by Spark, Luc
“You are correct my young vampire, if you make contact with them it will be to drain them completely to death, we know this because vampires don’t socialize with humans,” Kristen said “We only chose a select few to join us, and anyone else is pure cattle to us”
“I’m not actually a vampire myself Viorel, in case you’re wondering …I just happen to be influential and powerful enough to have them at my service” Vlad stoutly boasted.
“But what makes you powerful enough to have vampires do your bidding?” queried Viorel. Vlad moved back into his elegant chair, clicked his fingers and along came a hunchbacked balding butler who poured him a very generous serving of red wine. The wine smelt very strong of all different fruits the sort of smell that made Viorel’s pallet juice up.
The Butler did a quick bow to Lord Vlad and then about turned and walked away up a corridor.
Vlad looked Viorel straight in the face and said “The reason I have such power my young vampire, is because I have by my side a very powerful Mage who is the only living soul on this earth who knows the true way to kill a vampire” he continued “My Mage has also schooled me in the knowledge of how to properly dispose of Vampires, forget about your garlic and crosses, my Mage knows how to devise a potion that could wipe out the disease of vampirism for good”.
Kirsten looked uncomfortable as Vlad came out with this talk, he could even not believe himself that the Lord had this sort of knowledge.He knew that Lord Vlad was indeed a cunning and intelligent man but to have knowledge of sorcery was a shock even to him. Kristen believed he was a friend to Vlad because he liked to be around Vlad, it seemed Vlad had an appreciation of vampire nature, but perhaps Vlad was not a friend of vampires after all.
“My lord forgive me but the way you’re talking just now, you make it seem like you have a power over us which isn’t in our best interest,” Kristen said cautiously.
“Kristen make no mistake you know how I adore your kind and you have all served me well and I hope will continue to do so but this is my insurance policy in case you ever decide to betray me” Vlad confirmed.
“Nobody on this earth ever betrays me or lies to me, or for that matter does anything to incite me …whoever does will die,” said Vlad.
Just then a roar was heard from above in the walkway surrounding the great hall, the chandeliers directly above the table rocked and swayed. Viorel thought they were going to crash down and shatter over the table. An almighty bang was heard as a dozen vampires smashed through the window fifty feet above the hall floor.
“Treacherous dog!”
“Callous betrayer!”
“Sneaky Infidel!”
One vampire standing at least seven feet grabbed Vlad by the throat and hurled him into his giant mirror. A shard of glass broke off and stuck into his back exposing his flesh –blood was pouring from the open wound.
“Aargh you traitors confound you!” screamed Vlad with wild eyes.
Kristen looked on in disbelief as the vampires lunged at the dark lord, tearing at him with sharp razor like nails and teeth.
Viorel was again shaking with sheer panic and confusion, so much had happened to him in the last twenty-four hours he could hardly take any of it in.
His instinct told him to run and hide somewhere in the castle until the crazed vampires were gone.This instinct was enough to force him into action.His legs said one way and his mind said another. Viorel ran straight on northwards through a door, which was slightly ajar and deep down a long corridor, black as the night sky.
The air was very thin and made it hard to breathe although Viorel wondered whether breathing would matter now that he was a fully-fledged vampire. Surely if your semi dead then breathing would not be high on the to do list. He could hear the crunching screams of Vlad being torn apart. Not that Viorel felt any sympathy for the dark lord after all was he not a murdering sadist who only looked out for number one. Now he had got his comeuppance … and what a comeuppance it was. The screams were ear piercingly high, they must be making him suffer. At this point, Viorel wished he could travel in time to be rid of this place…
(Authors note: This book deals with the subject of time travel; you’re going to be transported through many time periods, and locations. This is to introduce the many characters in this book and eventually there will be a logical link between them all. Keep your eyes peeled for the time traveling device or creature that will transport our lead character around)
Berlin, Germany 1975
It was a midsummer morning in the campus of the University, birds sang loudly in the fake palm trees that been imported over from Tunisia. The city went by as usual with a very hectic nobody has time for anyone theme to it. The Werp University was gargantuan and housed some of the finest students in Europe; the arch chancellor was an honorable man and loved the job he did.
The courses varied from religious studies to studies on quantum mechanics. Only the most privileged of students could attend the University, as the fees were so high most graduates needed a lifetime to pay back the grants.
Races and cultures were again varied; mostly German but also Russians, Italians, and Spanish were among the population. The students loved to hang out at a nearby coffee house, where they could talk and sip some fine coffee. This coffee house presented the coffee in a special way; each mug would be laden with sweets around the outside and filled to overflowing with cream and chocolate sprinklings. The management enjoyed the growing influx of customers all eager to try the delight of this place.
Café Yezi was the name of this particular joint, the name meaning ‘Heaven’ in some ancient forgotten tongue.
Down the same bustling street as the coffee house and University was rows of student housing. The landlords all charged a reasonable rate of rental and allowed the students the freedom to decorate as they wish the interiors of their abodes. In one particular apartment lived a student named Jürgen Mixope, a young gaunt faced German with a penchant for fascism and bacon fries. This guy loved nothing more than to chomp his face out with bacon fries, any girl he tried to get with would quickly tell him that he smelt of pig and perhaps he should use up some of his student grant and invest in a toothbrush.
Jürgen adored anything to do with fascism and far right ideals; he worshiped Napoleon’s actions and war strategies. A lot about this young fascist wannabe was just plain wrong, from the way he dressed to the way he held himself in public. Standing at a puny five feet four he did not command respect from his fellow peers. He loathed the bigger students who strode around like they were walking Tritons amongst minnows. His flatmate was a young upcoming vicar and theologian, a chap named Marcello, of Italian descent. Unlike Jürgen, the wannabe vicar was very popular amongst his fellow students. His social life was very adequate; he would spend many an hour in the city center drinking with his growing posse of friends.
It was nine o’clock on a Friday night and Jürgen once again was sat in his room staring at his Napoleon wallpaper. “Jürgen are you going to come out tonight, some of the girls want to talk to you about the grant cuts?” asked Marcello. “Do me a lemon will you Marcello, what do I want to do with them ingrates!” said Jürgen sulkily.
He continued “All they ever do is analyze me and judge me in a negative light”.
“Well to be totally fair Jürgen you do keep yourself to yourself and don’t do anything to impress them,” Marcello said quickly.
“Why the hell should I impress them social drunken monkeys, they all think they’re so damn clever just because they can use big words like absinthe and capricious” Jürgen snarled. “Look it’s up to you, of course, I mean were flatmates I’m not your mother but just don’t let your youth slip you by okay,” said Marcello.
“Yeah go on get out of here and rot your liver Marcello …get stuffed!” snarled Jürgen. The look on his face confirmed that he did not intend to venture out.
“No need to be like that Jürgen I’m only looking out for you, that’s all…ill catch you later okay,” said Marc
ello. The young Italian about turned and walked out of Jürgen’s room. Marcello headed on down the winding stairs of the flat and opened up the big creaking door and trotted off into the Berlin night.
Jürgen still in his room decided to open up his favorite Napoleon war manuscripts, this was an old and crumbly around the edges piece of paper, which was not an official object, and it was simply a replica he had bought from a bargain shop. The walls of his bedroom were covered in phrased used by fascist leaders and dictators from the past.
He sometimes wondered why he was so obsessed by this; perhaps it had something to do with his childhood. He had always admired leadership but knew that he could never be a leader himself, so he liked to imagine standing alongside all the famous ones of old. Apart from the fascism penchant he also liked to collect his own mucus-which he kept in a big jar. Jürgen thought of naming the new life form he seemed to have created in this smelly jar.
Out and around the city Marcello was walking with a strut, which did not normally suit him, maybe it was because he had just had a mouth off with Jürgen. Marcello was due to meet some of his friends at ten o’clock in the Yezi coffee house. He had the delightful taste and image of the special house coffee in his mind. The weather was holding up pretty good, a light breeze was gently tugging at his flower shirt. A mugger began to walk his way. The thieving troglodyte wore a ripped tank top that made him look like he belonged on local radio.
“You best be giving me some cash!” said the mugger
“On what grounds should I comply?” replied Marcello
“On the grounds that if you don’t I’ll be sticking this here piece of blade into your gut!” The mugger said cheekily.
The mugger was around the same height as Marcello, about five feet ten, but looked quite ripped and muscular under that horrendous tank top. Marcello did not fancy his chances by making this guy mad.
“Okay look take my student union card it will get you huge discounts on food in the cafeteria,” said Marcello.
“Oh okay then mate, you sure you don’t just want to hand over some cash instead?” said the mugger.
“No thanks I’d rather give you the card if you will, besides my money is holed up in Switzerland somewhere” Marcello joked.
The mugger took the union card with a sweaty hand and gave Marcello a kiss on the cheek, and then he ran off down the road. That’s what Marcello liked about his life; he could talk his way out of anything, what he lacked in muscle he made up for with mental horsepower. Coupled with the fact that with this being the 1970s, most of the world’s population (criminals included) didn’t want to upset the balance of flower power harmony. Marcello chuckled to his great wordplay that had gotten rid of his would be death bringer… and carried on walking. He turned the corner and headed on up to the front entrance of the Yezi coffee joint. Outside a couple of petite young Filipino girls were buying some bags of grass from a balding German guy dressed in a bin liner, he wore jelly sweets for glasses.
“Hey I swear to you girls this is the finest quality weed this side of Manila, fifty Deutsch Marks for the lot and perhaps maybe your phone numbers” spurted the German drug dealer
The girls began to giggle in an immature fashion; Marcello gave a quick frown and continued inside.
He strutted in a confident manner up to the counter, beside him stood his friend Andreas-who looked like he had already had a few coffees downed.
“Yo Marcello the rest of the crew are not here yet my friend, let me get you some diesel with my union card” offered Andreas.
“Andreas you can’t use that card here, your heads buzzed from the coffee no?” patronized Marcello. He continued-”It’s okay I’ll buy this round, grab that table over there and we can talk theology”
Marcello pointed to his favorite table in the far corner with the pictures of topless girlies draped over BMW motorbikes above it. The table could seat six people just enough for the crew due to turn up on this night.
“Okay Marcello, no problem man,” said Andreas.
Andreas scuttled over to the desired table and sat his backside down with a caffeine-induced jolt.
“Yes sir what can we get you?” asked the clerk.
“Oh, two mugs of the black stuff, if you will” Marcello, said in a friendly tone.
The clerk went over to a huge coffee machine and gave a pull on the big handle, coffee flowed into the mugs-the steam coming off the mugs had a nice smell.
“Here you go sir, that’s twenty-five Deutsch marks please,” the clerk said.
Marcello grabbed into his pocket and produced the required notes; the clerk took them and popped them into the electronic cash register.
“Thank you, sir, enjoy your coffee, please give us a shout if you require a refill,” the clerk said happily.
Andreas was sat down with his eyes bulging out of the sockets, the previous rounds of coffee must be really setting in. Marcello wondered whether this was a good idea to pump Andreas up with more caffeine. Our upcoming vicar sat down opposite Andreas and they began to talk about life in general and then moved onto theology gossip. After fifteen minutes of conversation, the rest of the Marcello crew turned up.
“Yo guys how’s it hanging?” said Franka.
“Hi boys,” said Natasha.
“Hey what’s the score?” asked Rudi.
The arriving crew rolled up to the counter a placed an order each. Once again the clerk was the consummate professional, handing out the mugs of black sweetness in record time. One member of the posse was missing and that was the law student Kimberly, she did have a knack of being late… washing her hair no doubt and lost track of time. She always blamed that her watch didn’t run in real time, so she would lose minutes and be none the wiser. Of course, nobody ever believed her, the fact she was aspiring to become a top lawyer gave her the unfair reputation of not being truthful. Now the friends were all sat down and settled, Natasha gave Marcello a flirtatious wink as they sat opposite.
“Marcello how do you feel about the cold war situation, would you have the wall knocked down and the west and east worlds unite?” asked Franka.
Marcello, not one who wanted to sound foolish thought long and hard about his
Answer…
Bucharest, Romania 1826
It was another day in the daily grind of Bucharest’s top chartered accountancy firm, Thomas one of the key accountants was once again suffering from a walloping great headache. In this day and age, there was no local chemist to go to, so the only option was a visit to the local Healer-Davir. The Healer was not a very approachable man; he was laden with pigeon droppings and stank to the high heavens. However, what he was not was an imbecile, this man had intelligence that seemed somewhat inhuman at times. Thomas knew that a trip to Davir was in order, he needed a weeks’ worth of anti-head pain potions, and the problem was that the headaches were becoming more and more frequent.
“Thomas what are you doing!” screamed his rather overbearing boss.
“I’m sorry boss what do you mean?” replied Thomas.
“These books are wrong again, you have made our client spend double what he should have done in taxes,” said the boss.
“I’m incredibly sorry boss, I must have miscalculated the figures,” said Thomas weakly.
His boss was not a very patient man; he could dry out people’s hair with his angry shouting. The boss slammed down an account book on the wooden desk that Thomas sat at.
“Make sure you correct these mistakes and make this client good!” demanded the boss.
Thomas could feel his brain starting to seize up, why was life becoming harder by the day? He had a wife and pet anteater and knew he had to stay strong for them; he was the breadwinner and had to be able to provide the money for his wife to go and spend it at the local market. She was a good wheeler-dealer and always managed to get cheap prices for food. Thomas had done well at school got good grades especially in mathematics. He knew he was an intelligent man but he had a problem with buckling under pressure.
“Okay boss it won’t happen again,” Thomas said with a reserved tone.
“Be sure that it doesn’t Thomas I would hate to have to find a replacement for you?” said the boss in a questioning tone.
Thomas could feel his stomach churning over like a rusted wheel cog, and he knew that what he just promised he might not be able to deliver. The job was becoming more than ending just at work. Every night he would take home client books and sort out ledgers for the next working day.
The boss gave Thomas one final frown and headed back into his big shot office. His bloated pot belly entering the office two seconds before the rest of him. Thomas could smell the putrid odor of this man’s bottom; the ruthless old codger had released a cloud of stinky gas during his anger session. Still, it made a thankful release from the stink of his breath.
“Yeah go in there and have a heart attack will you, yer fat walrus” Thomas whispered under his breath. The day had come to an end and Mister accountant grabbed his lunch box, picked up some client books and walked out of the building like a washed out depressed zombie. Outside the light had gone and the street lights showed the way home. He walked on down past the many pubs and alleys filled with peasants and vice women.
The thought just came to him, he needed to go and see Davir, except for one problem the guy was closed at this time. Nothing ever seemed to work out for Thomas, he finished work so late that he could not pick up the one thing that could give him a temporal lift and relieve this inferno inside his head. He thought about opening up his own head and pulling out the pain causer with a pair of tongs. Then he figured that an act like that might not be too good for his long-term health.
When would his life work the way he wanted it to? How much longer could he keep up the pretense with his wife, anteater, and employer? Thomas needed to change his life and fast this was driving him insane. The constant number crunching made him feel like a walking Abacus, perhaps that’s what he was, just an abacus with flesh around the outside. At five feet four, he knew he could never become a good street fighter, and earn sleek money fast. The guys who fought down the local fight arena-they were all over six feet and almost the same in width. Their lives revolved around punching trees and then punching humans for a cash reward if they emerged the victor. There were other ways to earn quick money, for example, he could flog his body to the highest bidder, but that raised the other problem in that he was no stallion of a man. He could just not think of anything to do other than what he was doing now, and that was working for a pittance for little personal satisfaction.