by Luke Metcalf
“Quickly!” Fionn cried, scrambling to his feet. “They’re going to board us! We’ll freeze the water and bring it up beneath them.”
Again, they focused their wills. The black galleon was no more than a few feet away now. With bloodthirsty war cries, dozens of the Initiates stood poised, ready to leap across the narrowing gap onto the wreckage of their ship. As the vampires crouched, ready to spring like cats, the great, black galleon pitched violently sideways, creaking and groaning as a towering spike of ice rose up beneath it, impaling its hull, lifting it into the air and plunging half the attacking Initiates into the ocean. Chaos spread through their ranks but the vampires quickly regrouped and charged with swords drawn, leaping with ease down onto the shattered schooner.
Fionn and Mitchell drew their flaming swords, two firebrands blazing in the blackness of the night, humming with power as their enemies fell upon them. First came the swarm of Initiates. They fought them five at a time, as dozens more rushed up behind them. Even though the apprentices were younger and weaker than Fionn and Mitchell, they still possessed the speed and strength of vampires. Mitchell needed to call on every moment of the obsessive training in hand-to-hand and sword combat he had received over the previous hundred and fifty years. Teacher and student stood back to back, parrying multiple razor-sharp blades as they thrust, sliced and slashed at them from every angle. At the same time, they managed to launch attacks of their own, occasionally sending an Initiate screaming into the cold black waters or a decapitated head bouncing across the splintered planks.
When they became separated, Mitchell found himself surrounded. As his attackers pressed in on him he suddenly bent over backward, arching his back into a bridge. Two of the Initiates, trying to stab him missed and impaled each other instead, while another accidentally cut off the head of one of his fellows with a badly timed swipe of his sword. Mitchell glanced up for a split second and spotted eight vampires without helmets and masks descending from above. Each held a thick, black steel pole with a cruel-looking barbed spearhead on the end. Mitchell bounded into the air, straight at them. As he hurtled past the first he slashed off his head in one clean movement, sending blood spraying through the air in a great fan as the corpse plunged into the ocean waves.
As they landed in front of Fionn he instantly killed two of them and kicked another in the chest, sending him flying into the water. Mitchell landed behind his friend and slew one as Fionn deflected the blows of another, neatly beheading him. Two more plunged their thick steel pikes through each of Fionn’s shoulders and kicked his feet out from under him, pinning him to the deck, making him bellow with pain.
Mitchell ambushed the one who’d fallen as he was rising and killed him, but five more now surrounded them. One grabbed the pike which still pinned Fionn to the deck and pushed him back down as he tried to rise. Mitchell spun and killed one just as three others plunged their pikes through him, pinning him down as well. There were just too many of them. Mitchell howled and snarled as he struggled like a wild beast, but to no avail. They were trapped.
Suddenly all was quiet around them, save for the lapping of the waves against the broken hulls of the two ships. Two figures jumped on board carrying great lengths of anchor chain. It was Baelaar and Squire Griffith.
“Bind them,” ordered Baelaar.
The surviving Initiates took the chains and tied Mitchell and Fionn from head to foot.
“He’s a game lad he is!” shouted Squire Griffith drunkenly, rewarding himself with a swig from a bottle of Chartreuse and pointing at Mitchell. “You fought well, son, but you were outmatched. A game lad though.” He jabbed Baelaar in the ribs with his elbow but the vampire ignored him. “Why don’t you let this one free?” Squire Griffith turned back to Mitchell. “You should come drinking and wenching with me, lad, we’d have a fine old time!” He roared with laughter.
“These chains were forged by me, Mitchell.” Baelaar spoke quietly, ignoring the blustering of the Squire. His hair was now wet and drops of blood dripped streaking down his face from his slicked-back hair. “Using the same methods we use in forging a Draaken.” He held up his own sword, which glowed blue and hummed with power. It was covered in frost and clouds of icy fog rose from it. Mitchell’s eyes shone crimson as he struggled furiously to get at Baelaar, desperate to tear his throat out, driven berserk with hate and rage. Mitchell’s maker chuckled, sheathed his sword and turned his attention to Fionn.
“And you. I am so happy I found you.”
“Tell me, Baelaar,” Fionn replied. “Rumor has it that the moment your mother gave birth to you she attempted to strangle herself with the umbilical cord in despair. Is this true?”
“Oh!” laughed Squire Griffith. “He has you there.”
“Be silent!” snapped Baelaar then stared hard at Fionn. “It is very foolish to try and anger me in your position.” He turned and took a good look at Mitchell. “My young cub has grown into a lion. You have proven that you are ready to join us.” He reached out his hand.
“Join you? Never! I intend to gut and skin you alive and fill my ears with the sound of your screams!”
Baelaar’s eyes blazed. “We are vampires! We are made to rule, not serve. We are the chosen ones! Chosen by Mezzor himself! All other lives he devours, only we remain! I was guided to you, as my maker was guided to me.”
“I suppose you think I should be honored that you all want me to join your little clubs?”
Baelaar grew as calm as ice, his face entirely expressionless. “I am surprised at your lack of gratitude for all that I have given you.”
“Thank you for the kindness of your condescension,” said Mitchell, voice dripping with sarcasm.
Fionn smiled at Mitchell. “All of the fools you see here are merely slaves who do not realize it.” He turned back to Baelaar. “There are those who are even more powerful than you, are there not, Baelaar?”
The other vampires snarled behind Baelaar, eager to be unleashed on their enemies, to inflict as much suffering as possible.
“I will deal with you soon enough, Fionn,” said Baelaar. “Your very existence offends me. For that, I may not make it quick.” He signaled to the other vampires with a wave of his hand. “Take him away.”
As the Initiates dragged him off, Fionn shouted back at Mitchell, “Remember everything I taught you.”
Mitchell watched as the vampires lowered his teacher into a boat and summoned a wave to speed them away into the night.
“I can see from your abilities in battle that Fionn has taught you many skills,” Baelaar continued as if nothing had interrupted their conversation. “You will be one of our finest warriors.”
Mitchell spoke calmly and evenly. “I will use your skull as a door knocker.”
Squire Griffith laughed. “Door knocker, haha!”
Baelaar chuckled. “That is the lion’s spirit talking, but there is so much you still do not know – not just about your own powers, but about the underlying truths of the universe. Fionn has been manipulating you from the start. Planet Earth is a vampire god and we are its chosen high priests!”
“You are mistaken, Baelaar. You are its insane, deluded clown.”
Baelaar laughed. “Do you really think that allowing mortals to continue existing as they have is in their best interest? They are not capable of choosing their own destinies without tearing each other apart. It is in their nature, in their blood.” His boots echoed in the stillness as he paced back and forth on the remnants of the wooden deck. “Vampires, like your friend Fionn, thrive in that chaos and want things to stay as they are. But we want something better, better for all. We will bring a new order to this planet. Equality among all mortals ruled by one power. Do you really believe that Fionn cares about the fate of mortals? If he did, he would want to protect them from themselves, as we do.” A hypnotic force shone in Baelaar’s black eyes. “Yes,” he coaxed, crouching down. “You know that what I say is true.”
For a moment, Mitchell hesitated, momentarily hypnotized, t
hen he shook himself free. “I have tasted your blood once. I am looking forward to tasting it again.”
Baelaar’s eyes flashed with fury. Straightening up he returned to pacing around his prisoner like a leopard.
“Why should we care about these mortals with their puny, insignificant lives? Going on and on with their infinitely tedious conversations about all the mundane, puny, pointless little details of their puny, pointless little lives. Their grotesque, ridiculous, vulgar little lives! They repulse me!” He spat into Mitchell’s face. “I will smash them! They are puppets – ridiculous little flesh puppets – and I pull their strings and make them dance. If I make the merest of gestures, like killing one of their leaders, they run around in every direction losing their minds. They divide into groups, one group attacks another group, and before you know it, they are killing each other by the hundreds of thousands!” He released a peal of cackling laughter. “All that freshly spilled blood for Mezzor. Do you not understand? I am an artist. I am Mezzor’s chosen playwright!”
Mitchell stared at him without a word. Baelaar was trying to read his mind. He struggled to resist him but it was no use.
“Ahhh,” said Baelaar. “I see your deepest pains in your thoughts. You still think and feel as a mortal. Your mind and heart are filled with infinite wrath and infinite despair. You wish to destroy me and then…” Baelaar’s eyes widened in surprise. “Then you intend to use the Well to go to the Abyss and the nine planes of Hell? And you call me mad? You are deranged, obsessed to the point of insanity. Do you not realize that you’re already in the Abyss? Do you not understand you are already in Hell?” Baelaar crouched down close to him again, his fervor burning in his eyes. “You have been told that we believe planet Earth is a vampire demi-god and that we worship it, but you have not been told the rest. That is just a small part. From the knowledge we have gained from the most ancient vampire, we now know the very origin of the universe and of humanity. The great question has been answered!”
“It must be hard being you,” said Mitchell.
Baelaar stared at him. “Enough sarcasm. This universe,” he continued, sweeping his hand across the stars, “is Hell! We have discovered that when God cast the rebel angels out of heaven, into the Abyss, this universe is the abyss he cast them into. The stars, our sun, they are the fallen angels spoken of in all the religious texts that God cast out of heaven down into this terrible, frigid black emptiness we call the universe. When you look at the sun, or at the countless stars, you are looking at demons and devils, the fallen angels, Lucifer’s mighty army! And the planets and moons that orbit them are lesser demons and evil demi-gods, worshiping their demon lords eternally as they orbit them. The planet Earth is a vampire demi-god and all the beings that live and die upon it are the souls of the damned, existing only to feed it with their blood and the sum total of their life experience. They are born here over and over, in various forms, born afresh to be beaten down and destroyed, then reborn to be beaten and destroyed again, over and over forever and ever. Do you not comprehend the unique gift I have given you? I have saved you from that terrible, pointless, miserable fate. The thought of lost happiness and everlasting pain torments you relentlessly. It has become your only reality. Let me end your pain forever! We are immortal! Embrace your new nature and you will have anything you desire!”
Mitchell stared at him for a few moments with his mouth hanging open. “I hate to imagine what your childhood was like. You are truly insane. But you are the one who still thinks like a mortal. You, existing in awe of this world, this so-called vampire god, and the universe, filled with these so-called fallen angels, the planets and stars. These things do not impress me. It is trivial compared to the power that I have touched. You think that you comprehend immortality? You understand only a mockery of it.”
Baelaar raised the corner of his lip in a sneer, groaned, rolled his eyes and threw up his hands in a flourish of splenetic exasperation. He then stared at Mitchell. “You need more time,” he said matter-of-factly. “I understand. Perhaps one day you will change your mind. Or perhaps, as the great Milton wrote, ‘Never can true reconcilement grow where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep.’ Either way, I will leave you to contemplate my offer.” He turned to the tall, thin vampire beside him. “Ivan, drain him and send him to the bottom of the ocean.”
Ivan nodded and Baelaar addressed another who wore a long black cloak and had short dark hair, high cheekbones and a small, surprisingly feminine nose. “Mephris, Celeste, help him. Then come and find me.”
“It will be done,” Ivan said in a thick Russian accent.
Mephris stepped forward, throwing back the cloak to reveal polished armor glittering with jewels and so did Comtesse LeDuijou.
“Comtesse LeDuijou!” Mitchell exclaimed.
“Such a waste,” she said. “So, gorgeous man, my offer still stands. Stop all this foolishness and become my pet. You cannot imagine the delights that would await you.”
“I’d wager she could teach you a thing or two!” Squire Griffith guffawed. “She is delightful, is she not?”
The Comtesse turned to Baelaar. “I demand that you give him to me.”
Baelaar looked at her then laughed. “I do believe the Comtesse is in love.”
Squire Griffith belched loudly. “Her? In love? She is incapable. She is depraved.”
“Me depraved?” said the Comtesse. “Sir, the depravity of your life is only whispered in the halls of Hell.”
“Love is like the guillotine,” the Squire rambled on, “the first cut is the deepest and even the strongest and most cynical are likely to lose their heads.” He let out a drunken guffaw at his own joke.
Baelaar placed a cold hand on the Comtesse’s arm. “Once Mitchell has spent a couple centuries crushed at the bottom of the ocean his mind will break and then I will retrieve him for you.”
“Cheer up, lad.” Squire Griffith gave Mitchell a conspiratorial slap. “At least you’ve got her favors to look forward to.”
“Perhaps she will be the first that I kill,” said Mitchell.
“Come, we must be on our way,” said Baelaar. “The blood of the world is the blood of the God.”
“The blood of the world is the blood of the God,” replied the others.
Baelaar and Squire Griffith sprang onto a boat floating nearby, conjured a rolling wave, and were gone.
As the Initiates chained Mitchell tightly the three older vampires turned their focus to the black ocean and within minutes a gaping whirlpool had appeared.
“Ivan,” Mitchell said, “what do you think your place in the world will be if Baelaar gets what he desires? Do you really want to spend all eternity serving him?”
Ivan shrugged. “I serve my people. Order under us is the best thing for them.”
“But those are Baelaar’s lies! You are a fool if you believe him!”
The whirlpool was now so deep and spinning so fast that a great churning sound rose up from its depths.
“Ivan, you do not know what you are doing!” Mitchell shouted. “Stop this madness!”
“He knows exactly what he is doing,” said the Comtesse.
“If you do this, I’ll find you!” said Mitchell.
Ivan shrugged. “These things happen.”
“Tell that to the fish, Mitchell,” said the Comtesse, slashing his throat with a dagger. As the blood emptied out of Mitchell, Ivan effortlessly hoisted his weakening body high above his head.
“During the next few centuries at the bottom of the ocean,” said the Comtesse. “I give you permission to dream of my beauty.” She blew him a kiss.
Ivan hurled him into the center of the watery vortex. Mitchell flew through the air, walls of water spinning around him as he plunged. He fell and fell and fell until he was a thousand feet below the surface. The cold black liquid swallowed him and he continued to spin as though caught in a tornado, down into the blackest depths of the ocean. Down, down, down he sank until the darkness was complete. The pressure was u
nbearable. Even the body of a vampire could not withstand the crushing weight and his bones burst apart in one agonizing moment. He screamed for no one to hear and then he knew no more.
Eleven
Portland, Maine, 2020
Tom’s kiss was long, deep and sensual. Their tongues, deliciously warm and wet, lazily licked and teased one another. Eventually he broke away and stared at her face, admiring her beauty, gently cupping her chin in his hand. Emily came back down to earth a few seconds later. The fact that he had broken away first, and left her wanting more, sent a hot flash of desire traveling deep down inside her. After a moment he pulled her toward him again.
“Come here,” he said in a soft, low voice as his arms went around her back, his powerful hands kneading and stroking the muscles that had been aching pleasantly from the effort of digging. She sighed with pleasure, melting into his arms as he kissed her again. They floated in the bliss of each other’s bodies for a few exhilarating minutes. Then once again Tom broke away. Emily opened her mouth and breathed deeply. She wanted him but she didn’t want to risk rushing things. The unmistakable look of desire in his eyes, combined with his willpower and restraint, made her want him even more.
“I wonder why it took me so long to realize how beautiful you are,” he mused, staring deep into her eyes.
Emily’s heart surged. She forced herself to look at her watch.
“Oh man, my mom’s going to kill me if I don’t get home soon.”
Tom stepped back and held her at arm’s distance, a flash of disappointment danced in his eyes, then his normal look of calm amusement returned. “Not a problem,” he chuckled. “Let’s head back then.”
They hardly spoke on the way home, neither of them wanting to risk spoiling the mood. Had she blown it, she wondered. Was she even ready to start anything serious with him? What an amazing night.
