“She wouldn’t do the same for me,” Harold replied.
“Yes, she would.”
“For different reasons. Because it’s her job.” The way Harold spoke, the words might as well have been poison.
Something broke through Harold’s peripheral vision on the right side. It took him a moment to gather what it was until it was fully in his line of sight. The shotgun again. This time Chet held it with more force. Steady. Like a man who was no longer afraid to die, no longer afraid of not contributing to his grandson’s college fund. The thought of Chet on his last leg of life unnerved him more than he cared to admit.
Harold’s feet settled back on the hardwood. He looked down, allowed the air to come back to his lungs. He hadn’t known the Vampire had lifted him off of the floor in the first place. And still Roman had one sharp-nailed hand wrapped around his collar while the left gripped the muzzle of the shotgun.
Metal screamed. The barrel pointed upwards to the ceiling, though Chet hadn’t moved his aim.
“Quit pointing that thing at me,” Roman said, and he grunted again. The metal bent more and now the barrel was pointed directly at the bartender’s face. Chet dropped the gun. It clattered off of the bar and fell over a few upturned air drying glasses. Some fell and shattered.
Chet stammered, but said nothing, and the men behind Harold and Roman, the ones still composed enough to hold out their weapons, tucked them back into their leather jackets and looked towards the television once more, rethinking their life choices.
The other hand closed around Harold’s collar again. He let it happen, let the Vampire yank him away from the bar and out the front door, into the chaos beyond.
CHAPTER 22
Kissinger District hadn’t been hit by the wave of insanity yet. Mostly because the people that hung around that part of the city, around Chet’s bar and the various other seedy establishments, were already insane enough for humans.
The Vampire had a black Audi parked in the same parking lot where the Shadow Eaters had killed Felix and attacked him a few nights ago. It somehow shined in the darkness. Harold wanted nothing more in the world than to drive it, just go as fast as he could on the highway and not look back. Get away from the city if he can’t get away from life. But when he reached for the Vampire’s keys, Roman slapped his hand away and pushed him towards the passenger’s side.
“Where are we going?” Harold asked. He didn’t sound so slurred any longer. The buzz already had passed and he hated that his new powers did that to him, just absorbed all the bad stuff in his life, made him a better, more clear-headed person. That meant he’d never be able to get as drunk as he used to, never’d be able to forget all the pain and misery in his life, not even for a night.
Roman slammed his foot on the gas pedal. The car screeched out and as they got deeper into the heart of the city, the traffic began to pile up. Harold could see trails of smoke waft up above the cityscape, and a black cloud hanging overhead. The signs of attack and chaos.
He had to get his mind off of it. It had only been about three hours, give or take, since he had battled Charlie. And powers or no powers, Harold was exhausted as all Hell. He needed to doze off, have a nap, or something. But the way the Vampire drove made that impossible. And more often than not, Harold found himself forcing his hand over his face whenever Roman decided a red light wasn’t worth it, or the traffic was too much and then the car would go over the bump of a curb and he’d be driving head on into a sea of panicked pedestrians. Forget about a speed limit, too. Sixty was apparently the new thirty. Harold couldn’t blame him though, not with a sweet ride like the Audi.
Roman had never answered where they were going, or how he knew to go there. But they eventually made their way through the richer area of the city, where a car like an Audi was looked at like a bike in comparison to some of the rides driven through there. They took the sidewalk more than once. Harold must’ve passed out for a few minutes, the sleep finally taking its hold on him, much like Sahara said it would, and when he opened his eyes the car was parked in a sea of other cars, half propped onto the sidewalk. Harold looked out the windshield, saw the great stone facade of a building he knew existed, but the name of the place was lost. It was a railroad terminal, but the lights inside the building were sparse. And most of the streetlights near the bridge that led into the terminal were either black or crackling out.
Harold’s skin prickled. He could sense the evil in the air, the supernatural. It made him want to tuck tail and run as far as his legs would let him go.
“They’re here,” Roman said. The car engine still hummed, and his hand gripped the steering wheel, knuckles paler against his pale skin. He looked to Harold.
Harold blinked a couple times. “Okay…now what?”
“I will be of no use to you inside. This is a trial you must face on your own.”
Harold snorted, his hand slapped his knee. “Good one.”
Roman stared. His face was as expressionless as a dead man who’d died in his sleep.
“You seriously think I’m going in there all by myself?” He tilted his head lower so he could get a better look at the terminal station. “That place is something straight out of the zombie apocalypse, man. I’m not going in there by myself.”
“You have the only thing that can stop them,” Roman said. “Me, well I’m just a Vampire.”
“Yeah, with super strength and badass fangs. Not to mention your icy demeanor and cool accent.”
“That will do me no good in there. Only the blade will.”
“Well, got a knife? I’ll let you borrow mine.”
Roman reached out his hand, placed it on Harold’s shoulder. “No, Storm. You must do this on your own. You must save the girl.”
Harold opened his mouth to protest, but Roman’s grip squeezed tighter.
“No — don’t speak. Just do.”
“Uh, yeah. Nope. You want me to just go in their empty handed? Do you realize what could happen to me? For all we know this could be a trap.”
“It’s not, trust me. The Shadow Eater’s have devout followers here on the Earth Realm. And they’ve been waiting for this day. They’re nothing but crazy humans. The rest of the Shadow Eater’s haven’t touched soil yet. They’re bound to Hell until the second key can be obtained and Satan released.”
“So why in god’s green earth would you want me to go in there with the other key. I’m the Realm’s last hope.”
“Exactly.”
The Vampire smiled that fang-toothed smile that made Harold very anxious, and all of sudden he wanted nothing more than to get out of the Audi and into the exhaust fume heavy air.
As he looked around, though, he noticed that none of the cars lining the street were running. Most of the cabins were dim except for a few casting dark shadows Harold mistook for people, but upon closer examination, found they were only seats. A couple had left their lights on. High beams cut through the darkness, shined on the front steps of the terminal station, but faded and Harold reckoned wouldn’t stay on to guide him.
The clock set in the front wall, overlooking the city, struck four in the morning hard enough for Harold to think he could feel the vibrations of its machinery, but an eery part of his mind thought of the rumblings to be Satan’s arrival. He wondered where the Dark Prince might rise. Maybe the slums of the city. The sewers. Hell, maybe even the mayor’s office. He always thought of politicians as having some kind of pact with the devil, despite them always thanking the Lord in their speeches or asking him to bless the country whenever some tragedy struck the nation. To Harold, it seemed that these politicians had their ideas of God and Satan mixed up. He made a mental note to avoid the City Hall building at all costs if his efforts failed. But he knew that if that were the case, he’d probably not be around to avoid the Hall anyway. Somehow, that thought calmed him.
He leaned closer to Roman, despite his best judgement and the way those fangs glowed in the darkness of the driver’s side — some button on his car had t
he ability to dim the dashboard and he had turned off his lights before pulling down the street and parking amongst the abandoned cars. “Do you have a gun or something? I seem to have lost mine.”
“When have you ever heard of a Vampire carrying a gun?”
“I’ve never heard of a Vampire driving a nice car, either, but look at you now, sitting behind the wheel looking like a million bucks.”
“I stole it,” Roman said, shrugging.
“An Audi, though? You couldn’t get something that blended in a little more, or a rust-bucket that the previous owner would’ve been glad to have been stolen?”
“German engineering reminds me of home.”
Harold shook his head. “Transylvania close to Berlin?”
“Close enough. Besides, I like the way the car looks. I may be a Vampire, but I do not neglect fashionable items.”
“Couldn’t tell by your outfit. Leather jacket, seriously? Talk about a walking cliché.”
“Says the horribly scarred man hiding under a trench coat and fedora. After this is all over I may need you to help me solve a supernatural murder mystery.”
Harold laughed. “Very clever.”
“I try to keep heavy situations as light as possible. It’s not easy being a dead man because your sense of humor often dies with you.”
The Vampire looked on with his lips curled up into a smile. “But no, Storm, I do not have a gun or any weapon of sorts for you. The only one you need is inside of you.”
Harold looked down at his left hand. “Yeah, I know it is, just don’t know how to get it outside of me.”
Roman raised his eyebrows. “Time will take care of that, my friend.”
“Yeah, time we don’t have.”
“What is your animal?”
Harold scratched his head. “What’s my animal?” He stammered.
“Yes — don’t play dumb, Harold. I was with Sahara for a long time. I know the Protectors are given an animal which best suits them and it triggers the Deathblade once the beast is tamed. I know her animal is a Black Panther and it took her nearly two hours to wrestle it into submission.”
“Two hours?” Harold asked, mouth hanging open. “Jesus, it’s been like two days for me.”
“Sahara…Sahara is special. Perhaps I can help you speed your process up, my friend.”
“What? How?” Harold asked, but the Vampire didn’t answer. Instead, his hand ripped through the trench coat, then the shirt underneath it, and finally through Harold’s flesh, his bones. The icy coldness of Roman’s fingers wrapped around Harold’s heart and the cabin of the car grew dimmer…and dimmer until he was gone, until he sunk into the passenger seat, until he —
Stood on the frozen rock of a cliff overlooking the forest below, gazing at a sea of snow dusted trees. The darkness swallowed him yet he could still see the Wolves when he turned around. Surrounding him, inching closer. Their gray muzzles dipped in blood, teeth bared, hanging like stalactites in a cave. They snarled and growled deep, vibrating the very foundation of the world.
Harold backed away slowly, his feet reaching the threshold of the level rock, threatening to spill over the edge, but they stopped advancing.
Flames burst from the ground. The orange light flickered in their reflective eyes. Their howls echoed inside of Harold’s head, though he never saw them open their mouths and tilt their snouts up to the moon. They watched. Always waiting. Preying.
He couldn’t move. Boxed in by the fire and the deathly plummet into the trees that must’ve stood hundreds of feet high.
Voices whispered to him: Only the blood shall douse the flames.
Your blood, Harold.
He clawed at his ears. Couldn’t make it stop, stumbling around like a dying drunk.
Then the Alpha Wolf pounced, bigger than the rest. Talons out. Harold spun, but he was too slow. The sharpness raked across his chest. Blood — your blood, Harold — poured out from the wounds, burning brighter than the flames.
— woke back up in the same seat of the Audi, enveloped by the city’s uncommon darkness, chanting the words. “Circumventa Lupis. Circumventa Lupis.”
Roman smiled, looked down at the Deathblade protruding out from Harold’s left hand.
His heart pounded; the Wolves howled, but now…now he controlled them, could increase the decibels or mute them completely. Now he was the Alpha.
“Go,” the Vampire said.
CHAPTER 23
Harold could hear the clamor of people as he walked the sidewalk towards the giant steps that led into the station. They sounded angry, like a group of people who were promised a pizza party and walked into a salad bar instead.
There were three large windows with about a hundred man-sized panes in each, that reflected the full whiteness of the moon. He tried to stick to the shadows, but with the moon acting like a pale sun, it was difficult. So he stuck close to the line of cars smashed bumper to bumper and spilling over the curb, crouching low just in case.
He looked through the dark windows. Inside, no electrical lights were on at all. The only light came from a couple trashcans in the middle of the large expanse, burning bright with flames. On one side was a rowdy crowd of people. They formed into lines. The electronic signs which told potential passengers the arrival and departure times of the various trains were nothing but dead black glass, and spray painted over them in crude handwriting was: DAMNATION and SALVATION. DAMNATION had a crooked arrow drawn next to the words pointed to the left, and SALVATION had the same type of arrow pointed to the right, and was the popular choice.
Patrolling the lines were a handful of dark robed figures. Some were hooded and some had their hoods down, showing their faces and scraggly beards. Harold caught bone-white makeup on a few, tattoos on others. Those were the Disciples, no doubt.
Harold pressed his face closer to the glass in an attempt to see if he recognized any of them. He couldn’t tell. Friends weren’t really his thing, but working on various stage productions a few years ago, before Marcy, before the booze, had had him in the throes of Weirdo-ville. The type of people who’d share needles and snort cocaine before an audition as a way of calming themselves. The closet religious zealots. The ones who worshipped Mother Earth and didn’t let an hour go by without mentioning to you that global warming was real. Tattoos, nose rings. Those types of people.
Though none had openly admitted to worshipping Satan or his Shadow Eater’s, Harold didn’t doubt that some did. After all, he wouldn’t have announced it to anyone he might’ve been working with on a production either. Word traveled fast, and get on one producer’s blacklist and you’d probably never find work in the town again.
He saw one man, a gangly looking fellow in a tattered Grim Reaper robe he probably bought at a Halloween store a couple months ago, clutching a Desert Eagle, and Harold wondered if he’d got that at the same Halloween store. Then his eyes flicked to the other people patrolling — there were five that he saw, and they roamed to and fro amongst the crowd of people like shepherds amongst sheep — and all of them were clutching some sort of weapon. A Desert Eagle here, submachine gun there, a scythe, a machete, baseball bat. They were a regular old chain gang.
Then one pointed up to the windows where Harold stood, and the guy holding the baseball bat followed his gaze. Harold’s heart dropped into his boots. He fell into a crouch, hoping against hope that they hadn’t seen him. But the feeling in his gut told him they had.
The front doors rattled open. A man yelled, “Get back! Get back!” his voice high and shrill. The baseball bat struck the ground, then the doors slammed closed.
Inside, came the muffled sound of a gunshot, and the collective gasp of the crowd. They quickly dispersed away from the front doors.
“Shoulda killed them all when we had the chance,” a different voice said. There was a slight pause, then the same voice said: “I don’t see anyone out here. Think he’ll really come?”
Harold had his back pressed up against the stone pillar, knelt low enough to
be out of the window’s line of sight. The full moon had gone under the cover of a large black cloud, that to Harold, seemed unnatural. Almost unholy. But with the darkness, he expected they couldn’t see him from inside. And the remaining Disciples were probably too occupied with the droning sheep to even care.
But from the way his knees screamed out from the position he was in, he almost stood back up. Better not risk it. So instead he chanced a glance around the pillar, removing his fedora before doing so. He saw two of the robed figures, one short and round, jeans poking out of his dark garb too tight for his heavy body, and another one so tall and thin, he might disappear if he turned sideways. They passed a cigarette back and forth, their faces hidden in a cloud of smoke.
“I didn’t sign up for this,” the tall one said, the one with the voice of a high school kid in a battle with the last vestiges of puberty.
“It’ll all be worth it, Jer. Think of sitting at the Dark One’s dinner table. Having anything we want. Any girls. God knows all the bad ones went to Hell — the real nasty ones — and when this is all over they’ll all be our slaves.”
“Sounds like the real Heaven. Screw that Catholic bullshit, Steve.”
“Yeah, bro, but quit hogging the cigarette. You know that shit gives you cancer,” the chubby one, Steve, said.
“That’s the least of my worries,” Jer said.
Harold peeked around again, gauging his options. They were no older than nineteen, just idiot kids. He could take them. Probably beat them down without the help of his Deathblade, too. Only problem was, he had to do it quietly. And these guys seemed everything but quiet. Plus they had weapons: a baseball bat and a machete, which also looked like they were bought from a Halloween store.
“You got another cigarette?” Jer asked. “I can’t go back in there with those animals, man. Still don’t see why Rick can’t just give you his pistol and you brain them all right there.”
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