by Lee Taylor
“So how long have you guys been down here?” Mike shrugged.
“Honestly, dude, I am the wrong person to ask. I was unconscious, and when I finally woke up Ivan, had been worked over pretty hard... I thought it was game-over until Kitty explained to me what was happening. Ivan knows things... He has been able to predict most of what was going to happen.” Mike seemed to visibly deflate as he bowed his head.
“When I saw that guy pull the trigger, I thought that was it.” Mike’s eyes didn’t quite make contact, and he began to rub at his temples again. I could see that he was in agony.
He rocked forward off of the wall once again. Glancing over at Kitty he nodded and walked over to the chamber door, putting his ear to it.
Kitty approached me, side-stepping Lycaon, and with an odd expression pulled across her face, it looked ever so slightly pensive.
“Okay, mate, me and that grumpy sod-” she flourished her hand over herself and flicked toward Lycaon for emphasis.
“We have a plan on what to do with you... and you might not like it.” Kitty smiled and added a wink as she placed both hands on my shoulders as if to hold me in place.
* * *
George was pacing around upstairs in the main lobby. Every couple of moments he glanced at his grandfather clock impatiently, noting the importance of proper time management, and the need to smash that damned clock if it didn’t desist with its incessant ticking.
He was expecting arrivals. They should have been here already: that feckless demon, Drogan with his partner. Both were major, potential players with their roles in the demon realms hierarchy. Both commanded legions... And both were tardy.
George wasn’t a stupid man. He was quite the opposite, he knew that the band of miscreants would become free in his poser dungeon the moment he took his eyes off them; he wanted that to happen, otherwise he would have just let Arkham and Crow play with them. He had taken the opportunity while he awaited his “guests” to get changed-out of his ridiculous robe. He could not stand what the robe represented, but as long as he adorned it, he would be severely underestimated in the magical community. A long time ago when he first came into possession of the garment, he had been a weak and skinny mortal, who had the uncanny ability to raise the recently departed. That was all he let the outside magical community know he was capable of... But that was back when he had no master and was controlled by his own youthful arrogance. George’s memory faded as Arkham hovered into the lobby, refusing to make eye-contact with his master.
“Ssssir, the Ssssummersss have fed, and they are ready to—” George glared at Arkham who paused mid-sentence, it took a lot to silence or strike fear into a wraith, and George Corwin was one of the few in existence that demanded such respect.
“I already know Arkham. Tell me, when was it that you said that brat Drogan was set to arrive with his... former partner?” George asked; his presence was so intense that it was like the air around him was a mass of coiling snakes.
“Gay-or-gee, I wasss informed that they will join usss sssoon,” Arkham said, and with that the chamber door flew open shrouded in evening mist as it drew into the surroundings.
“Sorry to keep you waiting.” Two figures emerged from the doorway; it was Drogan and his female partner, who was being led by the hand. Throwing his partner forward, she stumbled and recollected herself, keeping her expression bored and uninterested, making no attempt to make eye-contact. She was seething with hatred; it was radiating from her very core.
A thick, treacly coldness filled the air as they entered the main hall. Drogan was practically wriggling under his skin... He was one of the few powerful enough to bring forward his entire “other state” into the realm of mortals, but preferred a more subtle approach. So he had taken a host. His was a businessman, and it was clear that the mortal had spent most of life in an office as he was most unremarkable, even for a human. In fact the only defining characteristic was how he was slathered in blood.
“Tell me, Drogan what put you so off schedule?” George asked in a chiding manor. Drogan snorted and idly flicked off some pulped flesh that was scattered over his once crisp shirt.
“I am not normally the type to indulge you in an excuse, but to save face I must inform you that it was her doing.” Drogan seemed to toy with the words as he spoke them; as if he was too bored to even reminisce of what had happened. He took off the spectacles that his meat suit was wearing, looking at one of cracked lenses he took a moment to wipe off some blood with a handkerchief, then smiled and perched them back onto his nose.
“As I am sure you are certainly aware, Master Corwin. My friend here is bound to her host and they’re in turn to another. So I couldn’t simply make her choose a new host, not yet at least, and so I had to improvise. It was rather boring, after a while; mortals always scream the same way, and there are only so many times you can dismember someone before it loses its lustre.” Drogan sighed and rolled his head on his neck, producing cracks and pops as his joints resettled.
“Still we are here now, and surely that is evidence enough of my commitment,” Drogan added, his veins moved under his skin and bulged in places, stretching his host’s skin to near breaking point before receding back into place. George smiled, wrinkling his eyes at the corners and turned to move on.
“Come, we have some matters to discuss. The lycans are already here,” George said over his shoulder as he headed out of the grand lobby. Waving Arkham away, who hastily retreated into the shadows. Drogan walked toward his partner, seizing her by the crown of her hair and lifted her onto her feet. She didn’t make a sound.
Chapter 21
The Summers were crowded around the main table, all spitting, foaming, and complaining about why they had to be in their human forms. Why they couldn’t simply remain in their glorious anthropomorphic counterparts instead. As their leader, Jin spoke up.
“You all know why we’re here. George has promised us that prick’s head on a platter, and so we will play along as long as necessary. And besides, it’s not like we could have refused with his crazy bitch snapping at us.” Jin snarled; all the others grew silent.
“I still think we could’ve taken her,” one of the younger lycan’s protested. Jin stood from his chair and casually walked over to him. Smiling harmlessly as he did so, his blanched yellow teeth, stained with blood stood out from his wiry beard as he lashed out, and with a pop and crunch, the Lycan whimpered its jaw now dislocated.
“It was that thinking that got the others fucking gutted.” The younger Lycan let out a cry of fear and agony as Jin’s second in command hit the whelp on the back of his head, knocking him out cold, ordering one of the brutes to drag him from the hall. A few other involuntary whimpers echoed in the room before all drew silent with the entrance of George and his guests.
George strolled into the room, glancing around with a look of bemusement. Drogan wasn’t far behind with his partner.
“Jin, my good friend, I am nearly positive there were two more of you before,” George said as he sat down at the far end of the table. Jin and his pack rose in acknowledgement of their arrival.
“One of the whelps couldn’t control his tongue, and I dint want him to show me up in company,” Jin said, bowing his head. George rolled his eyes and snorted as he sat down.
“To business then, Jin. Drogan, I thank you for coming here; we are now only waiting on the Venetian’s, who should be arriving at sun down.” Jin glanced at his second in command Sanchez and exchanged a worried look. Lycans and vampires used to be on par in the magical community, and now with all the notoriety in the modern mortal world, and their obsession with Vampires, it has enabled them to branch out and further strengthen their foundation. Fortunately the Venetians weren’t like other clans who are still in a blood-feud; they were exiled for their actions and were nowhere near as glamorous.
“Our new source is in my possession. After my dear Kaitlyn’s mottled attempt at both enticement and capture, and your packs failed attempt at containing him,
it seems that the mortal authorities accomplished your tasks for us.” Jin’s eyes widened and his lips retracted, revealing his aged teeth in the candle’s steady glow. He turned to look at Sanchez as he sent forward his question.
Is that true? The Kid is still alive after taking on Kaitlyn and the others? Sanchez nodded in compliance.
So those mortals took that runt Lycaon and the kid out? Jin sent again to Sanchez, again he simply nodded in compliance. George was still talking, unaware of the packs, conversation.
“To answer your question, Drogan, yes, if he was allowed to come into his full Therianthropic abilities and recruit his own pack, then yes. His power is not filtered like ours in this realm. He is not diluted with generations of human excrement.” Jin tuned back into the conversation and grunted with pent-up rage. George arched an eyebrow and looked at Jin, taking a mouthful from a silver goblet before continuing.
“Do you have something to say, Master Jin?”
“I think it’s all horseshit. How can one kid be so much of a threat?” Jin barked, slamming his fist onto the table.
“I don’t believe he can be that much of a threat,” Drogan added. George threw his head back in a laugh and reached for his goblet again, sating his thirst.
“You, my dear friends, are both fools!” The room fell silent as the air grew colder, panes of glass began to crack as frost climbed up the windows, and the light and heat of the candles dimmed as George exclaimed.
“Drogan, you dare question this? This mortal boy who is now in wedlock to your former partner? Who if he wanted to could command legions of creatures, that even you dare not disturb? This same boy who if given chance could bring about his own clan of lycans, which could easily overrun all the mortal and mystical populous with its sheer volume of strength alone. He is not diluted like you are, Jin, his is not filtered with generation after generation of mortal blood. He is a new breed entirely, and not like Miztli and his feckless felines.” George sighed and glanced reproachfully toward Drogan and Jin who looked wound-up enough to attack.
“There are other factors at work here, and we must find the cause less we all become... disposable,” George uttered, slamming his goblet down into place. The only problem was George already knew what “factors” were at work; he was serving one of them, but he didn’t need to tell the others that. They were too blinded by pride and power, and that meant they were susceptible to “potential gain.” As Dusk settled in, shadows were already circling George’s estate. The Venetian’s were travelling in an entourage of at least twenty fully-fledged vampires, each part of an annexed clan, including a few of their elders, guardians and some hardened blood-casters accompanied with grunts, and warriors. Vampire hierarchy was a very long-in-the-neck democracy; their elders were worshipped as kings and lords, each with his own court. Usually they were in three men-reaping teams; one a caster, another a warrior type, and the third was usually a guardian of a sort, although it was impossible to tell the difference between them with their physical similarities. Both male and female, but the only common interest that bound them was their loathing of humanity.
Venetian’s were the ugliest of the Vampiric sects. Barely resembling the humans that they were once before, most were massively muscled and hunched over, and they were gorilla-like in posture. Their spines rigid, protruding the skin in parts, and a pale, sickly milky-flesh draped over their skeletons with darkened, withered veins visible on the surface. Their skin marked of lightning, forking off and glistening under their shallow surface. Their feral appearance was only matched by their ruthlessness as a species. The males were mostly devoid of hair, greasy scalps glinting with a coat of slime. It oozed from their pores, making the flesh appear to be transparent. Crooked, hooded brows decorated with spiky deposits of calcium that concealed their malevolent crimson eyes were stowed beneath. A pungent odour of rotting meat and rust clung to them; it was an acrid smell of death. Their females had long shanks of hair that drooped over them similar to a lion’s mane, but on closer inspection looked like a spoiled mop head, wet and slick, hanging in bunches.
They cared very little of their appearances, opting for practicality over poetic-beauty. They were elite hunters and gatherers, sticking to shadows where possible. To be seen in daylight would draw too much alarm from human eyes, they were not akin to any other vampire species; they were shunned, and reviled. The Strigoi, as they are also known, were enslaved by other vampires for their hideous appearance. They were used nearly as dogs with their keen senses and abilities. Years of devolution turned them from blood-drinkers to soul–eaters; they fed from both the living and the dead. George was never happy dealing with their sort as they could be unpredictable and more unforgiving than a scorpion.
The Venetian’s approached the flanks of George’s fortress, scaling the walls instead of opting for the front doors, afraid of any traps that may lay for them. Years of torment had taught the feral vampires not to trust anyone, including their fellow Strigoi; as on many occasions throughout history, if they were caught in a clinch, they would sacrifice their own blood and clan mates to escape.
George had approached them on the pretence of an alliance: an alliance between the exiled vampires, lycans and the demon hierarch. All who were so blinded with the thirst for power, which made them easy to manipulate. All George had to do was offer them his services and make it look to them like they would be the only ones to benefit. Driven by greed, they hastily accepted a blood-signified contract. He didn’t even have to explain all the details of what would be entailed, apart from the basics. All he had to do was let them be aware for the potential for power, and they could cease it themselves.
George left the banquet hall with the practically seething lycans and demon, then headed to greet the Venetian’s. Before guiding them through his antiquated home to make them more comfortable as guests, as well as to show them several means of escape, should a situation arise, and a hasty exit was needed. They finally entered a large cavernous hall where with the acoustics a whisper would sound closer to scream.
“Greetings, Tenebre clan. Please feel welcome here in my home; for what is mine is yours.” The Venetian’s eyed the room cautiously, even though they had pledged their own blood in the pact, they were still uneasy of being in the same room as demon-kin. The Lycanthropes bothered them little as they had hunted countless scores of “were-kind” over the millennia, usually the funnelled-down blood-tribes like the Seti, and the Selvaggio’s, the natives in Europe. The Summers were held in a higher regard as pests go; as both the Strigoi and Summer clan shunned their human heritage, fully embracing their darker natures.
Two Venetian’s brought forward Ursine’s mother; she was covered in contusions and practically pock-marked with teeth marks. She was still alive, just a little worse for wear. Unconscious, she was kept in what would be close to a chemical-induced coma from the Venetian’s bites. An interesting fact about Strigois is that their bite can cause a type of paralysis. Multiple bites can render the recipient unconscious for as long as they wanted.
“She is yours now,” The Venetian said softly, and the elder croaked. His voice was as crooked and brittle as his appearance. George nodded modestly and signalled to his brute and minion Crow. Crow approached with considerable speed and grace for his size, lifting Ursine’s mother into his trunk-like arms and carried her off to the chamber that George had requested for her.
“She tried to escape; it was our easiest means of subduing her.” The Venetian smiled, his almost translucent teeth glistened above his blackened gums. George being the gracious host that he was nodded, despondent to the obvious insult the vampire had just aired to him.
“You all know why you have been requested here, yes?” George spoke over the hushed tones. Jin, the Summers pack runner was the first to speak out.
“Of course we fuckin do, why we couldn't have just killed that faggot Lycaon when we had him, is what's pissing me off.”
Jin sneered, standing tall, trying to assert his alpha status b
oth with his pack and all else who were present. Scratching at his goatee idly that encompassed his chin, his dark eyes glinted amber as he turned to face his second in command and began to send to him through the packs hunting link.
Who does this guy think he is? He’s as much of a loser as that Winters queer, Lycaon. Always getting someone else to do his...
Jin hadn’t noticed George’s spontaneous disappearance. So when he re-appeared beside him and grabbed hold of Jin’s ears then continued to tear them clean from his scalp, Jin was more than a little humbled. Cries of pain and outrage reverberated around the room. The Summer lycans began to stand, readying to respond. Their leader spat and foamed at the mouth, drool pooling as he choked and spluttered, falling to the floor. He began to change before George put his foot on his skull and pressed down.
“If you are not going to give me your ears when I speak, then I shall take them from you.” George was smiling, the warm lycanthropic blood drenching his fingers; he squeezed Jin’s severed ears and kneaded with them playfully, like a child would with Playdough.
“Now, if there are no more interruptions, I shall continue!” George was shouting over the Jin’s incessant shouts. The Venetian’s grew tense with the temptation that the blood brought with it; whilst the scowling-hulk-of-muscle standing in the doorway to the room, was feeling more distressed as he looked on at the mess he was inevitably going to have to clean up. With a deep sigh, he hunched and marched off to fetch his cleaning utensils.
“Now, my dearest of Lycan kind, and oh most noble Sanchez, you already know that the Winters pack leader is here,” George drawled, Sanchez; slightly shell shocked grunted and nodded in agreement.
“And Drogan is here for the new breed; so we will skip the rest of the formalities and settle matters forth with. Master Tenebre, what you require unfortunately cannot be attained here and now, but we can start your campaign as soon as the other matters are settled.” Drogan’s lips curved up as he smiled. He took a sip from his goblet, lightly patting his partner on the head, and anxiously awaiting his meeting with the new breed. All of the Venetian’s slurped and gurgled, like mucous had gathered collectively in their throats. As they approached George unsteadily, the light glistened off their skin, making them look more demon-kin than humanoid.