by D O Thomas
“Ratsy, you mutt!” called out Ashel from the back doors of 109.
“Ash, you filthy bloodsucker!” replied Balthazar in a voice more welcoming than a young boy’s grandmother.
The two met with a hug filled with brotherly love, with Ashel followed by Banhier, and Balthazar followed by Noir. Banhier and Noir didn’t share the love their older brothers had for each other, and so as Balthazar and Ashel stood as close as two nagging hens, Banhier and Noir stood comfortably apart, sharing only an impersonal glance and a sheepish nod.
For a time, the two elder brothers laughed and joked, while their younger siblings looked through their phones to avoid awkward conversation. Ashel depicted his night with Angela, half warning Balthazar not to approach her.
“Ratsy, I wish I could stay, but would you believe it’s a blue moon?” laughed Ashel.
“And you’ve done nothing to prepare for it, once again,” interrupted Noir.
“You sound like Leo. He was here tonight and actually issued me an infraction!”
“Is he still here?” asked the worried warlock. Balthazar, like Noir, avoided their second eldest brother, not because they disliked him, they just didn’t have time for another lecture on how they should be running the factions of the zodiac order respective to their star signs.
“I’m not sure, he just kind of faded away,” explained Ashel.
“I taught him that one,” laughed Ratsy. Banhier impatiently nudged his royal brother.
“Well I’d best go before our brood causes Banhier to lose ten years of his immortality.” Ashel and Banhier shook their friends’ hands and took their leave.
Chapter 6
Silence’s footsteps seemed to echo as he made his way home. He was completely trapped in the kind of thought that put the body on autopilot. Mie-Mie had told him of a prophecy: the Shadow-Fiend born of a full moon shall see the world burn and will, in the shade of the rising flame, reassemble order. But if the spawn of the creator’s kin should lay claim to the world, nought will survive. He understood that he was a Shadow-Fiend, he understood that he was special, but what he couldn’t understand was why. As the splash of a puddle showered his mind, Silence went to that dark place. He visited a memory belonging to his body’s former occupier.
Silence found himself sitting in a chair with crimson velvet upholstery set in a cast iron frame. Sitting before him was a man; he could tell it was a man simply because of its masculine build. Silence could only make out some shapes around the rest of the haze-filled room. His body moved involuntarily. His arm laid itself down on the table between him and the faceless man. The man’s left hand tightly held his wrist in place. It was large and beastly, with fingernails that came to a point a solid inch past their tips. Veins pulsed under the faceless man’s dark, almost black skin.
Silence watched as the man’s knuckles twitched while the rest of the hand held firm. To his surprise it was cold, not just cold, it was freezing, and he could feel the chill down his entire arm, as if the blood in his arm would frost over if the man held on for too long. The man placed the points of the claws of his right hand gently on Silence’s arm.
“WHEN ALL IS DONE AND YOUR ASPIRATIONS ARE FULFILLED, THIS SOUL SHALL BE MINE.”
The man’s words filled the room, almost deafening Silence. He felt the man’s ice-cold nails pierce his skin. The pain coursed throughout his entire body. The man let go and sat grinning with bright white teeth that shone through the haze. As Silence fell back in his seat, Noir approached the table.
“Is this the guy?” asked Noir.
“YES, MY FRIEND. IF NOT HIM, THEN ANOTHER. ONE THAT IS INCORRUPTIBLE.”
“What’re my chances?”
“ODD.”
“That’s no good is it? Tell you what. I’ll pay you if it all works out.”
Silence had questions, perhaps the first in his short existence that could roll off of his tongue. That was if he could have spoken. Noir placed his hand on Silence’s shoulder.
“Forget my face.” Noir’s words lashed Silence’s mind, each syllable stinging more than the last. His eyes closed and he found himself standing at the end of Noir’s road. Silence tried to think about what he had just witnessed, but from traversing so deep within his borrowed mind, he was exhausted.
Chapter 7
Noir and Balthazar had entered 109, walking directly to one of the many well-hidden lifts, bypassing any shred of inferior humanity they might have stumbled upon. Noir rested against the lift’s brushed metal wall, while Balthazar groomed himself in the mirror.
“How’s Char?” asked Balthazar.
“She’s alright, I guess.”
“Are dragons not affected by the blue moon?”
“Not really. They say a blue moon will ensure that all eggs hatch without fault, but that’s yet to be proven.”
“When are you and Char gonna have a little dragon of your own?”
“I don’t think the world’s ready for that, Ratsy.”
The lift stopped on a floor labelled ‘hell’. The doors opened, revealing a dark and gloomy pub. The patrons were grotesque in shape, most having horns protruding from their foreheads. A fair-skinned woman of obscure beauty dressed in merely a red and black netted corset, a pair of shorts that would be described as underwear if they were but a centimetre shorter, and heels that made her a full foot taller. Her jet-black hair flowing down to her pointed snake-like tail, she approached the brothers.
“Shia! You look stunning in the new uniform,” laughed Balthazar.
“Are you here to see Wiltsha?” asked Shia.
“Not yet, we’re going to have a few libations before we do any sort of business,” said Noir.
“Not even a hello, Shia? You’re not sore about me not calling, are you?” laughed Balthazar, who was smiling widely. Shia ignored Balthazar and spoke directly to Noir.
“Would you like me to show you to your table?” she asked in a tone displaying complete annoyance.
“No, it’s fine, I’d hate for you to have to endure a second more of my brother’s ignorance.” Shia left with a shameful haste, leaving Noir and Balthazar making their way to the bar.
“That was uncle Bathin’s daughter. She’s grown so much!” exclaimed Noir.
“Believe me, I know.”
“That’s not right! She’s family!”
“He’s not my uncle.”
Noir laughed the rest of the way to the bar while Balthazar questioned his words. The brothers sat at the bar and flagged over the barman, whose skin was a pale shade of orange and had flecks of green running through it. His face was riddled with thorns, which went from his chin to the back of his oddly shaped head. The barman spoke with an accent close to French.
“What will it be, Monsieur?” asked the barman.
“I’ll have a bottle of Ciroc, two cartons of cranberry juice, a bottle of Wray and Nephews, and a bottle of Coke,” replied Balthazar.
“Anything else, Sir?”
“Yeah, would you kindly keep that hideous face of yours out of sight when you’re finished with the drinks?”
Balthazar wasn’t one for kind words. The barman did as he was told with a look that made Noir watch his lips as he took the glasses off the shelf. The two of them filled their glasses and joked about the barman. They discussed the importance of attractive bar staff, they picked on one of the younger patrons who had attempted to sit next to them with his date for all of five minutes, and the brothers enjoyed each other’s company more and more as their bottles emptied.
Noir and Balthazar had finished their bottles when they decided to tackle a bottle of tequila. They both had the same drunken look on their faces. Blushed cheeks, a resting left eyelid, a smile that somehow hid their devious intentions, and a kind of one-eyed stare, insinuating a form of drunken innocence. Noir took a saltshaker, sprinkled salt on his hand and passed it to Balthazar, who had just finished slicing a lemon into wedges. Together they licked salt from their hands, backed their shots, and sucked on a lemon wedge
.
“That’s one!” cheered Noir, as the tequila repeated slightly on him.
“Anyway, what business do you have with Wiltsha?”
“For once, I owe him some money! What brings you here?”
“Alcoholism.”
Balthazar filled the shot glasses again. Noir tipped the bottle to get a better look at the proof’s percentage, then the brothers repeated their routine.
“Did you hear about Regulas?” asked Balthazar.
“He’s been causing trouble again?”
“Trouble! He’s been murdering vampires left, right and centre.”
“You know, big brother, there was a time when you would have revelled in the thought of genocide.”
“It’s really causing unrest amongst the Vampire Nation!”
“What’s their problem? They can expand their ranks tenfold in one night, and it’s not like he would kill any bloodsucker that didn’t deserve it.”
Noir didn’t really like vampires. When he was young his best friend, a human, was brutally murdered by one that felt a bit parched. And Noir wasn’t one to let go of things, no matter how many years had passed.
“If he weren’t your friend, Leo would have had him killed by now,” sneered Balthazar.
“I guess he’s lucky then.”
Chapter 8
A young girl with insignificant features ran in terror from a carpark behind the small bar she had recently been visiting, with her shirt torn and blood streaming down her neck. The girl thought she had made it to safety, before running chest-first into a blade three foot in length, held by a man standing just out of discernible light.
In the carpark a vampire with skin as pale as the now off-white moon felt the benefits of good masonry work as his back collided with the exterior wall of the club he had also recently been visiting. The vampire’s eyes were bloodshot, with veins pulsating throughout. This was common amongst young vampires who had been confronted by a more than worthy adversary. His spine cracked back into place as he regained a more vertical state, with his feet planted securely on the ground.
A beastly werewolf with eyes as fluorescent and yellow as its jagged fangs stood a hunched six-foot tall, with its clawed paw-like feet digging into the ground. The wolf howled, producing a thick burst of saliva-filled steam. It crept through the carpark, the muscles in its gangly arms clenched as it drew closer to its prey.
The beaten vampire approached the wolf, which just stood panting with homicidal excitement. He leapt at his much taller werewolf foe, landing a solid hit to the jaw. The wolf staggered slightly but was altogether unharmed by the vampire’s attempt at a cheap shot. The vampire backed up a little as he popped his dislocated knuckles back into place. He felt stupid, because he had accepted a fight that would put a quick end to his short afterlife.
The wolf retaliated with a powerful charge that swept the vampire clean off the ground and into its grasp. With a roaring howl, it clenched its fur-clad arm, the muscles almost bursting through the skin as it squeezed at the vampire’s neck. It hurt the vampire, but he’d survive, as long as the wolf didn’t tear out his heart or rip his head off his shoulders.
He hung there, limp due to his broken vertebra. The pain was immense, and the vampire’s youth made him as feeble-bodied as a human. The wolf dropped him, and the vampire couldn’t believe his luck. He hadn’t heard him arrive, he had been screaming too loudly. But as the wolf backed away in fear and the vampire’s fractured spine reformed, he thanked every god he could think of. If Banhier hadn’t shown up, the werewolf, no matter how thick he was, would eventually have reduced him to a steaming pile of remains.
“Return to your pack!” bellowed the infuriated Banhier.
The wolf didn’t speak, it had barely had a thought since the moon turned blue, but in the moon’s now pale light, it managed to muster up enough sense to escape. However, as it turned, it felt the burning frost of silver-tipped gauntlets through the fur surrounding its Adam’s apple. The wolf reached, flailing its arms, trying to claw at the man dressed in silver armour.
The werewolf felt guilty for the actions it had no control over. It let out one last shrieking howl as the man pulled down at the beast’s shoulder, tearing the wolf’s body from its neck, leaving only its spine dangling from the severed wolf’s head held in the man’s hand. Regulas stared at Banhier through his emotionless chestnut brown eyes as he dropped the wolf’s head down next to its regressing human body. Blood soaked into the white satin material between the gaps in his armour as he splashed through the steaming pool of claret, clutching the hilt of the sword that had dispatched the vampire’s previous victim.
Regulas was the knight commander of the Leo faction within the Zodiac order. He stood at five feet ten but was built like a fully fortified brick shit-house. Born James Smith, the bastard son of a poor blacksmith some hundred years ago, he lived a vapid life, working day and night for pennies, forging mainly horseshoes and cattle prods for the local farmers and stablemen. Until one night when his entire village, men, women, and children, including his father and more popular elder brother, were slaughtered by a young aspiring vampire.
James hid with his small family and watched as the townspeople were picked off one by one. He listened to the children screaming as their parents begged for mercy; he heard their tiny bones crack as the heavily-built vampire clenched their small bodies, feeding upon their throats. The vampire left his home for last. It could smell the rot of fear from a family devoid of heroism.
The demon knew they wouldn’t attempt to run. James, his brother and his father cowered as the vampire broke through their door, the three climbing over each other as they were backed into the corner of their small hovel. The monster fed on his father first, then his brother. James sat frozen, drenched in the blood of his loved ones, in a state of mortified shock. The vampire looked him over, sniffed at his jugular and winced at the stench. It then turned away, and in a blink, the demon was gone.
James didn’t leave the village after that. He gathered the bodies and buried them all. The vampire had spared the livestock and so James farmed and maintained the land within his village, alone for years. One day during an investigation into the actions of the vampire’s misdeeds, Leo stumbled upon the pristine ghost village, finding marked graves laid perfectly in the centre of the village. He couldn’t believe that the vampire had targeted this place. The Zodiac King searched for the village's occupants, but only found James, hiding in his hovel once more.
Leo asked him about the night of the attack, which James described in detail, showing how he had frequently relived the night in his dreams. Leo explained to James that as a witness to the supernatural, he had a choice between losing his memories and serving the zodiac order for eternity, or the release of death, and so James joined the order. Out of pity and in return for the use of James’s village, Leo allowed James a sort of apprenticeship.
James was given the name Denebola Beta Leonis, serving Leo directly, shadowing the king and learning how to lead the order. After a few hundred years and with the help of a certain information broker, Denebola proved himself worthy enough to be the Leo faction’s one and only knight commander and so, as was the law within the order, he was given back the memories taken from him and was renamed Regulas Alpha Leonis. The returned memories gave Regulas the ability to shed the care his former self had had for the supernaturals. He pitied the man he had been all those years ago and swore never to take the murderous actions of a supernatural being lightly, for one spared supernatural may decimate a village full of innocent mundanes.
“Regulas, it’s done!” yelled Banhier. Regulas ignored the prince’s cries and slowly continued his approach. Banhier could do nothing but step aside and beg for Regulas to have mercy on the young vampire as it backed away in fear.
“Public displays of vampirism, unsanctioned feeding, inter-species feuding,” listed Regulas, as he marched towards the vampire.
“You can’t do this! Please stop!” pleaded Banhier helpl
essly.
“Leaving a mundane witness, unsanctioned stalking and resisting judgement. For these infractions you stand accused. How do you plead?” continued the relentless zodiac commander.
“Please! I… I’m Sorry!” cried the panicking vampire.
“Your apology signifies that you accept responsibility for your actions, and so you are found guilty. Your punishment…” Regulas reached for the vampire, resting his left hand upon its shoulder, and with a deep stare he whispered, “Death.” Regulas placed his gauntlet on the vampire’s chest and as he clenched, his fingers broke through the vampire’s ribs. Banhier just walked away, while the sound of his protégé’s heart squelching in Regulas’ silver palm resonated clearly throughout his ancient mind.
Chapter 9
The brothers had finished half the bottle of tequila and were now arm wrestling at the bar. Noir pushed his hardest but Balthazar, who was gripping a barbed iron wand, its bottom half wrapped in blood-stained gauze, tightly under the table, did not budge an inch. He flicked the wrist bearing the barbed wand and Noir’s arm crashed onto the bar with a stomach-churning crack.
“Sorry, did I break a knuckle?” laughed Balthazar.
Noir clicked his fingers back into place. “Just three this time,” he replied with a look of annoyance similar to that of his cousin’s. Noir stood rubbing his aching muscle. “I’m going to pay Wiltsha. Would you like to join me?” Gaining his feet, Balthazar took up his glass and gestured to his side with a bloodied hand.
“Yeah, why not?” he said, bearing a devilish grin. In the darkest corner of the pub was a man who would be thought a giant had he been a foot or two taller. Dressed in a jet black suit only slightly darker than his skin, he sat before the drunken brothers. His eyes glowed a brilliant white above his wide-spread nose. The half-smoked cigarette in his mouth looked miniature compared to his thick resin-stained lips. Noir passed a large bulky envelope over the marble table the three and a half men were seated at, which seemed to shrink as the man’s hand hovered over it.