Silver Mortal (The Gracen Chronicles)

by Jenna Kay

  A very typical scenario. You have a moron or twelve dabbling in the dark arts, unknowingly freeing some beasts from Hell, allowing them to cross over. Once the demons crawl up to earth they scan their surroundings to find an acceptable appearance. The humans make it easy for them, since all of them are dressed in vampire garb.

  So the demons change into the most sexy and alluring vampires they can, taking on male and female forms. Then they make their presence known, captivating the mislead masses, eventually earning their trust. They have their way with them, and when they're done, they finish them off.

  “How many have they gotten?” I question. “Besides the owners, that is.”

  She lets out a weary breath. “Not sure, but there has been five missing persons filed this week, all regulars to the club, but there could be many more. Hundreds, maybe thousands of people in this city alone are involved in this vampire lifestyle cult, and the majority of them are simply clueless to what's happening around them.”

  “Making them easy prey,” I add thoughtfully, examining my now shiny Katana.

  She nods sadly, then picks up some Shurikens, wiping them briskly.

  Demons can take whatever form once they've crossed over to earth. They like to choose monsters that human society has made up. Like the werewolf I'd seen sitting in my classroom three years before, to the trolls I'd encountered my first year as a Silver Mortal, the many creatures of the night that have appeared in horror films over the years. That's their cup of tea, only they take human life in a different way.

  Take vampires, for instance. In the movies they're dashing, bloodsucking hotties, but in the real world they're nasty, diabolical creatures from the bowels of Hell that don't suck blood. Instead they suck out souls. Same goes for trolls, faeries, genies, werewolves, zombies, gorgons, even ocean creatures, like mermaids, sargassos, leviathan—all are soul-sucking demons just putting on a glamor show.

  The reality, though, is a lot grimmer that the uninformed person suspects. Because, in the vamp demons case, the entranced see a swoon-worthy sex god, but underneath is an ugly, grotesque demon searching for a delicious soul to steal.

  I sneak a peek at my mother. She's already in her fighting gear—black spandex pants and shirt, leather jacket, and black combat boots. Her blonde hair is styled in its usual short and spiky style, her tanned face flawless. She's thirty-three but looks young enough to be my sister, though we look nothing alike. She's tall, tan, and curvy; I'm short, pale, and skinny. I'd always figured my looks came from my father, whom I'd never met or seen a picture of.

  I've given up on finding out who he is. I mean, what's the point? He obviously doesn't care about me or Mom, so why should I take the time to find him?

  After a couple of minutes of cleaning Bowie knifes I ask, “Where's Jude?”

  “Right here, Silva Sister!” a voice behind me booms, and before I can react two arms wrap around me, squeezing me tightly.

  “Jude!” I bellow, dropping the knifes on the table and pushing him off of me. “Don't sneak up on me like that. I could have killed you just then.”

  “No way,” he scoffs, then breaks out in hysterics. “There's no way—” I cut him off by kicking his feet out from under his body, causing him to fall flat on his back.

  “You were saying,” I sneer, straddling him and holding a knife to his throat. He gulps loudly, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. His black-rimmed glasses sit sideways on his face, his green eyes wide and his look of complete shock is extremely comical.

  “O-Okay,” he stutters in a squeaky voice, “maybe you could have.”

  I grin. “Dang straight.”

  “Quit screwing around, guys,” reprimands Mom, though she allows a smile to surface on her face.

  I stand up straight, then help Jude to his feet. He situates his glasses on his face correctly.

  “Hey, Mama Silva,” he says, patting my mom's shoulder. “Just printed out all the coordinates you need to stake out the vamps.”

  She takes the paper out of his hands and smiles. “Oh Jude, what would we do without you?”

  He shrugs. “Probably be assigned a new Informant.”

  “Oh Jude,” Mom coos, giving his face a pat. “No one could ever replace you.”

  I snort. “Except maybe...Brad Pitt or Taylor Lautner.”

  “Love you too, Gracen,” Jude tells me as he walks to his room, closing the door.

  Turning to me Mom says, “Gracen, go get changed. We've got to get going.”

  “Yes, mother,” I reply snidely, trudging off to my bedroom to change clothes.

  “Oh, and honey?”

  Hanging on to my door, I look back and say, “Yeah?”

  “Be sure to wear a belt that fits ten of your throwing stars, two knifes, a taser—”

  “Expecting an army tonight, mother?” I interrupt, my eyebrows shooting up. She narrows her gray eyes.

  “Not expecting, dear. Knowing.”

  9

  Silver Mortal

  CHAPTER 2

  New York is a beautiful city to live in. Many, many sights to see, such as the Empire State Building, Times Square, Statue of Liberty, Rockefeller Center...just to name a few. Central Park is one of my favorite places to visit, though it gets awfully wicked after nightfall.

  As much as I love to relax and sight see, tonight is not the night to do so. Instead of concentrating on the skyline in this glamorous city, I'm stuck riding with my mom and heading to South Bronx.

  “We're going to walk a couple of blocks,” she announces as she parks her black Mustang in front of one of the many abandoned buildings in this district. We have to do this to remain inconspicuous, our goal to arrive at our destination unnoticed. I'm pretty sure the bouncer at the door would not allow us in wearing swords strapped to our backs.

  My heart is fluttering like humming bird wings, my nerves on edge, close to jumping over. This would be my first time fighting vamp demons, but I already know how to get rid of them—my pure silver Katana can accomplish that, and I know exactly how to use it.

  Getting out of the car we swiftly make our way down the streets of South Bronx. A cool Fall breeze sails through the air, but our leather jackets and adrenaline keeps the chill at bay. I look at my mom and think of how pretty she is. Her blonde hair and profile is perfect, her lips drawn in fierce determination. I feel bad that she doesn't have a boyfriend to spend time with, but it's her choice to be alone. Still, though, I can't help but feel sorry for her.

  Where we lack in looking alike we have the same taste in clothing, the main color ingredient being black. Take tonight for example. We are both wearing black from head to toe with our swords strapped to our backs, along with black sunglasses. Why wear the sunglasses, you ask? Well, like I said, after midnight we change, the biggest portion of our transformation being our eyes. The silver claw marks can sometimes be explained as face paint, but the silver eyes are a different story.

  “You really should consider purchasing a motorcycle,” I mention casually. “That way we wouldn't have to walk so freaking far. Plus they're way more fun to drive.”

  As usual she snorts. “Please, Gracen. I'll never, ever give up my Mustang. Never.”

  I shake my head at her. She's so old school it frustrates me to the point that makes me want to smack her. If she could only see how beneficial motorcycles are in our type of work! Oh well. Didn't matter what I or anyone else said. She likes what she likes and I like what I like, and what I like is far on the other side of the spectrum from where she lingers.

  We walk silent and steadfast down the broken sidewalks, the glow of the moon our only light. My eyes scan the debilitated area with stiff reverence. There are so many neglected and trashed buildings, the majority of them riddled with graffiti and bullet holes. A few parked cars, most likely stolen or abandoned, are situated on concrete blocks, bare of their wheels and tires. The alleyways we pass are full of miscellaneous garbage and multitudes of rodents, the dumpsters overflowing, causing the air to smell deeply atro
cious.

  The minutes seem to drag on and on, our footsteps a constant reminder that we are heading into a dark unknown. We could have already been at the club thirty minutes ago, but mom was against us using our super speed so close to a group of Untouched, worried that we would be seen and found out.

  Bored and antsy, I'm about to complain about the long trek, but before I can start my rant our destination looms straight in front of us. The glow of the full moon shines down on the old five-story building, its light casting eerie shadows over the structures surface.

  “It looks like something out of a horror movie,” Mom whispers. I agree with her.

  At one time this building had served as a five-star, five-story luxury hotel, where New York's finest held social gatherings and meetings. Now it stood dark and abandoned, forgotten by society. A fire long ago had ravaged its insides, condemning it to an early grave. The windows were either cracked or busted out, some boarded up with pieces of plywood. Anyone passing it during the day would see it as just another rotting piece of real estate in this depressed part of town. But at night it appeared to come to life, the evil brewing inside forcing itself out in forcible waves of extreme malice.

  Yes, the creepy, hulking mass of a building seemed to be moving, dancing in the moonlight, meaning that the gruesome acts being held inside its walls were getting close to exploding to the outside world. Or could it have been the pounding music vibrating under our feet that gave the impression the building was, in fact, awake?

  A huge bouncer stood at the door, hidden in the dark shadows. From the animal glint in his eyes we know right away that he is a demon. Luckily for us our black clothes works as camouflage, melding us within the dark night. Though demons are nocturnal creatures they have terrible eyesight, which always gives us an edge. Silver Mortals have perfect eyesight and can see easily in the dark. It also helps that we are stealthy and light on our feet.

  Big, big plus.

  Mom nods her head and we quietly make our way to the back of the building, carefully stepping over beer bottles and broken glass. We stop and look up. All the windows are boarded up on the first and second floors, leaving only the third, fourth, and fifth floor windows open. Mom lets out a shaky breath.

  “You know what we have to do, right?” she consults, her gaze studying the building.

  “Mm-Hm,” is all I answer, then in unison we bend our knees and shoot upwards. We land in separate windows on the third floor, though it's the same room.

  Did I forget to mention that after midnight not only do our eyes change color and silver claw marks appear on our faces, we also have unlimited strength and can jump many stories high? Well, now you know. Sometimes, if my night isn't eventful, I run and jump from building to building. It's the only way to settle the restless Silver Eagle within me. If the supernatural blood in me doesn't get satiated through the night it will burn in my veins, scratching to get out. A very disquieting feeling.

  The building is exactly how I'd expected it. Charred walls, broken pieces of mortar, sheet rock, and glass taking up the majority of the space. As we walk through the building we see that some of the rooms have furniture in them—beds, tables, blankets, lamps—all moldy and unusable. Like all the other abandoned buildings on this side of town, graffiti paints the walls with gang symbols and profanity. At the end of the hall we find the stairs and begin our journey down, our ears following the booming music. And as usual, before a fight, Mom gives me a pep talk.

  “Gracen, remember,” she says, her tone hushed and guarded, “don't turn your back on anyone or anything. Keep the enemy in front of you and know where they are at all times. If you use your Shurikens make sure you hit the vamp demons in their chest, though your best weapon will be your Katana—”

  “Mom, please,” I interject, slightly irritated, “I've fought demons before. I can handle myself.”

  Mom surprises me by grabbing my arm and placing her sunglasses on top of her head, her silver eyes regarding me with fierce urgency.

  “Listen and listen good,” she says softly. “Yes, you've fought demons, but only one or two at a time. This…tonight you don't know what you're about to get into. There could be a hundred of them, Gracen, not to mention the innocent humans we've got to get out of there. We've got our work cut out for us tonight, and you need to use all the training you've learned thus far, meaning you've got to think—be smart.” She lets go of my arm and places her sunglasses back on. Palming my cheek she adds, “You're my world. I'd die if something ever happened to you.”

  Thoughts turn over and rage circles in my brain. I want to ask so many things, like Why didn't you care when I was a baby?, and How come I wasn't your world then?.

  Instead of letting my emotions rise to the surface, I grab her hand and gently push it away. “Mom, nothing's going to happen to me.” She smiles a sad sort of smile, then once again starts down the stairs with me following behind.

  Making it to the first floor, a door without a knob awaits us. It strikes me as funny that the demons didn't have a guard patrolling the door, but I push that thought aside. We'd take whatever breaks we could tonight. Breaks in the demon slaying business are slim to none, though mostly on the negative scale.

  Abruptly Mom kicks the door open, giving me no chance to stop her. My heart lurches to my throat, for I felt sure our entrance had been seen and the fight would start right away, but to my surprise no one notices.

  The obtrusive clamor of music hits my eardrums in a rush, along with the mixed smells of alcohol, sweat, and shame. Clusters of bodies populate the dance floor, their bodies bumping and grinding together in harmony. Flashing lights fall on the club goers, all seemingly spellbound in their on little soul-destroying worlds. Couches line the charred walls of the gigantic room, all containing couples in various intimate acts, some in desperate need of a room. Apparently modesty was left outside the doors of this club.

  PDA is bad enough to observe, but this was more on the lines of extreme porn.

  Even worse than the X-Rated positions the couples are having on the couches, I'm horrified to see that some appear to be latched on to their partners necks. I watch in fascinated repugnance as a man lifts his head with his eyes closed, licking his lips which are covered with bright red blood, and exposing what looks like vampire fangs. A shudder rips through my body as a tinge of nausea squeezes my insides. The woman the man had been biting is now straddling him, chowing down on his neck. His body jerks then relaxes, the girl bucking her hips up and down on his...well, you understand what I'm saying.

  I grimace. “Mom, are they really...” I can't bring myself to say it.

  “Yes, hon,” she replies, seemingly unfazed by the scene before us.

  “They're actually sucking blood? Like, teeth is actually breaking skin?”

  She nods. “Most likely they're wearing fang caps or implants. The bites are usually not deep but are sharp enough to scratch the skin and get blood to flow.” She catches me staring dubiously at her and respires a breath of air. “You can buy them off the internet—Google it when we get home.”

  “What morons,” I mutter, watching them in complete revulsion. “We should blow up this whole place and put them all out of their pathetic miseries.” I feel Mom's gaze on me but I don't look at her. I continue to stare at the throngs of idiocy doing the foulest of all nastiness, a part of me wanting to take my sword and cut their heads off. Though the other part of me feels compassion for these mislead individuals—color me bi-polar, but that's how I feel.

  Why would anyone want to drink blood? What happened in their past to get them into that? I've only been working in the field with mom for a little over a year and a half, and I've seen some pretty disturbing things, but mostly from the demon side of the path. Seeing humans act like monsters shed new light on the term gag-a-maggot. My mother, on the other hand, is not bothered by this diabolical scene.

  “I'll take the left, you take the right,” she tells me, using her time to kick butt tone. “Talk to a few clubbers,
try to get some info, and please leave on your glasses.”

  I roll my eyes behind the dark lenses, feeling my sassy sixteen year old self egress. “You do the same, but please, oh please keep your bra on!”

  She pinches her lips together, catching on to my sarcasm, but decides to let it go. “Be careful.” With that said, she turns to her left, getting herself lost in the crowd.

  I go to the right, but stay outside the dancing mosh pit of half-wits, opting for a walk closer to the walls. Whoever decorated this burned-up dump has done a great job of hiding the charred walls and flooring. Not an excellent job, but an OK job. The dance floor is concrete painted black. The walls are also painted black, and red plush carpeting takes up the rest of the room. Two huge chandeliers are placed on opposite sides of the room, the lights dimmed tremendously. They really don't fit in with the flashing strobe lights. A small bar is situated in the corner, every stool filled with a vampire wannabe, all dressed in vamp garb.

  Finding an empty place by the wall I lean against it, clearing my mind and concentrating on the world around me. The only way we'd be successful in finding the demons would be to become part of the crowd—blend in and whatnot. My main objective is to close my eyes and let my ears listen to all the conversations happening around me. That's another gift from the Silver Eagle—super hearing.

  A man whispering naughty words, a woman laughing seductively, ice clanging in a glass—all the sounds come in a rush, making me focus even harder. Just when I think I'm beginning to get somewhere a male voice speaks in my ear, his hot breath hitting my skin and breaking my into concentration.