by Roh Morgon
As we move into the open to the left of the barn, in the not-too-far distance is a hillside covered in a dense oak forest. Behind it, more such hills.
“I checked with my friend, and he said there are quite a number of deer in there.”
This guy thinks of everything.
“I won’t be gone long.” Anticipation vibrates through my body. The red veil drops over my vision and my fangs descend, eager and ready. By my reckoning, it’s been twelve days since I last hunted.
“Enjoy yourself. You deserve it.” Colin smiles.
I’m sure the sound barrier breaks when I take off.
TUESDAY
CHAPTER 64
I arch my body, barely avoiding a kick in the ribs, only to open it up to a second one on the other side. It connects with a solid thunk, jarring the air from my lungs with a loud grunt. I wince and duck away from a third kick, then lash out with one of my own. Failing to land it, I throw up my hands in surrender and rub my freshly bruised side.
Damn, he’s fast.
Colin never ceases to amaze me. Mister Mild-Mannered Attorney transforms into a lethal martial arts fighting machine during our training sessions. Though most would not consider him a big guy, he carries enough muscle mass to unleash a storm of hurt without being stocky. Instead, his taut physique—no doubt honed by the workout equipment at his office—combined with lightning-fast reflexes, ensures he can likely hold his own in any fight, no matter the size of his opponent.
“Let’s take a break. You did well.” Colin pads barefooted across the barn. In his white sleeveless T-shirt and karate pants, he certainly looks more like a professional fighter than a lawyer.
“What, by moving right into your last two kicks?”
He laughs.
“The last two of a series of nine. Your skills have greatly improved this past week.”
“Thanks.”
It’s been three weeks since I woke up in the barn, killing everything that moved with no awareness of what it was. I once again shudder as I try not to imagine human bodies lying on the straw-covered floor.
As promised, Colin’s been teaching me how to fight. We’ve set up the barn as a training center, complete with workout and martial arts equipment at one end, leaving the remaining area open for sparring.
The workout equipment surprised me when it first appeared here, just as it did when I saw it at Colin’s offices. With our supernatural speed and strength, I wouldn’t think working out would make any difference in our abilities. According to Colin, it doesn’t. At least against humans. With Chosen, on the other hand, he says keeping the body fit with physical practice can make the difference between life and death.
What a lovely society I’ve entered.
Colin walks toward the door.
“I need to get a few things from my car. I’ll meet you at the house.”
The house.
That’s been the best part yet. Apparently his friend only uses the Bear Creek property part-time, and was happy to rent it out for a few months. With Alina’s approval, I moved in after she agreed that I’d held up my end of the deal. I live here alone, and am free to come and go as I please—Alina even returned my BMW—as long as I continue my training with Colin.
Heading to the rambling two-story, I wonder how much longer that’ll last. I’m anxious to get started on my search for Nicolas.
The last time I asked Colin about it, he chided me for my impatience, reminding me that I’m learning in weeks what most Chosen take years to learn. He said he’s taking as many shortcuts as he can, but there is much more I need to know before I venture off on my own.
And he’s right. I still have some work to do on managing both my physical and emotional reactions. The nightly meditations are paying off—through an awareness of my body I’ve never had before, I’ve finally mastered control over the physical mechanism that releases the damn bloodtears. I won’t miss them a bit.
The fang drop has proven a bit more difficult.
Stepping inside the house, I glance around, wondering if we’re going to use my laptop that’s set up in the small office next to the living room, or work at the dining room table.
My question is answered when Colin comes in the back door carrying several file boxes. Rolls of what look to be blueprints are tucked under one arm. He heads into the dining room, dumps the rolls on the table, and sets the boxes on the floor.
Curious, I watch as he slips the rubber band from one of the rolls and shoves the others down to the end of the table where they’re trapped against a chair.
I reach down to hold one end of the paper as he unfurls it.
It’s not a blueprint.
It’s a map.
A giant map of Europe, with red and green markings inked on it, like something you’d see in a war room.
Europe.
Oh shit.
He starts talking as I stare at the map. Many of the major cities bear symbols in either red or green.
Rome. Moscow. Frankfurt. Paris.
Paris.
Where Gilles and Katarina are based.
Terror races up my spine and outward, immobilizing every muscle in its wake.
An eternity of training—let alone a few weeks or months—can’t prepare me for that, for facing them.
“Sunny. Are you listening?”
“I… I’m sorry. What did you say?”
I can’t stop staring at that word. It’s such a simple word. Only five letters. The symbol next to it, one I don’t recognize, is in red.
Fingers grip my chin and yank it to the side. Colin’s gaze bores into me.
“Get a hold of yourself. You can do this.”
“No, I can’t,” I whisper.
All I can see in my mind is a head in a large, blood-filled jar, screaming soundlessly over and over.
Not just any head.
My head.
SATURDAY
CHAPTER 65
The San Francisco fog slithers and curls around us as we drive through dimly lit streets, its murky mood constantly shifting. Some nights it lies heavy, lazy, blanketing the whole city with sluggish mist that refuses to give way before even the brightest lights. Other nights, like tonight, it prowls, restless and secretive, hiding an entire block for long minutes before revealing its prize and slithering away to capture the next. At the moment, grey gloom clings to the warehouses we’re passing along the waterfront, its fringes backlit with an eerie glow from the surrounding city lights.
Colin guides the Aston Martin into an alley between two graffiti-marked buildings and, after several turns, pulls into a nearly filled parking area protected by more buildings. Approaching headlights from several other alleys bounce through the fog, creating a crazy kaleidoscope of blue- and yellow-toned beams interlaced with black shadows. He parks next to a tan Maserati and, glancing at me, shuts off the ignition.
A uniformed security guard, toting an Uzi, nods his head to us as he strolls by. I note several others wandering the grounds, their watchful gazes roaming over the expensive steel-and-chrome under their care.
We watch for several moments as a steady stream of figures pass between the cars, heading toward a spotlighted warehouse to our left, their graceful strides labeling them as Chosen. Most are well-dressed, matching the shiny machines they arrived in. Others appear more working class, though none are shabby by middle-class standards.
Colin clears his throat.
“Shall we?” he asks, his eyebrows raised.
I nod and he exits the car, buttoning his tailored knee-length coat and adjusting the fedora perched on his head as he walks around to my side. He’s looking pretty dapper himself tonight.
Opening my door, he reaches out to assist me and I accept, enjoying being treated like a lady for a change. As he closes it, I straighten the black cocktail dress he’d advised me to wear and smooth back the blonde strands of hair that have already managed to escape the low bun resting on the nape of my neck.
Blonde. Still kinda freaks me ou
t when I spot it out of the corner of my eye. I never have liked myself as a blonde. But when Colin handed me the box of dye, I didn’t argue. Disguises are something I understand.
Guess I look more like a Sunny now, though on his advice I’m going to stay Sonya for a while.
Offering his arm, he pauses as I take it, then guides me between the parked cars toward the warehouse. I keep an eye on the rough ground, trying to avoid catching a stiletto heel in one of the many cracks in the asphalt. But my attention is increasingly drawn to the door we’re approaching. Varying tones of chatter and laughter, escorted by bright light, escape into the surrounding darkness each time the door opens to admit a Chosen. I try to catch a glimpse of how many might be inside the huge building, and feel a twinge of anxiety when we climb the concrete steps and it’s our turn to enter.
Not unlike Nicolas, Colin has opted to keep me in the dark about our destination tonight. At first I thought we might be going to the theater, or even the opera, as he was fairly explicit on how I should dress. But our current surroundings in the warehouse district has me scratching my head over what the evening has in store for us.
The crowd noise grows louder as we cross the threshold onto a wide, concrete landing—noise that’s coming from several hundred Chosen sitting in stadium-style seating all around the cavernous room. We’ve entered near the bottom, though there are a few tiers below us.
But what grabs my attention is the huge, steel-barred fight cage in the center of the floor.
This one’s different from any I’ve seen on late-night TV when I was desperately seeking some relief from boredom. It seems to have more sides than a standard fight cage—I count nine rather than the normal eight. Narrowly spaced bars form the inner arena which is surrounded by an outer perimeter of plexiglass. It’s also much bigger and the top is covered in bars as well, though they’re more widely spaced. The two entrances at either side of the arena are boxed in by smaller, steel-barred holding cells.
The sturdiness of this cage indicates its fighters are not mere humans. I suspect they operate under a completely different set of rules as well.
I’ve never watched any kind of fight in its entirety. In the past, when the beast and the hunter still lurked in my head, I’d find myself growing hungry and agitated as they yearned to throw themselves through the TV screen and tangle with a prey that could potentially offer a satisfying struggle. I haven’t bothered trying watch any since then.
“Our seats are on the other side.” Colin ushers me ahead of him to a section with violet seats, then down to the sixth row from the bottom. “Pardon us,” he says several times as we squeeze past bent knees, both cloth-covered and bare, and avoid stepping on polished wingtips and sandaled toes.
I focus on blocking out the sights and sounds, using my meditation skills to stay calm, as I’ve never been around so many Chosen. Hell, I haven’t been around this many people of any kind since I was so roughly inducted into this life nearly six years ago.
“Here we are.” Colin stops, waiting until I’m in my seat before taking his own.
We’re sitting just above the cage top, giving us a perfect view down into the center of its rubber-matted floor.
“I thought it would be valuable to see how other Chosen fight. You’re familiar with my style, but you need to learn how to analyze the techniques of different fighters so you can better defend yourself.”
And here I thought we were taking a nice, quiet night off for the opera.
My gaze drifts around to examine the audience.
As I noted in the parking lot, most are well-dressed Chosen, both male and female. Their buzzing anticipation seems fueled in spots by the exchange of money. Empty seats are rare, and as I continue to survey the room, I realize the multi-tiered seating is arranged in triangular sections terminating at the cage in the center. Each section, including the seats and painted concrete floors, bears a unique color—a color also reflected in the auras of The Chosen seated within.
So many auras so close together creates a bizarre, unsettling shimmer over the whole crowd. I’m unable to distinguish the individual energy signatures any farther than about twenty feet away, and even trying to do so with those nearby makes my eyes and head hurt.
They all seem to bear the amber common to the lineage, but the second color varies by section. Bright yellow, coral, and brown, as well as several shades of blue and green create a haze around the seated Chosen. Violet seems to occur only in those Chosen in our area, which is painted violet as well.
The amber-colored section is more ornate than the others, constructed with several wide carpeted landings rather than rows of seats. Low tables surrounded by plush armchairs dot the landings; a bar inhabits the uppermost level. Although the section’s décor is a little gaudy for Nicolas’s standards, this is certainly where he would sit.
If he was here.
“What’s the significance of the different section colors?” I ask.
“They represent the nine Elders. Audience members are seated in their Elder’s section and the fighters wear shorts corresponding to their Elder’s color. As you can see—”
The rest of his words fade away as a low hum fills the room, silencing the surrounding conversation and laughter. The hum grows louder, and beneath its vibration, a deep electronic thump-thump begins to build, dominating all other sound.
It sounds like a beating heart. A human heart.
The thump-thump increases in speed as red lasers shoot down from the ceiling, enclosing both audience and arena in twin curtains of tightly spaced beams. Crimson light pulses down the beams, mimicking the racing rhythm of human fear.
The mock rain of blood sends the crowd to their feet, roaring. I resist the impulse to join them as explosive violence surges within my veins.
The beat shifts into a drumroll, its hammering sound now joined by that of blaring trumpets and horns—traditional fanfare music. Spotlights shine onto a red-carpeted aisle leading from the arena to black draperies set within an opening in the concrete wall.
The draperies part, and two attractive human brunettes in short, red-sequined dresses enter with the exaggerated gaits of runway models. Glittering garnets encircle their throats and wrists. The women’s images splash across giant ceiling-suspended flat-screens as the downpour of bloody light drains away to a trickle and disappears.
But instead of the catcalls and whistles I’d normally expect in such a testosterone-fueled setting, low growls and hisses rise from the watching crowd.
They don’t want to screw the women. They want to eat them.
These are the only humans here, I realize. Nervous tension adds itself to the knots twisting my muscles.
I hope like hell the spectacle I’m about to witness doesn’t include a human bloodbath.
“Breathe, Sunny. Calm yourself.” Colin’s stern voice brings me back to familiar ground and I focus on re-establishing control.
“Thanks. This is a bit… overwhelming.”
“Adapting to unfamiliar situations is a critical survival skill. You need to assess rather than react. Not only will it make the difference between whether you live or die, it also allows you to maintain the detachment necessary to repress your reactions.”
Nodding, I shift my attention back to the unfolding show.
The women, followed by the spotlights, head to a raised steel platform between the fight cage and the amber section. They climb the stairs and take positions at either end of a long table covered with a pristine white tablecloth. A microphone on a stand occupies the center of the platform
The spotlights over the entrance again flare to life and a new round of procession music fills the air. A stately Chosen male, in semi-formal black-tie wear and a top hat, walks through the curtain, followed by three more males in less formal dress. Each of the three assistants carries a silver tray supporting a massive gold award belt encrusted with bright-colored gems.
The procession makes its way to the platform. The lead Chosen stops at the microph
one while the assistants arrange the belts on the table. When they’re finished, the assistants head back down the stairs with their trays and disappear behind the black draperies.
“Good evening.” The announcer’s voice echoes over the loudspeakers and the audience responds with cheers and applause. “Welcome to the One-Hundred-and-Fiftieth Supreme Fighter Championships. Tonight’s finals are the culmination of this year’s series, a year in which we’ve witnessed some of the most exciting fights in our history.
“The fighters tonight are the Division One finalists in all three weight classes. Please join me in welcoming them to the West Coast and the NorCal SFC Arena.”
As the crowd responds, Colin leans over to me.
“The divisions are by age,” he says when the applause dies down. “The lower two divisions are under fifty years of age and fifty to one hundred fifty. Division One is for those over one hundred fifty years old.”
“Are you saying that once someone has reached that age, their physical abilities no longer increase?”
“No. They do. But typically Chosen lose interest in such activities once they reach a certain age, viewing them as nothing more than pointless displays of juvenile aggression.”
Peering around at the standing-room-only venue, I’d guess that either this would be considered a “young” crowd, or not all Chosen feel that way, no matter what their age.
The announcer continues with short biographies of each fighter, but they mean nothing to me. I’m more interested in what Colin has to say.
“So what prevents someone from claiming they’re younger?”
“If they don’t have documentation from their Maker, they’re automatically placed in Division One. It’s a risky venture—a fighter much younger than a hundred and fifty won’t last long. The weight classes are more straightforward, though a fighter does have the option to move to a heavier class if he wishes. But once he does that, he cannot move back, so very few attempt to fight beyond their weight limit.”