Shadow & Light

by Stephen Ayer

  “The warlock is a werewolf.”

  Peter shook his head, remembering the brief glimpses of that haggard, whirling dervish of death. “Perhaps. But unlikely. They barely suffer Man into their ranks, a werebeast is out of the question.”

  Frank lent his eyes to the sprawling streets and looked for those with unusual gaits. “Still. How often does that happen? The few times I’ve run up against the mangy bastards they weren’t throwing hexes from their hands.”

  Peter smirked. “I should hope not. Otherwise this world has greater problems than delusional witches and their demon lapdogs.”

  Frank spotted a couple that looked off. “Nothing you couldn’t handle with enough silver.”

  “Truly.” Peter scanned the crowd for Agatha. He sighed. The purging in ages past led to the carnage of today, and he could not avoid how inescapable it all felt, an endless cycle that would prove the heathens right. It will not last forever. There will be an end to these hunts, this depravity. There’s always an end.

  “She’s there.” Frank pointed to a nearly invisible splotch in the distance, ambling down a sidewalk.

  “The woman with an umbrella?” said Peter, trying to follow the vampire’s finger to the spot.

  “Look how she walks. No one walks like that today.” The woman walked so smoothly it seemed her legs were not made of flesh, her chin high, her supple form weightless and ethereal against the frenetic, uncoordinated rush of mortal steps. “No one walks like that in the middle of the fuckin’ rain.”

  Peter marveled how the vampire’s eyes did not so much as even squint as he made his observation. “How did you spot that?”

  Frank turned to him. “Because that’s how you walk. Like you run shit. I’d bet both of you have got some pretty old habits that not even time can shake out.” The vampire thought of his own habits. How he was born in rain and mud, raised in the spray of sea and blood and wondered if he carried more of the brutishness of his previous life or the unnatural grace of his unlife.

  Peter looked at him, stared forward and then laughed heartily. “A fine call. Her habit was a predilection for heralding ruin wherever she tread.” He looked back to the vampire. “Things have not changed. She means to bring her heathen city back to life, Frank.”

  “Doesn’t sound world ending.”

  “Of course not. It would suit her pride little to be goddess of nothing. She needs subjects. Subjects require submission. And submission requires—”

  “Enslavement. Death. Got it.” Frank watched Agatha and what he presumed to be Aphon walking in the light drizzle of the night, their bodies silhouetted against the neon glow of the wet pavement as they came into view of a nightclub. He looked to Peter. “Why did she come here?”

  Peter paused for a moment and then spoke. “The intersection of ley lines makes witchcraft most potent on this isle.”

  “Ok, but she and the demon just got away from a slaughter across the continent... and the first thing they do is go to the club.”

  “Because the ritual must continue...” Peter said aloud, observing the thick masses of people crowding near the club entrance. Dark implications rose over the vampire’s heart as he saw strange, near imperceptible light begin to form above the club. Sacrifice. Peter grabbed Frank by the scruff of his jacket. “There isn’t time to waste! Come!”

  The two bounded onto the building below, running across the moonlit rooftops to Club Paradis, unaware of the wild eyes and flaming hearts that haunted their shadows.

  ***

  Frank led through the crowd while Peter followed. It was a forest of umbrellas they walked through, with a few unwary club goers holding their jackets above their heads to the cold rains. The vampire’s mouth salivated when he stuck his hands out, lightly grazing the exposed legs of the women. Even in this dire weather, the urge to flaunt among the youth was irrepressible. Frank’s ghostly light and cold hands landed where they may, below short skirts, above bare midriffs, the sensation of warm, vital flesh stirring his instincts to feed.

  Their soft skin, the wet drizzle down his own, the bright glare of yellows mixed with muted greens from the club front, the heady fragrance of nicotine mingled with the crowd’s lusty pheromones, all were a feast for his heightened senses. His eyes drank in white fabrics awash in green light, a form fitting purple dress that morphed into some indistinct shade under the illumination, and all the men, their blue and brown shirts rendered into some off-shade of black.

  Peter shirked from the ambling masses, unused to being so near to the throngs of humanity after treading distant realms for so long. Frank blended into the swaying crowd like a jungle predator stalking through tall, man shaped blades of grass.

  The vampire had spent the century acclimating to modern life, killing and feeding in the filth and blood swept gutters of humanity. These times almost seemed easier than ages past to visit misfortune upon the innocent, the people were trusting, the horses were mechanical and those who knew what lurked in the dark were dead and scattered.

  Frank came to the front of the line, much to shouts of dismay and grumbles of complaint. That is what Frank cherished most. Despite their protest, the modern men did nothing to check the injustices waged against them. They were comfortable and had too much to lose in their comfort. He looked up and saw the light board ran in digitized letters, ‘Retro Night!!!’.

  Frank furrowed his brow when the bulky form of a bouncer blocked his way. “No ladies, no entry.” he rumbled. He looked to be a man approaching mid age. The faded scar under his jaw and the skull tattoos around the bulge of his biceps bespoke of a man who had seen much in life.

  Frank had seen more.

  Peter waited behind Frank nervously, hoping his undead colleague would not do anything too violent. At least not before the eyes of unsuspecting mankind.

  “I don’t have one. Let us in.” said Frank, his stare going through the bouncer and gazing blankly into the lighted darkness of the club behind.

  The bouncer laughed and stepped aside to let a mixed company of men and women inside. “Piss off or come back with a bird.” His gaze turned to Peter and a crooked smile broke on his face. “That one doesn’t count.”

  The angel bristled and said nothing, but the vampire stepped forward without a word, kicking out the man’s knees and twisting his wrist past its limit with a sickening snap. The bouncer shouted in pain and was kicked head first to the curb before he could scream anymore. Blood ran like a broken cask of red wine down the stone pavement from his shattered nose.

  Frank turned to back to crowd, many of whom hadn’t noticed the violent incident, lost in conversation, while those that did stared in shock at the bouncer’s prostrate body. “Let’s have a good time!” he shouted to the crowd before stepping past into the cacophony of light and sound of the club.

  Peter stepped over the bouncer’s body, pleased to see his chest heaving with life and looked back at the crowd, puzzled so few had ventured into the establishment. Some chattered excitedly to each other, while others spared the bouncer furtive looks, pondering if they had the courage to go forward with their barrier removed. That none moved to help the bouncer made the angel sigh.

  “What is this place?” shouted Peter over the wall shaking music. His eyes drifted to an illuminated counter, the wall behind it gemmed with a hundred different liquors, each one gleaming in precious reds, greens and golds. Some sort of pub... but not. The angel noticed the place was littered with women so brazenly dressed they would have put the harlots of the eighteenth century to shame, if they had any. It’s too many to be a brothel... Two women bumped into the angel with their backs, cackling loud and holding each other for support, their flabby arms and billowing rolls of fat from the hip arousing nothing but distaste. And too many unfit for whoredom. The press of sounds, colors, darkness and light and the cornucopia of satin flesh grazing against him gave the holy servant the feeling of drowning in a hellish abyss.

  Frank grabbed a shot glass off of a nearby woman, much to her dismay. “A
h... it’s like... like what they used to call taverns back in the day, but better!”

  Peter shook his head. He didn’t like taverns either. To his delight he observed no rough men looking to paint the walls and tables red, but time had seemingly supplanted one sin with another.

  The vampire was in his element and scanned the crowd. Humanity seemed to blur into a black, crawling mass, a horde of shadows set against flashing bands of glaring cobalt light, passionate stripes of electric red and glowing flickers of lusty orange points. He melded through them as easily as one might walk down an empty sidewalk, while the angel behind elicited every note and flavor of discontent with each hapless sheep he bumped into.

  Movement was key. Frank looked across the room once more, watching couples and groups chatter in booths below him, their faces underlit from diffused white light centered on their tables. Most in the club ambled and swayed like elephants going to the grave, looking for one last high note, either in a drink or a woman before heading off to rest.

  Two moved with purpose. Not two fuzzy gray shapes against the vibrant garish light, nervously and frantically groping each other for a drunken bathroom escapade, but two who walked with sobriety in their step and purpose in their stride. The vampire remembered he oft walked like that after deciding on who to kill for the night.

  “Did you find them?” shouted Peter.

  Frank nodded. “Heading up to the VIP lounge, on the stairs!” He pointed out the witch and her demon. Aphon’s host looked more drawn and strung out than ever, the patina of plundered youth slowly fraying around the edges of his face. Agatha on the other hand, carried herself with icy poise, with not a single strand of her rich raven black locks misplaced across her face nor down her lithe back.

  Her beauty was not like that of the platinum witch he encountered in the manor, whose near celestial appearance moved his cold heart to burn with ancient passion. Agatha still looked like she could have sprung from this world, just not from this time.

  “They need to get to the roof for the portal!” shouted Peter. Frank nodded and the two hurried their way through the crowd until coming underneath the overhang of the lounge, where the darkness was fathomable and the music was dimmed. “I think—” he said slightly louder than he needed to, and then adjusted, “I think your... Emir... is here.”

  Frank put his hand around the grip of the gun stowed in his jeans. “What you sense him or something?”

  Peter nodded. “A slight twinge when we were outside and a greater force still once we came inside. His aura is quite strong. It’s interesting to feel a djinn presence after so long, the Children of the Flame are much alike to Man in th-”

  “Yeah ok shut up. There’s probably going to be another bouncer, but in a place like this, no one will notice his body.”

  Peter frowned at his rebuke and sorely wished he could ash him for his insolence. The demon will have to do. He walked past Frank, urging him forward. “I have a better idea. Follow me.”

  The angel strode towards the bouncer guarding the chain to the stairs as if he belonged up there, prompting the man to brace himself. Frank trailed behind Peter, flexing his fingers for when it all went wrong. Until it went right. The angel reached up to the man’s face and then he collapsed.

  The two stepped over the chain and ascended the steps. “Damn nice trick.” said Frank as he pulled his gun out, taking the safety off.

  “Why cause unnecessary pain?” said Peter as he opened the doors into the opulent lounge. Frank had an answer, but not one suitable for his present company.

  None bothered to turn their heads to the angel or the vampire, the place so dark and lit in dismal hues of gold and violet that the two blended into the smokey shadows. One drunken playboy poured champagne into the glasses of his circle of admirers, uncaring as the bubbly stuff overflowed their glasses and spilled onto their fingers. Other men sat with ladies in their laps, laughing over tables.

  Frank caught the eyes of a voluptuous woman in blue, alone and giving him the most overt invitation possible. I’ve always liked the taste of prostitutes. The vampire smirked and kept his eyes roving.

  Another woman, drunk and fumbling, had clawed onto Peter’s arm, slurring whispers into his ear. The angel, clad in his white jacket and immaculate undershirt gave the impression of a somebody. He was, just not for her. Peter pushed her face away with such gentility it was like he had dismissed a pesky cloud.

  “I see ‘em.” Frank spotted the duo making their way to a door at the very end of the room. Bringing his pistol up, he fired at Aphon, winging him behind the knee as a plume of foul blood sprayed against the multicolored wall. Gun smoke rose in the air in tandem with frightened screams.

  The demon collapsed while Peter and Frank bounded down the room, knocking people over, tables and lights. Both ducked down as Agatha seemingly ‘threw’ the shadows of the room in a sweeping horizontal blade of seething darkness.

  Those unfortunate enough not to duck were laced in its all consuming vacuum and screamed in silence as the abyss consumed them, their bodies rent apart into showers of black spectral flakes. Frank launched up from his feet and emptied his clip at the witch.

  Many of the rounds diverted and smashed into the lights behind her. For those that didn’t, her blinding speed was more than enough. Frank growled in anger and wound his arm up with such force as to dash her brains against the wall with a single pistol whip.

  That too, was not to be. Just as his brandished fist sailed through the air, she became a blur of ivory and cosmic shadow. “Vekthos au Lilili!” he heard spoken through hushed lips, so fast that he only heard the spaces in between the words by dint of his advanced hearing. Silken fingers raked through his shirt, drawing curdled blood and running down her nails like streams from a sundered heart down temple steps.

  Frank coughed in pain and noticed that with each painful exhale, frosted air and tendrils of shadow left his lips. “Make another move, Child of Lilith, and you will go to a deeper and darker hell than the one you’re destined for.” said Agatha. She pulled the vampire up by the neck and held him close, while Aphon and Peter were at a stand-still, both of their guns drawn.

  “The game is up, fair angel. I thought you would have learned by now. The demon lives by his will, not your bullet.” said the witch as she traced a lone nail across the vampire’s throat. Frank felt stiff and aching. It was hard for his face or limbs to move, as if his bloodstream had become as rigid as his bones.

  “That was then, this is now.” said Peter, focusing his aim on the demon’s head. “I don’t think he can pull off another miracle. Maybe you can. You just don’t know if you should... if your angry lapdog is worth all the effort...”

  Agatha’s voice was as cold as her skin. “Shoot my pet and you shall lose yours.” Aphon spared the witch a glare of utter hate. “Drop the weapon.” Frank smirked when he sensed a faster heartbeat from the witch. Heh. The jig is up bitch.

  Peter kept his eyes locked on the demon. “Go ahead. Whether he lives or dies will not change your fate, witch.”

  A new voice penetrated into the darkness. “Kill him and I’d kill you all out of principle.” Frank knew that tenor. Through pools of shadow in the back of the lounge materialized coils of smoky darkness and eyes rimmed with ancient flame.

  Navras walked into the light with a dozen men. Ah. A cluster fuck. Love these. Like Frank had remembered, they had a most human appearance but for the subtle plays of light that danced across their irises. The prince carried a sawed-off shotgun, but fashioned in the strange and bizarre bronzed stylings characteristic of the djinn aesthetic.

  His men fanned out while the Emir relaxed against a shot up pool table, resting his weapon in his lap. “My, my. An angel, a witch... and the damned. I could leave you all to it, but I won’t.” He pointed a finger at Agatha. “The flesh you hold belongs to me.”

  Agatha smiled with artificial politeness. “I don’t give up what’s mine.” Her other hand swept upon the vampire’s shoulder like an ethe
real wrap.

  Navras chuckled and looked at his men. “The arrogance of witches. As strong as ever.” His voice dripped with venom and his gaze turned to the vampire. “He’s wronged my family. And so much more. Die with him or step aside.” He slumped off from the pool table and pointed the shotgun at Frank. “It would be so easy...”

  Ask Issam how easy it was -oh- Frank saw djinn in the back slam in clips, the glow of the magazines stinging his eyes with ultraviolet light. Fuck. Ultraviolet rounds were a rarity, products of ancient alchemy and modern design. Frank knew of only one group that had perfected them.

  If I get out, gonna have to bury some Illuminus boys.

  Agatha looked to the demon, the two sharing a glance before she returned her stare to Navras. “You keep strange possessions, little prince. I’m not sure this one would fare you any better.”

  “Shut your mouth, bitch!” He took another step to Frank, his finger tensing on the trigger. “I have traveled too long and suffered too much to be denied justice!”

  “So have I.” rumbled a tremendous voice from, its timbre thrumming with sheer power. From above crashed the Seeker. The wild man kicked the prince into the pool table so hard as to split its side into splinters and then swiped Frank to the ground, leaving Agatha exposed.

  Here we go.

  At once the room exploded into chaos. Aphon, having exerted more of his unnatural force over his leg wound, leaped up with demonic vigor, screaming and shooting. Peter staggered into a jukebox, rippling with yellow neon hues as the demon winged him in the shoulder, sending a back spray of crimson across the machine’s liquid light.

  Navras’s men opened fire with their curious weapons, pelting the Seeker and Aphon with a mix of hot bronzed slugs and ultraviolet bullets, brightening the darkness in a hail of explosive light.

  The rounds diverted when they came to Agatha, ripping apart the ceiling and deflecting into Frank’s prone body. Son of a bitch! The specialized ammunition hit him in the shoulder and legs but ashed enough of flesh as to make him shake and quiver.