by Mark Eller
“Your body,” Jolson explained, his face now expressionless, showing no emotions at all. “It appears unformed to me, almost as incomplete as our recent sex.”
“Incomplete?” Mira asked, raising an eyebrow. If she had been even eight decades younger she would have been insulted. Now? She only felt curious.
“Your skin is pale and smooth,” Jolson said, staring at her breasts and belly with only mild interest. “There are no scars. No sections are missing. and you have no claws or talons. As for the sex, we have engaged three times this day and yet I do not bleed.”
Mira faked a chuckle and allowed her own eyes to roam. Unlike hers, Jolson’s body was a checkered map of deep divots and raised scars. Although she knew him to be stronger than human normal, his body appeared spare and undeveloped. Strangest of all was his recently active but now limp member. Where a normal male’s was smooth and relatively straight when erect, or owned only a slight bend, Jolson’s was severely bent and deformed. Some parts were missing, and its shape was almost a corkscrew. In short, everything about Jolson showed many signs of massive abuse.
“It looks to me like you’ve had some very strange sex partners,” she commented, shuddering inside. “I’m not surprised few of them looked like me. Did any of them bring you pleasure, or was it only pain.”
“Only humiliation and pain. For spawn, pleasure is unknown. This thing we have just finished brought sensations I do not remember. Those sensations must be the thing called pleasure but if so, I am not sure I enjoy it.”
Setting both her hands behind her head, Mira stretched languorously and arched her back, making herself a display while wondering if Jolson could actually enjoy such things.
Jolson did not watch. Instead, he turned his gaze to stare out the bedroom window where a gentle snow fell. “How much longer will it be before I can travel, and how long will it take me to reach Grace?”
Mira shrugged. “A month or two before you can head out, I’d guess, or maybe only a week. With the weather so screwed up, I’m not really sure, but why do you want to leave? From what you told me, you headed for Grace to avoid Hell’s searchers. With all the changes that have happened to you, I doubt they’ll ever find your trail by sniffing out your essence, so you’re safe enough here.”
“Maybe two months before I can leave,” Jolson murmured. “I journeyed much longer than that just to get here from Yylse, often spending weeks at one place or another. Four months, I think, or more. I seek Grace but it eludes me.”
Giving up, Mira stopped uselessly displaying herself and rolled out of bed, leaving Jolson behind. Moving to her dresser, she studied herself in the mirror, enjoying the fact she now had a reflection. Her body, she admitted, was probably not the best, but it was passable for something partly dead. Sighing, she caught sight of Jolson, still looking longingly out the window and frowned.
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that,” she said. “About your journey.”
His attention turned to her. “Yes?”
“I don’t know who gave you directions but, Jolson, you’ve been traveling in a weird path. For one, if you drew a straight line between Yylse and Grace on a map, my mill would fall about sixty miles west of the line and maybe ninety miles past Grace.”
Jolson appeared surprised. “I followed everyone’s directions exactly.”
“Villager’s directions,” Mira laughed. “Directions from people who have probably never been further than fifteen or twenty miles from their homes. Don’t worry. Once the roads turn good I’ll take you there. I haven’t seen much more than this mill for a very long time, and I’ve a hankering to wander if it means spending more time with you. We should make it in a bit over a week by walking, somewhat quicker if we can nail a couple horses. But again, why do you still want to go? Every reason you initially had is gone.”
“I set reaching Grace as my goal,” Jolson said, his expression suddenly turning sad. “I would like to find Grace before I die and my soul returns to Hell.”
Mira’s heart stilled. Turning slowly, she faced Jolson where he still lay on the bed. “Did you say die?”
Jolson nodded. “There have been too many changes. Much but not all evil has left me. Good and conscience and other things have entered. The flesh Athos created is not meant to house such conflicting things. My body fails. Before long rot will set in, and I will die.”
“You need a healer,” she said, feeling a touch panicked, and not just because Jolson was her friend. She had lost many friends before and wasn’t sure her feelings for Jolson were returned. It did not matter if they weren’t because Jolson was more than her friend. He was also her lifeline and her meal. When Jolson’s hook exchanged her undying death for Van Wess’s life, he had made her a no-longer blood drinking vampire, enabling her to see colors, eat food, experience true emotions, and yes, enjoy sex. She was not, however, truly and completely alive. Some small part of her vampire nature remained. Now, in order to live, she had to drink some small part of Jolson’s life energy each day, taken directly from his aura instead of from his blood. If Jolson died, so would she. After having been dead for so very long, Mira was not willing to give up her almost life.
Jolson shook his head. “My affliction is in more than my body. It resides deeper within.”
Mira abruptly reached for her clothes and began throwing them on. “We need a spiritualist, then, and a healer, preferably all in one package. Get dressed Jolson, and do it warmly. You and I are heading for Grace and be-damned to the snow and cold or even waiting until tomorrow. We’re leaving right fucking damn now.”
Epilogue
Rebel wiped the last of her blood and Belsac’s cum from her lips and smiled at the hellhound. His name was Jorpid, if she recalled correctly, but she wasn’t exactly sure. Although she was new to this court, and accepted as hellkind by convention because of her changer nature, she was human born and so often had trouble telling one hellborn monstrosity from another. To her, knowing the difference between most of them really didn’t matter. Why bother to learn faces and names when so many soon would be dead.
“Please,” she begged Jorpid past her torn tongue as it warped and tried to heal. “Repeat what you said. I’m not quite sure I heard you the first time, and I’m positive only a few of these others did. My Lord Belsac, did you hear?”
“I believe so,” Belsac responded while repairing his wardrobe. “I’d like to hear him say it again. I’m interested in your response.”
Grinning, Jorpid looked around at the others who had gathered in the king’s smaller banquet room. Sixteen in all, Rebel knew. Sixteen who had watched her bend her knees and play the wonton for Belsac’s pleasure. Except for Belsac and the three hellhounds, the others were lesser hellkind, and most seemed more amused by this byplay than anything else. The four wyverns, however, appeared to be out of sorts. Perhaps it was because their skin was dry, Wyverns hated dry skin, and to the best of Rebel’s knowledge it had been a few hours since they last took a deep bath in fresh, cold water. Then again, it might not be their skin that bothered them. They might just be angry because she had killed two of their brethren a couple weeks before. Perhaps murdered would be a better word. Rebel hadn’t particularly wanted to kill those two, but as a recent newcomer she had to murder a few hellborn to raise her status and gain greater access to those in power. It was sort of a requirement, and it had worked by bringing her to the king’s attention as well as Belsac’s.
Gaining Belsac’s attention was good, but what she really wanted was his respect so she could stop sucking his uncomfortably barbed cock in public or playing toy to King Vere’s passion on her hands and knees. She wanted to be part of their plans, not a thing they used. Besides, neither her mouth nor her lady parts could accept Belsac’s equipment much longer. Not being hellborn, she could only heal so fast. It took her most of a day, sometimes, where a lesser hellborn might heal in only a couple hours.
And thus there was Jorpid, the next rung on her ladder. She almost felt grateful to the
hellhound. It usually took a bit of planning to entice her next victim into a fight. Jorpid, being not too bright, had thrown himself directly in her way when she had barely known he existed.
“I said,” Jorpid repeated arrogantly. “You are nothing better than a common gutter whore.” Fangs bared, drool dripped from his gaping mouth and sizzled on the floor.
“It’s what I thought you said.” Rebel grinned, and with a mental push she grew out her special set of claws. This was a crucial moment in her plans, but in truth her thoughts weren’t very concerned with this coming battle. Instead, she cast a few of the names she knew through her mind and finally focused on a particular demon. Once she was done with Jorpid, she would set her attention on Brendarc. Murdering a demon would move her up several rungs and then, perhaps, she might kill a devil or two.
Rebel had always wanted to kill a devil. She suspected it would be fun.
Revolution
Book Three of God Wars
A dark fantasy trilogy
E. A. Draper
and
Mark Eller
White Wolf Press, LLC
Copyright 2014 E. A. Draper and Mark Eller
Chapter 1-- Rebirth
Mira frowned as she walked on the edge of Grand Boulevard, Vale’s main street, wondering if Jolson would be alive when she saw him again. Beneath her feet was a mosaic of flaking and stained gold paint set amid the dirty tan of chipped cobbles. Grand Boulevard, she thought, might have been stunning when the paint was new, but that time was long in Vale’s past. Now, its gilding was not sophisticated or elite; it was only a thin coat of stained shine hiding something tawdry underneath.
Mira continued walking as she searched. On either side of her were shops and street-side vendors hawking their wares. Two and three story buildings were painted in pinks and greens and yellows so bright they almost hurt her eyes, and people wore brightly colored, heavy clothing. Everywhere Mira looked she saw motion, but this was no more than she expected. After all, Vale was less than fifty miles from the outskirts of Grace, the King’s City, making it the central marketplace for miles around. For the next forty miles of their journey she and Jolson would encounter only small villages and large estates— if Jolson still lived.
Sighing, Mira breathed in the odors of roasting nuts, baking sweetmeats, and stale horse urine. The smells, both sweet and foul, were all welcome, as were the bright clothes and the colorful displays of the merchants. She had been a long time dead, and the dead saw only a world of muted grays and smelled only those things the living could not sense. When Jolson’s glowing hook sucked death from her body and filled it with Van Wess’s life, it had given those precious things back to her, colors and odors she had long forgotten. Grateful, Mira gladly acknowledged she owed Jolson a debt, but she also wished the damned spawn had completed the job of making her live before pulling the hook from her body. While it was true she was no longer dead, it was also true she wasn’t quite alive. Some vital part of the process had been missed, but she did not know what.
Sighing once more, trying not to let her thoughts drag her back into a habitual depression, Mira continued her journey, taking in sights and sounds, wanting to absorb the world of the living so she could learn to be part of it again. Nearby, heavy pounding and the taint of lacquers came from a woodworker’s storefront. Frozen goat carcasses hung on hooks outside one building, and a carpet seller stood in his doorway, gesturing for pedestrians to step inside as a small lad called out the quality of the wares. Ahead, the temples of Trelsar and Athos appeared less than busy. Next to them was the small and very much abandoned temple of Nedross, the god of ambiguity. Or maybe he was the god of hopeless causes. Mira wasn’t quite sure. Another one of the many invented gods, Nedross had been unknown to her even thirty years before. From what she had gathered, his worship was becoming increasingly popular by the destitute.
Absorbing the atmosphere, sucking it in like it was her new life’s blood, Mira barely glanced at Flinstar’s temple, the supposed god of balance. Like with Nedross, his temple also stood alone and neglected. Unlike the other god’s temples, Flinstar’s owned no doors or shutters. Mira didn’t find this surprising. According to his priests, Trelsar’s younger brother, perhaps son, perhaps his one-time enemy or even friend, had not bothered to show himself to his priests for well over a hundred and fifty years. Even before then tales of his appearance came forth only infrequently. Every twenty years, perhaps, or even longer, a young acolyte or old fishwife would spread a story. Few ever listened. Fewer still wrote the stories down. Not a very popular god at all, and rather uninvolved.
Refreshing in its way. The thought of a god who did not want to meddle was comforting.
Mira broke her frown long enough to display a thin smile and give a small head shake at the direction of her thoughts. Many of her old neighbors claimed, Flinstar never truly existed. Mira counted herself as among their number but wished it were not so. When newly dead, despite the nature of her enforced diet, she never felt an affinity for Athos or Zorce, and yet she also felt abandoned by the main three. This left only the neutral gods for her to worship, which meant none at all. Pretend gods were good enough for some, Mira figured, but they were not for her.
Setting her frown back in place, Mira strode past the temples and stopped at a corner to wait for a horse drawn wagon to pass so she could cross. While waiting, she felt a gentle tug at her sleeve.
Irritated, pulled out of her brown study, Mira directed her frown at two beings the size of half grown children. One was blond and owned a bone white complexion. The other was dark hued and had jet black hair. Both possessed reflective gold eyes, something which told her these things were not human. A distant part of her wondered how their blood would taste. Another part found their small stature and strange appearance rather amusing.
“Coppers?” the blond asked. “Coppers to spare? Coppers to feed orphan children?” Again, his hands gently patted at her sleeve while the dark one danced around her, kicking up small swirls of dusted snow from the street with his bare feet. Quick fingers ran across her back, touched her shoulders, and brushed against her belly. Mira shuddered as both dread and ecstasy touched her thoughts. Part of her wanted to cringe away from the small hellborn’s touch. Another part wanted to arch her back and purr, and this surprised her. Strangely, there was something familiar about these not-children. The something drew her; made her feel…welcome.
Still frowning, breaking free from their spell, Mira twisted away from searching hands before they found her hidden purse. Insistent, the dark one pressed up against her. Stepping back, Mira fixed him with a glare.
“You come from Hell,” she accused. Her voice sounded harsh, but they were so cute she still wanted to reach out and wrap the gods damned beings in her arms. This wanting made her angry. These two were not cute. Were not loving…and yet they were.
Were they a form of succubae? If so, they were a type she had never before encountered. Still, some type of power seemed to have warped her thoughts.
The dark child shrugged. “We come from Hell. So what? A lot of things come from Hell, and really, we don’t hold it against you that you suck blood.”
“At one time,” Mira admitted. “Not anymore.”
The white child moved closer, pressing uncomfortably into her space.
“Blood no more,” it agreed. “But a vampire still. Life drinker. You pull small pieces of me away.” It smiled, and the smile showed it had no teeth. “My name is Fubar. My brother is Get, and you’ll give us silver instead of copper or we’ll tell people you are a monster.” Laugh lines crinkled around the corners of its eyes. “Even succubae need to eat.”
Shaking her head, Mira held her hands out from her sides. “Search me if you wish. I have little. My pouch holds only copper.”
Disgust instantly crossed their faces. “Then why have you come to Vale?” Fubar demanded. “Everything but the life you steal requires money.”
“She seeks,” Get whispered, moving in closer
. Its nose quivered, and then the hellborn grinned. “Observe brother. She stinks of the hunted.”
“I seek someone who is both a spiritualist and healer,” Mira explained, feeling both confused and alarmed. “My traveling companion is ill.”
Get gave her a virulent smirk. “Look for your healer in the main square.” He pointed down the golden road. “First turning on your left.” He laughed low in his throat, sounding harsh and amused. “He will kill you just as he has tried to kill us. He hates those he perceives as evil.”
Mira moistened her lips and looked in the indicated direction. “Thank you,” She took a step to the side and walked past the unnatural pair.
“Wait!” Fubar shouted. “Answer for an answer. You owe.”
Pausing, Mira glanced back, still feeling drawn and amused and repulsed. “I suppose I do,” she cautiously admitted. “What would you know from me?”
“We hunt for a friend who escaped from Hell,” Fubar purred. “Jolson wears a green hook at the end of his left arm.”
“You didn’t stop me for my money,” Mira said. “This is what you wanted all along.”
“You stink of him,” Get said. “I smelled you from half a block away. Where is Jolson?”
Mira contemplated the small beings for a moment. These were, she now realized, not succubae at all. They were demons of a strange nature. High demon or low, it didn’t matter. Any demon was more than equal to the greatest of spawn. Ill as he presently was, Jolson was far from the greatest.
Athos’s minions then. She would not give her friend up to those who hunted him. Not until she completely lived.
“I met Jolson,” Mira finally admitted, “but you won’t like my news.
They leaned forward eagerly. “Where is he?” Get demanded.
“I once owned a quarry,” Mira lied. “It was located about ten miles outside of Lars, out on the Hillside road. You will find your friend’s body buried in its graveyard, though you won’t find much. Jolson died from the cold, but he was mostly rotted away by the time we covered him with dirt. Even his bones dissolved faster than I’ve ever seen before.”