The Bitten

by L. A. Banks

  Her team was pulling her away from the cinders, lifting her off her feet to keep her from repeatedly stabbing the ground where Tetrosky had been. The team was yelling about the cloud of evil that was only a quarter mile away. She didn’t care! She snatched away from them, going back to where Tetrosky had been, beating the ground with her sword, trying to kill this motherfucker over and over again.

  “He was the better man. He is the better man. I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you! Oh, Marlene, I will kill this bastard. Shoot him, Shabazz. Mike, blow this fucker up! Oh, my God! Heaven help me! I will kill him!”

  The team backed off for a few seconds, their gazes monitoring the darkening horizon, but they gave her those few heartbeats to let her rail at the nothingness. Immediately the remaining ash and dust from Tetrosky blew away from her foot stomps and the mere wind. Then in an eerie moment of clarity, she stopped, wiped her face with her dress sleeve, closed her eyes and breathed deeply, and really cried hard in earnest. They were torturing her man . . . oh Lord . . . make them stop.

  A female hand touched her shoulder, and then female arms encircled her. Yes, they had just wiped out the entire vamp empire and had saved an innocent containing the living key—but what a bitter victory it was. Mission accomplished, but to what end? So what there were no more master vampires left topside? Who cared if all that were left were probably thirds and fourths, and minor entities that could be easily conquered? As long as there was Hell, there was a manufacturing plant to make more. What was all of this for, then? All the battles against something that just kept coming and coming and coming—evil? They were torturing her man, ripping her heart out . . . and there wasn’t a thing she could do about it.

  “Why?” she said, her question so piteous even to her own ears as she looked at her team, looked past Marlene’s shoulder, then broke away from her to face the clerics.

  “Damali, we’ve got to get out of here!” Shabazz yelled. “Marlene, Mike, Rider, Jose, tell her, it’s time to go!”

  “Why? You answer me! Why!” She stormed away from them when they took two seconds too long to answer her, and she approached her bewildered Guardian brothers and opened her arms. “Why?”

  “Baby, we ride,” Rider said, going to her to drag her away from the battle she couldn’t win as she raised her blade and took a stance as though bracing for the incoming cloud.

  She saw her team about to go to her, then Berkfield stumbled toward her, his eyes wild, his hands bleeding. Clerics began yelling, soaking his wounds in their robes.

  “Stigmata!” Father Patrick shouted. “Bind up his wounds, do not let a precious drop of sacred blood hit the ground! She beheaded the master and broke the vessel ritual,” he said, huffing and working quickly with the others to wrap Berkfield’s wounds.

  The turbine whine of the dark cloud made them all hold their ears. Surf crashed into the pier, lightning and thunder lit the sky, and wind made it difficult for them to stand, but the team noted that for some eerie reason, the evil contained within the dark tornado momentarily stayed back.

  “He’s going into shock,” Father Patrick yelled over the storm. “This man’s blood is separating from the Lamb’s and the sacred blood must be returned to the key keepers! He is our priority. We must get him, and the sacred blood, to sanctuary!”

  Berkfield convulsed, stopping their retreat, his forehead dribbling blood, his eyes running tears of blood, his palms pierced and dripping blood, his feet broken and bleeding. Then he arched, cried out, and began bleeding at his side. There was no way to keep all of the blood that fled his body from splattering the ground. The clerics were frantic as they worked against the inevitable. They couldn’t get it all, sacred blood would surely hit the earth. But the second a drop hit the dirt, it was as though they were all watching the scene in slow motion.

  Dark crimson drops transformed into golden-silvery-red iridescent orbs that gathered together and rose off the ground’s surface a few inches. Blood splatter immediately gravitated to the hem of each cleric’s robe. Stupefied by the sight, the teams watched the process of the sacred blood key going to holy vestments, staining them crimson within the folds as it crept upward away from the ground, concealing itself in the fabric of them. Once the last of it had been absorbed and hidden, a ray of light broke through the black horizon. It drew a line of white fire in the water offshore, sending a message for the cloud to stay back, halting its advance.

  To the group, it seemed to be a momentary standoff, but like all things, they also knew that the dark side was willful and would exhaust all possibilities before it ever surrendered to defeat.

  As the last of the stigmata began to disappear from the detective’s agonized body, Berkfield convulsed again and passed out. Imam Asula caught him and carried him to a waiting Jeep. The line of light withdrew, and the black cloud began a slow advance that began to rapidly gain in speed.

  Numbly, Damali watched the clerical team speed off with the limp body of an innocent man on the seat. Berkfield was their priority now. Who was there to help Carlos? New sobs accosted her, made her push Big Mike away as he tried to pull her to him and stroke her hair. It was the wrong set of arms, the wrong person to stroke away the pain. There was only one right body to fit against and weep, and he was trapped in Hell.

  She spun on Shabazz and Rider, their tears making more of hers fall. “So what that we won? Who cares! We all didn’t make it back—we aren’t supposed to leave our own! We left him,” she shrieked, her voice strained, popping, fracturing with each question. “We can’t get him out, and he’s still alive! But what they’re doing to him isn’t human . . .”

  The images tore at her brain, made her walk away from the group, bend over and dry heave then spew bile.

  She stayed there, standing alone for a quick moment, one that she needed to regain her battle readiness for the team. Her eyes closed, she bent over, still breathing hard, staving off the chills, and just trying to figure out the Rubik’s Cube of the universe. Why?

  “We have to go to hallowed ground,” Rider said quietly after a moment. “We still don’t know what’s coming. And it’s starting to pick up speed and come fast.”

  Marlene went to Damali and collected her. This time she followed her mother-seer’s lead. She allowed Marlene to deposit her on Jose’s bike. She didn’t fight or struggle, there was no resistance left in her.

  “Rider, you watch my back, we’re faster than the Jeeps,” Jose said in a far-off tone, then stomped down on his bike and revved the motor.

  “Done,” Rider shouted, stomping down on his black Harley. Shabazz tossed him a sawed-off shotgun from the interior of one of the waiting Jeeps, and he caught it.

  “Precious cargo, gentlemen, ride fast but ride her easy.” Marlene turned away, and jumped into one of the two waiting vehicles. She threw Damali’s sword belt to Jose. “So she can ride strapped.”

  “We got y’all’s backs,” Big Mike said, pointing a freshly loaded rocket-propelled grenade launcher out the window. He tossed Rider and Jose more clips. “Hallowed ground, then home.”

  Moving like a robot, without feeling, Damali put on the belt and sheathed the Isis. Her hands grasped Jose’s waist, and she rested her cheek against his back. Soul weary, she didn’t care that silent tears wet his back, or that she could barely feel the wind catch and lift her hair. The noise of the motorcycle wasn’t loud enough to block the agonized male voice in her head. Just let it be quick . . . that’s all she could hope for him now.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  SLIMY, VIOLATING hands held the sides of his head, raping his mind, tasting it, peeling away skin from muscle from bone, creating a bleeding fissure in his scalp so their flicking tongues could gouge into his gray matter and siphon his brain with their tongues. Pressure behind his eyes bulged them forward and almost out of the sockets, ripping his retinas, blinding him, stealing back his night vision and normal vision; blackness was now his captivity. One vampire and human sensory lost to their endless probe.

  His crie
s went from intelligible to primal as they strip-searched every hope and dream and desire and private thought he had ever possessed. When they burrowed down to find images of her, the arch of resistance broke one of his arms away from the wall, halving it, his blood splattering everywhere.

  “Don’t fight it,” the chairman said soothingly from across the room. “It only makes them work harder, and the process take longer.”

  Heckling, screeching laughter assaulted his ears, snakelike tongues entered them, taking back his once-superior hearing, leaving him deaf. Then they entered his mouth.

  A hot, fecal-smelling vise clamped down over his nose and mouth, tearing the soft tissue and forcing a long, slithering tongue down his throat, suffocating him, gagging him, making him dry heave as it wrapped around his Adam’s apple and snatched it out, while claws slit his torso, threading snakes through his intestines and spleen.

  The convulsion began at the base of his spine, where a serpent had entered it and threaded up his spinal cord, hemorrhaging it as it slid up his back, snapping and cracking vertebrae away from each other, one torturous disk at a time. His legs were jerking, every muscle twitching, and hundreds of tiny snakes ran under his skin, setting it on fire from the inside out.

  But he had no voice to scream. No eyes to see his tormentors. No faculty to listen to anticipate the next vile act to be committed against his flesh. There was no breath in his lungs—now filled with a dense substance that he could only imagine to be his own blood—and there was no peace.

  Then, just as it had started, it stopped.

  Evil little hands left the sides of his head. His skull slowly closed, his sight returned. He could slowly begin to focus on the chairman, who held a grave expression. Dozens of tiny tormentors huddled by his legs. He could slowly begin to hear their disorganized murmurs. Smiles of sinister glee and triumph were no longer on their faces. Air rushed into his lungs suddenly, making him cough, heave, and vomit up a bloody mass of twisting black adders, but he’d heard his voice. Something magnetic pulled his shoulder back and his arm joined the bloody stump, reattaching the severed limb.

  Weak, sweat running off him like a river, the cuts in his skin healed as thousands of threadlike snakes exited his body through his pores and dropped to the floor.

  Carlos stared at his innards on the black marble floor. It was an out-of-body experience, they had tortured him to the point where he might as well have been looking at lint in a carpet—everything was so disconnected, so painfully surreal. With exhausted disinterest he watched his entrails slowly recede from the floor, up and into the ragged, gaping hole, tugging him forward as sections of organs reattached to the dripping cavity, and then sealed.

  Water . . . if he could just have water. They’d even taken away his blood hunger for a moment. Then the burn for blood scorched him through. Panting, he tried to close his mouth to make saliva come, and then bit his tongue when both fangs scored it. He closed his eyes, tears running down the sides of his face; they had left him whole.

  “They’re impressed,” the chairman said quietly. “There was much to dredge from your brain, so much dishonorable intent against our realm and so many despicable acts committed while alive . . . but with such conflicting emotions . . . such an embrace of your power, but then, not.” The chairman walked near him, tiny beasts hanging back. “They could not break your seal around her or dredge any information about the seal and lost key. How absolutely incredible.” He glanced back at the harpies, and laughed. “You couldn’t, could you? He had a prayer around her and the information about the upper realms the entire time?”

  Carlos stared at him through bloodshot eyes. There was as much deep respect there as hatred, a conflict. They understood each other.

  “I know,” the chairman nodded. “I have so much respect for the willpower shown, the utter defiance, the stubborn refusal to just give in. But I so despise the reason why you have this strength.” He brushed a damp wisp of hair away from Carlos’s forehead. “We so needed someone like you on our side. I hate that you’re not. Thus, my conflict.”

  He strode away from Carlos with purpose. He pursed his lips, and brought a finger to them, studying him. “Torturing you would grow tiresome. That no longer amuses me. We have tortured millions, after all. And with you, Carlos, the one thing that always delighted me was that you brought me something new to study, to wrap my mind around, to envision. You are a worthy adversary—and that is definitely rare down here.”

  He glanced at the harpies who were now becoming agitated and screeching in frustration.

  “Oh, yes . . . this is very new, because we never have one down here with all of the qualities of a saint and all the qualities of a demon so deliciously blended and in our clutches. How did you manage a fusion in your system like that?” He tapped his fingers on his lips. “What do you want?”

  “To die with dignity,” Carlos croaked. “Just let this be over, and let her live.”

  “You wasted part of your wish,” the chairman said, his expression amused. “We had every intention of allowing her to live. That was never an issue. But we are going to flush her womb—you understand that we have to clean out our vessel for the future.”

  Carlos let his head drop. “Then make it swift, and don’t bring her pain . . . please.” He looked up, renewed defiance entering him. After what he’d just experienced he knew that the memory of physical pain could fade, but the scar on a soul could last forever. “Don’t wait until she starts showing and feels the life grow within her. Do it now.”

  “Honorable,” the chairman stated flatly. “She’s a worthy adversary, in fact, turned our best master—a councilman at that. We have protocols, too, and a worthy opponent should be addressed with swift dispatch of their sentence. So be it.”

  Tears ran down the bridge of Carlos’s nose as he watched a puddle of his blood on the marble floor bead up and separate into two halves, one black, and one red with iridescence. His shoulders shook as he leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and wept, the refrain “I’m sorry” echoing through his mind. His abdomen constricted, and a sharp pain scored his lower belly. Then the mild cramp passed and took up residence in his heart. Breathing hard through his opened mouth, he waited for the heaviness in his chest to lift, but it wouldn’t. “I’ll carry that for her, too,” he murmured.

  “You. Are. Making. Me. Ill!” the chairman shouted. He turned and walked away from Carlos and spoke to the harpies at his feet. “Send him into the Light to be with her, to die with honor as a warrior—but let her see what she did to break the most promising master vampire in my empire!”

  He circled them and his words seethed scorched smoke as he railed. “My registers just ran blood tonight. The entire topside empire is gone! Wiped out, leaving only lower-level vampires. She is responsible for exterminating five of my best masters—yes, I am even counting the rogue, Nuit, in that number, plus a very old councilman, Vlak—and countless turns in our realms! At least Nuit would have stood for our side—traitor that he was, he didn’t side with humans!”

  As his wrath congealed, sulfur smoke plumed out from under his robe, making the harpies back up. “Now, she has ruined my true vessel, Carlos . . . and I want her to witness what she created, what she did by her own hand to something she supposedly loved. I want a wound on her heart so deep, so lasting that she will never be able to raise her blade against one of my own—not like this, ever again.”

  The chairman’s voice trembled with rage and bitter defeat as he pointed at Carlos. “We would have made him a king, and she could have ruled at his side, but look what she did to him!”

  The chairman leaned back, his arms opened wide, his eyes closed, his dark energy swirling to a critical mass of sulfuric smoke, blowing open the ceiling above the council table, scattering the courier bats, a funnel of electrified black smoke sucking up harpies and Carlos and goblets, and wall fixtures, and torches, and rock, and anything not nailed down into the vacuum. “Take him out of my sight!”

  Seventy mi
les an hour and climbing through near-dawn streets, zigzagging past corridors they’d never traveled, they hit the straightaway of Macquarie Street, then gunned the motors to eighty—St. James Church at the edge of Hyde Park, near Queens Square, was the goal. That’s when the awful cramp hit her. Stole her breath. Pain so swift and blinding that she almost dropped off Jose’s bike. She knew what was happening the moment it began. The wind whipped tears from her eyes like a slap and warmth ran down her legs, splattering blood on the ground and Jose’s chrome exhausts.

  Rider looked down, bringing his bike next to Jose’s. Marlene stood up in the Jeep behind them, wiping at her face with fury. Then the sky darkened, blotting out the coming dawn. A thundering tornado cut a path of rage behind them, then split in two, one half of it heading toward the harbor, the other coming for them.

  “Drop the colloidal silver bombs in your packs, Jose!” Rider shouted. “Damali, baby, you have to reach the side packs and break the bottles on the ground!”

  If she leaned over, she was going to fall. She could barely breathe, much less move. They’d taken everything from her—what was the point? She just shook her head no and buried her face deep into Jose’s back and held him tighter.

  Mike was standing in the second Jeep, releasing holy-water vials, splattering the roadway behind them, but the cloud changed course. It just cut a path between the Jeeps and the motorcycles, making the Jeeps swerve to get out of the storm’s wake.

  “Take her to the church, man, keep going!” Shabazz hollered over the howling wind to Jose. “You’re almost to St. James—or St. Mary’s Cathedral, ride hard and we’ll meet you.”

  “We can’t go that way,” Marlene shouted, turning the drivers around. “The Jeeps have to go back past Sydney Cove to Holy Trinity Church by the Rocks.”

  Each direction they turned to get close to the churches rimming the park, the cloud would separate, cutting them off, and force them to go in another direction. Rider outstretched his arm, firing behind him, dropping three gray-winged creatures that came out of the cloud, soaring toward Jose’s bike. Damali drew her blade as something scrabbled at her back, Rider couldn’t get a shot off without risking hitting her or Jose, but her blade severed the clawed hand, leaving it to smolder and catch fire—still attached to her dress—before dropping away.