by L. A. Banks
All eyes were on Rider. He hocked and spit and walked away toward the Hummer.
“Call the sonofabitch,” Rider muttered. “Just keep that bastard out of my face.”
His descent was immediate, but not disorienting like it had been in the past. Nothing reached for him or scrabbled at him as the black siphon pulled him deeper. All it took was his thought, Level Six Chambers, and he landed on his feet just outside the Vampire Council’s Chamber doors. Not even the bats crowded among the stalactites and stalagmites moved. Hooded messengers bowed and closed their red, gleaming eyes, their skeletal bodies trembling beneath tattered black robes as they lowered their massive scythes. The gaseous fumes that swirled up from the Sea of Perpetual Agony didn’t even make his eyes water. His nose seemed impervious to the harsh sulfuric blasts. Even the heat emanating from the bubbling red-orange surface felt like a cool breeze. All moans and shrieks and wails ceased.
Somewhat bewildered by the reception and his instant adjustment to the environment, Carlos proceeded down the narrow crag and stood before the doors of the Vampire Council’s Chambers. He reached for the golden fanged knocker, expecting the customary entry-check bite, but the demon-headed knocker closed its eyes, retracted fangs, and the door creaked open eerily.
Carlos stood outside the huge black marble double doors, frozen in wonder for a moment. Not even the Chairman had access like that. The knockers always did a vamp black-blood ID check to ensure no imposter was entering for a coup. Down here, illusion and treachery were the order of the night. The doors just opened like that? He felt another potential setup, but no alarms were sounding in his gut.
After struggling with the conundrum for a bit, he soon gathered his courage and walked forward, not waiting for the underworld to change its mind. He knew only one thing for sure, power was respected, but that was always a temporary condition. Therefore, whatever the angels had jolted him with, he couldn’t waste time thinking about it for too long. The mission was clear; get the book and get out.
As he crossed the familiar marble floor, however, the level of disrepair did give him slight pause. Thrones were overturned and broken; there was a huge gaping fissure in the floor. Residue of black blood spatter marred all surfaces, staining everything like it was crude oil goop. Wall torches appeared to have been ripped from their mounts. Rubble and crushed granite was everywhere. It seemed like a veritable war had been fought within the once revered hall. It was obvious that whoever or whatever had been searching for the Chairman had exacted serious pain from any entity that had been foolish enough to remain here to try to take a stand.
Carlos glanced around, the eerie desolation unnerving him as he approached the barren, dust-covered, pentagram-shaped table that sat silent and abandoned. No longer could one hear the constant trickle of blood that used to run through it. All motion had ceased; blood was dried and clotted in the veins and arteries of the marble and had come to a dead halt. Inner lair, granite coffins of the councilmen had been reduced to piles of ash and small stones. Mere pebbles represented the once ornately carved caskets now. No respect for the dead resided here. True, Damali had dusted the remaining council suckers, except the Chairman, but it was also clear that someone or something else had come in there behind her, and it had been very pissed off. Girlfriend didn’t do all this damage while she’d been here.
The kingdom of the vampires had obviously been served a death knell. Level Seven was definitely in full effect.
Carlos peered down at the crest at the center of the table, wondering. The eyes of the demon head opened slowly and stared back at him. Fear flickered in its red glowing eyes as it submissively retracted one battle-length fang and one broken fang, then shuddered. Carlos glanced back at the Chairman’s throne. With all the devastation, what if the book had already been stolen? They hadn’t considered that? Why would it be left here? Clearly, unless the Chairman had some serious special power over that artifact, the one who will remain nameless would have already seized the prize and have it in his possession—and there was no way he was going down there to retrieve shit.
Carlos wiped at the thin sheen of perspiration forming on his brow. The decision was clear. Report back that the book was gone, and where its probable location was now. Let ’em know the condition of things below, and they could concoct a new plan. That was the ticket. He was out.
He began to draw away from the table, wondering if just a mere thought would jettison him to the surface without incident, or if he had to risk calling for one of the trembling messengers. In the few seconds that it took him to draw a rational conclusion, the crest shuddered and yawned open on its own, revealing the vacancy beneath it. Confirmation. Cool. Even the fucking crest was scared shitless. Obviously it didn’t want to be ripped open again and violated. He could dig it. Been there.
As Carlos edged away, stepping over toppled, abandoned thrones with care, and avoiding the Chairman’s at all cost, memories coalesced within him. Ultimate knowledge lay as rubble at his feet. Carlos hesitated, suddenly remembering his old throne. Everything from his line from the beginning of time resided within it, and had offered infinite knowledge. No. He kept edging away. His orders had been explicit. Never sit in a dark throne again, especially not the Chairman’s.
Before he could clear the circumference of the table, something very odd began to happen right before his eyes. The rubble of the Chairman’s throne slowly gathered. Carlos was transfixed as stone sealed in upon itself, black marble smoothed, deep crimson velvet rethreaded as though new, dust filtered away, and the Chairman’s throne righted itself from the floor and regenerated. His first impulse was to run … but a slow trickle of crimson ran down the arms of the throne, pooled at the edges of the demon handgrips, and then dripped to the floor in a long, string of inviting ooze. Then, in a slow, sulfuric burn, Carlos watched his name become etched in the hieroglyphic-like markings at the top of it, replacing the former Chairman’s.
Blood scent filled his nose and made him lick his lips. “No,” Carlos whispered.
The throne whispered back, its call like a siren’s. “Come, and know all.” Multiple voices wafted out to him, offering the blood scent as a lure. The slow ooze that had pooled on the floor instantly rippled across the marble to Carlos’s feet, covering his Timberlands, circling his ankles. Blood soaked into the hem of his jeans, climbed up his legs, lapped at his thighs, stroked his groin, then wet his T-shirt to travel up his neck and stroke the place along his jugular until it burned like a lover had caressed him there.
Carlos weaved and caught himself against the edge of the table. The scent was intoxicating, but didn’t make him nearly as heady as the hint of power the throne begged to share. He’d always secretly wondered what gave the Chairman such absolute reign over the other councilmen. If each of their thrones held the wisdom and collective knowledge of their lines on a given continent, then what the hell did the Chairman’s throne hold?
The blood that teased his throat spread under his nose and across his face in delicate tendrils, licking at his nostrils. Carlos held his breath for a moment, fighting the urge to inhale deeply as he staggered away from the table and kept his lips sealed firmly shut against bloody invasion. He shook his head no as he turned to stare at the throne. No … he was out. The book wasn’t there.
Standing there, soaked with blood, tears forming in his eyes, his body began to shudder with feed desire. He hadn’t sipped in any air, and was suffocating. He angrily wiped the blood away from his mouth, took in a huge gulp of air, and closed his mouth quickly. But the taste in the scent lingered on his tongue … made him close his eyes, slowly part his lips, and a tiny tendril entered his parched mouth where air was allowed to seep in.
Flavors and colors from all the blood consumed from generations of vampires coated his tongue, opened his mouth wider, until the blood ran over his face like a river, pooling in his opened jaw, lowering fangs, and he swallowed.
The throne pulled him blindly as a deep, sensual moan came up from Carlos’s a
bdomen. Blood washed his face; it was impossible to see. The rush of it was so intense that it deafened him, filling his ears, invading every orifice, until he sank against the crimson velvet panting, swallowing, shuddering, crying, laughing, his palms welded to the hand rests.
His body arched as a black electric volt ran through him. It snatched open his third eye, bludgeoning his senses, burning out his cerebral cortex with so much information transmitting so quickly that he sat there like a vegetable, twitching and jerking in the horrible seat. His spine groaned, writhed to the surface beneath his skin, and then snapped, tearing away from tissue anchors and cartilage, making him scream as vertebra became one with the high-back marble throne for a moment, and then reentered his body, regenerating with new circuitry and bits of black matter.
Carlos slumped forward, panting, sweat pouring down his frame, his clothes burning away while blue-black flames scorched his skin, but he was unable to move. Then the surface of his skin became suddenly cool. A new torrent of blood filled his mouth, and he greedily gulped it, regenerating more as he did so.
Pain abated. The room again went still. Strength slowly crept into his naked limbs. Fear fled his heart. Knowledge from every throne in the room had a new lord. A sly smiled graced his face. Information poured into his mind in streaming, endless still frames … then with agonizing pleasure.
Every carnal act that had ever been committed on the planet sent shock waves of ecstasy through him. Depraved or otherwise, it didn’t matter. He could feel the impact of it all, every touch, every shudder, every moan, every gasp, every whimper—it all collided and fused into one sensation. He came so hard his heart stopped. His pulse was measured in elongated wails each time his body jerked and emitted thick, black emulsion from his member that wriggled in a slimy wash of tiny black tadpoles over his stomach, his lap, and his thighs.
Carlos’s fingers gripped the hand rests; his nails grew, carving into the marble with hooked talons. His eyes were sealed shut, but as he opened them, a black gleaming ray covered the floor where his line of vision went, scorching new sections of marble away.
Battle-bulked to proportions he’d never dreamed possible, Carlos stood abruptly. Dark ejaculate slid from his body, splatting to the floor in thick, wriggling plops from his thighs. He stared at it dispassionately as his legs turned into granite. A scaly, spaded tail swished a razor-bladed tip at what was moving at his feet, making the knots on his spine feel tender as he flexed his spine. Then his toes welded together into gleaming, black, cloven hooves. Interesting. He chuckled, his voice booming like thunder and sending small rocks to the floor from the abraded walls. New, leathery wings unfolded from his shoulder blades and cast a dark shadow from their broad span. He spun to face the throne that had consumed him, fury at the treacherous invasion closing his talons into a fist.
He hurled a punch that exploded against the marble and decimated the throne to bits of stone once more. Breathing hard, he could feel sudden heat flare from his nostrils. He covered his nose with his hand, and it came away with blue flames. “Well … I’ll just be damned.”
Yonnie touched down and stared at Tara in the moonlight. “Something major just happened.”
She nodded, glancing off into the distance. “I know.”
“We’ve gotta find our boy before the others do,” Yonnie said, worried. “Fuck all that bullshit with Rider. I ain’t even thinking about that right now. We need to get back to the group and let ’em know something big is going down.”
Tara nodded and disappeared.
CHAPTER TEN
He should have been trailing blood, from the looks of this accident,” Damali said, her keen eyes to the ground as their Hummer bumped over the rough, off-road terrain.
“Not picking up anything,” Rider said, hanging his head out the window like a hunting dog.
“Hold up, y’all,” Mike said. “Tara’s voice.”
Shabazz brought the Hummer to a stop. “Be cool, man,” he said toward Rider. “She’s not alone, dig?”
“Yeah, peace, whatever,” Rider said, and sat back in the Hummer.
Damali jumped out and Yonnie and Tara materialized. “What’s the word?” Damali said, her gaze going from Yonnie to Tara and back.
“No sign of him,” Tara said nervously, “but Yonnie picked up a significant power surge.”
“Subterranean,” Yonnie said, glaring over Damali’s shoulder toward Rider. “Ain’t felt that since the Chairman went topside.”
“What does it mean?” Damali clutched her baby Isis blade tighter.
The rest of the team piled out of the Hummer.
“Everything all right, D?” Shabazz said, looking at Yonnie hard.
Rider cocked back the safety on his weapon. “Any problem, li’l sis?”
“Everybody be cool,” Big Mike said. “What happened underground, man?”
Yonnie shook his head, but kept a lethal glare on Rider. “That’s just the thing. I don’t know and don’t have an underground pass no more to go check it out.”
“Where is my fucking book!” Carlos bellowed, making the table shudder as his fist tore away a section of it.
The crest rolled back, opened again to the vacant space in its vault, and began to smolder as Carlos’s glare remained on the emptiness.
“I know it’s not here!” he shouted. “Tell me!”
Within seconds white mist began to form within the empty space, and Carlos blew on it, sending plumes of cloudlike smoke away from the opening so he could see the bottom of the vault. But instead of gleaming black marble, blue, snow-covered mountains appeared in a wavering hologram-like form. He stared at the illusion, his eyes narrowing as he received sensations, judged distance, and homed in on a location. The Himalayas. He nodded and waved his hand over the opening, and it sealed. The crest looked at him and bowed its head, shivering.
“Very good,” Carlos muttered. “Very, very good.”
“Transport!” he bellowed, and wrapped his wings around his naked body.
The doors to the chamber quickly opened, and several hooded messengers rushed through, bumping into each other, stumbling, and falling prostrate on the marble before him.
“Your Excellency,” the one closest to his feet said in a shivering croak. “We are humbly at your service.”
As his temper receded, Carlos’s form began to slowly normalize.
“Mr. Chairman,” another said, and then looked up, screamed, and covered his head as a black bolt of energy snuffed him from the floor, leaving ash in the entity’s wake.
“Please, we beg you, Your Excellency, have pity on us. Do not take out his foolish mistake on the rest of us, we know who you are,” the lead messenger groveled. “He was new, insane; please accept our apology on his behalf for titling you beneath your esteemed Level-Seven rank.”
Carlos folded his arms, not sure how to respond. He thought he’d acquired the Chairman’s title … but clearly that was not the case. He used the end of his spaded tail as a toothpick, cleaning a twelve-inch fang, thinking, then clothed himself as a distraction. The black designer suit and custom-tailored shirt felt good as they slid into place, and all evidence of his brief tryst with the throne did as well. He retracted his wings and tail, then walked around the messengers cowering on the floor, the sound of his black, alligator-skin slip-ons making soft taps against the polished stone. He smiled. Yeah, much more genteel than the clatter of hooves. A brother always had to be smooth.
“I want to check out the response on all the levels as I go up,” Carlos said evenly. “Need to be sure respect is in the house across the board.”
“Yes, sir,” the lead entity whispered. “We assure you it is, though, sir.”
“Good.”
The messengers hadn’t lied. When Carlos’s funnel cloud came to a swirling rest at the edge of the were-demon realms of Level Five, all howling ceased. Heads lowered, bodies shuddered, and he stared at an old werewolf senator that came out of hiding, his tail between his legs in dog-pack submission. A we
re-jaguar senator crept forward from the big cat clan and crouched low, holding his breath.
“Your Excellency,” the wolfen clan senator said, keeping his head lowered, “we do hope you will forgive the previous … uh … disrespect shown to you while you were a vampire. The tensions between Level Five and Level Six are legendary, but had we known you were being groomed for ultimate descent—I assure you, our response would have been much different.”
“Woulda, coulda, shoulda,” Carlos said in a bored tone as he stared out into the black forest. Thousands of gleaming yellow eyes stared back at him, unblinking, waiting for his word and his determination of their realm’s fate. He walked with his hands behind his back, a cunning smile on his face as he circled the huge werewolf senator and shook his head. Bones from thousands of years of feedings cracked and crunched under his feet like gravel.
“Forgiveness. Hmmm … Don’t have it in me,” Carlos said, removing his hands from behind his back and staring down at his neatly manicured nails. “Matter of fact, talk of forgiveness down here is considered blasphemy. Am I wrong?”
A collective gasp filtered through the looming, black trees.
The huge beast began to snuffle and whimper. “Sir, yes, but, really, all I am asking for is—”
“Mercy?” Carlos hollered. Then he laughed. “Motherfucker, you are trying my patience.”
Wails and sulfuric ash followed Carlos in an angry chimney, the bright red glow of a total inferno helping to jettison his transport to Level Four. “I want that entire level smoked, do you hear me?” Carlos commanded his messenger as they came to the swamplands of the Amanthras. He absently brushed the intermittent rain of maggots off his shoulders and surveyed the bubbling black tars and slithering dampness all around them on Level Four. “If the fire goes out on Five, and the explosions stop, I’m holding every messenger on Six accountable.”
Again, his courier was prostrate, shaking his head as hard as his scythe trembled. “Your desire is our every command, sir.”
