“Come down to meet your death, fiends,” Manus cried up to them. He was gravely maimed, and knew that he would bleed out soon. He would not survive the night, but much of the night would not survive either.
“I've met mine already,” Rua said.
James shrugged. “Eh, I can wait.”
“What's that?” Manus asked, staring at the cross. “Is that a blood warden in our midst?”
James stood tall. “You're damn right.”
“Not damned at all then,” the Stalker replied, though it was a struggle for him to talk. His fellow fighters caught him as he stumbled. “I can rest easy.”
The Order of Nails retreated, taking their fallen leader with them, and also several dozen Torture Cubes, packed tight. Those who were dust on the grasses got off lightly.
Boxer from the Favoured Fangs swaggered out of the castle and wrapped his arms around Rua and James, pulling them close. “Well, it's been fun,” he said. “Give us a shout the next war you're fightin'. And try not to have so much good china.” He took a broken shard out of his pocket and flicked it into the air. “That's temptin', that.”
Any surviving members of his gang followed him out. Neither Rua nor James had the strength to stop them, nor the will to fight. There had been too much death dealt at Umbra Montis already.
“So this is how it ends,” Rua said, looking around.
James caught her gaze. “Or how it begins.”
44
The Blood Cull
The fall of the Kavanagh clan had led to many unwritten rules being broken, including the so-called “blood quota” that kept the vampire numbers down. The O'Neills were not alone in turning new vampires; other families did it too, some in open, others in secret, fearful that they would be caught without an army in the impending war. The result was over a thousand new vampires operating in Dublin alone, with many more throughout the country.
James set out on a mission to cull these numbers, to restore the balance. He was not alone in this, for the government's secretive Project Dandelion agency, and the Order of Nails, set out on their own hunting sprees. Yet it was James who proved most successful, for his power inspired a legend to unfold, which spread as fast as the plague of vampires did. It spoke of some key moments, witnessed by a few, and told to all.
Those moments happened when James rescued some tourists in the Temple Bar area from a gang of newly-turned vampires. These fiends were weak, but stronger than humans, and very thirsty. James leapt down from the roof of a nearby pub, holding aloft the Cross of St. Benedict.
“A brave one,” the lead vampire said. He snarled.
“A healthy one,” another added, licking her lips.
James had not left much of a mark on the lower echelons of occult society yet, but he was about to. These vampires were too fresh to have heard of him, too full of the ideals of eternal life. They hadn't yet heard of eternal death.
One of the vampires raced towards James, claws at the ready. His speed would have made the normal eyes of a human question what they had just seen, but James saw it all. He held out the cross before him like a shield, then pulled it back and punched forward.
The vampire halted, his face ashen, his mouth agape. He trembled and looked down, where he saw the shape of the cross cut straight through him. From where James was standing, he could see the figures of the other vampires through the hole.
The vampire turned to dust mid-collapse, and the others fled in all directions, climbing up buildings, running down streets. Yet before the lead vampire could escape, James fired the cross at him. As it cascaded across, the end of it sharpened, and it pierced the back of the creature, tearing into its heart and turning it to dust even as it continued to run, then stumble, away.
The cross struck the ground with a clang, rocking back and forth until it settled. It was far away now, far enough for another vampire, stalking across the rooftops, to notice. It launched itself down, ready to strike. Then something happened that James did not expect. He held his hand out for the cross, as if it was within reach, and suddenly it rose into the air and came back like a boomerang into his grasp. The assaulting vampire froze just a second before James dusted it as well.
Then James looked at his arm, and he saw a ghostly arm melding with it. He felt a presence, strong and powerful, and knew that it was Lorcan. How, he could not say, and it seemed that Lorcan had no spectral voice with which to speak. He simply extended his arm for James, using his telekinetic powers to return the cross to him.
So it was on future occasions, as James continued the cull. He launched the cross, and it came back. He held it aloft, and the weaker, fresher vampires were rent asunder by it. He made a slashing motion a metre away from them, and they were sliced in half. He made a stabbing motion just out of reach, and it was as if they had been staked by hand. None of this worked on the stronger vampires of the Five Families, who were much more resilient, but it made James a legend among the occult world, someone to be respected, and someone to be feared.
45
The Board Reset
When the next Red Council was called, the surviving members of all Five Families were present. The O'Connors didn't have quite so many banners, and the O'Neills didn't have quite so many kin.
Rua sat upon her throne, as regal as ever, clutching her sceptre, letting the faint light shine upon her crown.
At her side sat James. He held her hand like Lorcan did, and through it, it seemed that Lorcan held it too.
“This is against tradition,” Ioana Danesti said. Her family stood in disgust around her, arms folded, faces dour.
“We'll make a new tradition,” Rua replied.
James smiled. “Our new perfect marriage.”
“The vampire world will never accept this. They'll fight you.”
James flicked the fingers of his left hand at the cross perched at his side. “I've never been more ready for a fight.”
* * *
The End
Explore the Hibernian Hollows further in the novel Hibernian Charm, featured in the Gypsies After Dark box set.
www.deanfwilson.com
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About the Author
Dean F. Wilson was born in Dublin, Ireland in 1987. He started writing at age 11. He is the author of the Children of Telm epic fantasy trilogy, the Great Iron War steampunk dystopian series, the Coilhunter Chronicles science-fiction western series, and the Hibernian Hollows urban fantasy series.
Read More from Dean F. Wilson
https://www.amazon.com/Dean-F.-Wilson/e/B007O05FEU/
www.deanfwilson.com
Dawn of the Infected
A prequel to the Hybrid Chronicles
Eileen Cruz Coleman
Dawn of the Infected © 2017 Eileen Cruz Coleman
All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.
Dawn of the Infected
Never Surrender. Not Now. Not Ever.
For twenty-three-year-old start-up tech company CEO Selena Martinez, it was just another uneventful early morning bus commute from her cottage in rural Southern Maryland to her office in Washington, D.C.
But when her bus is suddenly attacked by a horde of crazed savages, Selena becomes immersed in a
world of terror and confusion, where she must learn to survive on her own smarts and skills she never dreamed she possessed. Selena is a fighter, but even someone as strong-willed and determined as she needs a little help during an apocalypse.
That help comes in the form of a mysterious man who seemingly appears from nowhere and saves her from certain death. Selena will soon learn that she was saved for a very special reason, and that she may, in fact, hold the answer to saving the world.
Perfect for fans of angels, witches, vampires, zombies, and fae.
Chapter One
March 2
It’s been six months since it all began. We’re still fighting and some days I’m not sure if we’re winning or losing. I’m getting stronger and learning to use my power more and more. I can control it now and I’m teaching others like me how to control and use their powers. I’m hopeful that one day I will know what to do with what’s written inside the journal. I still don’t know who left it for me. There are many things I still don’t know. Like who I really am. In time, the answers will come, I’m sure of it. But until that day, I will continue fighting the darkness that has overtaken the earth. It wants me to lie down and die. But I won’t. Not now. Not ever. I have decided to document as much as I can so that if I do die, and someone finds this, it will help him or her continue the battle. If you find this, don’t give up, keep fighting. Never surrender.
This is how my story begins…
A spider crawls on my leg, trailing the blood that is now trickling down my thigh. I brush it off, but a second spider engorged with another passenger’s blood, climbs on my calf and speedily ascends to my thigh. I flick it off with my finger. It lands on an old woman’s bruised face and then jumps onto the floor, scurrying down the aisle as if insulted that I thought it had any interest in feasting on the dead.
I rest my head on the back door and stare at the carnage in front of me. Body parts are everywhere, scattered on the floor and seats. The scene looks like the aftermath of a detonated grenade. My stomach turns, threatening to erupt if I don’t look away. I cover my face with my hands and scream, hoping to rouse anyone who may still be alive.
I sit very still, listening for any replies, a whimper, a moan, a whisper, anything that will let me know I’m not the only one left.
I hear nothing but my own breathing, heavy and rapid.
I know I should get up and out of this catacomb bus, but I’m petrified. They could be out there hiding in the veiled light of dawn, waiting to strike me down like a lion on a zebra foal that has strayed from his mother.
I bite at my nails, grinding my teeth as if I’m chewing a hard piece of jerky. If I was religious, I’d get on my knees and pray.
I lie on my stomach and clamber underneath a seat. I’m not hurt or bitten and the blood on my leg is from an open scab, the result of a bike accident a few days ago. If only I was in the city and had ridden my bike to work today.
I rub my forehead and temples, hoping to conjure clarity about what to do next. I bring my knees to my chest and hug my shins tightly. I slow my breathing, attempting to calm my nerves long enough to give me the courage to stand and flee.
I scream again. Somebody has to be alive. I listen, my ears perked like an eavesdropper who's suddenly heard mention of her name.
I close my eyes in defeat. It’s true. I’m the only one alive. Okay, time to accept it and make a plan. I’ll exit the bus. I won't be afraid. I’ve never been afraid of anything.
My name is Selena. I’m twenty-three years old and I’m the CEO of a start-up tech company which I started in my bedroom when I was fifteen years old. I go after what I want and I don’t let anything or anyone stand in my way. And what I want right now is to get out of this bus and get home.
A tingling sensation on my arm causes me to open my eyes. The spiders are back, three of them this time. They inch up my arm and around my elbow. I smack them as hard as I can with the palm of my hand, rubbing off their gooey remains on the front of my shirt.
The early morning sun shines through the windows, completely unveiling the massacre that our attackers left behind.
It’s time for me to go. If I don’t get up from the floor now, this minute, I may never leave. Fear will win. I’ll die on this bus in the company of the slaughtered.
With my heart now sprinting, I peek from under the seat, hopelessly praying that everything will be back to the way it was before, with people in their seats, alive, talking, laughing, playing games on their phones or reading books.
My prayers are ignored.
I grip the edge of the soft leathery seat and pull myself up to my feet. The sun has climbed higher in the sky, shooting its beams like spotlights on the dead. I resist the overwhelming urge to vomit.
Holding a hand to my mouth, I timidly step over a dismembered leg. The path in front of me is paved with blood and shattered limbs. Pieces of ivory bone and teeth glisten against the dark brown puddles of entrails. I can’t bring myself to walk it.
Instead, I turn and face the back door. I grasp the red emergency exit handle and push down with all of my weight, but it doesn’t move. I try again, and again, sweat beads forming on my upper lip. My attempts are futile.
I eye my surroundings frantically, looking for something durable and heavy to break the door window. But I avoid the aisle of death at all costs. Anyone in my position—who was seeing what I was seeing and smelling what I was smelling—would have done the same.
I find nothing to break the laminated glass. Instead, I spot an empty seat and take it, staring ahead in disbelief. Strands of my thick curly hair stick to my face. I want to cry. I want to cry loud enough that if there is a God, He will hear me and summon his angels to save me. Tears stream down my cheeks but I wipe them away before they reach my neck.
I place my face on my lap and sob. Maybe God will hear me. Maybe he won’t.
I hear a moan, a hint of a whimper. Someone is alive.
I rise to my feet. “Is someone there?”
I force myself to ignore the limbs in the aisle and walk over them, searching for the survivor. I move slowly, inspecting every seat.
The sound is less like a moan now and more like a growl. It’s coming from the front of the bus—perhaps from the driver—and he’s clearly in bad shape.
I sprint now toward the front of the bus, emboldened by optimism, the dead no longer the obstacles they were only minutes before. I feel hope. I’m not alone.
The driver is slumped over the steering wheel in a posture that suggests only death but his fingers are twitching and he’s breathing heavily.
I rest my hand on his shoulder. “You’re going to be okay.” I have no idea as to the merits of my words, and I soon realize they're more for me than him.
His breathing increases at the touch of my hand. So does his sneering.
“I’m going to lean you back, okay?”
His right arm hangs down at his side; his knuckles are nearly touching the floor as his fingers begin to twitch faster. He swings his hand back and clutches my knee and I scream, nearly falling back on to the aisles of corpses. But the driver’s grip is firm, wild, and desperate to make sure I don’t abandon him.
I’ve no intention of leaving him behind. If not for him, I’d still be in the back of the bus.
Gently, I pull him back into the seat. He lets go of my leg. His eyes are red and deadlocked on me. His roaring intensifies, like an angry bear. I instinctively jump back, but he lifts his arm and catches a lock of my hair, pulling me toward him.
His teeth clenched, he tightens his hold on my hair and draws me closer.
I’m going to die. There are no angels on the way to save me. In a moment, I’ll be just like the other passengers, a dismembered rotting corpse. And when I’m found, no one will know who I am. Torn pieces of flesh, broken bones, and a mutilated face are all that will remain of me.
The driver opens his mouth and saliva pours down his chin. How can this be happening? Hours ago, this thing was a person. With a name.
He smiled and said good morning to me as I boarded the bus. And now he wants to tear me apart. Maybe to eat me.
I grasp his hand and try to pry it off me, sinking my long nails into his skin. “Let go, you’re hurting me!” I appeal to whatever humanity still remains inside of this man, but as his grip tightens, there doesn’t seem to be much.
He bares his teeth like a wolf preparing to attack. Shaking his head from side to side, he pulls me closer to him. If I’m going to survive, I need to do something now.
I slam my palm down on the horn as hard as I can, hoping the sound will startle the driver enough to let me go. His eyes widen and he vigorously tosses his head back and forth, an apparent reaction to the loud noise. I keep my hand on the horn. He loosens his grip on my hair and I seize the moment.
With the remaining strength I have, I hit his head with my forehead. The blow sends a bolt of pain from the front of my head to the back. I ignore the pain and head butt him again. My head is spinning. I feel faint, but I will myself to remain on my feet.
He thrashes his head and I hit him one more time, praying I don’t pass out.
He looks at me as if in disbelief that I dared strike him a third time. He releases me, his hand falling on the edge of the seat.
Finally, I’m free. I know I need to get out before he comes after me again.
Dizzy and holding my head, I go down one step, but I stumble and fall, my face slamming against the door, my body twisting like a pretzel.
I hear him growling again.
Legends of the Damned: A Collection of Edgy Urban Fantasy and Paranormal Romance Novels Page 246