by Rick Heinz
“Their numbers are growing,” said a silken voice as a feminine hand was placed on his shoulder. Roger turned and saw the divine face of Alexandria by his side.
“They are. That one has a way with words,” Roger said, pointing to Auburn. “What camp did he come from? I’ve never heard of a player such as him.”
“My child, he has been given the heart of an arch demon by someone I’ve almost forgotten. O’Neil, I think his name is. A player who comes and goes throughout the ages, arranging such things. Always stepping back into the shadows near the end.”
“It’s not like you to forget a rival, Alexandria. Are you faring well this evening?” Even Roger had already forgotten the name she mentioned. Inwardly, he cursed himself for forgetting. The name danced just beyond his memory, like a song he forgot the name of. Instead, he just kept coming up with Auburn.
“Auburn will need to be handled by more than your foot soldiers. Did you mention he had companions that were captured? What do we know of them?”
“Always looking out for me, you are.” Roger twirled his mustache. “I think I have a better angle,” he said as he grabbed another glass of blood and began telling Alexandria of the captives.
After a batch of little one-legged demons ran into the riot, Mike almost lost control of the protests. People who killed and ate their hearts quickly became the most violent protesters in the bunch. They began to invade homes, yanking others out into the streets and forcing them to see as well.
Akira elbowed him. “The blood reacts strangely in people. Sometimes it makes them killers. Not everyone is as noble as you.” Mike wasn’t sure if she was talking about the rioters or herself.
The forces of authority did not remain silent during the growing rampage. Exhausted police officers who had been working around the clock showed up to stop the riots. A sergeant among them, hair peppered with age, leveled a shotgun at a civilian trying to run past the blockade. A one-legged, one-armed demon, its skin black and oily, lashed out and ran its hand through the runner’s chest. Shots rang out as the police fired into the crowd. The sergeant opened fire on the demon. He fired one blast after another as he inched closer, his face twisted in rage. Demon blood painted the building facade nearby as the sergeant kept firing round after round into its lifeless body.
Another shot went off into the crowd. The sergeant called for his men to stand down. One by one, guns were trained on demons instead. They were scared by what they had seen over the past month but didn’t have an easy way to lash out. As the initial blockade was overrun, the wave of first responders began to march with them, joining in their riot. After another blockade, even the police began to chant, feast, and fight, swept in the fervor of the night, now fueled by the blood of demons.
As they moved closer to Walsh Tower, a large group of soldiers showed up. They were the blooded forces of the society, with their vampiric powers, shape-shifting, and sorcery. Actual battles broke out in the streets.
Like pouring gasoline on the fire, the first SWAT officer hurled a fireball into a group of protesters that were ripping a hellhound limb from limb for its blood. The attack reinforced everything Mike had been preaching the entire way. The salt-and-pepper-haired sergeant screamed. “See! They are hoarding power! I knew it!” The message spread as a news crew from KMSP caught it on camera.
One of the rioters, endowed with a bit of strength, cut a horned demon apart with a chainsaw in front of a camera. Like a pack of wolves, they descended upon the demon, claiming what parts they could before it turned into ash. The journalist’s hands were shaking as she gave her report. Mike swept in and grabbed her before the rioters turned to her.
“Look, lady, stay back a bit. I’m all for the press, but we are at war here,” he said.
She quickly regained her composure. “Who are you? Are you the leader of these riots?”
Auburn cleaned some blood off his face and straightened his bandanna. He showed the camera his armband with the symbol of the Sons and Daughters. “Yeah, I’m Auburn. I want those who are hiding in their ivory towers to know that we are coming for them. Walsh and his people are the ones who have been holding satanic sex parties to bring about the end of the world,” Mike said.
Akira jostled up on-screen beside Mike and flashed a smile. She held out two fingers in a peace sign and winked. Her camo pants and black tank top were far cleaner than Mike’s clothes. “Lady, these people are your neighbors. They are just fighting against the End Times, End Times orchestrated by people hiding within Walsh Tower. When the police state is as corrupt as it is here, ya gotta expect some violence.”
“Do you have any evidence that would implicate Walsh as the one responsible?” she asked as rioters hurled Molotov cocktails in the background.
Mike moved closer and pointed at the police down the street. “Zoom in on the one in the back.” As if on cue, the SWAT officer took a swig of a black vial before hurling a ball of green fire back to the protesters. His unit patch identified him as a member of Captain Slade’s unit. “Stick with us, lady. You’ll get your story and your evidence. Just stay safe, okay?” Mike placed his hand on her shoulder to reassure her as she nodded.
Akira slapped Mike on the shoulder. “These people have been kept ignorant for so long. Once you lit that fire under their asses, it couldn’t be put out,” she said.
“Yeah,” he replied. “Hoping for that. This has already turned into a war.” Mike looked to the distance and saw Walsh Tower, closer than it had been before. He was becoming increasingly concerned about what to do with the ashen world he saw around it. Tackle that problem when it comes.
CHAPTER 50
Sharp pains along the corners of Delilah’s mouth reminded her not to smile. After watching the effects of the nerve gas attack she had arranged, the pain was worth it. For far too long she had advised her master to eliminate his rivals in the swiftest fashion rather than toy with them as he preferred. At least when it matters most, he listens to me. Not that he had much say in the matter. Delilah had more than a few tricks up her sleeve to direct the society when she needed to.
It was difficult to coordinate a schedule as precise as the one they had just performed when you had to anticipate the movements of others. All her master’s souls had to be returned to him before sunrise. A feat even he could not achieve alone. Delilah had anticipated that it would be Bollard who would return to claim his kill. Still, she had hoped she would be able to capture or kill him. Unless Vryce decided to monologue and allow Bollard to escape, I fulfilled my service to him. He should have all his fragments now.
She had enough time to tend to her wounds in a medical lab beneath the city near the prison that stored the rest of the society’s army. A cream paste mixed with herbs and a spell offered relief to her burns. The nurse on hand wrapped her arms and torso in bandages up to her chin. Any more and Delilah thought she would look like a mummy.
We just have to make it through this night, she assured herself. Riots had started in the city earlier tonight, and they were already beginning to coalesce around headquarters. Even though she had Symon and the Whisper with her, they alone would not be enough for absolute victory. Or any victory at all. Luckily, I have an army.
She slapped the nurse’s hand away before she could be injected with a painkiller. “No, I have earned this. It is giving me focus. I still have work to do. I can’t be of dimmed wits,” she said. Getting off the table, she put on a fresh suit that a servant had retrieved for her, unconcerned with the people in the room as she changed. “Come. Let us finish what we started. Time to release the hounds, as they say.” Delilah did not look back as she power walked out of the room, forcing Symon to stop toying with beakers. The Whisper was more prompt and already on her heels.
As Delilah stormed through the facility, her fingers danced on her tablet, entering all security codes and setting in motion the release of the entire army. By the time they made it to the cylindrical chamber that stored the remaining soldiers, blood had already begun to flow int
o the sleeping soldiers. She paused when she noticed a handful of the cells on the bottom level had new people inside them. They paced around in their cells like caged lions, an eclectic bunch.
“Who are they?” she asked.
“I believe that they are . . . What’s the word? Fresh recruits,” Symon said in his French accent.
“My lady, those are the soldiers from Chicago captured while you were otherwise occupied with your work. Thirteen soldiers of the Unification, already blooded, and fully changed. Awaiting your conditioning,” the Whisper said.
“Thirteen? I count twelve. Who authorized them stored here?” she said.
Without hesitating, she pulled up a security footage feed. Indeed, it showed thirteen people originally locked in glass chambers. Then hours later, according to the tape, one of them turned into a black-and-gray mist and walked through the wall itself. The mist had tried to free everyone else but failed before it decided to leave. No doubt it was time to go and get assistance. “Never mind. I see who made the authorization.” Stop toying with your prey. “It appears we have another assassin in our mix. I fear that the Unification will never stop trying to kill our master.”
“They say that the crown is a heavy burden. Do you think Master is . . . ehhh . . . up to the task?” Symon asked.
“When their resources include a demon huntress from Chicago who can walk through walls, even magically reinforced walls”—Delilah looked inside the cells—“it’s better to not take any risks.” Methodical gears shifted in her head.
Daneka stood up, his leg twitching from a restless knee. “Impressive facility. In need of a psychologist perhaps?” He smiled. “I would love to work here with all of these fascinating experiments you are conducting.” The slight bit of a fang jutted out from beneath his grin. From the look on his face, Delilah knew that he knew he would not be in captivity very long. His stance and posture was that of a prisoner who knew someone was coming to release him.
Delilah took a step back and observed each of them. Of the twelve prisoners, most of them paced liked caged lions, brimming with anticipation for their release and ready to fight. Some of the girls in biker clothes fidgeted. She watched them closely long enough to see the occasional hint of doubt. Two of the twelve, the toothy-grinned psychologist and a girl in biker armor, had little care in the world. Delilah entered a keystroke into her tablet. The glass on all the prisons turned opaque, and white noise was activated to prevent them from gaining contact with the outside world. “I know one of them. The mortal child of Lazarus’s right hand, Lord of Heaven’s Wrath, Dr. John C. Daneka.”
She paced to the center of the room, where the four remaining vampires were entombed. “We can make this work for us. I have an idea,” she said.
The large cylinder rose from the ground as Delilah released Rafiq from his chamber. Her prime assassin was trained for only one task, to give his life for the elimination of a single target. He would answer only to her, regardless of what other pressures or magical spells were placed upon him.
Rafiq was built and trained to kill other creatures who could control minds. Like every vampire older than a hundred years, Rafiq was shorter than most. He looked Delilah right in the eyes after he bowed from being released. He was silent as Symon handed him two red-handled, curved daggers.
“You will go to Chicago. You are to eliminate the creature known as . . .” She paused as the name escaped her for a moment. She referenced her tablet and continued. “Patrick O’Neil.”
Rafiq began a swift jog out of the room. He would not need any more orders than that to achieve his goal. Besides Alexander Lex DuPris, he was her finest work.
“Whisper?” she asked.
“Yes, my dear.”
“Get me a line to Queneco up in the ballroom. Make sure he is away from Alexandria, if possible. Where are Gabriel and Alexander DuPris?”
“Gabriel is still en route to Walsh Tower at this time. He’s been occupied by the riots. Alexander DuPris is in the ballroom,” he replied as he picked up a landline phone and made arrangements for a secure line.
“Choices. It always comes down to choices,” she said as she walked over to pick up the phone.
A crystal goblet shattered on the marble floor within the ballroom, breaking the silence. Mike Auburn just got one of the society’s soldiers to cast a spell on live television. Sorcerers within the society looked at each other with trepidation. The society wanted magic to be returned, but Roger could feel the tension rising in the room. One by one, all eyes in the room began to look to him for guidance.
“Worry not, friends. Our best moments have yet to come. I told you there would be entertainment tonight. What kind of host would I be if the show was always our victory?” Roger said as he clapped his hands.
Walsh maneuvered himself closer to Roger and leaned in with a whisper. “Where is Vryce? He should be here for this.”
Smiling to the crowd, Roger replied through his teeth. “He is busy. Now is not the time to question him.”
“I don’t think a group of betrayers to the Unification are interested in anything less than perfect success. Vryce’s continual absence is becoming a problem,” he said.
Alexandria leaned in. “He’s still afraid I’m going to kill him when he shows himself.” She paused and put her manicured hand on her chest. “Oh, sorry for eavesdropping. I’m enjoying this game. I haven’t seen anything like it for a millennium.”
Roger shooed the crowd and turned to his companions. “Our primus has a lot of . . . interesting allies. It is prudent for him to remain mysterious. Otherwise, even you might find him boorish, my lady.”
“Well, why don’t you entertain me further yourself, Roger? You were talking of the captives from earlier. Bring them here. I wish to dine on them.” She laughed. “I mean with them.”
Alexander DuPris, clad in his long military coat filled with society medals, marched up to Roger, flanked by Vryce’s two apprentices Cael and Mitch Slade. “Peasant. You have been summoned.”
The crowd heard DuPris applaud a display of power on live television. The group seemed to relax when the general of the army approved. He looked at them. “Enjoy the fruits of our king’s work. We are all monsters, yet you choose to cower, pretending to be humans rather than claiming the night for yourselves. This is why you are useless—”
“Now, now, clearly you have had a long night battling demons,” Roger said as he grabbed DuPris by the elbow and escorted him off to the side of the room. “What is it?” he whispered.
“Delilah wishes to speak with you.” DuPris handed him a phone.
Roger took the phone out into the hallway, away from prying ears. Alexander DuPris positioned himself close enough to keep his eye on the room and listen at the same time, however. “My dear Delilah! What can I do for you on this fine evening?”
His smile faded as he listened. DuPris watched Roger nervously bite on a fingernail while pacing around.
“That’s a very big gamble. You have no way of knowing such things will happen . . .” Roger said. “Yes, I agree it has merit. It’s a nice backup plan. But you are betting on two wild cards . . . Don’t worry about my ability to convince them. Worry about what he’ll say . . . I’m sure he’ll cry over it, but that’s not the point. You can’t mind control something like that. It’s gotta be their choice . . . You know I’m on board with it. If your intuition is right, it’s golden. If it’s wrong—but you have to do me a favor. You owe me . . . I’ll do my part. I need you to release the captives up here. Trust me, it will add to the impact. Alexandria is starting to get bored . . . That choice is above you. Her strength alone is a deterrent. You scratch my back; I scratch yours. Now finish your end of the plan, and we’ll see what the wild cards do.” Roger hung up the phone and stared down the hallway for a moment.
DuPris intercepted him before he could return to the ballroom. “What are the orders?”
Color was starting to flush back into Roger’s cheeks, and he twirled his mustache. A forked s
nake tongue danced out of his mouth for a quick second. “You are going to be deployed very soon. This night is going to be either very boring, or magnificent. I can barely contain the excitement to see what choices people make.”
Roger walked into the room with the grace of a circus ringleader. “Some of you may wish for a more active view of the entertainment. You have been authorized to go down to the courtyard for front-row seats!” he said with a flashy bow.
Alexander watched the reactions of the dignitaries in the room. He assumed they all knew this was a poor attempt to get them out on the front lines. “March forth. The battle comes to us. It is time to meet it head-on.”
Hours after the first flames, the riots reached Walsh Tower. The city was glowing from the fires in the background. Mike had built an army in a single night, and all he had to do was turn the people against their masters and give them the tools they needed.
Along the way, he found the tools he needed. He found a crate to stand on, his own personal soapbox, and a bullhorn. In the courtyard of Walsh Tower, with its massive lights shining up, illuminating the carved columns of marble, the rioters flooded into the courtyard, faltering only at the final glass doors.
With every word he shouted, the crowd’s anger grew fueled and focused. With every moment he had to speak, to chant, to rally, the protesters were one step closer to giving their lives if needed. They were ready to rip Charles Walsh apart and storm the building.
Those inside the tower had come out as well, strange- looking people in robes. One had a full, wild beard and walked with the aid of a staff. They lined up in front of the doors and watched and listened. Not a single person who walked out of the building seemed even the slightest bit moved by Mike’s speech. At times, they clinked glasses of black ichor and chuckled among themselves.
