombies, another of obayifos, and my serpent cult.”