Paranormal After Dark: 20 Paranormal Tales of Demons, Shifters, Werewolves, Vampires, Fae, Witches, Magics, Ghosts and More

by Rebecca Hamilton

  “Kallisto, no!” he screamed.

  Santino paid no attention to Edmond. “Lysander, it’s been a long time,” he said. “I knew I would find you again. Please, regale me with some witty insight. Make me see the light, as you like to say. Tell me why I should let you and your kind live.”

  Lysander stepped forward. “My kind? You seem to forget, Santino: you are one of us too.”

  “You will have to do better than that,” Santino snapped.

  “Just remember, Santino, Rome condemns us all.” Lysander continued to slowly step closer to Santino. His face was hard and stern as he prepared for battle.

  “I have no worries about my afterlife. It is you who should be considering yours, and you will meet it quite soon.” Santino stood his ground.

  Lysander stopped a few inches away from him. “Do you think when you finish your mission—destroying us all—they will grant you some heavenly pardon?”

  The Peregrinus watched in silence, waiting for some cue to make a move.

  “My place in heaven is already secure. Worry about your own afterlife,” said Santino.

  “Your guarantee to heaven is determined by whom, Santino? Some Pope who died centuries ago?”

  “I do God’s work. I have no fear of meeting him and accepting his praise when I am done.”

  “You are no different than I, Santino. You think killing immortals makes you better than killing a mortal? You still end life, and your Church, no matter what they tell you, won’t condone that.”

  “I destroy evil,” Santino said coldly, the first hint of emotion I had seen from him.

  “I know the commandments you are supposed to abide by. There is no fine print in ‘Thou shall not kill.’ Go on and maintain that holier-than-thou attitude. When it is all over, I’ll still see you in Hell, if that’s where we’re meant to go.”

  Santino sneered, his lip rising to reveal his fangs. “At least I’ll have the pleasure of knowing you’re there waiting to greet me.”

  They stared at one another, each seeming to mentally size up his opponent. The air remained still in the house. Everyone waited for the first move to be made.

  It seemed as if they were locked in a stalemate, neither one making the first move to attack the other. They continued their posturing, staring into one another’s eyes and scowling.

  Something was wrong, I sensed. Santino was taking too long to make a move. What was he waiting for?

  Lysander’s gaze shifted quickly from Santino to me.

  Save yourself. Something isn’t right.

  His eyes narrowed in anger, then suddenly softened. I saw a hint of worry there.

  Santino took the opportunity and lunged forward. Lysander fell to the ground with Santino on top of him.

  “No, Lysander!” I moaned through motionless lips. A blurry mass of bodies wrestled on the ground in front of me. Santino let out a yelp. His body flew across the room.

  He recovered as soon as he crashed to the ground. “You will have to do better than that, monster,” he snarled at Lysander.

  “You’re as much a monster as I am, Santino.” He shifted his gaze to one of the clan. “Get Alyssa out of here,” he yelled.

  A strange noise came from outside of the house. I could make out the sounds of someone else approaching. A shadow moved around the window where Damon stood guard. Some of the others must have heard the noise, too. Crystal turned just in time to see Damon’s face grimace as a ball of flame shot through the broken window and enveloped him. The heat of the fireball filled the living room as Damon’s clothing began to burn. He turned towards the window and another fireball blasted through it.

  Damon screamed in pain, falling to the floor as the flames engulfed him.

  The clan members scattered to avoid the fire.

  Panic struck me. I realized that a second wave of the Acta Sanctorum had arrived.

  That must have been what Santino had been waiting for.

  Damon’s screams filled the room as he rolled on the ground. Unfortunately, there was no saving him.

  The carpet caught fire, and it quickly spread around the room.

  More flames shot through the front window, igniting the furniture: chairs, tables, and cabinets all blackened as they burned. The Peregrinus took cover, avoiding the blaze and trying to find a way out of the burning building.

  Santino laughed as the flames encircled Lysander and himself. “There is no escape, Lysander. Welcome your death.”

  “Only if you come with me.” Lysander’s fists moved at blurring speed as they made contact with Santino’s face. He pummeled Santino with a fierceness I had never witnessed in him before. Reflections of the flames glinted in his eyes. Santino looked as if he would be defeated, but in a move faster than my eyes could comprehend, he spun out of the way and delivered a blow to Lysander’s side.

  He fell with a loud crash out of my view.

  Oh, no. Get up, Lysander. Get up!

  The lifeless body of Kallisto began to singe and burn. The gross stench of burning flesh filled my nose.

  Flames crawled up the side of the couch, and I felt the heat warming my skin. Being burned alive wasn’t the way I had wanted to die. I didn’t want to endure the slow death from the fire.

  Lysander was up again, holding a flaming piece of broken chair. He flung it across the room, and it smashed into pieces against Santino’s body.

  Bone-chilling laughter erupted from Santino. “Is that the best you’ve got? I’m surprised. I expected more from an ancient like you. But I guess you are all soft like Kallisto.”

  Lysander growled, teeth bared, hatred painted over his face. He moved in a blur. His fists collided with Santino’s face.

  Santino groaned, but didn’t fall. He smiled wickedly and pulled his large knife from its sheath. Lunging forward, he plunged it straight into Lysander’s chest. A dull thud sounded as they both collapsed onto the floor.

  Lysander. I struggled but couldn’t do more than wiggle; my body was still paralyzed. No, Lysander. You can’t die.

  A hand grabbed hold of my arm. My world turned upside down as I was lifted into the air and tossed over someone’s shoulder. My still body hung limply. Flames licked my face from the ground and singed the ends of my hair. Someone was carrying me out.

  No, we have to go back and save him!

  My savior flung me off of his shoulders to the ground. I landed hard on the grassy lawn.

  Edmond? I focused on his face, shocked that he, of all people, would risk his life to save me from the fire.

  He knelt down beside me and bit his wrist.

  “Drink!” he ordered.

  He parted my lips and held his bleeding wrist over my mouth. Warm, thick blood drizzled down into my throat. The sweet, honey-like taste awakened my senses. My limbs reanimated, and I was quickly able to raise them and hold Edmond’s wrist to my mouth. I greedily sucked, pulling the saving blood from the wound, swallowing huge gulps.

  Edmond moaned in pain, but he allowed me to drink in my fill. He made no motion to stop me, even though I was draining him of his life. His arm went limp in my hands. I released him and he collapsed to the ground.

  “Why did you save me?”

  Edmond’s eyes appeared sunken and bruised, the white of his face exaggerated; hints of the veins underneath his skin had become more pronounced. I knew I had taken more blood from him than I should have.

  “Forgive me,” he pleaded. “I have been a monster.”

  “I can’t do that. Your fight is with Lysander. Only he can pass judgment on you.”

  I saw fear in his eyes as he lay weakly before me on the ground. I didn’t quite know how to feel. He had saved me from the fire and from the Saints at the penthouse, but he had condemned my Lysander in the process. I pushed myself up, standing to survey the area. It felt good to have control of my limbs again.

  Sounds of the struggle with the Saints filled my ears. Looking around, I spied Crystal feeding from a motionless figure lying on the ground. I searched the grounds.
A small flame could be seen at the end of a strange weapon lying a few feet from where I was standing.

  A flame thrower: perfect. These Saints really know how to choose a weapon.

  I saw Nicholas locked in a battle with another figure, who appeared to be an immortal like us. I assumed he was one of Santino’s children, another Saint. Nicholas knocked the man to the ground and lunged at his neck.

  Thank goodness the Peregrinus have things under control.

  I couldn’t see Rozaline or Drew. Thick, acrid smoke filled the air around us. The house was quickly succumbing to the flames.

  I moved to get the abandoned weapon, but Edmond grabbed my arm.

  “No, you mustn’t,” he cautioned. “You’re not strong enough.”

  “I won’t leave my friends,” I yelled, jerking my arm out of his weak grasp. “I’m not going to let them die.”

  I ran to pick up the gun-like weapon and spotted Rozaline. A man had her pinned and appeared to be bending down to her neck. She writhed beneath him, struggling to get free.

  I grabbed the flamethrower and slung the backpack over my shoulder. Yelling for Rozaline to stay still, I caught the attention of her attacker. He briefly looked at me as I pulled the trigger on the gun. A stream of fire shot right at his head. He fell away from her, screeching and flailing, trying to extinguish the flames.

  My plan had worked too well; Rozaline was too close to the inferno and had caught fire. She rolled on the ground, screaming.

  No!

  I spotted a hose attached to the house and rushed over to it. Turning it on, I drenched her, extinguishing the flames.

  “I’m so sorry,” I apologized, tears streaming down my face. “I thought I would just hit the Saint.”

  I panicked. Her face and arms were badly burned. She couldn’t speak; wounds covered her lips. She whimpered in pain on the ground. I remembered what Crystal said about our blood and its healing properties. I bit into my wrist, wincing as my teeth broke the skin. Blood rushed to the surface instantly. I drizzled it over her face, squeezing my arm like a wet towel, soaking her wounds.

  Her mouth opened and I placed my wrist over it, allowing her to drink.

  The wounds appeared to scab over. Drew arrived and dropped to his knees before her, immediately offering his blood, too.

  I kept apologizing profusely, unable to hide my tears. I felt terrible for hurting her.

  “She will heal, Alyssa,” Drew said.

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know what else to do.”

  Annoyance played in Drew’s voice. “The time for apologies is later. Right now, she needs blood.”

  Edmond came to join us, followed by Crystal and Nicholas. All were bloody and injured, but still alive.

  “What the hell happened here?” Nicholas yelled, seeing his wounded mate.

  “Alyssa used the flamethrower against one of the Saints and Rozaline got caught in the middle,” Drew answered.

  Nicholas thrust me harshly out of the way, kneeling down to Rozaline. He offered her his wrist.

  “Nicholas, I’m—”

  “Don’t speak to me,” he growled.

  Police sirens sounded in the distance; no doubt someone had called in this fire. Headless, mutilated, and burned corpses lay strewn about all around us. Mortal and immortal Saints alike, as well as the remainder of Kallisto’s coven, were all dead.

  “We must quickly rid the grounds of the bodies,” said Drew.

  “What about Lysander?” I yelled.

  “If he’s alive, he’ll make his way out of the building. There is no way for you to get him now. We need to get rid of the evidence,” Drew commanded.

  The clan quickly rushed to gather corpses and toss them inside through the broken window. The flames sparked and popped as bodies were engulfed in the fire.

  The sounds of the sirens got closer. Lysander had still not emerged. Drew urged us to leave before the police and fire department arrived.

  I could no longer hear the sounds of the struggle inside of the house.

  Tears poured down my face. Please come out, Lysander.

  “Alyssa, let’s go,” Drew urged.

  “Yes, Alyssa, we need to leave now,” Crystal pleaded.

  I stood paralyzed, eyes transfixed on the fire, not wanting to leave. “I can’t leave Lysander,” I yelled.

  Someone grabbed me from behind and tossed me over his shoulder.

  “No! Lysander,” I screamed.

  Chapter 25

  SMOKE FILLED THE air; the scent of burning flesh surrounded us. I kicked, screamed, and punched as I was carried away.

  “We can’t leave him,” I yelled.

  “Shut up!” Nicholas growled at me.

  Kallisto had chosen her safe house in a neighborhood close to the one Lysander lived in. Even as we arrived at his house, locking ourselves inside, the sirens sounded as if they were right outside the door.

  Edmond tossed me on the couch. Nicholas gently laid Rozaline out on the loveseat near me and went to turn on the TV. A helicopter flew over the top of the house as more sirens echoed in the night.

  As expected, the media had been alerted to the fire, and they interrupted local broadcasts to present this breaking news.

  The helicopter circled wide above the neighborhood, broadcasting images of the burning house.

  Eyewitnesses looking for their fifteen minutes of fame threw themselves in front of news cameras to give their account of the events, calling our fight a violent gang war.

  “They had flame throwers and guns and they tore that poor house apart…” said a middle-aged balding man.

  “It’s those damn gang bangers,” another witness said. “It’s not enough they do drive-bys. Now, they are committing arson right in our quiet neighborhood. Nowhere is safe anymore.”

  An image flashed on the screen: the house we had just been in, smoke billowing high into the sky as flames shot out of the second-story window.

  Tears poured down my face. I thought of Lysander. He had risked his life to come back and save me.

  I shoved my head into the cushions of the couch, punching my anger into them, crying.

  It is because of me that Lysander is burning alive inside of that house.

  “I’m sorry, Lysander,” I whispered.

  “He’s not dead,” Nicholas snapped at me. He didn’t look at me. He carefully tended to Rozaline’s wounds. “Can’t you feel him?”

  I thought about him, picturing his beautiful eyes, remembering our night together and the smile on his face as we woke in the evening.

  A warm feeling came over me. I barely recognized it at first, as I was concentrating so hard on his face, burning his features into my memory. It was him! He was alive somewhere. I felt that strange warmth, his presence.

  I shot up from the couch. “He is alive,” I exclaimed. “I feel him close.”

  “We know,” croaked Rozaline from the loveseat next to me. She looked frightening, her face badly wounded from the flames. Nicholas tried to comfort her in her pain.

  “But how could you know?”

  “We are his children too,” Nicholas growled. I could tell he was upset with me for hurting his mate. I sensed the emotions he felt. He made no attempt to hide his feelings from me.

  Aren’t all of his children dead?

  “Lysander liked to keep that fact a secret,” Rozaline rasped, choking the words out.

  I thought back to our first meeting and my initial jealousy, remembering how Lysander had seemed so happy to see Rozaline and hung on her every word. It made sense to me now why Lysander looked on Rozaline with such caring. Not like a lover, but like a father.

  That’s why he was so willing to let them stay with us. They were loyal to him and he trusted them because they were his children.

  They could have fled the city, leaving Lysander to deal with Kallisto and the Saints. Any other immortal would have just left as soon as the Acta Sanctorum was mentioned, but they had stayed and fought next to him.

  I could see
why he kept their relationship secret; he had never even written their connection into his memoirs. After Kallisto had destroyed all of his other children, he couldn’t risk it.

  Why won’t they go save him now?

  An image of Lysander, lying helpless and hurt, barely clinging to life in that burning house, flashed in my mind.

  I looked down, seeing the pain on Rozaline’s face and the terrible burns she had suffered in only a few seconds of fire.

  “He needs help,” I shouted. “Shouldn’t someone go after him?”

  “There is nothing we can do now,” Nicholas said.

  “Why did we leave him in the first place?”

  Anger marked Nicholas’s voice. “Listen, Sparky, we couldn’t have gone into that burning house to save him. The fire would have destroyed us, too.”

  “We didn’t have to run away,” I snapped at him, shooting him an angry glare.

  “We couldn’t provide any support against Santino from outside the house,” Nicholas barked back at me.

  “But we didn’t even try to help him. We just ran away.”

  “We took care of the others. Regrouping here to tend to our wounded is the only choice we had left. That house is swarming with mortals, there are cameras everywhere. If we’re caught, we expose ourselves to more than just a few people. You know the rules against that. Lysander wouldn’t have wanted us to expose ourselves to go after his corpse.”

  I cringed to hear Lysander’s name followed by the word “corpse.” He will be a corpse soon if someone doesn’t go help him.

  “Well, we can’t just leave him out there now. Someone needs to go after him.”

  “We’re not going back there until those humans are gone. We’re not risking exposure.”

  “That may be too late. What if he is dying? If you won’t do it, I’ll go after him. It’s my turn to do something. I’ll go save him myself.” I shot up from my seat on the couch.

  “No. You stay here. We have had quite enough of your heroics.” Nicholas rose from his seat and walked towards the kitchen.

  I felt the anger Nicholas had for me. I looked at Rozaline, seeing the pain in her face.

  I wanted to say something. It seemed Nicholas hated me for causing harm to come to her, but Rozaline didn’t look on me with hatred. I had already apologized, but it didn’t feel like enough.