by I. T. Lucas
Terrified, he tried to slam the door closed, but the guy blocked it with his shoulder and with a brutal punch to the face sent Mark staggering backward. Following with his own body weight, the assassin brought Mark down.
When they hit the floor, Mark struggled to get free. But he was no match for the strength and skill of his assailant. In mere seconds, he found himself pinned face down to the floor with the immortal’s fangs sinking deep into his neck.
All struggle ceased the moment the assassin’s venom hit his system—the euphoria blooming in his mind and the languid feeling spreading through his body effectively paralyzing him.
He felt the venom being pumped into his bloodstream, pulsing in sync with his heartbeat. Although still aware enough to understand that he was about to die, in his drugged state he couldn’t bring himself to care.
Eventually, the assassin withdrew his fangs and licked the puncture wounds closed. Mark knew that his near-immortal body would heal the bruising in a matter of minutes, and shortly thereafter, the venom paralyzing him would stop his heart, then disintegrate.
There would be no trace left of any wrongdoing, and heart failure would be determined as the most probable cause of death.
The family would obviously know. Besides blowing it to pieces, the only way to stop a near-immortal’s heart was to inject the body with loads of venom.
His Advanced Decision Card listed Arwel’s phone number as his next of kin.
The paramedics would call him.
Arwel would know what happened.
“This is for giving your corrupt western pets your stolen technology, you queer scum! This is for the computer virus!” the murderer hurled, then spat at Mark’s face. “You brought the war to your own doorstep. Fighting by proxy is over!” he hissed through clenched teeth.
Mark was only dimly aware of what the Doomer was saying, hearing the words but not truly comprehending them. Through the drugged haze of his mind, he heard two more sets of footsteps entering his home. Conversing in short, clipped sentences, the men were speaking in some foreign language he didn’t recognize.
It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore.
As he drifted away, he wondered if there was anything beyond this reality. Would his soul go on to some kind of heaven? Was there anything besides dark oblivion waiting for him?
If there were, he wished other souls would be there, so he wouldn’t be alone. The thought of spending an eternity of incorporeal existence aware, and yet with no one to communicate with and nothing to do, terrified him more than fading into nothingness.
9
Kian
Kian woke up with a start, his sweat-saturated hair sticking to the back of his neck and his heart still pounding from the nightmare. Filled with an intense sense of dread, all he could remember was the endless running and getting lost in a maze of strange staircases that had led nowhere, and being turned around in corridors that had twisted on themselves in impossible ways.
What had he been running from? Who had been chasing him? Why had they been chasing him?
It was just a dream. Kian tried to shake off the uneasy feeling. Nothing more than his mind rearranging bits and pieces of thoughts and memories to create an action horror flick with him in the starring role.
Yeah, that’s all it was.
Unlike his mother and sisters, he didn’t place much stock in dreams or premonitions. Ordinary, everyday reality was strange enough without throwing that into the mix.
Kian flung off the damp duvet, pushed off the tangled sheets and dropped his feet to the floor. Sitting on the bed with his elbows on his thighs, he let his head drop as he waited for his heartbeat to slow down.
After a moment, the smell of freshly brewed coffee wafting from the kitchen was just the incentive he needed to shrug it off and jump into the shower. At first, he’d planned to be quick about it, but with the hot water jets pounding his skin from all six showerheads, it just felt so good that he allowed himself to linger.
It was absurd that a man surrounded by so much luxury got so little use out of it. There was always too much to do and not enough time to do it. He was rushing everything; his showers, his meals, his interactions with others. And yet, there were always some tasks left undone and issues unattended to.
Most of the time Kian didn’t mind the intense pace and the heavy mantle of responsibility. It kept him far too busy to dwell on the fact that he was lonely, although rarely alone. Or that his very long and productive life felt futile, despite all of his accomplishments.
Just once in a while he would have liked to slow down. Savor life. Smell the coffee.
Coffee, he could really use some right now, followed by Okidu’s decadent waffles, topped with fresh fruit and smothered in coconut whipped cream. It wasn’t the healthiest of breakfasts, but what the heck. It was good!
He was fortunate to have Okidu as his cook, his butler, his cleaner, his chauffeur, and his companion. Lots of hats for one person to wear, but then again, Okidu wasn’t really a person. Quite often, Kian had trouble remembering that his butler wasn’t a living breathing man.
Okidu was a marvel of ingenuity; a biomechanical masterpiece posing as a person. He didn’t require sleep, didn’t require maintenance, was self-repairing, and could survive on garbage. He could even morph his form from male to female and vice versa by adjusting his facial features and body shape; sometimes alternating between the two just for the sake of entertainment, and sometimes because circumstances favored a particular gender. Inherently, Okidu had none. No reproductive system or sex organs to define him one way or the other.
No one knew who’d created Okidu, or how, or when. There were only seven of his kind known to exist. A priceless masterpiece that could not be replicated or replaced. Over five thousand years ago, the seven had been a wedding gift to Kian’s mother, a token of love from her groom. They had been believed to be an ancient relic even then.
Kian couldn’t remember a time without Okidu being around. Since he was a little boy, Okidu had been there to ensure his safety, to feed him, to dress him, and to keep him company.
Though uncomfortable thinking of Okidu as a possession, as such, he was Kian’s most valued one. Regrettably, Okidu couldn’t be a friend or a confidant, he just didn’t function that way. With his decision-making ability limited to a preprogrammed set of instructions within which he could learn and adapt, he was incapable of feeling true emotions. Nevertheless, he easily fooled the casual observer by approximating the appropriate tone and facial expressions.
“Good morning, Master!” Okidu exclaimed with a happy face and a perfect British accent as Kian entered the kitchen. Lately, he had taken to acting out his favorite mini-series on BBC, featuring an aristocratic British family and their household staff. Okidu had been alternating between mimicking the snobby butler, the hurried maid, and the cockney driver. Lacking a personality of his own, he must’ve calculated that mimicking cliché characters would make his passing for a human likelier.
It had been amusing at first. The exaggerated gestures, the different costumes, the accents. It was like having a private comedy show—every day, all day long, for weeks on end. It became annoying, and this morning it really grated on Kian’s nerves.
Furthermore, there were only two waffles left, with Anandur and Brundar ogling them like a couple of hungry wolves.
“I saved the last two for you, Master!” Okidu chimed.
Kian felt like punching something, or someone, or rather two someones. Pinning the two with a hard stare, he barked, “Do I have to see your sorry faces every morning before I’ve even had my coffee? And then you wolf down my waffles? Don’t you have food in your place?”
The brothers had an apartment two stories down from Kian’s penthouse, and though every Guardian had one in the family’s secure high rise, they preferred to stay together and share one.
Smack in the middle of downtown Los Angeles, the building he had built for the clan’s American arm was a luxurious dig. To preserv
e appearances, some of the lower floor apartments were time-shared by international corporations in need of lodging for their visiting executives. The upper floors and an extensive underground facility served the clan. A private parking level, with elevators that required a thumbprint to open their doors, ensured his family could come and go safely and discreetly.
It took hiding in plain sight to a whole new level.
“Sorry, boss, but our kitchen doesn’t come equipped with Okidu. And to be honest, between Brundar and me, we can’t even fry an egg.” Anandur was still eyeing the surviving waffles.
Kian sighed. “Resistance is futile,” he murmured and poured himself a cup of coffee. Leaning his butt against the counter, he took a satisfying first sip of the hot brew.
“Please make some more waffles for the kids, Okidu. You have underestimated their appetite.”
“Coming right up, sire!”
“It smells heavenly in here.” Kri, their only female Guardian, poked her head into the kitchen.
Tall and athletic, his young niece was a kick-ass kind of girl, which got her the approval of the male Guardians. And although muscular and wide shouldered, she still managed to look feminine.
As always, her long tawny hair was pulled away from her pretty face and woven into a tight braid. Today, the heavy rope was draped over the front of a red workout shirt.
“Okidu made waffles, and no one called me? I’m deeply wounded.” She walked in and planted her rear on a stool.
“Come in. Why the hell not? It’s a goddamn party!” Kian dropped a plate in front of Kri and poured her a cup of coffee.
He couldn’t tell her to go away now, could he? She had as much right, or lack thereof, to invade his kitchen as the other two.
“Thank you, Kian. As always, you’re so kind.” Kri accepted the mug. Holding it in both hands, she took a sip. “Ugh, bitter, I need sugar.” As his stern look made it perfectly clear that he was done serving her, Kri got up to get it herself. “I know. I’ve already used up my quota of hospitality.”
“What are you doing here, Kri?”
“I thought I’d stop by on my way to the gym and see if you wanted to join me for a workout.” Avoiding his eyes, Kri looked down at her cup.
The girl had a silly crush on him and was using every excuse as an opportunity to spend more time with him.
Kian ignored it.
Descending from the same matrilineal line, they were considered closely related despite the many generations separating them.
A serious taboo.
Not that he would have ever considered anything even if that wasn’t the case. In his mind, Kri would always be his little niece.
He figured she’d get over it.
Being only forty-one years old, Kri was barely a teenager in near-immortal terms, and like a mortal teenager, he assumed she suffered from a case of transitory, immature infatuation.
One she would laugh off later in life.
Kian glared at her, then turned to glare at the guys. “From now on, no one comes up here before nine in the morning, capisce?” He regarded their despondent faces. “And I want you to knock and wait to be allowed in. No more waltzing in whenever you feel like it. This is not the goddamn subway station!”
They had the same exchange every couple of weeks. Like spoiled kids, they’d behave for a while, then go back to pissing him off.
That was the trouble with employing family. What could he do? Couldn’t fire them, couldn’t smother them either. It would upset their mothers.
Kian sighed.
“But the waffles, Kian! The waffles!” Kri lamented in mock despair.
“Get the fucking recipe!”
A loud knock announced another member of the team. Okidu rushed over to open it for Onegus, the head of the Guardians.
Taking one sniff of the tantalizing aroma, Onegus smiled his Hollywood smile, and, what a surprise, immediately beelined for the kitchen.
At least the SOB was actually supposed to show up for his morning meeting with Kian.
“Oh no you don’t! Everybody out! Let’s move the party to the other room!” Kian passed through the butler’s pantry into the dining room, which was never used for its primary function. Kian ate at the kitchen counter and never had the kind of guests he wanted to invite to a sit-down dinner.
He liked to work from home, though, so when needed, he used the room for informal meetings. Not that this was a meeting.
More like a home invasion...
His home office was his quiet place to work, and he didn’t want the gang invading it and messing with his neatly arranged stuff.
On some level, the fact that the whole force could fit easily inside his dining room was depressing. The number of Guardians had shrunk in recent years, and with only seven of them remaining, their duties were limited to providing security detail, mainly to him as Regent, and internal policing—enforcing the clan’s laws.
Back in the old country, when the force had still been the size of a small battalion, Kian had led it into more battles than he cared to remember. In the days of hand to hand combat, when the Guardians had been tasked with protecting and guarding the clan’s turf, the force had numbered between sixty and eighty warriors. But as times had changed—the USA becoming a relatively safe place for them to live and hide in—it had dwindled down, its defense services no longer needed.
Kian, as the clan’s American Regent, was in charge of the Guardians as well as heading the local clan-council. And that was in addition to managing the clan’s huge business empire.
He snorted as he remembered thinking that acting as Regent, over what were now two hundred eighty-three people, would be an easy job. It wasn’t.
With their business empire growing and branching into various industries, Kian was working harder and longer than ever. There simply weren’t enough goddamned hours in the day. Was it a wonder then that he was short-tempered and irritable?
He couldn’t remember the last time he had some time off.
Just as his uninvited guests, and Onegus, were preparing to plant their butts on the chairs surrounding his long dining table, Kian’s cell phone vibrated.
He pulled it out and glanced at the caller’s name before answering. “Arwel. What’s up in the Bay Area?”
There was a moment of silence, then a sigh.
Kian felt a ripple of anxiety rush down his spine. “Talk to me!”
“Mark was found dead in his home this morning.” Arwel paused.
Kian remained silent, stunned by the impossible news.
“His cleaning lady found him on the floor of his living room and called 911. He had my number on his Advanced Decision Card, listing me as next of kin.”
Arwel’s speech faltered. It had been a while since a member of their family had been killed. The security and anonymity the clan enjoyed in their adopted home made them complacent. The pain of loss had faded into distant memory. Facing it once again was hard, more so for Arwel.
The poor guy had enough trouble coping with life as it was, with his over-receptive mind bombarded relentlessly by the emotions of others. To protect himself, he often drank excessively. Though he sounded sober now.
“His body was intact. The paramedics declared heart failure as the probable cause of death. Obviously, we know what that means—fangs and venom. We checked his house for clues.” There was another pause. “Doomers got him, Kian. They are here and have somehow found Mark.”
As Kian’s mind processed the implications, the chill that had started in his heart upon first hearing the disturbing news spread out to encompass his entire body.
DOOM—the Devout Order Of Mortdh Brotherhood—was his clan’s ancient enemy. Sworn to annihilate every last member of his family and destroy any and all progress Annani was helping humanity achieve, they sought to plunge the world back into ignorance and darkness.
Theirs wasn’t an idle threat.
Time and again, the order had manipulated mortal affairs by planting seeds of hatred, triggeri
ng wars, and dragging humanity down—successfully halting and reversing social and scientific advancement all too often.
The DOOM Brotherhood was a relentless scourge.
It was Kian’s worst nightmare made manifest. He had believed that hiding in plain sight among the multitudes of mortals would keep his family safe from this powerful enemy. And yet, the Doomers had somehow gotten to Mark.
“Are you sure he was murdered by Doomers?”
“They left a message taped to his computer screen.”
“What did it say?”
“Nothing and everything. It’s a drawing. Two sickle swords crossed at the handle, flanking a disk. Their fucking emblem. I took a photo of it.”
“Send me the picture.”
“Hold on.”
Kian switched screens. The image of the crude drawing was blurry, but there was no mistaking the DOOM’s emblem.
As grief and impotent rage warred for dominance over his emotions, he pushed up from his chair and began pacing.
As a man of solution-driven action, Kian felt an irrational, overbearing need to do something, anything, that would make this all go away. Except, there was no action that would bring Mark back. No going back in time and changing the decisions that had led to this.
The only thing left for him to do was to mourn the dead and safeguard the living.
“Bring our boy home... Take the jet and bring him here,” he told Arwel, then paused to realign his mental gears and get them in motion.
“Check his body and make sure they didn’t plant any tracking devices on him. The bastards know we’d bring Mark home for a proper service. Can’t risk them following you here. Go through his place again, see if anything is missing. Check for any clues that can point to us; letters, photos, personal mementos, and the sort. If you find anything like that, bring it here. I’m sure his mother will want to have it. Pay attention to details. I need to know if they found anything.”
“I’m on it!” Arwel was about to hang up.
“Arwel! I’m not done. I want all clan members from your area evacuated. Have Bhathian contact them and explain the gravity of the situation. Provide each one with a different route and mode of transportation. I don’t want a mad rush to the airport. They are to take nothing and tell no one. Just get up and go. We’ll take care of the details once everyone is safe.”