Fuck, the sight of him... “Idiot, you had to pick the fucking piglet!” he voiced loudly to the wind hissing past his helmet. The pink scooter was only going fifteen mph, but it was the only one willing to start amongst all the other hell hogs in the garage, Raven was sure Karma was having a go at him, and laughing her bloody ass off, nonetheless.
The streets were desolate, the sun slowly setting on the horizon. There was a nagging sensation along Raven’s spine. A tingle on his skin urging him to find shelter, yet he couldn’t picture the reason.
“You told me Raven was dead!”
Bla’Gar slammed his fist onto an empty steel examining table, indenting the piece of metal. A red mist spurted from his mouth, his temper swelling as he desperately tried to hold back his demon form, his skin already beginning to bleed away. He was furious he had to address this stupid female while she pointed a gun at him.
“He was dead,” she choked back, tears glistening on her cheek.
Bla’Gar roared and windows shattered, allowing pale afternoon sunlight into the room. He gripped the table and sent it soaring through the air, smashing the glass of a nearby refrigerator containing blood and tissue samples, clanging loudly when it met the floor.
“You should have mentioned it was Strigoi that had killed my Raven.”
Her hand trembled, finger twitching on the trigger as he stepped closer and gripped her around the neck.
The shot took the upper left side of Bla’Gar’s face with it.
“Your little toy has no effect on me, girl,” he snarled, tightening his grasp while his face started to reconstruct itself.
He could hear her heart pounding, feel her strangled breath. Her hands clawed weakly at his forearm. He should kill her, pop her head like the little bad pimple she was. But he had made a blood pact.
“How dare you disgrace my Raven’s memory and use it to fuel your own vengeance.”
The buttons on his shirt popped and scattered as his chest expanded. The suit had already began to tear at the shoulders. He released her, shoving her from him. She fell to her knees, scrambling and curling away.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to stop the slow shift falling upon him. He focused his thoughts on Raven. How scared his pet must be right now, not knowing what was happening to him.
“You murdered them, spread your half-truths and had my ancestors executed!”
Bla’Gar knelt, fisting her hair and yanking her up to her feet from the floor. “Here’s something you don’t know about your kind—they were about to bring forth the end of this world. Set in motion the start of the apocalypse. But they are not yours, you are not descended from them, I do not smell demon on you.” He eyed her again. Earlier when they had done the blood oath, Bla’Gar had experienced her power. He had not been in any state to recognize at that time that she wasn’t a Pyro. Now he realized that she was descended from something older, much older and rarer. The question was how rare, for even mythical and legendaries had their own myths and legends.
He dropped her a second time, not caring when she fell back against the wall and bumped her head.
Bla’Gar cracked his knuckles. “Get up on your feet, we need to find Raven, right now he’s as much a danger to himself as he is to others, and heed my warning very carefully, wench. If he should die—”
A man burst through the door, gun ready and aimed straight at Bla’Gar.
The male’s brown eyes scanned the room. Upon spotting the witch still on the floor, he carefully advanced towards her.
“Don’t fucking move, asshole,” he snapped sharply.
Bla’Gar folded his arms across his chest, observing the two. The male intently inspected the bruise marks around the female’s neck before helping her up.
“This little fire bird belongs to you?” Bla’Gar sneered.
The guy turned, eyes predatory and dark, as he moved in front of the female Enforcer to shield her.
“You dared fucking touch her.” The veins in the man’s neck became prominent as rage contorted his face.
Bla’Gar recalled him from last night, the distinct stench of magic couldn’t be missed on the man’s skin, but now he could also smell the female’s sex clinging to the warlock.
Bla’Gar breathed deeply, turning, eyeing the morgue’s refrigerators; there was an odd smell coming from one of them. Not quite Strigoi, but something else.
“What are you doing?” The man demanded, pressing his gun to Bla’Gar’s back. Bla’Gar ignored him, pushed out his talons and clawed into the cubicle with the odd scent, ripping the door clean off. He pulled out the tray. On it was a sickly creature, vampiric in nature as he pressed its lips back to display it teeth. He could smell Raven’s blood coming from the thing’s mouth. He noted the patch of sunlight on the corpse coming from the shattered window, and it answered several questions.
“I believe that Raven has mentioned to you about the disappearances of supernaturals. Have you given it any thought?”
“No.” Jessy’s response came from farther back in the room.
“I was never a man of science or biology—a simple human farmer, who took his own life when my wife and child were found torn apart and eaten by wolves. It is but one of the small things I can remember of my life before Hell.” ‘Remember’ was too strong a word. Bla’Gar could not recall more than that he had a wife and child, nor could he recall their names or the means of how he took his own life, only that he had.
“I ask you this, Miss, do you honestly think I would want to condemn the man I love and have a creature like this bite into him?”
She stared at him, eyes wet, the male still shielding her, as she shook her head.
“Paranormal entities cannot evolve, science and the undead don’t mix… However if for some reason they could isolate the demonic virus, alter it in such a way to create something new…” Bla’Gar turned to them. “I believe our creature over here was not the first of its kind. Merely a guinea pig in the process of natural selection. A new mutated virus which, through trial and error, corrected itself to perfection. If this new breed of Strigoi do not combust into ash on death or exposure to sunlight like its ancestors, it gives reason to believe whoever is creating these mutations is seeking a means of immortality without unwanted side effects.”
Bla’Gar walked to the door and spoke over his shoulder, “Let’s hope Raven is not another trial and error. Or becomes a mindless ghoul.” He stepped out of the room, leaving the doors to swing closed. He rested his head against a wall, closing his eyes.
Raven, my beautiful Raven... What have they done to you?
There was a tightness in his chest as he forced back his partial shift, the demon under his human skin now deceptively silent. If he found Raven, Bla’Gar knew what he had do if his worst fears were confirmed. He wasn’t worried about sunlight, since the creature on the tray didn’t seem to be affected by it, nor did it matter to him if his pet became disfigured. What concerned him was that Raven’s Strigoi sire had died and its soul with it. Now, without the proper sire bond, who would nurture his pet’s vampiric tendencies, along with the burden of immortality?
Strigoi were not the easiest paras to live with; the smallest thing could cause flares of irritation. Not only were their senses heightened, but their feelings as well, causing them to be deeply emotional complex beings. A Strigoi who was not mentally or emotionally strong enough to deal with the depression associated with an immortal life often took their own. More frightening, but still rare, those that didn’t, eventually became wihts. Raven was still fragile with regard to his parents’ deaths, and if Bla’Gar’s pet clung to it, the loneliness of his life never ending would bring forth a deep woe.
If all of the previously mentioned predicaments did not transpire; there was still the danger of Raven’s hunger turning his personality to that of a darker nature. The Raven he knew was a precious soul, one the world needed in its current state. Bla’Gar didn’t really care if his Raven became a maleficent version of himself
, but to lose Raven to that darkness… Bla’Gar opened his eyes. Never! Raven was his, and he would do anything and everything in his power to help his pet. With a Cheshire cat’s grin, Bla’Gar made peace with the prospects. And if it’s darkness my pet succumbs to, it would be my own ruin.
The female enforcer burst through the doors, drawing Bla’Gar’s attention, “I think I found him,” she said, glancing back as the male came out of the room, a red handprint across his face.
“Well, make haste then.”
She grasped his shoulder, concern contouring in her face and voice. “And if we do find him and he is like…”
“You leave him to me. My pet, my concern.”
“Thank you,” she whispered and proceeded down the hallway.
Bla’Gar understood her concern, but he narrowed his eyes nonetheless; something was amiss. Too many attempts on his pet’s life had transpired since she’d come into the picture. Or was it the warlock? He watched him advance after her, grasp her shoulder and spin her to him. He smiled—a smile that made the hair on Bla’Gar’s neck stand to attention—the ones the black market dealers wore when seizing a prize—and kissed her.
Jessy sat in the car, aware of Chetlér’s impatient fingers tapping his thigh. She had gotten a call from the precinct, reporting a break in close by. It was easy to guess, with the current state of store closures and Raven’s disappearance, that it could only have been her partner. What Jessy was afraid to ask herself though was: would he still be her partner? Would he still be the Raven she knew and loved?
The demon wasn’t happy that she had to inspect the crime scene and wait until another officer arrived to take over the investigation.
She should file a complaint of assault against him for his actions, for his goddamn wolves’ brutality, those Lycans handling her the way they had. But there was something in Chetlér’s face, something she hadn’t ever associated with demon kind. Chetlér’s emotions were not spurred on by pure anger as most of the Legions were, but by a deeper concern for Raven, and she knew she had to question him again: did Chetlér really love her partner? When he’d answered in the affirmative, that—along with the blood oath he had made— had Jessy viewing him in a different light. A blood oath was not something demons made lightly. It was the only oath they would swear to without trying to get someone’s soul out of it.
Yet when she had confronted him in the morgue, his statement regarding her heritage had not just thrown her plans into a tail spin, but everything she had been taught about who and what she was.
“...they are not yours, you are not descended from them, I do not smell demon on you.”
If his words were true, everything her mother had told her, every ounce of hate she had planted and nurtured inside Jessy was lie, for her mother’s own gain, and Jessy was nothing more than a fucking pawn.
“You are overthinking this,” his voice was a deep thunderous rumbling next to her. “You do smell of fire, but not of demon. If you had, I would have immediately recognized whose spawn you are. Your lineage is older than most, little one, and your power might even exceed that of some demons.”
“Then what am I?” she whispered, angry at the tear rolling down her cheek, the events of the last seventy two hours beginning to bear too much weight. And now she had no idea where to find Raven, if it was even now her Raven they were looking for. They had stopped at Raven’s apartment in the city, and the mansion he still owned but never lived in, The Drunken God, they’d even phoned Landon to ask if Raven was at the precinct. That had cost Jessy twenty minutes to explain to the arrogant ass what had happened, and then she had to beg him not to inform the captain.
Jessy knew Cap and Rave were close, Abby was barely keeping herself together. This news was not something she wanted to bring to her captain’s attention yet, not until she was one hundred percent sure of Raven’s state of being.
The gentle hand on her thigh made her catch her breath. “We’ll find him.”
“How can you be so sure?” she sucked back the storm of emotions brewing the fire within.
“I can’t, but I have to believe. It is the only thing keeping me from tearing this earth apart to find him”.”
A shiver rocked through Jessy, a dark, ever-consuming anger flooded her veins and it frightened her. She recognized it easily—Chetlér’s demonic power. Higher ranked demons did not need to scare humans with their appearance, strength or brutality. Their presence alone could do that.
“The little warlock you’re fucking is a different matter.”
“Warloc—” Jessy’s phone rang. The caller ID showed Professor Bloodimir’s name. It was unusual for Prof. B to phone them unless...
“Officer Jessy, good evening, Prof, how—”
“Its Arthur, Gideon’s in the other room. Listen, um... Raven’s here. He…God, just get here. He’s freaking me out!”
Jessy slammed on the brakes, switched on the flashers and made a U-turn. She should have thought of this before. Raven had spoken highly of the creepy professor on countless occasions, so why wouldn’t he be the first person Raven turned to in his state of crisis.
Raven stopped in front of the professor’s house, he knew this was the most inappropriate time, but he needed the man’s help. The ever persistent prickle at the back of his neck had only gotten stronger—an overwhelming sense of something approaching, something of great danger. His hunger had intensified, yet when he’d driven past other passengers on the road and smelled their blood, he didn’t want it. Their scent disgusted him.
He walked up the stairs—keeping the helmet on—and rang the bell. He prepared himself to face the Prof and what he was going to explain to him, but when the door opened, a less-familiar human stood there. God, did I just refer to him as a human? He wore a pair of red sweat pants hugging his powerful legs and the ugliest gray sweater, stinking strongly of incense. Raven could also detect the stench of cum on the kid’s chest, hear the drum of his heart still speeding from whatever he’d been doing.
Arthur was young enough to be Prof’s son, breathtakingly gorgeous, and also the Prof’s lover. Arthur’s thick, solid arms stretched the sweater’s material as they folded over a big hard chest. Yeah, the kid was big too, but the most interesting thing about Arthur Quain was his claim to fame or, for a lack of a better word, his fall to unpopularity. Arthur and five of his friends were the ones responsible for bringing the Revelation into existence.
“Can I help you? And before you ask for an interview—” the kid’s jaw stopped moving as Arthur’s gray eyes move down Raven’s exposed chest.
“Arthur, I need to speak to Professor Bloodimir,” Raven gritted out, as his stomach decided to snap a sharp pain through his gut. He kept his ground, clenching his fist and tried to bear it.
“Detective Raven?” The boy paled, clearly he had heard of Raven’s death already.
“Yeah, save the flowers, now I need to see Prof. B.” Raven pushed past Arthur, slamming him hard against the wall. A little surprised at his new strength, but that prickle on the back of his neck nipping at his skin caused his blunt actions.
“Sorry.” Raven held out his hand for the kid, and then froze in mid-air when a door opened, bringing with it the professor’s scent. But it was a second odor drifting along with the professor’s that had Raven’s stomach growling. His nostrils flared while his vision became pulses of focused and hazed surroundings before everything turned into one immense bleed of color.
He was in a new room. He didn’t care for its purposes or what it looked like, all that mattered were the culture tubes in a wooden stand in front of him. He snatched up the first one filled with a platinum blue liquid.
“Need it,” a voice whispered in his head. “Need it now!”
Raven ripped off the rubber seal. He had no care for what it was, just knew that he needed it and poured it into his mouth.
His stomach gave a violent jolt of pain as the flavor exploded over his tongue, as if a fairy had pissed a rainbow in his mouth. He didn’t
know if he wanted to savor the taste or just gulp it down.
He reached for the next and the next, emptying them past his lips, even when the substance was gone, he tried to scrape the droplets from inside the tubes, breaking the fragile glass and cutting his mouth on it. It wasn’t enough, he needed…wanted more.
Why...why did they have it and not me…why did they never share this with the world...and fuck the world...I want this beautiful substance all to myself, want to bathe in it, sleep and drown and fuck in it...I want to make bloody fucking love to it!
Raven searched the room, destroying glass specimens of stuff he could never possibly name, anything to bring him that smell again.
“Raven!” Prof shouted. He turned, the substance slowly running through his veins, lighting up his senses and giving life to a million others he never knew he had.
“I want more of it,” he snapped in feral voice, spitting saliva, his fangs searing in their cavities, the hunger gnawing in his gut for the precious stuff.
The professor’s face was stony, but calm, his sleek gray hair in waved curls combed backwards, always the same, frozen in time. His pale skin slightly wrinkled for a man of fifty-one. Cheekbones and chin prominent, his lanky frame tall as he stood and glared about the room. The man’s eyes never could lie, and Raven was aware of the dangerous storm in their pale green horizons.
“What did you take?” The professor narrowed his gaze.
Raven popped his neck, rolled his shoulders and cracked his knuckles. He would kill this man, a dear friend for a single drop of that substance. This man was not going to give him more of the beautiful sustenance. Killing him would be a waste of time. Raven’s thought patterns were cloudy, the hunger driving him more to a primal thinking: hunt, kill, feed.
Neon White Season One: A Tooth, Claw and Horns Chronicle Page 14