Alterverse

by Keith B Darrell

  “Is that where Hypnos and the Oneiroi reside?”

  Nitrate shrugged. “When they’re not gallivanting across the Dreamscape. They tend to be out more than they’re in, but they do return home eventually for periods of quiescence and with my powers I can easily get you past the palace staff.”

  A tall, black-haired man approached the table. “What mischief are you up to now, Nitrate?”

  “Mischief? Good sir, you slander me.”

  “Only living beings can be slandered. You’re nothing more than an inanimate piece of dreamstuff brought to life by Phantasos, the god of surreal dreams.”

  Nitrate frowned at the newcomer. “You wound me, dreamwalker. Now depart and go about your nightly voyeurism; my friends and I have important matters to discuss,” he said disdainfully.

  “Whatever he’s told you, don’t trust him. Nitrate is nothing more than a con man and an emotive.”

  “And who might you be?” Kita asked.

  “My name is Morgan Summers and as this disingenuous piece of disreputable dreamstuff has said, I’m a dreamwalker.”

  “So you enter the dreams of mortals, as may I,” Kita said.

  “Yes, I meet dreamers in the tavern or the marketplace and follow them back to their dreams. I could see you’re visitors here and thus unsuspecting prey for Nitrate.”

  “You called him an emotive?” Asabi asked.

  Morgan nodded. “He has the ability to manipulate the emotions of others by releasing pheromones. I wouldn’t be surprised if Nitrate has been manipulating your emotions as he’s been speaking to you.”

  “Why would I waste my pheromones when I can easily strike a bargain with these fine people?” Nitrate asked. “The dreamwalker is correct; emotives are extremely powerful. I can make my enemies feel paranoia, or greed, or fear, or anger and cause them to fight amongst themselves while I slip away… Or in the case of the palace, while we slip inside.”

  Morgan arched an eyebrow. “You’re plotting to sneak inside the palace?”

  “We must get an audience with the rulers of the Dreamscape,” Alaric replied.

  Morgan pointed across the tavern to a Native American shaman wearing an ornate headdress composed of turkey feathers. “If that’s your goal, then he’s the one you should speak to, not Nitrate.”

  “Would you introduce us?” Alaric asked.

  Morgan nodded. “I’ll have a word with him. I’ll see if I can entice him to come to your table.” The dreamwalker headed across the room.

  Nitrate grumbled. “I suppose I’ll be leaving.”

  “Not so fast,” Alaric said. “Perhaps we might still come to a mutually beneficial arrangement. We could use someone with your unique powers. Could your pheromones affect the Dark Gods themselves?”

  Nitrate pondered the query. “I don’t see why they wouldn’t. They work on all living things, and no matter how powerful gods may be, unlike me they are alive.”

  “Join our Resistance; help us defeat the Dark Gods, and I promise in the new regime that follows you’ll have unlimited freedom to travel wherever and whenever you wish,” Alaric said.

  “You realize, once I’m free of the Dreamscape you might never see me again?”

  Alaric nodded. “I’m aware of the possibility you might bail on us. But then where would you be? Do you think the Dark Gods would allow you unfettered access to the multiverse?” Alaric shook his head. “It’s in your best interest to help us.”

  Nitrate ruminated. “I suppose it beats spending my days immersed in dusty tomes in the Bibliotheca.” He held out his hand. “You have a deal, young man.”

  Morgan returned to the table accompanied by the shaman. The shorter man’s eyes lit up when he saw the hoshi no tama floating above Kita. “A coyote! You are a trickster spirit.”

  “I am a kitsune. I take the form of a fox, not a coyote.”

  “A trickster spirit may assume many forms. As a Paiute shaman – a paugant — I know these things.” He turned to Alaric. “The dreamwalker has stated your appeal eloquently. I shall bring you to the palace where you may petition Hypnos and the Oneiroi but then I shall leave you, for I do not trust coyotes.”

  The Manx shearwaters soared high above the deadly riptides and whirlpools of Bardsey Sound, alighting gracefully on the rocky sea cliff of Bardsey Island. The island occupied the same physical space in the dimension known as the Otherworld, home of the magical Fae but there some called it the Isle of Avalon while others spoke of it as the Isle of Apples, a reference to its legendary apple orchids. A tropaean breeze blew across the shore and through the orchids until being halted by the walls of an ancient stone cottage. Inside, a brunette clad in a white toga stared into a mystical hourglass watching the Sands of Time reveal the past, present, and future. She didn’t need to look up to feel the numinous presence of the Eternal who had entered the cottage.

  “Greetings, Keeper of the Sands of Time.”

  Rhiannon glanced up from her hourglass and saw her guest standing before her holding his cocobolo staff, its brass head embossed with a wood carving of the 12 symbols of the zodiac. “Greetings, Destiny. You took your time responding to my summons. I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.”

  “Of course not.” Yet he averted his glance somewhat guiltily. “Guiding the destinies of billions of souls throughout the multiverse leaves me little time for social calls.”

  “I didn’t call you to socialize. Besides, while you may be the god of destiny we both know you merely oversee what the Fates have in store for gods and mortals.”

  Destiny tapped his cocobolo staff impatiently. “Why did you wish to see me?”

  “The Age of Magic has begun. Although its epicenter is here in the Otherworld its effects shall ripple throughout the multiverse.”

  “As the god of prophecy and destiny, I already knew that. If that’s all you wished to tell me, then I shall be returning to –”

  Rhiannon held up her hourglass. “You also know this is one of the seven magical hourglasses containing the Sands of Time, entrusted to me by the Eternals to reveal time’s secrets.”

  “What of it?”

  “Something is not right. The Sands do not lie. The nature of the multiverse, indeed the very fabric of reality, has been altered.”

  Destiny drew closer, almost menacingly. “In what way?”

  “I don’t know. It isn’t clear but I do know things are not as they were, or as they should be.” Rhiannon stared into Destiny’s eyes. “However, I would expect you to know the answers.”

  Destiny picked up the hourglass and observed the Sands of Time slowly passing through its stricture from top to bottom. “I see nothing unusual.” He set the hourglass down on Rhiannon’s ornate pedestal table. “The role of Keeper of the Sands of Time can easily become overwhelming. Perhaps your sister Nimue or one of the other Nine Sisters of Avalon would be better suited for the task.”

  Rhiannon eyed him cautiously, speaking with a quavering voice, uttering her words in a slow cadence. “What have you done?”

  “I’ve done nothing. Even if I had wished to, I lack the power to do what you’re suggesting and alter reality.”

  Rhiannon nodded. “By yourself, that’s true. But in concert with the Fates…”

  “Forget this foolishness. There’s nothing wrong with the multiverse. All is as it should be.” Destiny grasped his cocobolo staff and turned to leave. “Regardless, all is as it shall be,” he added in a more ominous tone before departing.

  Rhiannon perused her hourglass again. “You’ve only confirmed my suspicions,” she whispered to the empty cottage. “However, I’ll have to obtain my answers elsewhere. Fortunately, I know where to begin.”

  Mordred Pendragon toured the internment camp the Spanish vampire lord Calixto had constructed in Madrid. “We process five hundred breathers per day,” Calixto said proudly. “The intake facility is up ahead. The breathers are tested and their blood type is branded onto their foreheads.” Mordred grimaced at the graphic description. As a warl
ock, he was nonetheless a breather himself and found the undead ghoulish. He disliked vampires in general – and Calixto in particular due to the exceptional pleasure he derived from abusing breathers – which was especially awkward as Mordred had been placed in charge of overseeing all the suckers.

  “I trust you take precautions to ensure only non-believers are captured in your sweeps throughout the cities and villages? The Dark Gods would be furious if they learned any of the believers they depend on to worship them had been turned into an aperitif for one of your suckers. I remember when Chenglei established similar internment camps in China and ended up inadvertently slaughtering tens of thousands of the Dark Gods’ human followers. By the time the Furies had finished with him there was nothing left… at least, nothing recognizable as having been Chenglei.”

  Calixto shuddered. “I’ve no desire to share Chenglei’s fate.”

  “Then have a care, Calixto. Don’t become so enamored of your…” Mordred gazed about the internment camp, “hobby that you cross a line you shouldn’t.” The warlock uttered an incantation and vanished.

  Mordred rematerialized in the center of a sprawling complex in London. A vampire rushed to greet him. “Welcome back, sir. Shall I advise Sir William you’ve returned?”

  Mordred glanced dismissively at the obsequious young man. “No, not yet, Nigel. Who’s looking after the prisoner today?”

  “Edwina had the morning shift; Rowena the afternoon; and Piper is tending to her now.”

  Mordred nodded. “Wait twenty minutes and then you may advise Sir William of my arrival.” He continued down to the basement where he found a young female vampire guarding a cell. “How is she today, Piper?”

  “The same. Bored, morose… She does ask for news of her son, however.”

  “And what do you tell her?”

  “There’s nothing I can tell her,” Piper replied. “What would I know of a young breather on the other side of the world?”

  “Leave us. You may return when you see me depart.” Mordred watched Piper head up the concrete stairs, as the echo of her footsteps reverberated throughout the basement. He entered the cell. He saw a greasy newspaper lying on the floor. “I see Piper brought you the fish and chips you requested.”

  The prisoner glanced up at Mordred. “Rowena brought them… Yesterday.”

  “I’m sorry I haven’t been able to stop by for several days. My work keeps me extremely busy and the Dark Gods can be demanding taskmasters.”

  She laughed. “All your scheming and conniving and you end up nothing more than a glorified lackey. I almost feel sorry for you, Mordred.”

  The warlock sighed. “Don’t be like that, Samantha. I know this isn’t you but rather the effects of your unpleasant surroundings on you. If it were up to me I’d free you from this prison immediately; but as it isn’t, I’ve tried to make your durance as habitable as possible.”

  “With cold fish and chips?” Samantha Twitch asked. “Release me from the binding spell and I’ll free myself from this cell.”

  “That incantation from my mother’s grimoire is not just the only thing keeping you here; it’s the only thing keeping you safe.”

  “Morgana Le Fay still haunts me, even from the grave.”

  “Can’t you understand I’m doing this for you? I still love you, Samantha.”

  “I’m sure your wife would be thrilled to hear that.”

  “Harrumph,” Mordred snorted. “Angelique’s not the jealous kind… Not that a Dark Goddess would be jealous of anyone. She didn’t marry me out of love, but rather for … The physical enjoyment she derives from our relationship when she takes human form. Her concupiscence is nearly insatiable.”

  “As is your lust for power. It must be a perfect match then, since you married not for love either, but for raw power. You’ve always craved power more than anything else, valuing it even more than your professed love for me.”

  Mordred flinched. The truth hurt. “That doesn’t mean my feelings for you aren’t sincere. I’ve loved you for more than three centuries, Samantha.”

  “Does that include our days in the Salem coven when you had an affair with my sister Drusilla?”

  “Bah, if Angelique, who isn’t even human, can understand the difference between love and sex, then why can’t you? You’re fortunate Angelique took a liking to me and made me her consort or I wouldn’t be in a position to help you.”

  “You call this helping me? Look around, Mordred. I’m locked up in this small cell with only those vampire guards to talk to. You expect my gratitude for imprisoning me? For banishing Lucifer? For separating me from my son? You don’t seriously expect me to thank you?”

  Mordred gulped. “I understand your resentment. But keep in mind, the Dark Gods would have killed Lucifer, and you and Alaric as well, had I not intervened on your behalf. Julian Ward was ready to destroy all of you but I was able to guarantee Alaric’s and your safety by imploring his sister Angelique to spare the three of you.”

  “Where is Alaric? Why can’t I see him?”

  “He’s been enrolled in school in America. He’s doing quite well, actually. Top of his class; obviously, he inherited his brains from you and not that inept demon.”

  “And Lucifer?”

  “He lives. I only spared him to keep you from hating me. I realize you have some misplaced feelings toward him but they will fade in time.”

  “Lucifer is my lover and Alaric’s father. He’s a better man than you’ll ever be, Mordred.”

  “I admit, I was surprised Lucifer had the audacity to challenge the Dark Gods. I didn’t know he had it in him. I’ll give him equal points for courage and stupidity. Yet obviously, he’s still the most inept demon I’ve ever met.” The warlock gazed into the witch’s eyes. “I wish I could release you, Samantha, but Angelique won’t allow that.”

  “Does the omnipotent Dark Goddess feel threatened by a mere witch such as myself?”

  Mordred shook his head. “It’s not you she fears but rather your triune self, the goddess Hecate. The Dark Gods are wary of other gods who could be their equal. They worry you could join with your sisters Drusilla and Emma to become the goddess of witches who might actually pose a threat to them. That’s why they’re hunting for your sisters. Once they’ve been eliminated, it will be impossible for Hecate to reform and perhaps then I could convince them to grant your freedom.”

  Samantha gaped, horrified at the revelation her sisters’ lives were at risk.

  Chapter Four

  Ursula Fenris ran her finger along her book strap as she carried her books home from school. “I wonder where Alaric is. It’s not like him to miss class.”

  Her brother shrugged. “He’s turning eighteen. In a few days, he won’t even be allowed in school. We should skip class too.”

  Ursula shook her head. “Alaric never skips class. Something’s wrong. Maybe something’s happened to him.”

  “Aw, you just have a crush on the witch-boy, don’t you?” Quinn teased her.

  “No I don’t, and don’t call him that.”

  “Why not? They say his mother’s a witch, and I even heard Aunt Sharon say his father is a demon.”

  Ursula frowned at him. “You shouldn’t gossip about people. Especially not about our friends.”

  Quinn ruminated. “I suppose Mom and Dad might know the truth.” He observed the pondering look on his sister’s face.

  “If it’s true, Alaric could be in trouble. The Dark Gods have begun cracking down on witches and you heard what he said to Professor Eligos about seeking retribution. He wouldn’t go off and do something stupid, would he?”

  “This is Alaric we’re talking about, right?” Quinn could feel his twin’s increasing agitation and immediately regretted his words. “I didn’t mean it. That was just stupid talk. You know Alaric didn’t inherit any special powers like us so he’s not going to go off and get into trouble.”

  “What if you’re wrong? What if Alaric’s powers kick in when he reaches adulthood? He’s our
friend and he’s out there by himself and we have no idea what’s happened to him.” She clenched her jaw and a grim countenance overtook her features as she charged off.

  “Hey! Where are you going?”

  “You were right; our parents were friends with Alaric’s long before we were born. I’m going to find out the truth from Mom.”

  Quinn dashed after his sister.

  Detective Nick Ramsey pushed the wheelchair out of the elevator. “Ugh, we shouldn’t have stopped for those doughnuts. I think you gained a pound.”

  “You’re still the most useless partner I’ve ever had, Ramsey. Push harder. If taking a bullet at the Donut Hole didn’t dissuade me from eating doughnuts then neither will putting on a few extra pounds.”

  “All I’m saying is, it’s not as easy to lose weight when you can’t work it off anymore in the police gym after hours.”

  “You sound like that nagging mother hen Jensen.” He placed his hands on the wheels. “I can manage from here. I just need a few minutes to talk to my daughter. It shouldn’t take long.” He pushed his wheelchair down the corridor. “It never does,” he mumbled.

  Ramsey waited by the elevator, sliding his hand into his coat pocket to fish out a cigarette.

  The wheelchair stopped in front of an office with a frosted window pane that read “Nightstalkers, Inc.” He sighed, reached out for the doorknob, and pushed the door open.

  Pandora Pennyworth looked up from her computer screen. “Detective Mordecai.” She called out to her partner in the adjoining office, “Sharon! Your father’s here.”

  Sharon Mordecai stepped out into the anteroom. She frowned. “Don’t tell me it’s time for another lecture again.”

  Pandora scrunched her nose as she often did whenever she felt uncomfortable at awkward moments. “I’m going downstairs for a cup of hot chocolate. Can I bring you back any?”

  “No thanks,” Detective Mordecai replied. “When did you start drinking anything other than blood?”

  “It’s Bubastis, the café downstairs,” Sharon said. “Pandora has a thing for Bartholomew, the new barista.”