by Jesse Teller
She flipped in the air, flying wide, and crumpled in a heap against the wall. She did not move. She lay stock-still, but Aaron knew she was faking.
“I can smell your heart pounding, whore. Rise to face me, or I will rip your face and leave you deformed for life.”
She rolled to her chest and lay prostrate before him.
“My love is commanded by a single woman and has been hers for centuries beyond count. I would not defile this body she owns on a whore such as you. Get to your feet. I wish to look at you.”
Jetula rose, her eyes flashing to Aaron.
Aaron looked to the client being fed on. The vampires clawed him wide, deboning him with their long claws and flaying his body open. Muscle and bone lay exposed, and the vampires licked the inside of the man’s body for any last drops of blood they might find.
Aaron felt his fear mastering him, his terror overcoming him. He pulled tight a mask of control. He kept his face blank and unreadable. He focused again on the conversation of Tristan and Jetula, realizing it might be the most important he had ever heard.
Tristan walked to the raksa and looked her up and down. He ran a hand over her back as he walked a circuit around her. She trembled before him.
“I am not a vampire,” he said. “I am a wizard of sorts. I do not crave your blood. But they do,” he said, pointing at the vampires. They now licked the floor and the carpet, sopping up any last remnants of blood they could find.
“I crave your obedience. I crave your loyalty and service. I am used to taking anything I see that I desire.” He stopped before her and touched the tip of her chin. He turned her head this way and the other, staring at the side of her face.
“Come, dear,” Tristan said.
The door to the room opened and an old woman was carried in on a litter. She was frail and gaunt with bones barely covered by stretching skin. She sported hair spun of spiders’ webs and wore rich clothing drenched in dry blood. She lifted her hand off the litter very slowly and with great effort. Tristan rushed to her side. He took her aged hand and kissed it.
The vampires on the ground dropped their faces to the floor and whimpered.
“Those she turns are more than raging beasts.” Tristan walked to the creatures on the ground, waving a dismissive hand at them. “Beasts, little more, barely thinking men, each lustful for a drop of blood and wiped clean of what makes them a man. These are of splatter and gush. As you can see, they are very little more than animals. Useful, yes, but crude instruments.
“Of you, I want more,” Tristan said. “You will still grovel and serve, but in a different way. Come, whore, let us make you more than yourself.” He took Jetula’s hand and, ever so gently, pulled her forward.
She balked, standing her ground and sobbing. “Please, no.”
“Oh, yes,” Tristan said. “You are part of our army. We claim you for our devices. Fight me, and I will let one of them turn you, and you will be a mindless monster. I will take all your fine things and leave you an animal. Give yourself over to me, and I will make you powerful beyond power, nearly unkillable and dark as the pits of Hell.”
Jetula wept.
“Make your decision, raksa. Make it now.”
Jetula cried but nodded. She let Tristan take her away, and she knelt before the litter. The elderly woman leaned close and beckoned Jetula to her feet. “Please, child, put your leg here.” The woman’s voice was a door creaking.
Jetula propped her leg on the side of the litter. The woman leaned into her thigh and whipped her head back. Aaron’s heart nearly stopped when the crone’s mouth opened like a yawning pit, and with a growl, weak and airy, ripped into Jetula’s thigh. The raksa screamed and fought to pull her leg away, but the old woman seemed to possess titanic strength. Blood sprayed in a fount from both sides of the woman’s mouth. Jetula’s eyes rolled back in her head, and she collapsed.
The woman crawled out of the litter on all fours, climbing atop Jetula’s body. She seemed fuller, no longer a withered hag, but something more now. The woman dropped on Jetula again and sucked at the thigh. When the blood was gone and Jetula lie still, nothing more than a corpse, the woman stood. Her body was full and voluptuous. Her hair still streaked with gray, but now a full and vibrant red as well.
She shuddered in absolute pleasure and walked to Tristan, her chin dripping gore. “Raksa blood, so full, so intoxicating.”
The woman quivered in Tristan’s arms, and they kissed. Tristan pulled back, his face drenched in Jetula’s blood. Together, they both looked over at Aaron.
“Thanks for taking care of my pesky raksa problem. It is a pity I was unable to give her the death I had planned, but I will forgive that,” Aaron said. He fought hard to keep the tremble out of his voice, fought hard to hold back his panic.
“He is so ignorant,” Kat said. “It is almost a shame to have to educate him,” she said to her man. She turned back to Aaron and purred. “Dear slave, this saliva of mine turns all I bite into a creature like me. Do not fret. Your mistress will come back to the world more of a monster than she was when I took her from it. You will not be here to see it, though.” She smiled, and Aaron choked back his fear. “Soon, we will overrun the city, and then the world. We will take slaves for draining of blood and breed them for future generations, but yes, dear child, soon, all will either feed or serve.”
Aaron nearly screamed. He could no longer serve Peter if they turned him. No matter if this vampire queen or the beasts at her command, he was without hope of ever following Peter again if their fangs were to dip into his skin.
Aaron had no idea what to do. He was helpless. All he could do was be Aaron the Marked and hope for the best. He snarled at them with panic in his heart, and he shook his head in disgust.
The Blood of the Marked
“Well now,” the woman said as she walked closer to Aaron. She kicked at the beasts on the ground groveling at her feet, and they scurried away. She walked slowly. As she did, her red hair faded. Her face pulled back, and she shifted to an older looking woman.
Tristan walked up to her side, gently took her hand in his and stroked it. She leaned on him as she neared Aaron, and he smirked at her.
“Not a lasting drink, was it?” Aaron fought hard to keep the crack out of his voice, but he failed. His last word croaked, and he took a steadying breath.
“Do not pretend you are not afraid of me, child.” She could still walk, but barely. “Your fear runs your veins, rampant and in a frenzy.”
“I would be an idiot not to fear you. Fearlessness is insanity. I am not insane.”
“Well, if not insane, then what are you, and why are you chained to a tub?” She wore perfume, but as she drew closer, it did nothing to mask the stench that wafted from her body. It seemed as though she was decaying right before his eyes, as if the very musk of her would kill him. She stank of rotting blood and meat, a smell he wondered if ever left her.
“I am focused.”
“Focused on what?” She was close now and the very air turned colder. Her dress from the chin down was drenched with blood, and it squelched as she moved toward him. She ran her aged hand along her bodice, wetting her hand in blood. She licked her fingers as she stared at him.
“I want to embrace him,” she said. “I sense hatred on him, and hatred always has a certain taint to it. His blood would be divine.”
“How do you kill a vampire?” Aaron said as he stepped closer.
The vampire queen scoffed and looked at Tristan. “The nerve he possesses is crippling.”
“Answer me—” He shook his head. “What do I call you?”
“My name is Kataenar. You can call me mistress.”
“Well, I’m not going to do that.” He laughed, and she scowled. “So answer me, how do you kill a vampire?”
“You will never know the answer to that question,” Tristan said. “Kill this whelp.”
“Well, you had better get ready to kill a vampire, then,” Aaron said.
They paused.
The vampire queen pulled back and stared at him thoughtfully. “Why would she do that?”
“She lives for the day when she might do so herself. She has been torturing me and waiting for the moment to rip my life from my body. If you do so for her, she will hold animosity for you in her black heart.”
“I fear her not. She is a servant, not a queen.”
“Every queen needs fear her subjects,” Aaron said. “I do not have to teach you this. It is very clear to someone who has lived as long as you have that subjects hold grudges. They grow petulant, and they plot. Kill me, or turn me if you wish, but when you do so, kill her as well. For her wrath will not ebb until she has destroyed you.”
The woman looked at her lover, who continued to stare at Aaron. “You speak as though you know no fear, but I can feel fear rolling from your body as you stand here,” Tristan said. “You are a fraud. Why might we listen to you?”
“Yes, I am afraid. I am terrified, but fear has not mastered me. And you are changing the subject.”
“I like him. Kill her, and I will take him,” the queen said.
Aaron’s heart kicked in his chest as fear, real and terrible, rose up in him, and he laughed.
“We will need Teretal. She is our foothold. I cannot let you toss her away,” Tristan said. She snapped at him but did not argue.
“She will turn you herself and you will serve her as a beast. She will make you lap at her clawed toes, and you will do it gratefully.”
“Then taste me now,” Aaron said. “Give me a knife and a goblet, and take a single taste of the blood you desire.” He grinned. “Before she dines on me herself.” He had a slight whiff of a chance. He had one play and had to make it perfect.
She nodded, and Tristan went to the bar. He grabbed a jeweled goblet and handed it to Aaron. Aaron held his hand out to the queen. She placed a small knife in it. He winced as he sliced his arm open and bled into the cup. He focused all his hate, all his rage and indignation. He focused every bit of distaste he held for the world as his blood poured from his arm. When the goblet was filled, he handed it to her and bound his wound.
She drank. The flesh of her lips and mouth grew pink. She drank more, sobbed out in misery, then drank faster. She moaned as she tipped the goblet back carefully, so as not to spill a drop. When she was finished, she licked the rim of the cup. She slid her fingers inside and lapped the blood from within.
She reached out to her side, and Tristan steadied her. She grabbed him in a fit of lust and kissed him. She threw him to the floor and dropped on him. She screamed as she tore his clothes from his body. He looked scared, then he opened his arms to her as she pulled her dress up around her thighs. Her color was better, her face fuller. She dropped down on his manhood and gripped his neck as she rode him.
Aaron watched their sex with careful attention. She lashed at Tristan with her claws, and he bled freely. She ran her hand along his chest and licked her palm. She rode him as she screamed and finished. As she dropped to the ground beside him, she looked up at Aaron and shook her head.
“You are the very incarnation of wrath.” She reeled and grabbed her head. “Tristan, he must not die. He must not be turned. He is an elixir of such terrible power that I cannot drink my fill.”
Jetula was up now. She trembled and quaked as she fought to walk. To Aaron, she looked like a foal he had seen in Mance a year back, fighting to walk for the first time.
“We will take him with us,” the queen said.
“Kat, we cannot take this man,” Tristan said.
“I can have him if I desire him. The streets of Hemlock belong to me,” she snapped. “She will not stay my meal,” Kat said, pointing at Jetula.
“You can bring him and bleed him for a while, but he must be returned to her. He is her victim.”
Kat stormed over to Jetula and snatched her up in a taloned grip.
“You will not turn him, do you understand me? He is a wine I will drink when I thirst for him. He is not for you,” Jetula hissed at her, and Kat snarled. “You may punish him, but he cannot be your meal, and you cannot turn him.”
Jetula glared at her before lowering her head, nodding.
“Until I hunger for you again, my hate-filled vessel.” She swiped a hand across his face, and he snapped his teeth just short of her hand.
Kat smiled as Jetula steamed.
The Mothers Smite
“They will not let me take you to them. They demand to come to you,” Drelis said. She looked up at him with a devil’s smile. “Should be no big deal to Rayph Ivoryfist, the Hope of the Nation.”
“Thanks, no pressure at all,” Rayph said.
She laughed as they entered the abandoned pub. This entire section of the city was evacuated a century ago in the wake of a devastating plague. The Poison King of the day thought when the plague lifted it had settled into the stone. Bilious Quarter became a haunt for those who knew better. The covens and cults, the poisoners and alchemists, all filtered in building shops and laboratories, creating little hidey holes none would venture into, save the desperate and the dark.
Rayph stood in a long-abandoned pub whose name was lost in time, in the center of the floor in what little light the moons allowed in from the shattered roof. Drelis drifted from the center of the room to stand in the gloom. “I want you to understand my loyalties, Rayph. These women and the ones they protect, they are—”
“I know what they are to you, and I vowed never to make you choose between us. Defend me and add to my plea as much as you deem fit, but not a syllable more,” he said. “You, I value too much to lose.”
Drelis pulled from her dress a small silver bell and gently rang it. There was a billowing of smoke and the first of the Mothers Smite stole into the room. She coalesced out of the smoke, bubbling and swirling until the cloud of black had formed a woman and a breathtaking face parted the smoke. She spoke with thin red lips from a small pert mouth.
“Rayph Ivoryfist, so far from home, comes now to us for aid.” Her face disappeared in the smoke. It drained like liquid around the floor and up to a huge balcony built into the room. The smoke once again parted, and the face appeared. It looked around the room with a grin on its perfect mouth.
There was a sudden volley of hissing and whispering as, from a crack in the wall, hundreds of snakes of a multitude of colors slithered forward. They circled around Rayph, striking at his boots, waiting for retaliation before slithering back. The snakes massed atop one another, growing and bulging until they formed a tall, thin woman in a tight, green shimmering dress. Her blonde hair was pulled high and off her neck in a way Rayph had always found attractive. She carried a small silver vial she poured upon the ground. The liquid steamed as it hit the floor. Vapors rose in a globe to cast a silver light around the room. She edged close to the wall and stared with devastating eyes as Rayph turned, catching the movement of an ancient crone walking the floor.
The crone, bent on a weathered cane, stopped a breath away from Rayph and peered at him with smoky eyes. Her hooked red-shot nose and yellowing eyes spoke of a love of Lockian ale. A slight taint on the air spoke of a nearness to death that would not be kept at bay for much longer. The curled hands produced a small blade, and she sliced an incredibly quick cut across his arm. Her black tongue licked the blade clean, and she cackled. She laughed as she made her way to a small but comfortable chair near the collapsing bar top.
From overhead, Rayph heard the flutter of an avelen as a shadow crossed the floor. He looked up to see a woman pull in her wings and drop to the floor. Dust and dirt flew up in a cloud around her. She opened her dark gray wings wide as she stared at Rayph. He stared back, enamored with the sight of another woman of the same elusive race as his wife. He longed to ask her if she knew Archialore, longed to ask her why she had left t
he bridge and what she was doing here. The woman sneered at Rayph and kicked into the air, flying backwards and perching on the head of a statue carved into the wall. She pulled her wings in tight around her, crouching and watching him with dark eyes.
Rayph heard the humming of a woman walking in from the back kitchen. She wore a floral dress, a white apron, and her hair was tied up in an elaborate wrap. She wore bones in her hair, and her skin was the dark brown of an elder elondri. She stepped right up to Rayph, shook a rattle at him, and smiled. She looked at the air around him. Rayph knew she could see his aura. She shook her head and turned back to the bar, leaning against it, humming and shaking her rattle.
Two pale women, obviously twins, sauntered into the bar wearing black dresses and deep black makeup around their eyes. Their faces had been coated with golden paint that swirled, those swirls showing the only difference between them. Their dark-painted lips and black-gloved hands made them sinister in a way Rayph had rarely seen. As they moved in perfect sync with one another, Rayph fancied he could hear them thinking the same thoughts. They stepped behind the bar and stared unblinking at him.
After long moments of silence, a beam of light struck the ground from above, hitting the floor in front of Rayph’s feet. There was a sparkle of what looked like diamonds, then a shape formed before him. The light left the room, but she still shimmered as she smiled at Rayph calmly. Her hair was long and flowing and blonde. Her eyes black as pitch, gleaming with old knowledge. She turned her back, though her head stayed pointed at him, with her eyes burning into his. She stopped and turned back to him with a smile.
“Rayph Ivoryfist comes before the Pristine and her Mothers Smite coven at my summons with what gift to give?”
Rayph held out his hand. Within sat a small stone. He grabbed it with his forefinger and thumb, and held it up in the silver light for all to see. Every eye gleamed. Every hand snapped shut as Rayph let go of the stone and it hovered just before him. With a shove of his magic it flew, slowly spinning as it came to stop before the Pristine. She smiled and plucked it out of the air and into her hand, where it vanished.