by Kim Petersen
Arella felt fury erupt through her, surging in her blood and marring her cheeks scarlet. She began to shake, and the blues in her eyes glowed dangerously. She knew she only had moments to contain her shift before losing control over her powers, then who knew what would happen. She turned away and looked down at the floor.
‘Go to Shabu if you must,’ she uttered.
Keira swiveled around and stormed out without another word.
Arella stumbled from the club. She wished she hadn’t downed all those tequila shots and margaritas as her fractured heart was almost crippling her. If she were sober, surely Keira’s words would not have the same devastating effect. How could she be so cruel and heartless? she thought, as she boarded the cab she had managed to flag down.
Keira was the only soul she had confided in about her Ascended Angel heritage. While Jacques knew snippets of her powers, she hadn’t ever mentioned a word to Logan. She couldn’t believe her friend would use that information in such a spiteful way. Keira knew how her angelic background tormented her at times. She was also aware how Arella’s powers mystified her life. They evoked feelings of inadequacy as she was unable to use her gifts as her mother and Aunt Bella could.
Her eyes filled with tears as she watched the busy city streets fade into quiet suburbia. What she needed now was to feel her man’s arms wrapped around her, snuggle into his chest and breathe his sexy amber scent. She redirected the cab driver to the bar where Logan worked. His shift should be almost finished.
The cab arrived at Logan’s bar about ten minutes later. Arella grabbed some tissues and quickly dabbed her eyes before stuffing the used tissues in her bag as she pushed through the entry way. The smell of years old stale beer assaulted her senses as she scanned the crowded bar for Logan. She felt the alcohol-soaked carpet sponge under her weight while she snaked her way around the thriving dance floor and toward the bar.
Logan was at the end of the bar straddling a stool while a busty blonde woman straddled him like a Trojan horse. She pushed her vast cleavage into his face, pulling away before he could get a mouthful and giggling as she teased him. He held her easily in his arms. His tight black shirt clung snugly against the bumps of his flexing muscles and his trapezius protruded like a cape along the back of his neck as he clutched at her waist.
Arella took a moment to peer down at her own breasts. They jutted under her black dress in a lacy push-up bra, exaggerating her cleavage just a little bit. She shrugged. She was no Dolly Parton or Pamela Anderson but he had never complained about her lack of endowments.
Arella stomped a stiletto into the grimy beer carpet and marched right up to them. She was fast tiring of this horrible night.
‘Those arms were supposed to be for me tonight,’ she said flatly.
Logan’s eyes almost bulged from his skull. He abruptly pushed the woman off him and she landed with a thud on the floor. Her almost bare breasts rolled up and settled somewhere under her chin.
‘Rella! What are you doing here?’ He did a once over, taking in her little black dress and killer heels. ‘You’re looking hot, babe!’ he blurted, before noticing the steel in her eyes and clamping his mouth shut.
‘Hey! What the fuck?’ the woman yelled from the floor while accepting a flurry of tattooed arms that had fluttered to her aid.
Logan’s eyes clung to Arella’s. ‘I’m sorry Arella. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’ve had too many butterscotch schnapps.’
Arella swung around and stalked from the bar, attempting to keep herself together until she hit fresh, breathable air. He followed close on her heels and tried to plead with her. She stopped and eyed him coolly. Her eyes swept over him, noting the ruffle of his hair and the ripples of his pecs beneath his shirt. His brown eyes blinked like a lost puppy and the wisps of hair falling over his face with the tilt of his head awaited her reaction.
Her anger began to thaw. She shook her head. Words failed her as a lone tear rolled down her cheek.
‘Can we just go home?’ she muttered.
She couldn’t face losing two people she loved on the same night.
He exhaled audibly and grinned, stepping close to her and reaching for her hands.
‘Of course we can, beautiful,’ he replied softly.
He took her in his arms and pressed his lips against her forehead. ‘God, you look hot tonight,’ he whispered.
Arella replaced the frame face down on the lamp table and rose to her feet. Those days were over; she just had to accept that fact. She sighed as she dragged her feet toward her bedroom to prepare for a quick hot shower. She knew that somehow forgiving Logan for his infidelities made it easier to live with the guilt she harbored about Keira. She believed it was her fault her friend went missing. She should have stopped her walking from that city club that night.
It was guilt that drove her to haunt the city streets every Friday night, and guilt that kept her from facing the truth about her relationship with Logan; and if she was really truthful with herself, perhaps she was even just a little reluctant to let go of his perfectly contoured chest and his divine big swing muscle.
She sighed as she adjusted the shower faucet. Guilt can only take you so far and physical attraction and sex wasn’t enough to keep them together. It was time to face more truths than one.
She crept into bed freshly showered with an overwhelming need to replenish her energy. Soon she managed to forget about guilt and infidelities and fall into a deep slumber.
The street was quiet. The night air was still and clear against the inky darkness, enhancing the stars that blazed in the vast sky. Regan closed the car door and stood in the center of the road, taking in his surroundings and feeling as if he stood in the middle of the universe. I feel … He frowned, contemplating the thought. His face relaxed as he spotted a streak of light falling across the sky.
I feel connected to something bigger. He shook off the thought with a shrug. He had tried so hard to feel connected to the coven’s beliefs and teachings his whole life, yet even when he stood with the blood of many on his hands, his convictions never granted him enough room to ignore his chronic disbelief in their faith.
He believed in no god, nor serpent god. He believed in death. It was the alluring mystery of death he saw all around him. Death bewitched his every waking hour and enslaved his soul. Death involuntarily crept behind his eyes and corrupted his perception of the world.
Regan had learned to co-exist with death from an early age.
Her image flashed before him and his gut lurched as he closed his eyes. Her auburn hair dazzled and flared like wildfire; just as it had when he had first seen her, and just as it had when he had seen her last.
Regan’s eight-year-old hand gripped his mother’s and tugged. He had managed to drag his eyes from the cloaked figure with the phantom face to discover the man wasn’t alone in the ring of fire. The ominous figure fingered the dagger lightly as he sliced it through the heat-condensed air in a rhythmic delicate sway as he performed a ritual introducing the sacrifice to their serpent god Apepsis.
Every five years their coven offered a five-year-old female to Apepsis in a sacrificial ceremony. The ritual, passed down through the generations, was said to be started not long after the first settlers had arrived and it was a practice that continued to the present day. It was believed such a sacrifice nurtured the bonds between the dark entity, providing the rich foundations that fueled the powerful blood-magic they practiced and elevated the awareness of their priest and high priestess in their quest to find the Serenity Seed.
The girl appeared docile and dainty. Her wrists were bound to timber stakes and she stood in a specially crafted capsule designed to collect her blood without contamination. Her full cheeks were flushed, and her bottom lip fell listless as she gazed up at the twirling cloaked figure closing in on her.
Drums echoed through the night. The chanting grew louder, filling the clearing between the dense forests. It was the witching hour.
Regan struggled to swallow. Hi
s throat felt raw and scratchy with every smoky intake of air. He was about to turn away; he couldn’t watch, but then the girl looked at him. Regan gasped as their eyes met through the blood orange flames. Behind the fear he saw her acceptance, yet it was her death that struck him the most. Moments before death, he witnessed her eyes lull with the fall of her head, and a glossy red river oozed from her throat and pooled into the bottom of the capsule.
That was the first time he had experienced the dark gift that shrouded him. Yet, he had been too young to really understand.
The girl’s eyes glistened, wetting her skin momentarily before the flaming heat claimed them. As the grim reaper raised his sickle for the final cut, her small lips curled into a smile as if she welcomed Regan as her final vision. He squeezed his eyes shut, shielding his face with his hands and gritting his teeth. He flinched as his mother sharply dug her fingers into his shoulders.
‘You must watch! This is who you are – Dark Star of the coven … our salvation, bringer of the Serenity Seed. It is your destiny to know death,’ she hissed against his ear, rattling him with her hands.
Regan gulped as he dragged his fingers from his face and pried his eyes open, just as blood spilled from the girl’s throat like burgundy colored wine toppling from a glass. His teeth scraped into the thin flesh of his lips, imprinting the taste of his own blood on his tongue and forever scarring his essence. It was from that moment on that Regan developed an overwhelming repulsion for blood.
A truck horn boomed from the freeway a few blocks away. Regan started, remembering he still lurked in the small hours of a Sydney street. He pushed the sacrifice from his mind and came back to the present. He pulled up the collar of his leather jacket, and the bristles of his chin brushed against the fabric as he buried his face from the cold.
He turned his attention to the house. A fleeting smile fluttered through him as he set off toward the bordering fence, though it didn’t reach his lips nor his eyes. He searched around the perimeter of the house and discovered a back window that yielded easily to his touch. A quick flash of his cell phone light revealed the lock was secured loosely to the timber pane and would need little effort to open. Furthermore, it would grant him entrance to the laundry, which was far enough from the bedrooms to give him the element of surprise.
He jiggled the window until the lock gave way with a slight tired moan. He climbed into the gloomy laundry using the washing machine lid to give him leverage. The overpowering scent of fabric softener filled his nostrils as he leveled out and inhaled. It was the scent of Sky Blue – his favorite. A woman after my own heart, he smirked to himself. Then he edged from the room like a predator in search of his prize.
Regan moved like an onyx shadow. His silhouette was sleek and fluid against the backdrop of the light-colored walls. He paused and drew a deep breath, recognizing the scent of a woman. Daisy fresh skin, cocoa butter scented shampoo and musky lip gloss enticed him along the hallway until he reached a door. She was freshly showered, which pleased him; he liked his women clean, even when they were ‘dirty’.
He turned the handle and stole through the doorway noiselessly before stopping at the foot of the bed where she lay sleeping. His eyes stayed on her as he removed his coat, folded it neatly and slipped it over the edge of the elaborate iron-cast bed stand. Her long dark hair fanned over the plump pillow like a black veil, and her lashes almost licked the edge of her cheekbones. He rounded the bed and stood over her. His heart pumped a few beats faster as his eyes took in the outline of her full lips. He had a thing for her lips from the moment he first saw her. He groaned inwardly with desire. It had been a tough night, even for him, and all he wanted now was to focus his energy on those lips.
His midnight eyes dilated as they began to spiral with the light of shooting stars as he reached for her.
Zane scaled the raised boxing ring platform and weaved himself through the ropes. His scaly head flitted about while his restless black eyes spritzed with electric blue and found no place in particular to settle. He was wired. The wondrous chemicals of Shabu pumped through his body like a pulsating cannon, and as he reached the bright pinnacle of the rush, he knew he was king of the world. He was certain dynamite would not stop him in this mutated design. He had no idea what kind of supernatural being he now was, except that it gave him a ravenous craving for blood. He felt his strength increase and his senses keen with every hit of the vividly blue liquid.
How fortunate he was to have had an interest in chemistry and to have had the skills to propagate the perfect fusion of drugs to evolve into such an extraordinary being. Soon he planned on creating his own small mutated division. Firstly, he would need the seed to secure and enhance his power. Then nothing would stand in his way; even the serpent god himself would be forced to kneel before him.
Euphoria ravished him. He clawed at his shirt and ripped off the fabric, tossing it over the ropes of the ring. He shut his eyes and ran his palms over his chest, which was now thick and scaly. He was instantly aroused, and his shaft reacted accordingly, lumping in his pants like a prominent hot rod he could not ignore. He fumbled to unzip his jeans as the urgency for release surged through his veins. He panted with growing anticipation as he could barely take no more.
At last the zipper co-operated and he was able to hike down his pants and lovingly grasp his throbbing member. His frenzy intensified with each stroke, and when he gave his shaft a good dollop of frothing saliva, he knew it would soon explode with the life-producing fluid. It was at that point that his cell phone began to vibrate as a call came through. He snarled with annoyance, but when he noticed the caller was his reliable contact returning his call with the information about Arella Anderson, he had to take the call.
He reached for the phone with one hand while steadily keeping the other pumping. ‘Yeah?’ he growled.
‘Mr Crais, I have all the information you requested,’ the man tottered down the line.
His heart pounded furiously, his breath raspy. ‘Is it current?’
‘Naturally.’
Zane grinned. His pumping hand convulsed into overdrive and he imagined Keira in her mutated figure bending forward, her delicate fleshy lips throbbing and ready for him to invade just as he had done many times before.
‘Text it through,’ he groaned. As all his tension reached a delightful peak, the phone slipped from his hands and he growled like a wild animal as he unloaded all over his father’s boxing ring mat.
‘Err … hello? Well, yes then …’ the man uttered before hanging up.
Zane chuckled as he looked down at the phone. The screen ignited as a text message arrived. He threw his head back as his laughter bordered on hysterics. He reached for the phone and gazed down at the address, which was bright, bold and swimming before him in exquisite revelation.
He rose to his feet, jumped clear over the boxing ring ropes and grabbed another fresh shirt and a black hooded sweater from his father’s well supplied closet.
Pulling the hood tight over his head, he prowled to the next street where he had left his car. Once inside, he punched the address into the GPS. He didn’t know the suburb of Rockton so well. It was a part of Sydney he had rarely visited, with only the odd trip to the bay from time to time.
When the GPS loaded, he grinned. ‘Arella Anderson, I have found you and the seed.’
He switched the car into gear and sped off down the street. His gut wrangled under his clothes; it was a good thing his hunger for blood was becoming so difficult to harness. There was nothing more he’d love now than to sink his teeth into flesh and drink the glorious fluid thriving beneath it.
And that was exactly what he planned to do.
Through the heavy veil of sleep, Arella struggled to grasp the thud coming from the rear of the house. She opened an eye half way, crinkling her nose as she attempted to process the noise trespassing upon her slumber. She drowsily lifted her head but after straining her ears for a few moments, could hear nothing more. She plunged her head back into the p
illow as sleep took her in its soothing embrace once more.
After a few minutes she rustled under the blankets as she became increasingly restless. However, her fatigued body demanded sleep despite the incessant echoes that reverberated through her ears.
It wasn’t his clumsy stumble that eventually woke her, nor was it the noise he made when he pulled off his boots and threw them across the room with a little more force than necessary. It was the staggering stench of alcohol that clung like an alien to the insides of her nose that alerted her. She battled to shed the slumberous tendrils that clogged her thoughts as Logan rolled into bed behind her and began winding his hand around her breasts.
She suppressed a sigh and gently nudged him away. Sex was the last thing on her mind; especially sex with him. He reeked like a pub and she had no desire to humor his intoxicated state. Let him sleep it off.
‘Please just let me sleep!’
Logan leaned closer, cupping her bottom and slipping his fingers between her thighs. His warm breath crawled over her ears when he spoke.
‘I’m horny, baby,’ he slurred.
She cringed. You don’t say. She pushed an elbow into his chest, ignoring the hardness of his groin pressing against her backside. ‘I’m not.’
‘C’mon, I haven’t seen you in days. You must be ready for it by now,’ he persisted.
‘No thanks.’
This time she was determined to ignore the alluring bluffs and jagged edges of his firm, sun-kissed chest. She could do it; she knew it. All she had to do was keep her mind off the sensual ridge of veins that bulged along his arms when he held her weight during their vigorous love-making sessions.
Logan nibbled on her lobe. ‘But I love you, baby … and you know you want it,’ he murmured.
Argh! The funk of his breath was enough to squander any desirable thoughts that might have lingered. And, between his overpowering stink of booze was the unmistakable scent of perfume.
