The Preternatural Chronicles: Books 0-3

by Hunter Blain

  Da cleared his throat. It was intolerable in my stupor. I sighed, loudly, while opening the door. I stepped out and turned to look at Da, dropping the trophy on the seat.

  “That gauntlet is going into the cabinet with my collector’s cups,” I said while pointing at the seat where the only remaining evidence of my super sin sat.

  “Be honest with him, John. He can’t help if he’s in the dark,” Da reasoned, ignoring my comment about my Eternity Gauntlet.

  After a moment’s contemplation, I nodded my head in agreement while shutting the passenger door and turning to look at the ancient building in the middle of Houston. The church looked like it was as old as the castles you’d find in my homeland of Ireland. Moss crept around the corners with the goal of covering every square inch of stone. Original stained glass windows decorated the walls evenly, but provided no actual light. I assumed the growth kept the windows intact like duct tape, especially considering Houston had been hit with its fair share of harsh storms.

  I set one hand on the—hopefully—rust-covered wrought iron fence, and fell on my ass. I lifted my hand and saw where I had ripped the iron apart as if it was made of corn dog sticks.

  “Why is everything made from cheap wooden sticks all of a sudden?” I asked as I dropped the metal and brushed the dirt off my ass. Realization dawned on me, and I looked down at my hands. Consuming blood made me increasingly powerful, but it took scores of mortals over long periods of time to gain a drastic increase in strength. Even then, how much energy I could permanently store seemed to correlate with how long I had been undead. I had never questioned why, just simply assumed it was a checks and balances system of the universe. Maybe it prevented fledgling vampires from rampaging and eating entire continents of people.

  I walked over to where a jagged rock protruded from the ground and kneeled down. I set my hands on the corner, gripped it, and pulled the entire fixture from the earth. It came away as if ice cream sticks held it in place (last one, I promise). The stone looked as if a teardrop and a lightning bolt had had a metaphorical baby. I lifted it up, grabbing either side, and was impressed that it spanned a little wider than my body.

  “And if my theory is correct…” I started as I brought my hands together, turning the impressive rock into sand. It was as if the entire thing were made out of some sort of cheap, food-holding apparatus. You know, like a multiuse tool available across different platforms, like at a doctor’s office. The word escaped me right now.

  Dust fell onto and settled in the fabric of my clothes and on my black boots.

  “Dang it,” I said as I went to pat my stomach, only to be struck with a baseball bat to my gut. I barked in surprise and then looked at my hands. “Oh, right,” I chuckled to myself. I noticed that at least most of the dust had been knocked off my shirt. Small victories.

  “Must be careful when I pee,” I said cautiously as I turned my hands over in front of me.

  Just as intrigued as I was satisfied, I approached the cracked stone of the stairs leading to the giant weathered doors.

  Standing at the threshold, I prepared to carefully bang out my secret knock when thoughts of the impending conversation with a frowning Father Thomes passed through my mind as if looking out the window of a train and seeing a billboard shoot by. Worry froze me and gripped my chest like a vise. He was going to be so disappointed and upset with me.

  Turning to look at Da for reassurance, I noticed that the road was empty. Great. Maybe I should just pop down to Valenta’s Saloon and grab me a Jack and Blood to build my courage. Yeah, that’s what I’d do. One drink and I’d come right back.

  I instantly chastised myself for being weak. Let’s add enchanted alcohol to the cocktail that’s flowing through my veins! What’s the worst that could happen?

  As I stood on the landing of the church, being disgusted with myself, I heard the clacking of sturdy locks being released. I lowered my hand and took in a deep breath, preparing myself for one of the most difficult conversations I would ever have. The door creaked open, revealing an empty doorway.

  It was pitch black inside, as if the church had a restraining order on all outside light. My preternatural eyes scanned the inside, searching for my holy guide. With an audible gulp, I stepped forward and through the empty doorway. As I cleared the entrance, the door slowly creaked shut behind me as if on its own volition. My eyes adjusted, and I could see a lone figure sitting in his usual pew on one side of the aisle. Without saying a word and while looking forward, I slid into the adjacent pew, and waited. The father had a knack for knowing exactly what I had done. It’s like he had a direct line upstairs or something.

  A match was struck and brought to a wooden pipe. The flame was tugged toward the tobacco by unseen breath and brought to the herbs, which began to glow a bright orange before settling into a light smolder. Before the match self-cannibalized, the eager flame was brought to an oil lamp, which was then set on the ground between the pews.

  “You attacked and killed an angel, my son?” Father Thomes Philseep asked while staring down the aisle to where Jesus hung on the cross above the dilapidated stage.

  Speaking in all seriousness in light of the gravity of the situation, I said, “He was hostile. I felt threatened.”

  Father Thomes’ head shot my way, and I reflexively turned to meet his gaze, not in challenge but surprise. He had a deep scowl creasing his forehead, as if the Grand Canyon had been teleported onto his face.

  “You KILLED an ANGEL! Do not presume me a fool to fall for your flagrant lies. If you had been an intended target, he would not have given you the opportunity to attack.” Anger infused his harsh words as they exploded out of his vein-bulging face.

  “I didn’t know it was a real angel. I thought he would have a body made out of ectoplasm, like demons! How the hell was I supposed to know?” I asked, throwing my hands into the air.

  “Poor choice of words, child,” Father Thomes scolded.

  “Sorry. ‘Heck,’” I said with air quotes.

  The father relaxed visibly, but not from release of tension. Instead, he deflated like a balloon with a small hole in it as he looked at me.

  “I can’t protect you from Heaven now, John,” the father said with full sincerity and weariness. There were heavy bags under his eyes that were visible with every toke of his pipe. Orange light bathed his features with each breath.

  I slowly turned my head toward the holy figure on the stage. The personification of all things holy. My new enemy.

  “Let them come,” I said defiantly, but only just above a whisper.

  I expected a nuke of rage to drop on me from across the aisle, but nothing did. The silence was deafening and more impacting than any fury he could have spat at me.

  After a few tokes of contemplation, the father broke the silence, “I’m afraid they will, child. We have drawn the attention from both sides now. Perhaps this is too big an undertaking for just us.”

  “Father, all the good we’ve done—the people we’ve saved, the demons we’ve sent back—it all means nothing now, doesn’t it?” I was referring to the scale of my soul. I’d been working with Father T to try and win favor with Heaven since we’d first met. It had been determined that when it came time for the big sleep, my soul would find rest if I used my preternatural abilities for the Light. At this point, I was pretty damn sure that the demons in Hell would wait in a line that wrapped around the cosmos twice in order to get a chance at punishing me for ruining their time on Earth. I had only sent a couple dozen back, but a slight on one was a declaration of war on all.

  Oh, shit. I had also killed Locke, who was a direct lackey of Satan himself. I knew from firsthand experience that he knew how to torture both physically and mentally.

  “Maybe a Barnes and Noble gift card would help smooth things over?” I half joked. It was draining to attempt humor right now, and I immediately felt my eyelids getting heavy. Fuck it. I was going to have that drink after all.

  My comment went ignored as Father T
continued to smoke his pipe while deep in thought. The flame from the oil lamp danced, causing shadows to crawl over his weathered face, and intermixed with the weak light from the pipe, as if they were wrestling for control. His white hair was tinged orange in the glow as the air filled with the aroma of tobacco.

  “I’m going to have to reflect on the situation,” he said without looking at me. My heart sank. If he had looked at me, it would have meant there was hope that he could somehow fix this. At least, that’s what I felt. I could be making a mountain out of a molehill, but somehow, I doubted it.

  “Return tomorrow night, my son. In the meantime, remain with allies at all times to discourage further incidents.” With that, he stood with a groan while placing a hand on his lower back. He stepped into the aisle and bent at his creaking knees to grab the lamp with his other hand. Without another word, he hobbled toward a hallway on the side of the room that contained several places, including his chambers. I took note that he walked with a slight hunch for several paces before straightening as his body loosened slightly with every step. Though I was 559 years old, the impacts of age would always elude me. It was sobering to see my friend of almost two decades slipping into his twilight years. Without him, I’d be lost. My soul would surely be dragged to Hell when I danced off this mortal coil, and I was not particularly fond of the idea of dancing with the devil in the pale moonlight.

  A pang of guilt struck me like a broken guitar string; was I worried that the father was going to die, in what to me would be a blink of an eye, because he was my friend? Or because he was my only hope for eternal salvation? It disgusted me that I couldn’t convince myself that the answer was the former. I was selfish, I could admit that, but when it came to why I had certain people in my life, it felt more like a chess game than companionship.

  If I sat and thought about it, I could break down each of my so-called “friendships” into useful and distinct categories: Depweg was a loyal soldier. Da kept me grounded and watched over me while I slept; he was my devil’s advocate when it came to most of my actions. Valenta provided me with drinks and sage advice, keeping me up to date with the supernatural community. Father Thomes Philseep provided bleach to my darkened soul and gave me a sense of purpose.

  I had always done the right thing on a small scale, like saving a family from a house fire or stopping the massacre of a small religious village in Africa. But if I was being honest with myself, I didn’t know if I had done these good deeds because of the “big responsibility comes with big power” equation, or if I simply felt good for doing it. I had no qualms about ending the existence of someone who I deemed to be “bad” if it meant the good shall live. But even the latter part of that didn’t matter to me. It was simply how I justified my actions.

  If I used my power to do something good, was it considered selfless if I got a sense of pleasure from doing so? To me, it felt as selfish as people posting selfies on social media after buying a few cheap toys for a child whose name was on the Angel Tree at the local mall. It wasn’t about the child; it was about being better than everyone else, complete with a look-down-their-nose feeling of superiority. Whether they were aware on a conscious level was beside the point.

  The other side of that coin was that at least good things were happening to the people who needed it most, so why shouldn’t the do-gooders receive an increase of serotonin and dopamine as a reward?

  On a side note, my body does not operate the same as a human’s in terms of hormones and the like. Though that doesn’t mean I don’t feel things. It is theorized that super- and preternatural’s have evolved to mimic humans in order to better blend in. I perceive stimuli and my brain responds appropriately. On top of this, I am fully aware of how much my Predatory Self wants to take complete control over my actions, which means my humanity has been fighting to remain dominant all these years. I shudder to think what would happen if PS overtook my mind permanently. However, I digress.

  Feeling a mix of emotions, I stood and walked toward the wooden doors that led to the outside. I needed a drink.

  3

  Valenta’s Saloon was within acceptable walking distance from the church, and closer still to the cemetery that I called home. Cliché you may say, and you’d be entitled to your wrong opinion.

  As I approached the lone surviving business located in a district plagued by abandoned buildings, I decided it was best to use the back entrance.

  Val’s Saloon catered exclusively to the supernatural elements of the region, which meant I needed to tread lightly. Not so long ago, I had accidentally exposed myself to mortal authorities who had shown a recording of me using not-so-human abilities to the public. Mortals, afraid of the truth, had dismissed it as trickery or editing. Nonmortals were not so quick to forgive or forget.

  It was well known that if someone broke the laws of the supernatural community—by, I don’t know, exposing themselves to mortals via a bodycam—that their life, or unlife in this situation, was forfeit. It was open season on John Cook, the last vampire on Earth, and there would be no repercussions for taking me out.

  So, with that in mind, it was best to use the back door if I wanted a drink at Val’s.

  Two concrete steps that were a sneeze away from being rubble led up to the back door. A lone doorbell illuminated the darkness, as the only light on the outside of the premises was out front, overlooking the parking lot. I gently pushed it and waited. Instead of a chime, a small light hidden underneath Val’s bar would come on. In response, Valenta would buzz me in, allowing me into his modest kitchen, which was surprisingly spotless and well lit for that of a bar; all except for a dark corner were a set of heavy metal doors led to a basement.

  A sound that reminded me of an electrical current, like a transformer on a country road away from the sound of cars, told me the door was unlocked.

  I stepped inside, turning my head to glance over my shoulder, ensuring the coast was clear. I froze as two amethysts glinted in the darkness about a foot above the ground. Even with my eyes, it was too dark and far enough away that I couldn’t quite make out what I was seeing.

  My phone, sensing an opportunity to make me piss my pants, decided to shatter the silence by belting out the music to Beetlejuice. I yelped in surprise and fumbled to grab it. Pulling it out of my pocket, I saw “Deppyweg” splashed across the screen. It was he who had decided it was necessary for me to get a phone in the first place. I had gone my entire existence without one until now. I answered his call as I brought it up to my ear.

  “Ya, man, what’s up?” I asked while looking back out at the blackness. The amethysts were gone, if they had even been there at all. I stepped into the kitchen and let the door close behind me, unsettled.

  “Where you at, brother? I downloaded the director’s cut of Aliens and I’m ready to ‘get away from her, you bitch.’” Depweg chuckled at his own joke.

  I stared at nothing as the theater in my mind played the events again in vivid detail.

  “Hello?” I heard the phone ask.

  “Huh? Oh, yeah. Game over…and stuff,” I attempted to quote while lost in my thoughts, as if in a dream. The perfect recall of my memory did see two purple orbs in the darkness, but I couldn’t be sure what they belonged to. It could have simply been a broken bottle glinting in the moonlight. My gut told me otherwise. I shouldn’t stay here.

  “You alright, John? What’s going on?” Depweg asked, concern evident in his voice.

  I forced myself back to the present. “Yeah, man, I’m good. I’ll be coming home soon. At Val’s, grabbing a quick drink.”

  “Alright, buddy. If you say everything’s fine, then I’ll see you soon.” Trust was interlaced with doubt, but he knew I could hold my own.

  We hung up and I slid the phone back into my front pocket. I was still getting used to having one. I got why people joked about being slaves to their technology. It was like having a crying, shitting, hungry baby that demanded all of your attention and could fit into your pocket.

  Val
entered through the door that led to the common area. As he did, it swung back toward the patrons, one of which straightened as his eyes curiously followed Valenta and locked onto me.

  “Shit,” I said curtly.

  Val followed my gaze to the swinging door and then looked back at me. “Shouldn’t be come’n here, boy. Y’know that,” he spoke with his thick Southern drawl. He was rocking a thick mustache that covered his lips and was fashioned into circles at the ends. “What’d’ ya need?”

  “A bottle, please. It’s been…weird lately,” I said, leaving out the part where I starred in Leaving Las Houston after draining an angel.

  Val eyed me dubiously for a moment before walking through the swinging door. I wasn’t sure if that had been a yes or a no. What I was sure of was of the now empty table in eyeshot of the doorway. I took in a deep breath, held it, and repeated, “Shit,” while exhaling.

  Valenta returned a moment later with a bottle and a disapproving look on his face. He extended his arm and I took my prize from his hand. I nodded once and turned to walk out the back door.

  “B’careful, John,” Val warned. “I know y’ can take care o’ yerself, but at some point, ants can o’erwhelm an elephant. Ya’hear?”

  “I think…so?” I responded over my shoulder before stepping outside, letting the metal door click closed with a thud.

  The night’s air was cool on my skin as I took the two concrete steps in one stride. Bending over, I set the enchanted bottle of Jack and Blood on the ground before straightening again.

  Taking in a deep breath, I called out into the night, “Who will be the first contestant on Wheel of Execution?” I enunciated the last part like a TV show host, with dramatic pauses in the made-up title.