The Vapor

by Nathan Parks

  As for the Clans, the Fallen, they have become a disbanded dishevelment of inept gangs of power-hungry buffoons. (You know, I have never used the word “buffoon" before, but I do like it!) They have fallen apart as a whole but have become stronger within each house that is represented. It really doesn't affect what I do at all; but you know, it is where things are.

  The House of Hecate has outgrown the Adramelech Clan, mostly due to Arioch’s breaking away on his own.

  My so-called kindred, the Nephelium, are out and about. They still are the assassins for hire that they always have been but with just a bit more power with Kadar at the helm.

  Kadar—ha!—now this buffoon (you see how I did that) is a prick—just saying. He hides within the shadows and is always on the outskirts of what I am doing. I am not sure if he thinks I cannot detect that he is there, but he is like that annoying mosquito that keeps buzzing just out of the ring of light: you can hear it but can't get close enough to swat it.

  Now, I guess that leaves me . . . what do I say about me? How have these five years touched me? I'm not really sure. I know that I cannot change that I am Nephelium, and I can't change the past; but I sure can do everything in my power to ensure the past is not repeated in the future by seeking revenge in the present. That is them; this is me; and this is the here and now. Revenge is sweet, forgiveness futile.

  Chapter One

  It was that moment between night and day when the temperature drops just a little bit, but enough, that if the morning is already a little chilly, then the coolness touches one’s skin with what she called the cold kiss of death. She stepped off the pavement and onto the well-manicured lawn. The black boots she wore had been well broken in, and they moved with her feet like a second skin. Each step she took barely made a noise. She was dressed in black jeans and a deep red, form-fitting, long-sleeve t-shirt. It was topped off with a black zip-up hoodie.

  Of course, her surroundings did nothing to bring warmth to her, either. Her eyes scanned the multiple monuments and stones that dotted around her, all just chiseled reminders that for some, mortality was the same as the moment between night and day: brief . . . and then gone. You could fight it; but in the end, it would win.

  She closed her eyes for a moment and drew in a deep breath; at least the air seemed to have a tint of freshness about it. Strange that a cemetery would smell fresh—but hey, mortality was strange.

  Once again, with her eyes open, she resumed her memorized trek, bypassing ornately carved headstones that meant something to someone . . . but to her, nothing. Her senses knew where she was headed; it was a place to which she came often.

  She soon reached her destination: the backside of a medium-sized, rectangular stone. It was not ornate or lush; but instead, simple and, as some would say, plain. That was alright.

  “Just the way you would have wanted,” she said as she stepped around to the front so that she could read the inscription. She knelt and traced the words with her fingers: “A simple man who left the world a richer place.”

  Cry? No, tears were long gone. Tears had been replaced over the last five years by revenge, anger, and a strength that made the guilty quiver in fear and shame. No one would suggest that tears would flow down her cheeks anymore. No, this Nephelium wouldn’t cry. To cry would allow the pain to drain from her eyes. No, she needed that pain to pulse through her veins, and it had served her well.

  “Alfonso, there is still much to do. I know that this war that rages on would have torn you and me apart. There is no way that I can be a part of any side. That is their battle; I have my own. I do wish you were here, though. There are still so many questions that I cannot answer. There are still nightmares that flash through my mind as a searing arrow—here and then gone—but the feelings never leave.”

  A black hood covered her hair, which fell down around her face. Her eyes were set and strong. The Nephelium within her had risen to the surface of her mortality and caused an enticing edge about her that she had not had before . . . or maybe that, too, was just the revenge that now seeped through her veins.

  She knew that there were several of the Alliance members who visited Alfonso's’ grave on the anniversary of his death, but she was a regular. It kept that night fresh in her mind. It allowed her to remember why she had chosen the path she chose. When she stepped out of the shadows, she stepped back into the lives of those who had caused her so much pain. In order to return that pain, she had to remember why she was doing this.

  She pulled out a deep red rose and laid it at the base of the stone. She stood up and stepped back. She looked up and out at all the stones and monuments again. There was one more stop that she had to make before she left, and then . . . well, then there was work to do.

  She moved quicker now through the cemetery. She needed to get through here and get back to her place to rest before her work for the evening began. She smiled. Yes, the nights were lonely, but they were hers.

  Over the last five years, Eve had distanced herself from her Clan, the Alliance, and the Clan Wars. She didn’t want anything to do with it. She and Leah had come to a standoff; and at that point, Eve became a shadow to them all. If they really wanted to find her, they probably could. She still had a lot to learn about being a Nephelium. She stayed out of their way, and they stayed out of hers. True, there was loneliness, but she just added that to her arsenal of reasons to keep doing what she was doing.

  What was she doing? She had begun strategically to take out those who had hurt her, stolen her innocence, and brutally used her for their own selfishness and return the pain and emptiness they had given to her.

  Alfonso would not have been pleased, but he was no longer here; so, there was no reason to hold back. Did it resolve anything? It really hadn’t, yet: the hollowness within her seemed to grow, but she couldn’t stop. Maybe once it was all done, she would feel that satisfaction.

  She came to her second stop within the field of mortality’s trophies. This stone was simplistic, bearing only a name. There was no inscription, just a name: Megan.

  She didn’t stop with the air of solitude that she had with her mentor, but she did kneel and place her hand upon the top of the stone. “Girl, I wish you would have listened. I could really use a cup of coffee with you at the café. Wouldn’t it have been great if we had truly been sisters? Wow, two female Nephelium waging war on those who destroy innocence!”

  The stone indicated that she had passed the same day as Alfonso. That night had burned itself inside the psyche of Eve. She could smell everything, hear everything, feel everything as if it was now. She had gone into The Vortex that night hoping to find both Megan and Alfonso.

  She never did see Megan that night as the events of Alfonso’s death had wiped all else from her thought. She had forgotten all about Megan after witnessing the death of Alfonso by the hands of Denora. She had only remembered revenge that night when the Nephelium side of her took over and broke forth. She had forgotten there was one other who had needed her help.

  She had been told later that Megan’s body had been found within the ruins of The Vortex. Eve was told that no one knew if she had been a victim of Arioch or a casualty of the eruption between the Clans. Eve had chosen not to attend the funeral.

  She placed a rose at the base of Megan’s grave, kissed her hand, and retouched the top. Time to get home. The evening would come soon enough. She smiled. “Death becomes the dance partner within the night’s masquerade.”

  ◆◆◆

  There is nothing else that smells anything like the sweat, oils, and secretions of the human body. It permeates everything with which it comes into contact; it lingers and then becomes a collaboration of toxic smells when there is an attempt to mask it with cheap cologne or body spray.

  Hey, Shitbag,” the owner of the horrific stench, as well as a connoisseur of horrific Hollywood biker clothing, spewed. “You are sitting at our table.”

  The man and object of his focus sat at the untreated wooden table without looking up or turn
ing to acknowledge the conversation or the body odor. He sat with his right side facing the ogre of a man, and his left was up against the smoke- and dirt-stained wall. His eyes were fixed upon the dark stout that so beautifully and magically sat within the beer mug in front of him. It was his third . . . or maybe tenth . . . he couldn’t remember; nonetheless, he was sure it was just as stimulating as the first . . . well, if he could remember the first.

  “I don’t think he heard ya, Derick,” the cheap, last decade’s halter top-wearing, clown-faced female companion of the wannabe biker stated as she curled up closer to the warthog’s back.

  She was sneering from behind this annoyance that she called “Derick.” He couldn’t see the sneer; he just knew: he could feel it. He hated clowns . . . especially over-caked, horror show females like her. He hated body odor more, though.

  “I would suggest you open your ears and move,” Derick stated as he leaned on the table and picked up the beer that was just asking to be downed and yet savored all at once. With one, not-so-elegant motion, Derick did the former and downed the whole mug and slammed it back on the table.

  The figure sitting there still did not move. He just sat there, looking at the now empty mug. There was a moment of silence that began to grow thick, and then he spoke. “Derick, Derick, Derick. Now you see, I had my doubts that you were even half the man you think you are, and I honestly thought for a moment I would let you just continue thinking that you were all the pinnacle of manhood you think you are . . . that was for a moment, though.”

  The figure looked up at Derick, who was inches away from him and still leaning on the table and breathing like an angry puffer fish in the middle of the desert.

  “You know what changed my mind?”

  “I really don’t care,” Derick sneered, “All I know . . .”

  The figure put up a finger to Derick’s lips. “Shhh. You are going to want to pay really close attention.”

  Derick glared at him in disbelief and anger, but the stranger was holding his own. His eyes appeared to be almost electric blue and appeared to crackle with the same energy. “No real man would have EVER just downed that amazing and sinful beer.”

  The stranger laughed at the last part of the statement.

  “Sinful,” the figure chuckled again and for a moment appeared to lose himself in the statement. “Sinful is such a delightful word—and yet so antagonistic.” He brought his attention right back to Derick as he reached into the pocket of his torn jeans that he wore, accented by a gray t-shirt with an ace of spade card on it.

  Derick wanted to rip this man’s head off. He wanted to urinate down his shredded throat and leave him to die, but he found himself unable to move. It was as if the whole world had him glued to the table. His female companion was nervous and stepped back a few steps as she realized that her man was “stuck” to the table.

  “Derick, let’s play a game.” The figure smiled a devilish smile as he placed two chrome dice upon the table. “You see, right now you can’t move. You can’t even hardly breathe. You feel crushed; and I would imagine you are screaming deep inside, but nothing will find its way to the cavity-infested orifice you call a mouth. Now, being that you have been rude not only to me but also to my beer and my intelligence, I feel I should walk out and let you stay this way. Sadly, I still have enough good inside of me that would not allow me to do this; and besides, it would draw way too much attention to me.”

  He looked around to ensure that attention had not started already being turned to his direction. The desert dive bar in which he was sitting didn’t have too many individuals in it, but those that were there had not caught on that anything out of the ordinary was taking place in the back corner. The old-time country music, mixed with some rock, was still playing on the half-broken jukebox, and beer was still being enjoyed—of course, not with the respect with which it should be, but some people are simply just not intelligent enough.

  His attention came back to Derick, who now had more beads of sweat dripping down his forehead. “So, we are going to play a game.” He picked up the chrome dice. He felt the cold metal as it touched his fingertips. It was a stark contrast to the heat within the bar. He was a simplistic individual, and yet one of contradiction; so, the balance of hot and cold teased at his senses. He loved it! He felt alive; of course, that, in itself, was yet another contradiction within his existence.

  “So, here is how the game is played—very simple, actually. You pick a number 2 through 12, and then I roll the dice. If I roll your number, then I win. If I miss your number, then you win. It really is simple and set to be more in your favor. Understand?”

  Derick was able to nod his head and gulp a “Yes.”

  The stranger grinned from ear to ear. “Awesome! I love this game! So, now pick a number!” He wiggled in his chair like a child who could not sit still in math class. “This is going to be fun.”

  “Nine,” Derrick squeaked out.

  It was like slow motion as his hands closed around the dice, and he began to shake them. The man’s female companion seemed to hold her breath as he let them go to hit the table. She swore that the music and everything within the bar became silent. The metal dice hit the table top and bounced around, settled down, and then came to rest. He lifted his hand up to where only he could see the dice. “Well, it appears that chance is not on my side tonight. I rolled a ten.”

  As he spoke the words, he slipped the dice back into his pocket and stood up. He threw a few dollars onto the table and looked over at Derick’s female companion. “This is where I would say that you could do better and that you don’t deserve someone like him . . .,” pausing as he looked her up and down. “I would . . . but, then again, I am not into lying.”

  He walked past her as she backed away even further from him as if she had seen a ghost. “What are you . . . the devil?”

  “No, Ma’am. Simply a vapor in the breeze. Good day.”

  As he walked toward the door, he could hear Derick start moving again; and even though there were several explicatives coming from his re-found voice, they were tainted with fear and apprehension.

  ◆◆◆

  Michael squinted as the bright sunlight hit his eyes. It took a minute for his eyes to adjust. Anyone who was close enough to see into his eyes would have found themselves puzzled and dumbfounded. His eyes appeared to darken as if he had built-in sunglasses. He walked over to an old, black road bike and straddled it. His body tensed, not in anticipation of the revving of the engine but in apprehension.

  “You understand I can smell the scent of home just as much as I can smell the degenerates within that bar.” It was a statement more than a question. He didn’t even look up. He sat with both hands upon the handlebars of the motorcycle.

  “You wouldn’t be drinking and driving now, would you, Brother? I hear it is illegal.”

  He looked up at the silhouette that was framed in the noon sun. “And do you even know how amazing a great beer even tastes?” He sat upon the bike with an air of frustration mixed with disdain. “Why are you here, Michael?”

  “Maybe I just wanted to see my brother.”

  “Oh shut up! You and I know good and well that we have nothing to say to each other!”

  “Still bitter, I see, Zarius.”

  “Really?” He stood up and dismounted the motorcycle. “I should have finished you when . . .”

  “When what? You know good and well that you chose to be here!” Michael motioned with sweeping grandeur around him.

  Zarius didn’t even hesitate; he knew his brother was probably expecting it. However, he also knew that the air on earth was heavier than on Scintillantes; and until an Angel adjusted, it weighed him down. Zarius was pretty sure his brother had not been here long enough to yet adjust. His assumption was correct. His fist contacted square upon the jaw of the Arch Council member, sending him flying backward about 15 feet.

  Michael was able to catch himself and didn’t actually hit the ground. He stood back, rubbing his jaw
and smirking.

  Zarius was seething. “What do you want, Michael? Either lay it out now or go back to your seat on the Council . . . or have they discovered the truth?”

  “Truth? You see, Zarius, that is a funny word, isn’t it? Isn’t the truth what we set into motion as being the truth?” Michael walked toward him with the air of self-confidence that his brother wouldn’t have the chance to swing again. “Brother, like we both know, you wanted to be down here among these narcissistic, rat-like beings. You! I didn’t force you to make the choices you did.”

  “You’re right, Michael, but I also believed in you—something that I now see was misguided, then again, I guess it goes back to your version of the truth. Oh, if I could get back to the Council!”

  Michael walked up and leaned on Zarius’ bike. “And what would you do? Nothing, because you know that this runs deeper than just you and me. This goes beyond the ages of this planet and will continue forward even once you and this planet are gone. So, what? Do you think that even if given the chance what you have to say would be considered?”

  He walked within inches of his brother. “Do you not think that the real and factual truth wouldn’t come out?”