In the centre stood his bed, constructed by over a thousand human bones once white and raw, now blackened by eons of waxy smoke. He had taken many a sacrificial virgin’s purity on that bed, all whimpering at his power and inescapable strength. He had taken more than one demon slut as well. She-demons who knew who he was, knew, unlike his disrespectful colleagues, how important he was. She-demons who recognized his potential and wanted to taste his seed and bear his spawn.
He let his gaze slide from the bed to the towering throne standing on a raised dais under a large hanging candelabra. His prick grew stiff at the sight. Both throne and candelabra where made from human bones, just as the bed, but unlike the bed and candelabra, the bones of the throne were stark white. Each humerus, femur, tibia and skull still ripe with living marrow and tissue. The throne was older than time, but he made certain it defied time as well. It didn’t take much to infuse each bone in its construction with an incantation to preserve its rawness. To touch each one was to touch a bone freshly torn from a living being’s body, still slick and sticky with blood and fluid, still thrumming with that on which he fed the most—dying life. Whenever he sat on the throne, which he did often, the pain of the personally selected humans whose lives were forfeited for its creation seeped into his being, making him stronger.
Whenever he fucked on the throne, his seed destroyed the female impaled on his shaft and his orgasm decimated an entire region on the surface of man’s world, striking every living creature down with disease, swarms of insects destroying all plant life and crops. Whenever he fucked on the throne it was as though he and he alone wielded the force of the Apocalypse itself.
The Powers had commanded he cease such activities, ordering him to tow the line. He was growing impatient with them. He was growing impatient with them and their timeline and their preordained hierarchy. Who were they to decide what he did and when he did it? Did they forget who he was? What he would bring about?
Returning his stare to the mirror, he studied his reflection, pursing his lips as he did so. He was short for an entity, he knew that. Short and thin, without the typical ostentatious tail and horns and over-developed muscles so favored by other first-order entities. No one would ever accuse him of using steroids, that was for certain. His blue eyes were pale and watery, his dark hair lank, his flesh pale and dull. “Sallow” was a word he’d heard muttered often by his brethren to describe him. “Sickly” and “weedy” two more adjectives used loudly and without secrecy by one of his number in particular.
His eyes narrowed as he let his thoughts turn to the last Horseman. Death. He drew her image into his mind, remembering all too easily her condescending rebuke of the proposal he’d suggested. A partnership of greatness. Not just a sexual one, but one to undo the very Fabric, to destroy the Order of Actuality completely. A magnificent, malevolent duo to bring about the very end of existence. A duo, not a quartet. Two Riders, not four.
She’d laughed. At both his sexual advances and his proposition. Laughed at him and told him to grow up and get a life. “Seriously, you don’t still believe in that old wives’ tale, do you? Do you see my black horse anywhere? Or my pale one, for that matter? Do you see me strutting around in a pair of chaps getting ready for the big assault?”
Curling his fingers into fists, he thought of Death and the Powers and how all would suffer from his wrath.
“I am Pestilence,” he murmured, smoothing his left palm over his hair as he stared at his reflection in the giant mirror. The flames of the candles flared brighter at the sound of his name and the organ between his thighs grew stiff with dark anticipation. “I am the First Horseman of the Apocalypse. The one who brings disease and suffering incarnate. The one who destroys the world of man’s crops and stock, their weak and young and feeble. I am the one who will bring the end, the one who will bask in the glory of the Apocalypse. Me and me alone.” He gazed at his reflected form, cock hard, blood thick and fast in his veins. “And nothing or no one can stop me.”
His reflection stared back at him, human façade just the way he wanted it to be. Deceptive. Misleading. “No one,” he repeated, hot impatience eating at him, cold confidence feeding its hunger. “Not even him.”
His reflection stared back at him.
And, with barely a shimmer, turned into that of the lifeguard’s.
Chapter Two
Patrick threw his keys on the sideboard and swung the door closed behind him. What a day.
He dragged his hands through his hair, pushing the image of the dead man—Richard Peabody—from his mind. As with all drownings on Bondi Beach, the police had grilled him and his team for two hours after the failed resuscitation. Before that, the inevitable and always heart-wrenching conversation with the victim’s loved one had occurred—in Peabody’s case, a sister whom arrived at the beach just as the paramedics were loading his still-warm body into the ambulance.
He’d finished the day counseling his team who, like himself, took losing a swimmer hard, before jogging home, the tragedy replaying in his mind over and over again in a vivid, inescapable loop. And every time he experienced it again he saw the woman in the New York Yankees baseball cap with the concealing black sunglasses and leg-hugging jeans.
The woman who seemed to have disappeared into thin air.
Scrubbing at his face with his hands, Patrick made his way to the kitchen and grabbed a beer from the fridge. He opened the bottle and turned to the window above the sink, studying the black strip of the Pacific Ocean barely visible above six dark blocks of rooftops and twinkling streetlights. What a bloody day. He took a pull from his beer, closing his eyes as he did so.
Immediately, the woman in the baseball cap slammed into his head, exuding poised confidence and surety, like she had every right to be there.
Patrick’s balls grew tight in his shorts and his dick twitched in a base, primitive response.
“Fair dinkum, Patrick.” He shook his head, his voice thick in his throat. “You can’t be horny about a hallucination.”
“Do you have any idea how bloody uncomfortable your sofa is?”
Patrick jumped, the sound of his brother’s irritated growl directly behind him almost making him drop his beer. He turned around, scowling. “Don’t do that, you rotten bastard.”
Ven gave him a toothy, decidedly evil grin. “That’s what you get for hanging up on me today.” Eyes a shade lighter than Patrick’s took him in, the inspection so quick anyone else would have missed it. Patrick however, had been the subject of his vampire brother’s scrutiny for close to two decades now, not to mention the eighteen years prior when Steven was still human. Those sharp green eyes missed nothing.
He held out his arms, returning Ven’s sarcastic grin with one of his own. “As you can see, I’m still alive.” He took another mouthful of beer before frowning at his brother. “And what the hell are you doing sleeping on my sofa? What’s wrong with your coffin?”
Ven yanked open the fridge and withdrew his own beer. “You know, I think the coffin jokes got old about seventeen-and-a-half years ago.” Twisting open the bottle, he flipped the small metal top at Patrick, who snatched it midair and tossed it into the sink, scowling. “And I wouldn’t have traded my soft, king-size bed with its thousand thread-count silk sheets for your crappy sofa if I’d known this was the thanks I’d get for being worried. Seriously, brother, when are you going to get rid of that thing?” He raised the bottle to his mouth, his Adam’s apple working in his throat as he drained its contents.
Patrick cocked an eyebrow. “Thirsty?”
Ven shook his head as he wiped the side of his mouth with the back of his hand, a glint of white fangs flashing from behind his wet lips. “Hungry. But I wanted to check on my kid brother before I got a bite.” Concern flittered across his perpetually twenty-seven-year-old face. “What took you so long? I’d have come looking for you hours ago if it wasn’t for the sun still being up.”
Taking a mouthful of beer, Patrick studied his brother. Did Ven need to know about
his day? Should he tell him about the woman in the sunglasses who may or may not have been there?
If you don’t and she really was there, some kind of paranormal nasty in tight jeans with killer curves, and Ven finds out he’ll tear you a new backside. You know that, don’t you?
Steven Owen Watkins was nine years old when Patrick was born. According to their mother, he’d greeted the arrival of a baby brother with a lop-sided grin and the adamant proclamation he wasn’t changing any nappies. Eighteen years later Ven had been killed in a side street in inner-city Sydney by an unknown assailant when both he and Patrick were attacked leaving a pub after celebrating Patrick’s birthday.
It came as a bit of a shock to Patrick and their parents when six hours later, Ven walked into the family home, dropped onto the sofa and said, “Can I have some Vegemite on toast, please, Mum. I’m starving.”
Since then, he’d lived the typical life of a vampire, if there was such a thing. He had a bevy of willing “feeds”, all female, all gorgeous. He slept the days away in his king-size bed, haunted the dance clubs at night and generally enjoyed the new, rather unusual stage of his existence in the same way he’d enjoyed his completely usual life—laid-back with a sardonic bite.
Except, that was, when it came to Patrick. There was nothing laid-back about his attitude and relationship with his baby brother. From the minute he’d laid eyes on Patrick—barely two hours old—Ven had taken it upon himself to protect him. From what, Patrick didn’t know. Neither did their parents. It wasn’t until Ven’s death and, subsequently his completely unexpected transformation, that the threat was given a name. “Something.”
“Something” was out for Patrick. Something “bad”, and Ven had made it his mission to keep his kid brother safe, regardless of how many times Patrick told him he was being crazy.
Tonight however, Patrick couldn’t deal with another lecture about being exposed. “I’ve had a shit day, Ven. I’m not in the mood. I’m alive. You should be happy.”
“I am happy, brother. I’ve got a stiff bloody neck from that evil sofa of yours, but I’m happy. That still doesn’t change the fact my gut tells me you were in danger today.”
Patrick rolled his eyes. “Here we go.”
“Don’t ‘here we go’ me.” Ven pointed a finger at him, a sudden flash of iridescent yellow in his eyes as his demon reared close to the surface. “You know what I’m talking about and I’m getting fed up with you pretending otherwise. Jesus, you can see the future, mate. I saw you pick up the television remote control from the side table without moving a muscle.”
“I cannot see the future,” Patrick snapped, a dull red heat twisting in his chest. “I made a lucky guess as a kid about who was going to be the next prime minister and you turn me into some kind of freak.”
“You also knew when and where Mum and Dad were going to die, the date and time of the attempted assassination of the Canadian deputy prime minister, and who was going to win the 1986 Soccer World Cup final.”
“I was a dumb kid talking out of my arse.”
“Well, that dumb kid’s arse sure knew a lot.” Ven’s eyes flashed yellow again. “And you still haven’t explained the remote control to me. Even after all these years.”
Patrick scowled, turning away from his brother to stare out the kitchen window at the deepening night. He couldn’t explain the remote. Not to Ven. Not to himself.
Confined to an armchair with a broken leg after a particularly nasty pushbike accident, the then twelve-year-old Patrick had wanted to change the channel on the television. The cordless remote, a new and wholly remarkable invention that young Patrick was totally enamored with, was on the lamp table beside him. Almost in his reach. Almost. All he needed to do was twist slightly at the waist, raise his butt an inch or two from the chair and lean over the padded armrest to retrieve it. An impossible task thanks to the thick, heavy cast covering his right leg from hip to toe.
To this day, Patrick had no idea how the remote came to be in his hand. He remembered a pulling sensation in his gut, a prickling heat behind his ears and then Steven’s stunned “Bloody hell, brother! How’d you do that?” as the device slammed against his palm.
The remote he couldn’t explain. But he wasn’t having that conversation now.
Finishing his beer, he turned back to his brother. “I’m not talking about this, Ven.” He flicked his gaze over the other man, noticing a stretched tightness around his eyes. “Go feed. You look half-dead. Oh, wait a minute, you are dead.”
Ven bared his teeth, fangs partly extended. “Funny bloody bugger, aren’t you.” Folding his arms across his chest, he leant back against the edge of the kitchen bench and crossed his ankles, a wicked glint in his eyes. “Amy’s been taking yoga lessons lately.” He licked his lips at the mention of his favorite “donor”. “Not only has it made her blood taste like pure ambrosia, her flexibility is now phenomenal. The other night she did this thing where she wrapped her thighs around my neck and I fed from her—”
“Stop, stop, stop!” Patrick raised his hands in protest. “Do I look like someone who wants to hear about your sex life?”
Ven grinned. “You look like an older version of me and I’m definitely the kind of person who would want to know about your sex life, so…yeah. You do.”
Patrick shook his head, trying not to laugh. Ven was right on at least one count. They did look alike. True, he now looked the older brother, being thirty-six and inflicted with mortality while Ven was an eternal wrinkle-free twenty-seven. But apart from that—and the fact Patrick’s skin was tanned by the sun and Ven’s tan had faded somewhat—they looked very alike. Both tall and lean, both broad shouldered from years of swimming and surfing, both square jawed with a nose slightly too large for their face. Obviously, two brothers. One a lifeguard, one a vampire. One alive, one undead. Just your typical Aussie family unit.
Patrick shook his head again. “I’m going to bed. Unlike you, I have no sex life to speak of and, as I said before, I’ve had a shit day and I need some serious shut-eye.” He put his empty beer bottle in the sink and crossed the kitchen floor, pausing for a moment in the entryway to give Ven a serious look. “If you’re going to hang around for a bit, can you do me a favor?”
“I’m not doing your bloody ironing!”
Patrick grinned. “But you do it so well.”
He turned and walked from the room, snatching the empty beer bottle Ven threw at his head without slowing his stride.
“Freak,” Ven chuckled behind him.
“Good night, brother,” he replied over his shoulder with a grin, heading for his bedroom. “Have fun.”
***
He runs. Along the deserted beach, the wet, compacted sand crunching beneath the soles of his jogging shoes with every pounding footfall.
His heart thumps in his chest, his neck and ears. A steady beat surging blood through his veins. Each breath he pulls floods his being with renewed life, filling his lungs through his nose, the fresh tang of the ocean biting into his sinuses.
The high sun shines down on him, bleaching the empty stretch of beach of all color, a glaring ball of cold energy.
He runs, heart thumping, sweat trickling down his temples, into his eyes. He feels alive. He feels totally at peace. The beach stretches before him, a never-ending strip of isolated beach.
“Patrick.”
The soft voice whispers behind him. He spins about, frowning at the empty beach.
Jogging backwards, his frown deepens. There is no one there.
“Patrick.”
The wind calls his name. He turns back to his original direction, blood, no sweat streaming down his face.
She stands before him. A woman in a…hooded cloak…and baseball cap, face shrouded by shadows.
The wind lashes his face and he raises his hand, protecting his eyes from the wild, swirling sand. He blinks and continues along the deserted beach, feeling fine.
“Patrick.”
A woman stands on the beach. The
woman with the baseball cap. She looks at him and smiles. He trips over a…body… No, a piece of driftwood. The sand bites into his face, tiny grains of raw glass embedding in his sweaty flesh. Staggering to his feet, he looks for the woman on the beach and sees only sand.
No water. No land. Only sand.
And bodies?
Dead, blotted bodies. Oozing pus and bile and ichor. Flesh decaying, blistering in the merciless, icy sun. Dead, bloated bodies piled atop each other, blank eyes staring at him.
Run.
The word slithers into his ear, a serpent of sound and texture. He spins, looking for the speaker. And sees the bodies. Stirring.
Run.
The snake writhes in his head. His gut clenches, his skin prickles. He stares, frozen, as the rotting, putrefying bodies move as one, a rising, rolling wave of decay. Growing higher. Higher. Blocking out the sun. Curling over him. Dead, decaying corpses all staring at him as they come crashing down, drowning him in—
“RUN, PATRICK.”
A scream shatters the silent, still air and Patrick stumbles, frowning as he looks around the empty, deserted beach. Sweat trickles into his eye and he swipes at it with the back of his hand. Nothing. Just the beach and the rolling waves and the quiet. He begins to jog again, chuckling at his own foolishness. He must be hearing things.
The sand crunches under his feet, a relaxing sound that echoes his heartbeat. He smiles, enjoying the day. The sun warms his flesh, turns the sweat beading on its surface to hot bubbles of salty water. He runs, feeling fine.
He runs. Faster. His…scream… No, his smile growing.
He runs and… Oh God, it’s here. It’s here. It’s found you. It’s found…
The sun runs with him. The cold, white sun that reflects off the bones crunching under his feet. The bones of the dead left in his wake.
He runs.
And it chases him, its hand reaching for his heart, reaching and squeezing and crushing and killing him. He runs, and it runs after him. Gaining. Gaining. Until it is right behind him, ready to tear him apart, ready to tear him into a thousand bloody—
Death, The Vamp and His Brother Page 3