by J. R. Rain
“Maya,” she said.
“Voiceprint recognized. Good evening, Maya Oman. It is past your bedtime.”
She sighed. “I know. Outbound call please, Vanessa Oman.”
The terminal remained silent for thirty seconds before the regal face of a woman in her middle thirties appeared, a midair hologram. Long, black hair cascaded around high cheekbones and perfect ebony skin. Every time Maya saw her, she felt self-conscious at her lighter tone. She wanted to be dark like Mother, not the medium brown she’d been stuck with. Always, Maya wondered if her appearance had something to do with her mother’s distance.
The cadence of a recording in a stern woman’s voice filled the corridor. “This is the private vid-mail inbox for Vanessa Oman, CEO of Ascendant Pharmaceuticals. If you have the necessary clearance to contact this number, leave a message. Otherwise, please disconnect this call and await the arrival of Authority Officers.”
“Begin message,” said a digital tone.
“Mother. It’s Maya. You didn’t come home… again. I guess you’ve gone to one of the other apartments. Good night.” Maya turned her back on the console. “Terminal, end call.”
The walls flickered and went dark as the holo-projector cut out. Maya spent a moment admiring moonlight glinting off the silver glitter in her raspberry toenail polish before emitting a soft sigh and heading to bed.
Chapter Two
Body Count
Pressure on her face dragged Maya out of sleep. Two bright green spots hovered over her; an enormous metal hand covered her mouth and pinched her cheeks. The scent of a sweating man mixed with industrial chemicals flooded her nostrils. She let off a pitiful, muffled scream and kicked through her blankets at a chest rigid enough to hurt her toes.
A gun slid out of the darkness; its icy barrel against her forehead pushed her skull into the pillow as the green eye spots shrank with a faint electronic whirr.
“Be still. One sound, you die.” His breath smelled like rotting meat.
Maya attempted to nod, but couldn’t move her head.
“Blink twice if you understand.”
She did. The man removed his giant hand from her face. He leaned up and away, keeping his weapon aimed at her. Room lights came on; his eyes shifted color, becoming yellow. His great dark-blue arms, bigger around than her chest, appeared metal, as if hundreds of small interlocking ingots had flown together in a devouring plaque that advanced well over his shoulders and shrouded the sides of his head. The interface between steel and skin resembled the teeth of a gear. More guns peeked from the folds of a long military-style coat. At her stare, mechanical lens-eyes jutting an inch out from his head clicked and narrowed further. His broad face and wide nose were similar in hue to her skin: creamed coffee. Not a trace of humanity remained in his glare.
Maya had no doubt this man could kill her.
A woman, younger than Mother but not by much, slipped past him. His bulk made her seem like a child. Black fatigue pants swooshed as she cleared the end of the bed in two strides. Thick dreadlocks hung down to her belt, studded with trinkets, beads, and wooden rings. She wore a nylon harness with a pair of handguns, several cases, and two silver grenades over an olive-drab tank top. A long-sleeved camouflage shirt draped loose and unbuttoned over everything, sleeves rolled up to the forearm. The woman scowled at Maya with contempt, a look dire enough to make her raise an arm to protect her face.
“Don’t give me that shit,” grumbled the woman. She bent forward to yank the blankets away from Maya. “You’re a Citizen; I ain’t gonna feel no sorry for you.”
“How we lookin’?” the huge man asked no one. Seconds later, he grinned. “Sounds good.”
The woman’s loose outer shirt sagged open as she leaned forward, grabbed a handful of Maya’s hair, and held her still for a brief but disdainful stare. “Roll over, hands behind you.”
Maya did as instructed, and didn’t move despite the creak of unwinding tape. She winced but kept quiet while the woman crushed her wrists together and cinched them with the sticky plasticized ribbon. A painful grip about the ribs swung her perpendicular to the bed. Maya whimpered as the angry woman gathered her legs together and wound more tape about her ankles.
A harsh slap to the back of the head silenced her.
“Quiet. Damn Citizen brat. You and your kind don’t know the first thing about suffering up in this palace. Don’t you dare give me that. The more pathetic you act, the more I ain’t gonna regret this.”
She lay like a loaf, offering no protest. Once the woman bit off the tape and squeezed it in place, she pulled Maya over onto her back by a fistful of fabric. She tilted her head, peering up past heaving breasts at the sweat-covered face hovering over her with an expression that asked the woman why she was being so mean. The silent plea seemed only to enrage her abductor more.
“Step it up, Genna. We’re made,” said the big man.
Genna’s oversized camouflage shirt shrouded the girl like a tent when she leaned her hands on the bed, on either side of Maya’s head, trying to peer out the bedroom door. Dog tags slipped out of the woman’s tank top and hit her in the face. She flinched, glaring at the dark brown arm inches from her face. The point of a black crescent moon tattoo peeked around her right shoulder. Maya cringed away from a drop of sweat landing near her eye. Genna slid backwards to her feet and shrugged a large, empty bag off her shoulder.
“Are you kidnapping me?” Maya whispered.
“Maldita niña,” muttered the huge man. He poked the top of her head with his pistol. “Shut up!”
“If you’re taking me for ransom, you’re wasting your―”
Genna pressed a line of tape over Maya’s mouth.
Widening yellow machine-eyes gave away a strong desire to inflict pain. “Dammit, kid, you don’t listen.”
The woman added a second length of tape, making an X over Maya’s mouth. “Calm down, Moth. You kill her now, and we just wasted a bunch of time and effort for nothing. Took Head weeks to find this princess.”
“Loco hombre de rata,” Moth grumbled.
A skinny Asian man in black pants, jacket, and gloves raced into the bedroom and stumbled to his knees when he tried to stop. He had a gun out, but it seemed like a little toy compared to the one pointed at her face. “Shit! Authority’s here.”
The metal-armed man whirled about, aiming at him, eyes wild with panic.
“Shit, Moth,” the man gasped, holding his hands up. “I’m not a damn Korean. Come back to now.”
“That was fast,” said Genna, as calm as if the sons of Jeva had come bearing religious literature. “Guess Headcrash is slipping.”
Moth scowled at the window. “He must’ve missed a sensor.”
“Yeah, yeah… you got the drones,” Genna muttered to no one. “But they found us somehow.”
“So? No big deal.” Moth smiled and aimed at the door. “All that means is this op just got a body count.”
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Chiaroscuro
A Vampire Thriller
by Matthew S. Cox
(read on for a sample)
Unhallowed Ground
March 9th 1885
Briançon, France
The coach glided to a halt in the shadow of a stone church set atop a craggy shelf overlooking a town sprawled through grassy hills. Mountains to the west blocked the setting sun from view, peaks aglow beneath a pinkish sky. Firelight flickered within the windows of homes down the grade; the only sign of life on the winding road up to the church had been an old man and a pair of mules.
Father Molinari descended from the coach and took a deep breath of cold air laced with the fragrance of pollen. Some aspect of this place haunted him, quickening his heart, though he could not set his gaze upon any obvious cause. Indeed, he was right to come here as much as he feared for his life. He clasp
ed his crucifix, tracing his fingers over the cold metal. Something about the vista before him seemed familiar, the church, the modest farm, a small outbuilding beyond. He stared at it, gripped by an inexplicable dread. As if to let go of the coach doorjamb would commit him to a fate inexorable once set in motion. His heart pounded, and he forced himself to look away.
Yea though I walk through the shadow of the valley of death, I shall fear no evil.
The local priests dismounted their horses, handing the reins to a tow-headed boy of about fifteen in a pale tan tunic. He cast a wary glance at Molinari before leading the animals around the left of the church. Near the back of the side yard, a long rickety roof covered four stable stalls. One bearded black goat in the shadow east of the building chewed something while staring at him. Molinari studied his hand as if mystified by it, and released his grip. The uneasiness in his belly intensified. He lowered his arm at his side.
The Lord my God is my savior. I trust in Him to guide me.
“It is no grand affair like you are used to.” Renault gestured at the front doors. “But it is what we have, and we are thankful for it.”
Callini trotted over, all but bouncing in his boots. “Father Molinari, would you care to rest the night or see it right away? It is quite an honor for us to have a visitor of your stature.”
Paolo set about unhitching the horses. “By your grace, Fathers, may I avail of your stables?”
“Of course,” said Renault.
“May as well lay eyes on the beast immediately.” Father Molinari started for the church, but halted at a hand on his arm.
“My apologies, Father.” Callini indicated the smaller building a hundred yards west, on the far side of a garden patrolled by chickens. “We could not bring the fiend onto consecrated ground.”
“Yes, yes.” Renault nodded. “The beast gave off smoke and screamed when we tried to bring it inside.”
“Very well.” Molinari set his belongings back in the coach. “Lead the way, Fathers?”
They crossed through fields of cabbage, carrots, and beets to a masonry structure built in a similar, but less ornate style than the church. Most of the inside space contained farming tools and bags of seed, as well as a small hand-operated grist mill. Father Renault made his way to the opposite wall and opened a door, which led to a spiral stairway down.
“There are rooms below intended for monks.” Renault paused at the opening. “We have confined the creature in one, where it can do no harm and is away from the sunlight.”
“The Devil shall miss no opportunity to deceive.” Father Callini held up a finger. “Do not trust thine eyes.”
Father Molinari blessed himself. “For even Satan disguises himself as an angel of light.”
Renault, lantern in hand, led the way down seven turns, and opened a door at the bottom. Beyond laid a narrow hallway with four doors on each side and one at the end, all but one open. Two metal hooks held a thick wooden beam to the door, nailed in place by an amateur’s hand. Only the closed room had such a bar. He trailed the two priests into the hallway, entering a cloud of thick, moist air permeated with the stink of must.
The hair on the back of Molinari’s neck rose. With each step deeper into the earth, his unease mounted. Renault stopped at the closed door. Flickering lamplight wavered on the walls, casting the man’s jowls in grotesque shadow. He hesitated at touching it, as if petrified of what lay inside. Up close, it became clear they had nailed the hooks in place themselves. The nails looked more bent than driven. Father Molinari’s throat tightened with worry. Any vampire he’d tangled with could rip the door open with ease.
The heavyset priest glanced at Molinari as if seeking counsel.
Father Callini sidled up at his left, terror warring with eagerness in his countenance. At Molinari’s nod, Renault lifted the bar from the hooks and set it upright against the wall. He unlocked the door with an iron key and gave it a push.
Molinari, hands clenched to fists to keep them from shaking, approached the creaking portal. The sight within the eight-by-ten foot cell took the breath from his lungs.
Huddled at the center of the rear wall, shivered a tiny wisp of a girl. Pale, with dark chestnut hair and the face of an angel, she clutched a ragdoll to her chest. Her white silk nightdress bore smudges and dirt where her knees had pressed it to the floor. Bare toes peeked out from the hem. A length of chain emerged from between her feet and curved around to the wall at her side where it secured to a ring.
Molinari’s heart beat in long, labored thuds as he glanced at a frayed bundle of rope on the right side of the room, and to a red velvet cord a little more than two feet in from the door. The child drew herself in tight. Faded bruises circling both wrists tugged at his heartstrings. Too-wide green eyes seemed to stare straight into his soul.
“What in the name of God is this?” Molinari caught himself yelling.
He made to rush in, but the priests grabbed his arms.
“Father, no,” yelled Renault. “It is a deceiver.”
“Do not step past the line.” Father Callini indicated the red cord. “That is as far as its claws can reach.”
Molinari threw them off, but held his ground. “What have you done? She is a child!”
“It is a beast.” Father Renault made the sign of the cross over himself.
“I will not be part of this madness.” Molinari again tried to approach, but the younger man held him back. “Release this child at once.”
“Father, look,” whispered Renault. “She smells your wound.”
His struggle with Callini ceased. Molinari glanced at his bandaged hand, at the blood soaked into the fabric. The child stared with rapt attention at the cloth. He moved his hand from side to side as if waving a treat at a dog. The girl tracked it as an earnestness took over her features. She shifted her weight, a light clatter of chain on stone accompanying the slight movement.
Father Callini took note of his testing the girl’s reaction and let go. Molinari entered the room, but stopped where the velvet rope crossed from wall to wall. He held out his injured hand. The child’s expression fell to a sad pout.
“Please, help me,” she whispered in French.
“It tries to deceive,” whispered Callini. “God will give you strength.”
Father Molinari’s face warmed with anger. “This cannot be. You are mistaken. What crime could such a small child have committed to be treated in such a manner?”
Callini reached in and unwound the bandage. The girl appeared transfixed by the dripping wound. Such silence permeated the room that the pat of a droplet striking stone seemed loud. She set her doll down and braced her hands flat against the stone on either side of her. Weak red luminescence lit her eyes. Her lips twitched and tiny fangs extended.
“No…” Molinari stared in horror as the child balanced up on her toes and slid forward onto her knees.
The chain dragged behind her as she crawled; small shackles intended for a woman’s wrists bound her ankles. She sniffed at the air for a second before she lunged, emitting a mixture of childish pleading mewls and angry canine growls. Her fingertips came within a half-inch of the demarcation after the tether cut her leap short. She could not get her face close to the droplets. After a few seconds of futile straining, the girl wiped at them with her hand and licked her palm.
Molinari took a step back, covering his mouth. Tears rolled from his eyes. Images of an arrogant Viennese man in a frilled collar, pale as death, cruel, and responsible for dozens of murders flashed through his mind. His laughter echoing at a party―the arrogant disdain with which he flung a dead woman from a bridge into the river, fanged mouth gaping open in the last seconds of his existence. How could God allow such a fate to befall an innocent?
The child whined and whimpered, reaching for Molinari. Glowing eyes faded and surged, as if a child and something else warred for control. She begged for help―it demanded food.
“It wants you to feel sorry for it,” said Renault. “We have been providin
g it cow and pig blood, but only enough to forestall a second death.”
“It looked startlingly close to alive when we found it.” Callini puffed up his chest, proud of himself. “We have determined that their power diminishes when they are deprived of the ability to gorge themselves.”
She whined, grabbing the stone and pulling herself into the tether a few times. Father Molinari glanced at the abandoned doll and crumbled a fist into his mouth, unable to stop crying. He lowered himself to a squat and reached his unhurt hand forward.
“Careful,” said Renault in a stern tone. He grasped Molinari’s shoulder as if ready to pull him back at a second’s notice.
The girl placed her tiny hand in his, skin cold as death. She gripped two of his fingers and stared into his eyes. “Please help me.”
He held her hand for a few minutes, unsure what to think. Every so often, she leaned in the direction of his wound and struggled at her chains. Molinari released her hand and stood.
“This defies all understanding. This cannot be. I wish to try an exorcism. Perhaps there is enough innocence left within her.”
“She’s d―” Father Renault withered away from Molinari’s glower. “Of course, Father.”
The girl shuffled backwards, chain jingling, and gathered her hands at her chin, cowering like a waif about to suffer a beating. It was the same pose she had been curled in when the door opened.
Father Renault closed and locked the cell after they backed out. Muted sobbing echoed through the stone hallway, clawing at Molinari’s heart.
***
Less than an hour later, Molinari led the way back to the cell in full mass regalia, flanked by Fathers Callini and Renault, also in their vestments. Renault bore a thurible, already lit and exuding incense. Callini carried an aspersorium of holy water. Frantic clattering in the cell silenced as their steps resonated through the underground passage.