There was no doubt that Samael was being helped by Bral and had climbed in the rankings since they had become friends. Hael was worried that his sensitive younger brother would be hurt. Ever the reserved boy, he had held himself back since the day Clea had been taken, not willing to invest in getting to know someone and befriend them — until Samael came along.
“Nightfeeders are one of the Special Light Brigades. They function extremely well in the dark. They are fast, vicious and work well in packs or as single units. As a pack or coven, they are useful for harrying your opponents, as well as night raids. When deployed as single units, they are effective night scouts and assassins. There are some useful side effects to the Nightfeeder curse. As with other transformative curses, they are cursed with Eternal Servitude. This means that they need to be able to heal from almost any injury. To facilitate this healing process, they have some limited ability to alter form. They are also able to pull in a certain amount of heat and light to power the healing process. Can anyone think of positive applications or downsides of this ability to absorb heat and light?”
There was silence for a few seconds before Bral spoke up. Although shy, he was intensely curious. “Um, hiding?”
“Um, hiding?” Lucan said back to him in falsetto. “Please, explain, my most worthy sibling.” The other students laughed in a relieved manner. Lucan had chosen a target and it was not one of them.
Bral cleared his throat. “Well, if they can absorb light to heal, can they also absorb light to hide in the shadows?”
“Correct.” Lucan’s response was clipped; Bral had gotten it right. “So, are there no disadvantages?”
Bral stepped once more into the breach. “Well, if they are in the process of actively drawing in energy…”
“Yes, if they are drawing in energy, what? What?”
“I would think that if you hit them with a lot more energy, either kinetic energy, say dropping a boulder on them or staking them down and setting fire to them, you could overload them? Maybe?” Bral trailed off. Lucan stared at him fiercely.
“Oh well done, Bral. Did one of the older boys tell you? You know cheating is a very serious offence.”
“No. I didn’t,” Bral stuttered.
“Enough, I will let it go this time. Any other questions?”
Bral’s thirst for knowledge overcame his common sense. He had another question. He leaned forward. Samael touched his shoulder as if to hold him back.
“You said that the Ogra are very hard to control. How are they retrieved once they are deployed?”
“It is extremely difficult to corral the Ogra after a battle. If we are fighting far from the City, as most battles are now, we leave them to run wild. They become a hazard for any remaining Ferals in the area. If deployed anywhere near the City or near a tribute tribe, it is usually necessary to exterminate them. They do not cooperate well with each other, so a couple of well-disciplined squads working together can usually take them down with little risk of casualties.”
“Wouldn’t it make more sense to try and update the Ogra Curse to make them more obedient, so we could use them over and over?” asked Bral.
Lucan spread his arms wide and slowly spun to look at his class with a big smile on his face. Hael knew that this was what Lucan had been waiting for. “It appears that my brother tries to hide his squeamishness behind logic,” Lucan replied. “Only Bral could feel sorry for these monsters.” The other students laughed nervously, again.
“Monsters that used to be one of us.” The acoustics of the amphitheater ensured that Bral’s quiet comment was heard by all.
“No, not one of us; they are nothing like us and never were.” Lucan was losing his cool, his voice raised, not quite a shout, not yet. “They are made of the dishonorable, the weak and the criminals of this great City and our great Empire. Next thing you will be questioning the Campaign against the Ferals itself.”
Bral started to reply but Lucan cut him off. “Don’t you dare say another word; you disgrace yourself and your family. Report to your prefect and ask for five lashes.”
Bral’s face was flushed as he rose to leave amphitheater. Samael reached out and gave his hand a squeeze as he left.
Hael would visit Bral later, but there was nothing he could do to intervene now. Within certain bounds, a teacher’s word was law in the amphitheater. The harshest punishment a teacher could hand out was five lashes. Lucan was probably unaware, or did not care, that there were more lenient punishments available. He always set the maximum. However, even for Lucan, five lashes were extreme for Bral’s comment.
Hael looked back to the center of the amphitheater and Lucan was wearing a charming smile — the mask was back in place. “Any other questions?” Silence.
After the lecture finished Hael approached Lucan.
“Brother, did you give him such a harsh punishment because you want him to learn, or because you are embarrassed that he is your brother?”
Lucan did not respond or look at him as he walked past.
Bral tensed as the lash struck his back. He heard a wet slap, followed a second or two later by an intense burning. If this was the price of knowledge, then so be it.
At first he had been shocked that Lucan had handed out a lashing for asking a question. Thinking about it on the long walk to the prefect’s room, it occurred to him that it had only been a matter of time before Lucan found some way to punish him. It was like old times for him. Lucan used to torture him in their parents’ house before the Academy. Now he could have someone apply the beating on his behalf.
Bral knew Lucan had always held him in contempt. He felt that Bral’s empathy was a weakness, and he was unable see that it could be a useful trait. That was the main difference between Lucan and Hael. Hael always seemed to figure out how he could make use of something — which could be a little scary. In spite of that, Bral would do anything for Hael. Some days it seemed that Hael was the only one who did not think that Bral was useless.
Lucan was less complex, though more charismatic than Hael. All he was interested in was achieving his own goals. He was unashamedly self-interested; everything he did was to promote Lucan and nothing more. Certain people found Lucan’s self-interest and drive to be incredibly attractive, something Bral never understood.
Bral should have expected that Lucan would do something to distance himself from his embarrassing youngest brother. Lashes did seem a little extreme.
Knowledge has a price. Lashes he could take.
He heard a second slap, and this time the pain struck him instantly.
All he wanted was to get this over with and fall into the arms of his darling Samael.
That and to graduate and never see that fucker Lucan again.
Zabab –> Donta: Are you still sure our candidate is the right brother? The eldest seems more suitable. He is stronger and more ruthless.
“He is also vain, cruel, self-obsessed and without the slightest crumb of compassion.” Donta and Zabab were walking in the gardens in the center courtyard of the Academy. The darkness was mitigated by light leaking out of the windows set into the stone walls bounding the courtyard. Although dark, Donta could sense that he and Zabab were alone. Alone except for the lurking presence of Zabab’s ever-present bodyguard, who shadowed them out of sight. The prefects were allowed to cut across the gardens during the day. Younger boys and lower-ranking boys always needed to circle around. After dark the gardens were off limits to all but the Masters and the Marshals.
Zabab –> Donta: Vanity and self-obsession we can use to our advantage.
“And the cruelty and lack of compassion?”
Zabab –> Donta: What of them? Ah, you see them as weaknesses. I do not. The eldest is the strongest of the three, he should be the candidate.
To avoid giving offence, Donta pretended to consider Zabab’s suggestion. Lucan was completely unsuitable for the task. Hael had the greatest potential. “Wise Zabab, I hear you; however, I also feel that the eldest is flawed in a more basic mann
er. He is not loyal. We will not be able to trust him to do what we ask. As long as he sees advantage for himself he will follow us.”
Zabab –> Donta: Exactly, he will do as we say.
“Until someone offers him more than we do. Then he will turn on us.”
Zabab –> Donta: Ah.
“The middle brother is loyal. Once he is a believer in our cause, he will sacrifice all to see it through.”
Zabab –> Donta: Fine, we shall persevere with the middle brother. I will keep a close eye on the eldest as well. I feel he could still be useful.
Chapter 5
Edinburgh, Scotland, 2015
Donald felt like scratching his eyes out or, better yet, scratching Lew’s eyes out. Lewis was such a boring cunt. Lewis had even been boring when he had been prey. It was a terrible sign to be bored of one you were tormenting.
He had stated his case to Leader but, alas, their little group was no democracy and she had made Lew one of them anyway. At the time, she claimed it was to repay some old debt.
You would think that decades in his company would have taken the edge off the tedium and they would find a middle ground to get along. Not so.
The crux of the issue was that Lew seemed to have no sense of humor as far as Donald could tell. He had not laughed at one of Donald’s jokes, quips or bon mots since he had been Turned, boring bastard. That is a long fucking time to play the straight man.
This assignment was not helping either. It was surveillance, and Donald fucking hated surveillance. Normally he could have handled it himself, but after Charlie’s disappearance Leader had paired them up and instructed them to stay together. Little Eve was with Baby, while he had been stuck with Lew.
He would have relished spending some more time with Baby. He had lots of good times with her when she was prey. She had been much more entertaining than boring old Lew.
They had been stuck in a car together for a week watching the house of some inventor or something. They had strict instructions to follow him if he emerged. So far he had not left his house. They could vaguely feel him moving around inside what appeared to be an entire block that had been converted for his use. Oddly enough, he sometimes dropped from their awareness when he was in the basement area of the structure. They assumed he was involved with with their type or some other Quickened. Perhaps there was some sort of active ward in the basement that shielded him.
If they needed to hang around much longer they would need to see about obtaining a flat to make the wait bearable. They could not stay in the car much longer.
Lew punched his arm, hard, and pointed. Donald looked over at the door and saw it was opening. Out into the street stepped Quasimodo.
They were almost on him. He needed to get away. There was no telling what they would do to him if they caught him.
His frail condition meant that if they administered what they considered a light kicking, he could well die.
There was no way he was going to die for doing something so stupid as going out in the day, not when he was finally making progress towards his goal.
His Taser was not an option. He had been so busy with his work and his side project that he had not had time to develop new wires for his Taser, and it had seemed a waste to load it with wires that would melt. Not that it mattered anyway; he would not use his Taser against a person because it was a weapon for hunting monsters. He had no desire to kill a person.
Fight not being an option, he was left with flight, also not one of his strong suits.
He ran as best he could up to the shuttered doors of the Tron Kirk and pulled the handles. The old church was locked up tight. He scrabbled around the side looking for a way in. He could hear them taunting him as they looked for him.
He had to get away.
Earlier that day he had been depressed. Really fucking depressed.
He had made very little progress over the last couple of weeks in increasing the sensitivity of his new line of sensors. He was able to increase the sensitivity to a level where he could distinguish between different neuromotor impulses; however, he could only use the new sensor array in a single location, his quiet room.
His quiet room was located in a sub-basement that he had excavated prior to taking possession of the building. When excavating the extra space the workers had broken into an abandoned underground street. The city, especially near the castle, was built upon progressively older settlements, so it was not uncommon to come across the underground spaces. There was even a haunted tour that explored some of the more accessible underground streets.
He had expanded until he ended up with a minor underground complex. He simply broke through to other abandoned areas and walled them off. He supposed that it was not strictly legal, but who was going to find out? Especially since he imported non-English speaking builders from Poland and paid them a handsome hush bonus.
He had built two quiet rooms as part of this process: Lab A and Lab B. The quiet rooms were massive Faraday cages enclosed in lead and concrete. They were completely impervious to electromagnetic radiation and psi phenomena. Lab B was being used for his side project, while he was using Lab A to work on his new and improved sensors. The problem was that, outside of the quiet room, the highly sensitive electrodes picked up not only brain impulses but also the cacophony of electromagnetic energy that was the modern world. Radio and TV signals, cell towers, Wi-Fi, even the signals used by cabbies to keep in contact with dispatch. Each of these added to the background noise and each was broadcast at higher amplitude than signals being broadcast by the brain behind its shield of bone. This electromagnetic pollution was only going to increase as the years passed, so he needed to develop a way to read the brain’s activity without corrupting the signal with noise. Increased sensitivity was not the answer. He needed to come up with something else. Something else that he had not thought of yet, but he would; he always did.
He needed a break, he needed to get out.
He had been cooped up by a run of unseasonably fine weather for the last couple of weeks. Today was no exception; it was clear and sunny. However, it was still Festival time. With a bit of boldness he could walk around outside and no one would really pay much attention. There would be stranger sights than him on the crowded city streets. Most people would just think he was part of the entertainment.
He would do it. He would go out and feel the sun on his face.
He had bought the costume a few years earlier, due to some macabre masochistic impulse. He had convinced himself that he would go to his company’s Halloween party and mingle with his employees like a normal person. He had, of course, chickened out. However, the costume was exactly what he needed for today’s little adventure.
After he dressed he did not look in the mirror; he did not have many mirrors in the house. He had no need to look at himself. He just pulled on the costume, asked his home system to open the secure inner door and stepped into the short lobby that separated his inner door from the outer. His hand shook as he reached for the knob of the outer door. He pulled but the door would not open.
Ah, it was locked, he needed to unlock it. He laughed slightly at his nerves, unlocked and opened the door and stepped outside into the crowded noisy street.
He waited for a minute or two, waiting for the screams or wretches of those who saw him.
Nothing.
He looked around. A couple of people were looking at him quizzically but they seemed to be admiring his costume, nothing else. He smiled, really smiled, and pushed his way deeper into the crowd.
He spotted a pile of discarded flyers stacked on top of a garbage bin and picked them up. It advertised Ashley Orion’s concert. The flyer claimed that she was one of the most famous people on the planet after her number one smash hit “Your my Asshole.” He had never heard of her. His knowledge of pop culture, which had never been extensive, had pretty much ended about twenty-one years ago. He was shocked; how could a song with such an offensive title make it to number one in multiple countries? Someone sh
ould have objected, what was wrong with the world? Did no one have basic grammar skills anymore? The song obviously should have been titled “You’re my Asshole.”.
As he stood there contemplating flyers, a man in a hat took one from his hand and kept walking. Then a woman with a tight T-shirt took a flyer as well.
“Why not?” he thought and walked down the street handing out the flyers. It seemed like the flyers helped out with his reverse disguise, and people just assumed he was part of the process of publicizing the show. With so many activities occurring during the Festival the promoters did some crazy shit to get people’s attention. A grotesque Quasimodo could be considered pretty tame.
After handing out ten or so flyers he decided to actually talk to people, to promote the show. He knew nothing other than what was on the flyer, so he just made things up when people asked questions. He was quite impressed by his boldness.
He had handed out about half of the flyers and was walking backward and telling a pretty young woman about how much fun the show would be when he bumped into someone, stumbled and fell to the ground.
“Watch where you’re fuckin’ goin’, pal,” said a vaguely familiar voice.
He looked up saw Stache and Belly, the two louts he and Charlie had run from in the pub a week or so earlier.
He gave his head a shake and started to painfully get to his feet.
“Well, lookie fuckin’ here, if it isnae the fucking mutie from the pub. Remember, the one who ran out with that fine drunk lassie?”
“Oh aye. I remember. I also seem to remember they said some shite to us as they left.”
“Aye, payback time. Come wi’ us, pal.”
Now on his feet, he threw the flyers in their faces and hobbled as quickly as he could toward a crowd of people in front the Tron Kirk, one of the oldest churches in the city.
Ancient Evil (The First Genocide Book 1) Page 13