Neon White Season One: A Tooth, Claw and Horns Chronicle

by Wulf Francu Godgluck

  He cradled the human protectively, rocking back and forth, repeating those words over and over until the kid sagged against him in defeat, or it could have been exhaustion stealing the boy into sleep.

  Seth watched fascinated as the Beast set to work unbuttoning his shirt before sliding it off, exposing broad shoulders. They flexed with grace, making his dominant back muscles ripple when he moved. But it was the mutilations on the Beast’s skin that had Seth choking back a painful gulp.

  His entire frame was mapped with interlocking symbols, runes and polygons... Yet the markings looked wrong, like groves burned into his skin with an iron, then seared a second time after the iron had been reheated, dipped in ink and pressed to the raw area again. It was an art well known amongst all three of the deific practices, used to conceal or suppress something within a vessel…usually something too powerful to control.

  The male proceeded to help the limp boy into his dress shirt before wrapping him in his blazer jacket. Seth wasn’t surprised that the blazer engulfed the kid like a blanket, the Beast’s frame was monstrous.

  The Beast’s skin paled when he stepped out of the cell and stopped in front of Seth. His eye, glowing hot as he glanced farther down the hall, the lights around them pulsing on and off. It was a sight Seth would have never imaged seeing on a thing as old and as prophesied as the first Beast of Revelation.

  A slow swallow traveled down the Beast’s throat. Seth shivered, wrapping arms around his quivering frame.

  A petrifying chill infected the air, different than an icy fear, it was an inhospitable cold that not only seemed to reach his bones, but wanted to claim his soul.

  “We need to leave. Now,” the Beast’s voice came out in thick misty fog.

  Seth pushed to his feet, focusing hard simply to stand with his depleted strength.

  “W-what i-is th-this?” Seth pushed through chattering teeth.

  The Beast spun and started walking, but the single word that slipped from his mouth as he passed Seth was enough to mortify Satan himself.

  “You!” the Strigoi’s voice cracked through the room, the vampire pointing to the little girl standing next to a tall, elderly black man holding her hand.

  The old man’s stature was stiff, his frame thin, his dark skin held a grayish sheen. He balanced himself on a cane. A thick white beard, neatly trimmed, covered his jaws. His eyes were dark but shone with understanding, a childlike innocence of accepting truth without question. He truly appeared like a man knocking at Death’s door.

  The little girl was radiant, her appearance transparent and ghostly, yet cherubic. The petite summer dress she wore only reached her knees, and her tiny feet were bare. Her eyes were glassy, clear and winsome blues that shimmered like Azurite.

  “Hello, Mr. Raven.” She smiled at the Strigoi, bending her knees in a curtsey. “It’s finally time.”

  “Who are you!” Raven demanded with a snarl. “God?”

  Bla’Gar’s gaze traveled along the floor, before he found the courage to look at Raven. The image shook him, a sadness whispering in his veins as he had to watch the man he loved deny who was standing in front of them, refusing to accept the inevitable that had now shown itself.

  Bla’Gar’s chin trembled.

  “We are far older than God, Time and Space... Light and Darkness,” the old man spoke. There was elegance to his voice, a slowness in his speech, as if he handpicked each word with care before he allowed them to pass his lips.

  “Don’t play games with me, you outdated fossil!” Raven barked, his face creased, stretching his jaw, fangs dripping with spit as he hissed.

  The little girl’s laugh played softly from her lips, making the ghostly white hair bounce around her cheeks as her body shook. “You’re so funny, Mr. Raven.” The girl stilled and turned to Bla’Gar. “We truly are sorry,” she said. The older man released her hand. She skipped over to Raven, her palms behind her back, the white dress swishing with her movements.

  “Wait,” Bla’Gar said, his chest heavy. The girl’s hand froze before she touched Raven. “There is another way.” He swallowed, slowly bringing his gaze to meet Raven’s, hoping the one—the part that Bla’Gar first witnessed stealing his breath, that made fire roar in his veins—would hear him a last time. “I truly do love you, pet. And I’m doing this only for you.”

  Raven snarled, spittle flying from his mouth as he raged, “You selfish piece of bile fluid, with your sideline circus freak show. Do you honestly think I give a bloody fuck about you or your feelings?” Those words cut Bla’Gar, no matter that he knew it wasn’t his Raven speaking them, they still bruised his breaking heart.

  “Enough!” The old man’s angry voice rippled through the air, his cane snapping against the floor as he brought it down. White light burst, blinding to all eyes, but it was Raven who was thrown back to the wall and slammed to the floor.

  He lay unconscious. Unmoving. Still.

  “I answer not to my own name. I am my own name.” He turned to Bla’Gar, “Now speak your piece, demon.”

  Bla’Gar stared at the man, his gullet tight, voice trembling as he pushed words past his lips.

  “The Whilom Arcanum.”

  It was a rarity for Death to be shocked or surprised. Bla’Gar honestly did not expect the raised eyebrow.

  A small hand tugged on one of Bla’Gar’s claws, making him twitch and pull away, but he stopped once he realized it was her… Death. “You would do such a thing, even knowing the cost, even knowing he would... You would...” Tears sprang to her small oval eyes, her trembling bottom lip snagged between her teeth.

  It was difficult for Bla’Gar to believe that both this little girl and the old man were one and the same being.

  Death had always appeared as two opposites.

  An old hag covered in sores, hooked onto the arm of a dashing young man, flawless in his appearance.

  A newborn, covered in blood and afterbirth, its lungs greeting the world with an ear-bleeding wail, held in the arms of skeleton wearing a red-hooded cloak, its bones gray-black from oxidation.

  A little girl, vibrant with life, but holding a spectral appearance, and an old black man, waiting at death’s door, that has already made peace with his lot.

  Those were but a few of the endless faces of Death.

  “You are so different from the other demon… Would you like to know why?” the old man asked.

  He shook his head. “There would be no point now.”

  Death bowed his head and held out his hand for the little girl. She released Bla’Gar’s talon and skipped back over to her other half. Bla’Gar looked up, Death smiled at him, flashing bright pearly teeth from behind his white beard. He snapped his fingers while holding his cane under his arm, the loud click echoing in the room.

  “You would allow this?” Belail pressed forth from the darkness from where he was summoned by Death, and stepped into the light.

  Death tapped his finger to his chin, caressing his beard, his wrinkled face further rumpled, as if thinking long and hard. “It is many souls, I agree… But souls have no meaning to me. I would not lose nor gain anything here.” Death dropped his finger from his face and stared at the King of Hell. “You however would be the one cutting yourself short… If I recall, one hundred and eighty souls to be correct, since the time Raven White and Bla’Gar’s paths had crossed to this point in time, with all events that Raven White has touched in reality colliding and leading into this.”

  Belail sneered, running his tongue over his scarred lips, then up along his left tusk. “To gain something substantial, you need to sacrifice something of equal worth.”

  Belail pinned his left eye’s violet gaze on Bla’Gar. “Kalal-yagh made a treaty with Eugène François Vidocq many years ago; that the souls of his bloodline’s offspring would be Kalal-yagh’s upon their deaths… Some met their end sooner than others. Raven was the last…his soul is no longer branded by ownership, as he had already taken Kalal-yagh from this reality. Jessy Hilleary, the Black Phoenix
, is pregnant with James Jefferson’s child, both mother and unborn currently hanging by a thread from Death’s finger. The warlock bedded the mythical beauty for one purpose: to sell the offspring on the Black Market… Hans would never have escaped the hell he was born into if you hadn’t saved him from his abusive father and mother. Seth would never have had a home if you hadn’t offered it to him and his mother. Lucas, Bruce, Niko…

  “Do you see where I am going with this, Bla’Gar? So many things; good and bad that now is, might not be. Is this the sacrifice you are willing to make? Are these the lives you are willing to alter?”

  “Yes!” Bla’Gar clenched his fist, black-blue blood dripping from between his fingers like thick sap onto the floor. Bla’Gar knew, if they were meant to be, Love would lead the pack members to their mates, regardless of an altered past and present. “Over and over again, I would for my pet.”

  “Touché.” Belail ran his hand over his flat belly before he vanished as he had appeared, leaving Bla’Gar in Death’s company.

  “I too shall bid you a farewell, Bla’Gar the Callous One.” Death stepped past him, pulling the little girl along, but stopped just behind Bla’Gar.

  Death reached over, patting Bla’Gar on the shoulder. “There was a part of your friend that truly did feel something for you, demon. That thing in the corner is but a personification of his hate. But I shall leave you a parting gift before…you know.”

  Death pointed a long, bony finger to where Raven lay. “Wake up, Raven White.” Death’s voice, nothing more than whisper, bedeviled the air as he faded into the shadows.

  A groan pulled Bla’Gar’s attention to Raven.

  The handsome Enforcer shook his head, the drunk melody of “Where the hell—?” and another groan as he reached for his forehead, running his fingers through his raven-black hair.

  Bla’Gar swallowed, watching Raven push himself off the floor. He advanced, forcing his human form upon him, when his pet swayed. He caught Raven before he could meet the granite stone again. He stilled him, waiting as that gaze traveled up his abdomen and over his chest. It was better this way—they didn’t have much time, not for pointless questions—it was better to face his pet in a form Raven would recognize.

  “What are…?” Raven squeezed his lids, grabbing at Bla’Gar’s biceps when he swayed. A shudder rippled through Bla’Gar at his touch.

  “What are we doing here? Where are we?”

  “Shhh,” he whispered and swallowed when Raven finally looked up at him.

  Bla’Gar stared into those glacial blue eyes. Eyes that made his soul shiver, his heart cry, and that could shutter his mind with a single glance. A man who owned Bla’Gar in more ways than Raven would ever understand.

  Thank you for allowing me to love you, pet.

  “Why… Why are you crying?” The silly human reached out, swiping a tear from Bla’Gar’s cheek.

  Bla’Gar closed his eyes. “It’s not important…”

  “It is goddamn it, you don’t get to stand here, all bare chested and butt-naked sexy, crying, and I just have to accept it!”

  Bla’Gar’s heart hurt.

  “Shut up.” Bla’Gar growled, but smiled, his heart in pieces.

  Devastation corroded Bla’Gar’s veins as he reached for his pet’s chin. His fingers fumbled, futile extremities that didn’t want to abide by their master’s will. He knew he would hurt his Raven, but it needed to be done if he was to salvage his pet’s beautiful soul from the darkness. Bla’Gar pinched Raven’s chin and stared into those eyes, holding on to their wicked charm, their enticing snare and their timeless beauty.

  “Just let me kiss you, love.”

  “Bloody hell, fuck fin—”

  Bla’Gar gave his pet no chance to finish the sentence as he crashed his lips upon him, tasting Raven, his humanity, his beautiful soul, his empyrean essence.

  He deepened the kiss, knowing their time was already over. “Live, Raven. Taste life, love unconditionally and be free, Raven White, my very heart,” he rasped, leaving his declaration between their lips as his very existence was Ciylos from eternity.

  Raven snapped open his eyes, staring at the distinct black-and-white speckled Armstrong ceiling tiles of Saint-Sacrement hospital. He recognized it, because this wasn’t the first time he had woken up and come face to face with the mineral fiber tiles. The question was, how did he end up here this time?

  He flared his nostrils, resting his forearm over his eyes to block out the sharp sting of light. You almost got your ass handed to you by a puppy dog from Hell, Rave. Dude! Seriously, this almost dying shit-act you keep repeating, will one day land you in the grave or turn you into a vampire… Raven laughed. Wouldn’t that be all fucking kinds of ironic? Bloody hell. He grimaced, machines beeping incessantly, his chest hurt as if a demon had ripped his heart right out.

  Three weeks later, Raven stepped into the hallway and cringed at the sound of Christmas music staining the air. He removed his brown ox coat and shook off the snow that speckled it. The valet at the coat counter gave him a ticket, which he pressed into the inner pocket of his blazer.

  As he walked across the polished marble floor, ignoring the entrance to the main ballroom of the Winter Ball, his reflection caught him in an overly large antique mirror. He stared at himself. The burns on his left hand, still healing, were going to scar. The hand, occasionally twitching from nerve damage, would never work properly again. The toxicology report that followed was something of a nightmare on its own. The deadly mist from the hound had caused his organs to swell, as he’d suffered a severe allergic reaction from the poison. By the time the paramedics had gotten him to the hospital, his heart had failed twice. He was lucky to be alive, but now was forced to take medications to regulate his heart rate, and wear a monitor around his wrist. His lungs were damaged, making his breathing shallow and leaving him breathless from climbing a simple flight of stairs. The headaches were the worst, incapacitating him until they released their unbearable grip.

  They’d assigned him to his desk until he could get his strength back, but Raven had a suspicion he never would. Most of his time was spent going over his parents’ case, along with the attempt on his life. He was certain the presence of the hound at his childhood home hadn’t been a coincidence. Someone wanted him dead and someone had wanted his parents dead. He hadn’t put the two together as one case, because he hadn’t found the ties to bind them, but he was convinced they had something to do with each other.

  Raven frowned, rubbing at his chest, then scratched at his hair… Something had felt amiss since the moment he had woken in the hospital bed. A foggy space that kept fading. There was someone he needed to remember, some part of his past that had been wiped away, leaving only a blank evanescence. Like a fog on his brain.

  He huffed and scowled at his reflection. He was being silly. He couldn’t recall smashing his brains open, nor had the doctor mentioned anything about a concussion. Maybe it was some fucked-up form of a nightmarish dream.

  He’d been having a lot of those lately, always the same: two Hellhounds, one older, a thick chain around its neck with its right ear clipped in half. The other, slender and slightly smaller in appearance, naked of scales.

  The dream always played out the same with the hounds pursuing, trying to kill him, and even though Raven knew the outcome, he could never stop himself from ending their lives, forced to watch the hounds’ corpses turn into those of his parents.

  He bit his lip, trying to recall what exactly spurred on the urge to revisit his childhood home in the first place that day, only to end up having a confrontation with the Hellhound. He shrugged, coming up blank, sure the reason would come to him again.

  Raven shook his head and looked himself over in the mirror. His blazer was a deep black that almost glistened, custom-made by an Italian designer, the slim cut enhanced his features. The dark-gray silk dress shirt fit snugly, clearly showing the outline of his defined torso. The slim-cut slacks, the same material as the blazer, clung to hi
s strong legs. To top it off, he’d added a thin black tie. Since he was getting an award tonight, he decided he may as well go all out. He turned sideways. Usually never bothered with his appearance, but this time—he lifted the blazer up, eyeing his ass.

  “Definitely would fuck myself if I met me.” He grinned at his reflection. A silent chill crept over his skin, making him gulp. Something about that statement left an eldritch knot in his belly.

  He looked at the suit again and smoothed it out. He had always imagined he’d wear an ensemble of black like some American FBI agent when he’d become a detective. That was until he found his grandfather’s old coat stuffed in a box, right after his parents’ death. His granddad had never judged him on anything, and Raven had always played detective while wearing his granddad’s coat, even though the thing dragged behind his seven-year-old self like a cape. He never felt right or sane in the head unless he wore it or had it near. It was as if the overcoat held the presence of his granddad. In summertime, out of habit, he would carry the thing with him in his car or hang it over the back of his office chair. A transitional object is what it had become, like his strange clinging to British words. After his granddad had passed away, Raven had started using the old Brit’s phrases, and eventually they just became part of his vocabulary. He knew the psychological aspect of it was that he couldn’t let go. He couldn’t move past their deaths. Raven sighed. He should probably go see a shrink, but if it didn’t harm anyone, why bother?

  Movement behind him, reflecting in the mirror, made him grin.

  “My hero.”

  Raven turned and Jessy smiled, still bearing that steel monstrosity on her teeth. He owed her his life. When she had called, he thought he’d cut her off but he’d never ended the call. She’d heard everything transpiring between him and the hound. She’d quickly tracked his phone and had arrived just in time with the paramedics.