Knight of Flame

by Scott Eder

  * * *

  Alexander Gray stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling penthouse windows and scowled at the world far below. Streetlights bathed the Tampa Bay Times Forum and Channelside shops in a sickly yellow glow. People, ants from this height, scurried through the darkness from one light post to another while a few late drivers braved the downtown Tampa streets.

  His dark power surged, burrowing beneath his skin like angry wasps. With a thought he could make the shadows rise up and lay waste to those insignificant specks of life beneath him, but he reluctantly held back.

  Not yet.

  Out of the flat screen mounted in the corner, a local news anchor droned on about the rash of unexplained disappearances that baffled police.

  Alexander smiled.

  A small brown bird thumped into the window and fell dazed to the ledge. Stupid birds. Alexander crouched and tapped on the window. He knew neither the sound nor the vibration would penetrate the hurricane-proof glass, but he did it anyway.

  “Hey there,” he cooed, “Are you okay, little one?”

  The bird got to its feet, shook his feathery head and leaned against the glass out of the wind.

  “I have something for you.” Alexander pressed his index finger against the thick pane and exerted a sliver of his will. A dark ribbon of inky-black energy oozed through the window and wriggled on the outside.

  Startled, the bird hopped down the ledge.

  “Take it.” Alexander’s face twitched. “Take it.”

  It hopped closer, its curious little head bobbing from side to side.

  A little peck to taste the darkness.

  The bird struck, tore off a hunk of black flesh, and bounced backward.

  Alexander stopped the flow, folded his hands between his knees and studied his prey.

  Its beak opened once, an unheard chirp of distress lost in the wind, and its chest expanded until hollow bone and skin could no longer contain the pressure. It exploded in a puff of brown-feathered clumps that floated away on the breeze.

  Alexander stood, smoothing the imagined wrinkles from his pants, and stared at the human infestation below. If only the rest of you were so easy. A picture came to mind, one in which thousands of people writhed on the ground while their life force drained into the soil, and their skin turned the color of ash. A pleasant notion indeed.

  A lightly spoken, “Sir?” accompanied a soft knock at the door. Alexander Gray, Master of Shadow, son of the last Gray Lord Bestok Molan, transformed into Alexander Gray, Regional President of Daegon Gray, philanthropist. Tight features relaxed and he coerced a false smile from his lips.

  “Come.”

  The intern from the mayor’s office minced through the room reeking of Chanel and french fries.

  “Yes, Miss White?” Smooth, confident, and charismatic, that’s what all the local papers wrote about him. His warm, deep voice put people at ease. “How can I help you, my dear?”

  “M-m-m…Mr. Gray, the reporters are st-still waiting, sir.” Straight blond hair framed an attractive face. She regarded him with bright-eyed innocence tinged with a delicious helping of fear. “Are you r-r-ready to start the press conference?”

  Alexander savored the uncomfortable silence when he did not answer immediately. Fresh. Young. Barely out of college. Dressed in a grown-up’s business suit and conservative heels. Even in the dim lighting, he noted the slight tremble in her limbs and her delightful habit of nibbling her lower lip. Mmmm. Her life would taste sweet.

  A slight buzz tickled the back of his neck, but he ignored it. Not now.

  “Yes, yes. We can start.” Alexander walked over, placed his hand on her lower back and escorted her to the door.

  The buzz increased to a sustained tingle, urgent, insistent. I do not have time for this.

  At the doorway Alexander grabbed the back of his neck as it started to burn. “I am sorry, sweetheart, but I need to make a call first. I will only be a few minutes.” He pushed her out and shut the door.

  Snarling, he strode to his antique mahogany desk, threw himself into the high-backed leather chair and spun to the portraits on the wall. The largest, an older gentleman in a high-collared black waistcoat and black cravat, hung in the center. Dark brown eyes, small and deep-set, stared out from narrow, emaciated features under a thin fringe of white stringy hair. Brown spots littered his pallid face like dead leaves over old snow.

  Alexander took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and tried to calm his murderous thoughts, but the intensity of the pain made it more difficult than usual. He had been told his impatience would get the better of him and he didn’t want to let on just how frayed he was. Frustration, anger, anticipation—feelings of any kind were considered flaws, and it would not do to show weakness in front of Bestok Molan.

  Emotions masked. Breathing and heartbeat normal. Body still and relaxed. He opened his eyes and met the stare in the portrait.

  “Yes, Father?”

  A gnarled head pushed out from the painting, stretching the canvas into three dimensions while the background colors drained away. Bestok Molan’s likeness blinked its black eyes rapidly then jerked from side to side, searching. “You are alone?” A breathy voice, like a harsh and well-articulated hiss, issued from the gaunt visage. “I hear someone.”

  With the contact established, Alexander’s pain dissipated and he stifled a relieved moan. “That is only the television, Father.” Calm, flat and deferential. No hint of emotion.

  “Television.” The Gray Lord spat the word out as if it were a rat hair in his porridge. “The harvest is progressing, no?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Good. Good.” Thin, dry lips over-enunciated every word. “Tell me.”

  “The club has been operational for four months and produces two hundred shadow orbs per week.”

  Bestok Molan’s dead eyes flickered, and his upper lip twitched. “That few?”

  “If we drain any more of the people’s energy, they will feel it. It would not take them long, even as simple-minded as they are, to trace it back to us. With the current harvest setting, they go home feeling weak and tired, which they attribute to a hard night of revelry.” He gripped the arms of his chair. “As it is, the stupid sheep have no idea we are sucking out their very life essence.”

  The head behind the canvas tilted. “So be it.”

  “Father? I wish to test the orbs on something small.”

  “No.”

  “But are we sure the death magic works? That the orbs can kill?” It galled Alexander, this asking for permission to do what should be a natural act for any Shadow Lord.

  Bestok Molan pushed his bulbous head further into the room, testing the strength of the canvas, and the temperature dropped thirty degrees in less than a heartbeat.

  “Do not question me again, boy.” An evil grin split the Gray Lord’s face. “Or have you forgotten the last time?”

  “No, Father.” Alexander’s words puffed out in a white mist as he flexed the fingers on both hands. The painful memories of that first and only time haunted the dark recesses of his mind. Changing the subject and, hopefully, the homicidal atmosphere, he steered back to the plan. “The orbs will be ready when you need them.”

  “They had better be.” Bestok Molan melded into the painting.

  “And when is that?” Alexander knew he was pushing his luck, but could not help himself. The lack of inactivity made him reckless.

  “When I am ready.” Bestok Molan’s head flattened out and the background colors reappeared, but the distant hiss carried one more message before fading, “Wait.”

  I hate that word.

  The portrait was solid again, ugly.

  Alexander also hated that picture, and those of his three brothers to either side.

  “I am tired of waiting.” Alexander got to his feet, strolled back to the window, and clasped his hands behind his back.

  Another light knock sounded. His hand rose out of reflex, enwrapped in rippling gray shadow, but he stopped before he b
lasted the door with a bolt of dark energy. It was a close call. He needed an outlet for his frustration, or he would explode and take out Tampa in a shadowy swirl of death and destruction.

  That’s what he should be doing, bending the world around him to his will and that of Bestok Molan’s.

  But the old Gray Lord says, ‘Wait.’ I have waited centuries for his grand plan to take shape, bounced from one menial post to another. I had hoped this time would be different, but it does not look promising. He preaches that the world must not know of our existence until we are ready to strike. That there is no need to alert the sheep that greater powers exist, for it would give them time to prepare. It is tough enough evading the Knights’ constant vigil, let alone the billions of mortals on this world.

  Billions. Their numbers are too vast. Time to cull the flock.

  The knock sounded again and he turned toward the door with a broad, friendly smile plastered across his face.

  “Come in, Miss White.”

  As the door opened, he swooped to her side and took her hand. “After the press conference, how about we get a drink? I know a little pla—”

  Alexander’s cell phone rang.

  “Excuse me, my dear. I have to take this.”

  Chapter 2

  WITH CLUB MASTADON’S BACK DOOR CLOSED behind her, Maven Triessa Gray dropped her veil. Disgust at having to put up with these lesser things, these mewling beasts, curled her lip. She was sick of hiding behind a mask of humanity.

  And for what? To skim some small measure of life from these creatures?

  Flawless alabaster skin tightened around her cold black eyes. We are no more than dirty beggars scratching in the filth for a copper. Maven Triessa Gray, granddaughter to the Gray Lord himself, had never felt so useless.

  Tonight, that will change.

  She stormed to the security alcove in the adjacent tent. A flick of her wrist and the door slammed open on a blast of frigid air. She blew in after it and stalled before the bank of monitors. The largest one in the center, the only one with a color screen, displayed a stationary view of the storage bank below the main tent’s grated floor. It was the same scene every night—a growing mass of black globes lit by erratic green and blue streaks. The live feed was hazy, distorted by the life force sucked from the unsuspecting patrons on the dance floor above.

  Triessa scrutinized each screen. She spared a quick glance at the shadow orbs before searching for her opportunity. At the farthest end of the small room, the head of security shivered from the intense cold that radiated out from her dead body.

  “Where?” Her voice was hard and brittle.

  The security officer pointed a trembling finger to the monitor on the far right. “There, Maven Triessa.” A large, muscular man waved to the camera.

  “Confirmation?”

  “Yes, Maven Triessa. The report from the Yukon outpost names him Develor Quinteele, the sixth Knight of Flame of the Knights Elementalis.”

  Triessa’s face cracked into a jagged smile, shadow-fueled eyes riveted on Dev.

  The officer continued. “Headquarters has been notified and Alexander Gray is on his way. ETA twenty minutes. Orders are not to move on the Knight until the Master arrives.”

  She turned her head. Long, fine white hair fell over half her face. She captured his attention with one eye and noted his sharp spike of wonderful fear. She could smell it, almost taste it, and felt his temperature rise as blood zoomed through his veins. In the cold silence of the room, she heard the desperate beating of his heart.

  Slowly, deliberately, she reached out and placed her fingers on the naked skin of his neck. He flinched at her subzero touch, icy fingertips searing into unprotected flesh.

  “You shouldn’t have made that call. The Knight is mine.”

  The terrified officer’s life throbbed beneath her fingers. She wanted it. She stole it. With less effort than it took to blink her eyes, she drew out his life force and bolstered her already formidable power.

  The head of security slumped to the floor, skin gray and lifeless.

  Triessa Gray, Maven of Shadow, granddaughter to the Gray Lord Bestok Molan, gazed back at the oaf grinning at her through the camera.

  I’m coming for you, elemental warrior.

  * * *

  Club Mastodon’s wooden doors burst open and a gaggle of Tampa’s young elite, decked out in their silk suits, barely-there dresses and killer heels, staggered out to the techno barrage of Rammstein. Dev watched them lurch toward the valet podium. Exotic, citrusy scents trailed in their wake. The girls’ short skirts flipped up with each awkward step. He tried to look away, but stood mesmerized by the brief glimpses of bare, tanned flesh and alluring curves until they disappeared into the back of a limo.

  “You finished drooling now?” Wren asked.

  “Hold on.” Dev watched them drive away. “Now I’m done.”

  Wren sighed.

  Two couples waited in line ahead of them to get in. A short, wiry man with greasy blond hair bounced around the first couple. He waved a security wand in his right hand and passed it over the gentleman first. When he ran it over the woman’s purse, it buzzed. With a triumphant smile, the little man yanked the bag off her arm and tossed it into the bin behind him.

  “No phones. You pick up later, lady.”

  The next couple stepped forward.

  “Dev,” Wren spoke out of the side of her mouth. “They have metal detectors.”

  “Yep. Hey, doesn’t that little guy look like a monkey holding a banana?”

  “You didn’t bring the…” Wren flicked a glance toward his back, “…you know.”

  “Yep. Never leave home without it.”

  “What the—are you crazy?” Her eyes bulged.

  “Relax. It’s diamond. No worries.” He hoped his nonchalance would calm her down, but she looked jumpier than ever.

  The next couple passed without incident and the monkey man called Dev forward. Up close, the man with the wand scanner smelled like old cheese and freshly turned dirt.

  “Name?” he asked.

  “Rock. Party of two,” Dev said.

  The man nodded once and ran the wand over Dev first. No reaction. He scanned Wren, traced the wand slowly over her breasts in an electronic caress that clearly violated her personal space and broke several ethical codes.

  “Watch it, monkey boy.” Dev loomed over the little man. The dirt-ball backed off and waved them through with a last slimy leer at Wren. She took it all in stride, too focused on the imposing doors ahead.

  “Almost there.” Wren bobbed up and down and clasped Dev’s hand in both of hers.

  The huge doors opened to a wall of sound, smoke and light. No sooner had they cleared the entrance than the doors slammed shut behind them.

  “Annnd, we’re in. Great,” Dev said.

  “Hush.” Wren dragged a reluctant Dev up the metal stairs and into the club proper. “This place is amazing.” She twirled in place, taking everything in. “Look at that bar.”

  Dev had to admit the interior impressed him. Far bigger than he expected, the vast open space belied the tent’s external dimensions. Lit only by fire light, the back end was lost in shadows. An enormous bonfire roared in the center, encircled by a black granite shelf that served as the bar. Smoke drifted up and escaped through a hole cut into the roof.

  This is my kind of place.

  More Conan extras, at least twenty of them, mixed and served drinks poured from assorted neon-colored bottles.

  “Is that real?” Wren gaped at the mastodon skeleton. “What’s holding him up, do you think?” Hind legs mounted on the bar, it reared up to the top of the tent some twenty five feet high. She stared straight up through the massive ribcage to the back of the beast’s skull. “I don’t see any wires.”

  Dev examined the skull. Just the head of the beast seemed larger than his whole body. Two long curved tusks stretched to the ceiling, forming one of the tent’s three peaks. He spied two other skeletons mounted in similar positi
ons cutting the bar into three equal sections.

  “Maybe, but I didn’t think mastodons grew much bigger than an elephant. This thing must be at least three times that size. Still, it’s impressive. Must weigh a ton. They probably laced rods or wires through the bones to keep it up.” He gave her an I-told-you-so grin.

  “What?”

  “I knew there would be elephants.”

  She punched him in the arm.

  “Time for a drink.” Dev waved the bartender over.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Wren said.

  “Just one, to toast the evening.”

  “Dev….”

  “Have you ever even had a drink?”

  “Of cour—, oh alright, just one.”

  “Thatta girl. What’ll you have?”

  The bartender waited patiently, his long Conan wig brushing the top of the bar. The left side of his mouth twitched, and his eyes sparkled at their exchange.

  Wren leaned over and raised her voice to be heard above the pulsing beat of the house music. “What’s the specialty of the house?”

  “We call it, Primal Fire.” The bartender said.

  Dev perked up at the name.

  “Ooh. Sounds exotic.” Wren said. “What’s in it?”

  “I’m not allowed to tell you the exact ingredients, but it’s a complex recipe combining the perfect blend of ten top-shelf liquors. I serve it on fire. When mixed correctly, the flame burns a pure white.”

  Dev scoffed. “A pure flame is a myth. It’s impossible.”

  “Sir, I can—”

  “Sounds too strong for me.” Wren interrupted. “I’ll have a lemon drop.”

  “A lemon drop? Isn’t that some kind of candy?” Dev asked. “Order a real drink, something that’ll put hair on your chest.”

  Wren crinkled her nose. “No, thanks. I’ll stick with the lemon drop.”

  The bartender looked expectantly at Dev.

  “Scotch.”

  “Any specific brand, sir?”

  “Dalmore. Selene.”

  The bartender punched a few keys on the wait station to his left. “Fine, sir, but I’ll have to get it from the back.”

  Dev nodded and turned his back on the retreating bartender, leaned against the bar and watched the tide of people surge with the music. Club Mastodon was an odd place. He’d expected a cheesy disco ball, lasers, colored lights, a cordoned off dance floor and an obnoxious DJ, but there were none of those circa-nineteen eighties trappings here.