“El Diablo will come for me.”
The Soldier took one last look at crazy and then realized just why the jailers had favored not staring him in the face so much.
This Wizard's eyes were sunken valleys of insanity. “If I'm to be in a prison, it won't be one of this Earth.”
Then the Wizard, gripping tight to the bar, raised his arm so that he pushed the water which soaked the iron up towards the dark heavens. It was then that the rain stopped.
The Soldier stood to look out the little bar window of his own cell. He mirrored the stance taken by the Wizard in the prison next to him. He wasn't at all convinced that the Wizard had stopped the rain, but he marveled a bit at how the clouds broke and the nighttime star field came into view.
The stars didn't come alone, for that was when the boy walked out of the woods moving towards the jail.
He was around ten years old, and his dark skin was a striking contrast to the very simple linen pants and shirt he wore of bright white. He didn't bother with shoes, and held a thick white chalkstone in his left hand that he coveted fiercely. Like it was a gift for him from the earth itself.
The Wizard motioned him closer.
The boy was not afraid, but there was some pain that traveled with him, and definitely much confusion, as he stopped just out of reach before the back wall of the jail. “Papa, where did Mama go?”
The Soldier watched the Wizard smile, a reassuring smile which was the mask of some deception. The Soldier looked back at the boy with some concern of his own, but it wasn't his way to meddle in their business yet.
The boy was close to the age the Soldier's boy had been the last time they'd seen one another.
“Your Mama is gone, boy.” The Wizard comforted, “She had to go; it is the way of things.”
The boy looked away for a moment, as if maybe he'd see her walking out of the woods after him, or maybe he didn't want the Wizard to see a tear. “They have you now, Papa.” The boy wore sad big eyes. “I need Mama, or I'm all alone.”
“No, boy. No one is ever all alone.”
The Soldier cut the Wizard off. “Tell the boy how to get to his momma.”
“There are more like you.” The Wizard ignored the Soldier. “I told you where to find them.”
The boy looked up, curiosity filling his face and, for the moment, burying the loneliness. “You mean I can fly in the basket?”
The Wizard nodded. “Now draw the picture like I taught you.”
The Soldier turned from the window towards the Wizard. “Why won't you tell that boy how to get to his momma?”
The Wizard began to address the Soldier while the boy put his chalkstone to the wall outside. “He can't go to where she is now.” The Wizard turned to the soldier and cast those cauldron eyes his way. “She went back to the sea.”
Outside, the boy began to scratch on the wall with his chalk. The Wizard ignored the Soldier now as the boy drew. “That's a good boy. Draw the picture just like I showed you.”
“What's he drawing?” asked the Soldier.
Again, the Wizard didn't answer. There was only the sound of scratching chalk against brick wall.
“What did you do to that boy's momma?” The Soldier wouldn't let up.
“She chose the darkness.” The Wizard had both arms grabbing the bars of his window now as the boy drew pictures below them and out of their field of view.
“Darker than devil magic?” The Soldier was repulsed by this old Wizard. No wonder they cuffed him like a whipped circus bear and meant to tree-swing him in the morning.
“She missed the deep. I let her go back.”
“Tell the boy where she is.”
“What's left of her can't care for him now.”
The Soldier reared back to punch the Wizard through the bars. He had no idea really why he suddenly hated him so, but hate him he did. Then the Soldier caught the glimpse of the boy outside his own window. He had stepped back from the wall and his picture must have been drawn. The boy stared in at the Soldier, and it caused him to lower his arm and open his fist. The Soldier could tell the boy didn't want to leave the Wizard. No matter what else, the evil son of a bitch was his daddy after all, and he was all that was left of all the boy had ever known.
It probably wasn't going to help the situation any if the boy watched the Soldier kill the old goat in the cell next to him while he stared in through the prison window.
“I don't want to leave you, Papa.”
“Take the basket to the others. What's coming for me will get you if you don't run.”
The Soldier cocked an eyebrow at the Wizard. “What's coming for you?”
The Wizard raised his voice and meant to scare the boy, and did scare him. “Run! Run out of here, boy!” The boy dropped his chalk and ran.
The Wizard stood at the window, quiet and still, gripping the bars.
The Soldier spit on the ground, turning from the window. “Good job on springing us, you old goat.”
The Soldier thought about the scared little boy with nothing in this world left to him. He hoped his own son hadn't felt scared and alone at the end.
~9~
“ARE YOU THERE, OLD GODS? IT'S ME, ANASTASIA”
ANASTASIA ABANDONED THE TRUCK, but not the riot shotgun. She put what she'd just witnessed to the back of her mind to deal with later — or never — whichever came first.
She walked with purpose, abandoning her usual stalking gait. She wasn't hiding from the moon, what little there was of it, making her presence known to the night. She didn't care who saw her. She was only interested in gaining the attention of one pair of very judgmental divine eyes.
Her broken arm hung lame. She'd found nothing to tie it off with, and honestly hadn't looked very hard for something. The pain was a unique and timely motivator, helping to push her tired and malnourished body along. Every step caused a new ache — arm, ribs, the slash the Priest had left across her face. Her hair only danced across the right side of her face as she walked; his cut had taken many locks on the right and had near scalped her.
She wondered if the missing tip of her ear would ever grow back. It didn't even bleed; she didn't have enough blood in her body for that. She was like a forgotten birthday party balloon: deflated — almost out of air.
She wasn't used to taking this kind of damage. She had always been better than any other; in a lesser creature, it would have been a humbling feeling. But Anastasia felt she had held her own and would live to tell about it, about that time she went up against a very aged and very pure vampire lord. He had taken his best shot with her, and it hadn't proven hard or fast enough. She vowed he would never get another chance.
Even the best of her sisters, at their full strength, before they'd let themselves go, wouldn't have lasted in a similar altercation. The world, and traveling across it and back, had made her a formidable foe — one to be feared. She was better than them, and always had been.
Thinking of her sisters made her thoughts drift to the promises of the goddess. Had The Five really stormed their rat-infested kingdom and laid waste to them all? What of Augusta, her poor, mad, sweet sister?
Anastasia held the shotgun propped back over her shoulder and stared up at the balcony she had seen the gypsy's goddess holding court upon. Of course, there was no goddess to be had when Anastasia wanted there to be one. The tricks already bored her; what did this supposed goddess know, really?
Was her countenance any more true to what the future held than the cards Lissandra had begged for in their teenage years?
Vampires had been taught that the gods had fallen out of favor with humans, and the more the humans regarded themselves as godlike, the less influence these relic deities had on the workings of the world. Perhaps to a goddess, everything was doomsday. How else was one expected to look upon a world that had forgotten you?
“I'd be much better off to wish upon a star.” Anastasia said this to the empty concrete balcony and then cast her gaze into the desert skyline above it. The stars
seemed so close in this place, as if the nothingness of this landscape begged for more regal decoration. Anastasia stared at them, glittering promises, all unkept.
All save for one.
What Anastasia saw, she quickly realized was not Venus, but the red underbelly lighting of the craft which was silently making quick headway across the sky. She had never seen anything like it in the air, so swift and quiet that, at first, it didn't seem real. It left no trail; it made little a mark and would have blended perfectly against the cloak of night to a human eye.
Anastasia, thankfully, was far from human. She could just make out them beginning to drop from the craft as it approached her, standing in the forgotten courtyard across from the Salton Sea.
They were dark parachutes, and there were many of them. Men dressed in full black rode the desert air in ever closer descent towards her. Men who would surely be armed and full of purpose. They were falling everywhere, and soon she would be surrounded.
She sprinted for the doors into the hotel. If she was to survive, she would have to rely on stealth and take them one, maybe two at a time, if she was lucky. She ran down hallways and studied exits and dark corners to hide within as she moved.
She accidentally banged her wounded arm against the stairway railing. Her knees buckled, she fell, and the shotgun went sliding across the floor. She crashed to the ground, more bone snapped in the arm, and she gashed her knees on the unfinished concrete.
She slid, and every inch of momentum that pulled her across that hard floor equaled an eternity of pain. Her vision went black and she fought for clarity.
“Get up. Clumsy, stupid monster. Get up.”
The ringing in her ears lessened to the clicking sound of the hooves of the beast. Anastasia lifted her face from the cold floor and blinked.
It stood at the end of the hallway, watching her try to push herself up on one, still partially functional, arm. It was a massive creature, and Anastasia couldn't wrap her head around having caught it and taken hold of it that night she had crawled out of the dead sea. It had judging dark circles for eyes, like it was a cartoon creature, and she half expected it to speak.
“Get up, half-dead girl. They're coming to finish the job.”
She thought about him. He would never let himself die on a concrete floor in an abandoned hotel before his murder-squad even reached him. He'd never take the chance that they'd all gather round and pose for pictures with his corpse. High-fiving one another and telling the story over liquor that they'd never even fired a shot.
Anastasia sprang. She flew across the hall, her dead arm trailing in her wake, and her fangs were already locked in place when she landed on the big deer's neck. The blood was warm, and gamey, and delicious. She'd never taken so much as a taste from a wild animal before, but tonight she felt the thrill that a lioness must feel as it marauds a gazelle. She went down with the creature, latched on with fang and claw, and tumbled and slid down the hallway with it. The deer fought just enough to make it worth the effort.
The first thing she felt, beyond the warming, was the intense pain in all the places she'd been hurt. The tip of her ear was afire, and a rib moved about in her chest and snapped itself back into place. The slash across her face sealed and seared, and her hair tingled as it grew, each tendril a little vine bursting forth and trailing down her face.
The arm was the worst. She had to let go of the deer with her good hand to grasp the broken bone of her injured arm and push as she took in more and more blood. Pushing with intense pressure, the feeling of the bone moving as it did beneath her skin was revolting and horrifying — like there was a serpent trapped within her, striking to get out.
The worst part, when the bone snapped back and reset itself, was that she couldn't dare risk a scream. She just clamped her jaw down ever harder on the neck of the beast and took the sacrifice offered.
She could hear the men. They were well trained and barely made a sound, but she could hear them all the same. She could hear their hand motions swiping through the air, and she could hear their footfalls on the stonework of the courtyard. She didn't have time to take any more from the deer.
She rose, whole again, wiping the blood from her lips and paying little mind to the creature who lay dying at her feet. Their dance was done — and it had asked for it. There were twenty-one distinct pair of bootfalls in defensive posture all around her, and they were closing in fast.
She took the shotgun from the concrete. Eight rounds, and her opponents were surely wearing body armor. She'd probably have better luck using it as a nightstick. They were headed into the hotel. She ran up the stairs, to higher ground — closer to where the goddess stood, perhaps holier ground.
She could take the ones out who remained in the courtyard from a defensive high position, then jump the railing and make a run for the truck. It was her only option, and it was a bad option. She couldn't see a scenario where she'd easily escape or win.
Or live to tell the tale.
She hid in the shadow of the alcove leading to the balcony. She could barely make out three of them. They blended so well. Who the hell were they? How did they know she would be here? They must be in league with the Priest, which would make them…
“Surely not,” she whispered.
One moved forward, signaling the other two to advance with him, and she moved quickly into moonlight and squeezed the trigger on him.
Click!
She knew they were smiling under their black shielded faces. She pulled back the slide, not a shell in the useless thing. The noise she had made from the dry-fire and the opening of the chamber might as well have been her banging on a kettle drum. She heard quick movement below her of many boots, and the three in the courtyard all reached over their shoulders and drew swords. Katanas — deadly and beautifully ornate.
“Ninjas?” Anastasia groaned. “Ninjas are real?”
She jumped the balcony railing to the sound of all those swords drawing behind her, men running up the stairs ready to slice her to ribbons.
The three in the courtyard were already fanned and in striking poses when she landed. She rose and swung the gun at one, all in one fluid motion, and he barely dodged — which caused her a momentary influx of pride. She snarled, and her fangs were set on intimidation, but they didn't break their line and seemed immune to the power of her attack.
She ran one, and decided afterwards that it'd been a bad idea, but she didn't have time to dwell as she was suddenly in a sword fight with a metal club. All of her sword training from vampire night school was paying off, but the rest of their brothers were already fanning across the balcony above and finding her engaged in the courtyard. It would take them no time to regroup, re-focus, and make their way to her.
She would be surrounded, again, in no time.
What would he do?
The woman who walked from the seaside, as Anastasia was blocking one sword strike after another, was in white. Anastasia wouldn't have even noticed her had the wind not been making such a big show of blowing the flowing folds of the woman's gown and hooded cloak so wildly. Anastasia dodged, went low, and swung the shotgun barrel at the knees of the lead swordsman. She struck hard and he found himself flipped backwards and crashing onto his back on the ground.
The woman in white moved like a ghost into the courtyard, her face obscured, save for her expressionless lips and the two long blonde braids which hung at either side of her face. They trailed down the front of her body to her waist. Her left hand held a sword, and it seemed to float along with her as she drew ever close to the men who swiped their own blades towards Anastasia. She rolled and dodged and then pushed herself backwards, still hugging the ground.
Anastasia flipped herself up and raised the shotgun towards the woman, just about to strike — but the hint of the smile slipping life into the woman's lips stopped her.
Anastasia took a step back as the woman spun, and all that white and blonde hair became an angry storm. The vampire girl watched as the thick blade of the
woman's sword snapped metal armor, then flesh and bone, and the head of one of the swordsmen went flying off its neck. The head rolled, the body spasmed, and blood shot up from the wound before it collapsed.
The other standing swordsmen spun with the woman in white; when their motion was finished, their heads went flying too.
The rest of the men were running out of the hotel. The sword of the woman in white stabbed into the heart of the dark swordsman, springing up from the ground.
Pulling out of the wound and creating a wake of hot blood, the woman spun again and stopped her blade against Anastasia's own neck. Anastasia could feel how sharp the blade was; a simple flick of the woman's wrist, and she too would lose her head. The woman stared into Anastasia, sizing her up and down, and then advanced on her, drawing back her sword and replacing it with a forearm clad in a silver bracer. She pressed Anastasia into the garden wall, and bricks cracked at the vampire's back from the impact.
“Are you them? The Five? Why did you save me?”
The woman in white's expression again turned cold. “I am not here to save you. Those who hunt you are simply an annoyance to me in this moment.”
The woman pressed harder against Anastasia's neck with her armored forearm. “You will give a message to my son.”
“Your son?”
The woman pressed herself close, went straight for Anastasia's ear. “Tell him, Don't try to find her. Leave her be.”
When the woman was done with Anastasia, she spun away and began crossing the courtyard towards the hotel. The vampire slid down the wall. The swordsmen came at her all at once, at a run, with swords over their heads ready to slice down upon her.
Anastasia watched the cloak in the breeze off the dead sea and saw that the woman did have feet after all, only seemed to float. She was barefoot, and her legs were strong as the gown rustled against them. She watched the woman's grip tighten on the sword. Then the white began to spin and the blood began to fly and heads were orphaned.
Billy Purgatory and the Curse of the Satanic Five Page 14