Night: Final Awakening Book Three (A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller)

by J. Thorn

  Bronwyn ran her fingers through the girl’s hair, then slid the tips down her face. She focused next on the girl’s scared, tired eyes. Probing the girl’s mind, Bronwyn found exactly what Ambrose had said she would—a worn, destroyed young woman.

  Digging into her memories, Bronwyn saw two men sexually assaulting her. One of them the girl’s father, the other her uncle.

  Her mother, beaten with a leather belt as the girl was forced to watch.

  A boyfriend beating on the girl. Drowning her dog.

  Bronwyn absorbed the energy as she made the girl relive the torments from her past. The girl whimpered and repeatedly mumbled in response, which only excited the Master. When Bronwyn finally pulled away, she felt a new energy inside of her—like a burning shot of aged whiskey. She moaned as she licked the tip of her finger.

  “You have extraordinary taste,” Bronwyn said to Ambrose.

  “Why, thank you.”

  She ran her finger down his chest. When it came to the silk knot, she pulled the ends and the robe opened. Ambrose’s eyes remained steady, his breathing measured. But Bronwyn believed she could crack the exterior of even the most hardened and experienced creatures. No one would deny her—not even another Master.

  Bronwyn slid her palm down his stomach, biting her lip as she took hold of his hard cock. “There we go,” she said with a moan.

  Ambrose placed his hands on her shoulders and pulled down hard, ripping the dress from her body. Bronwyn stood in front of him naked now, stroking the shaft of his penis. Ambrose shrugged off the robe and pushed her down onto the bed.

  He climbed on top of her, sliding inside a moment later. She moaned and clawed at his back. Ambrose thrust, and he drove deeper into her as she spread her legs wide. Bronwyn laughed as she reached and grabbed her ankles. She arched her back as Ambrose fucked her, closing her eyes and enjoying the purely physical sensation of an act that could never include love.

  Bronwyn rolled Ambrose over and sat straight up, grinding down on his cock as she ran her hands through her hair. Ambrose reached up and gripped her firm breasts. She pushed harder, and the North American Master moaned.

  “Yes,” he said, and Bronwyn felt him come inside of her.

  She pushed down hard, feeling the orgasm rush through her body like an electrical current. When it subsided, she slid from Ambrose and toppled onto the bed next to him.

  “We shouldn’t be doing this,” Ambrose said.

  “Easy to say after you come inside of me.”

  “This only complicates matters.”

  “Of course it does,” Bronwyn said, wiping the sweat from her forehead. “But that’s why we have to make our move.”

  “What do you mean?” Ambrose asked.

  She rolled onto her side and put her hand on his cock, feeling it stiffen. “I mean that we have to destroy Jaraca and Jing. We don’t need them.”

  “But we do.”

  “You and I have the most power of all four Masters. If we combine forces,” she said, sliding down and placing his throbbing erection to her lips. “We can find the human and destroy him, and then there will be no way for Jing and Jaraca to defeat us.”

  Bronwyn took him into her mouth before climbing on top of Ambrose and guiding him inside of her once again.

  “Together, we’ll destroy them all.”

  Ambrose moaned and closed his eyes. “Yes.”

  27

  Jing paced back and forth in his quarters, unable to stop the flowing tide of ideas from flooding his mind. He spat and slammed his fist off of the wall. He had been the one to set everything in motion when he’d aimed his contingent of hackers at the power grid of the United States. And, now, Ambrose was pushing him aside and taking control of the situation in the name of “solidarity.”

  How could the others have been so careless? An alliance of Masters would never last—thousands of years of covert warfare had proven it, and yet Ambrose thought he could convince them otherwise. The North American Master had other plans also, he was sure, but Jing didn’t care anymore. He promised himself that he would kill Ambrose and avenge the death of Seyana, and whatever else happened, happened.

  He didn’t trust that bitch either. Bronwyn’s attitude in their meeting had been nothing short of disrespectful. He couldn’t see a scenario where the European would keep her word. In fact, Jing couldn’t imagine this alliance moving beyond the walls of Ambrose’s ridiculous dining hall.

  Jing exited the room. Two of his soldiers stood guard outside, and they began following him as he walked away.

  “Stay here,” he said. “I have something I need to do on my own. I’ll be fine. If I need you, I will signal you.”

  The two guards resumed their positions in front of his door and Jing continued down the hall.

  Sconces hung on the wall, about five feet apart. Ambrose had told them that the candles burning in the fixtures had been made from human fat, but Jing doubted the Master had had that much time, as to boil corpses in time for their arrival. But the old man clearly had a penchant for the finer things—including Bronwyn—and that would be a weakness to exploit.

  A single guard stood outside of Jaraca’s room. The male wore a tunic and carried a spear with a sharpened wooden tip—perfect for killing.

  “I would like to speak with your Master,” Jing said.

  The guard stared blankly at him, and Jing assumed he was alerting Jaraca of the request. Then Jaraca’s guard pushed the door open, allowing Jing to enter. As a sign of respect, Jing clasped his hands together and bowed at the lowly soldier.

  Jaraca’s room looked about the same as Jing’s—furnished in the same European style as the rest of the place. She had a larger bed, though, with satin and lace that complimented her natural beauty. And Jaraca laid on top of the bed, still wearing the white dress she’d had on earlier. She didn’t look at him as Jing stepped to the edge of the bed.

  “Why are you here?” Jaraca asked.

  “I’ve been restless since our meeting.”

  “Of course you have. I would want to kill him, too, if he had destroyed my top lieutenant.”

  “You know as well as I do that this alliance will never work.”

  Jaraca sat up then, bracing herself with her hands but remaining in the middle of the bed. “What are you suggesting?”

  “Bronwyn is the key to his plan. She is the oldest and most powerful of us. There’s no doubt that Ambrose has bigger ambitions than an alliance to kill the human, but he knows he can’t achieve them without her. So, she has to be removed from the equation...”

  “You want to kill Bronwyn?” Jaraca asked, laughing.

  “If we can deliver the final death to Bronwyn, then we can control Ambrose. He isn’t strong enough to take on two other Masters. With Bronwyn out of the picture, you and I can rule while keeping Ambrose in check.”

  “Couldn’t we just kill him?”

  “I will, but only with Bronwyn out of the way. She is the key to all of this. If we destroy her, Ambrose will be powerless. And then it will be up to me to decide how and when he pays for what he did to Seyana.”

  Jaraca climbed off the bed and walked to the window. She pulled the curtains apart and looked outside.

  “You know that they are probably teaming up to destroy us,” Jing said. “This is the only way we can guarantee our survival.”

  “I know,” Jaraca said, turning away from the window. She pointed at Jing. “But how do I know that you will not destroy me?”

  Smiling, Jing shook his head. “You don’t. But you’ll have to trust me when I say I have no interest in your part of the world. I simply want to rule the East—all of Europe, and the Asian territory that I currently possess. I would like some of this continent, but that is something you and I can discuss later..”

  “I thought this was about your revenge on Ambrose?”

  “This is more about you and me taking over the world for ourselves and preventing our own destruction. Ambrose is my business, not yours.”

  �
��And do you have a plan to make this happen?”

  Jing nodded.

  Jaraca raised an eyebrow. “Show me.”

  Jing smiled. Convincing Jaraca to join him was a critical part of his plan. He couldn’t kill Bronwyn and Ambrose alone. And in truth, he had no interest in harming Jaraca when it was over. She could have South America and Africa. As long as she was willing to let him control at least part of the Western United States and not stand in the way of his revenge on Ambrose, he would leave her alone.

  With Jaraca on his side, it could all become a reality.

  28

  The Vampire’s Ball

  The Republic, New Orleans

  Saturday, October 30, 2001

  Vondell Stokes—known in other circles as Papa Midnight—sat at the bar, sipping a gin and tonic.

  Why did I bother coming here? he asked himself as he looked around. The place was nothing but a cliché. Everyone looked the same, with every girl wearing tight corsets, dark red lipstick, and jet-black hair. The guys wore cheap black tuxedos with fanned-out cuffs and collars. And most of them wore eyeliner.

  The rock venue had been decorated to look like a funeral home turned night club. The light flickered from brass candelabras. Ornate caskets had been positioned throughout the room, too—some of them open and with life-size vampire sculptures inside. Red velvet curtains draped the walls and bouquets of black roses sat upon the stage.

  They don’t have a damn clue what it’s really like.

  The voodoo priest decided to have one more drink and then call it a night. Ironically, he stood out in this place where everyone was dressed in costume. His trench coat and bone necklace had gotten him plenty of glances, and no one sat next to him at the bar.

  “Another drink?” the bartender asked, pulling Papa Midnight out of his daze.

  He tapped his glass on the bar, signaling he’d have another.

  “You got it.”

  The bartender wore glasses and had shaved the side of his head, leaving slicked back hair on the top. He wore a black Type O Negative t-shirt which clung to his skinny frame.

  Posers.

  The kid brought him his gin and tonic, and Papa Midnight took a sip of it. A DJ stopped the industrial techno music then, and the host of the party jumped onto the stage with a microphone.

  “Only thirty minutes until midnight,” he said. “And you know what that means!”

  “Halloween!” the crowd shouted back at him.

  “That’s what I’m talking about!” the host said. “So dance your asses off for all the dark spirits out there.”

  Papa Midnight laughed and turned back to his drink. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a man at the end of the bar who was also seemingly amused by the pageantry of the ridiculous.

  He appeared to be at least ten years older than Papa, and was by far the oldest person he’d seen at the Vampire’s Ball. He was white with gray hair and a matching beard. He wore a black suit—not a tux like most of the other guys at the club. And he was not wearing make-up.

  The man made eye contact with Papa and raised his glass. With half a smile, Papa returned the gesture. They both took a sip, and then the man stood from his chair and walked around the corner of the bar. He stopped at the empty seat next to Papa Midnight.

  “Mind if I sit?”

  Papa gestured to the chair, and the man sat down.

  The man looked Papa up and down. “Some get-up you’ve got there.”

  “It’s not a ‘get-up.’ It’s just the way I dress.” Papa examined the man in return. He was wearing a tailored black suit, simple and understated, and in high contrast to the other men at the ball. “What are you doing here? Did you bring your granddaughter or something?”

  The man grinned and took a sip of his wine. “I think this culture is interesting. That’s all. What about you? You say it’s not a get-up you’re wearing, but I have to say it’s a little strange to see a shaman at a vampire ball.”

  “To be honest with you, I’m not quite sure why I’m here.”

  “I have a guess.”

  Papa Midnight shrugged.

  “You want to see how wrong they all have it.” The man pointed out to the crowd.

  “And how exactly are they wrong?”

  “Their idea of a vampire comes from the movies. Those are not the kind which will plague the earth. And I think that you know that, as I do.”

  “You’ve studied the books?” Papa Midnight said.

  “You could say that.” The man finished the rest of his wine, then set the glass down on the bar.

  Papa Midnight turned to the crowd again and smiled. “They’re all clueless.”

  “That they are. They will not be so amused when the Masters come forth to slay them.”

  Papa Midnight had dealt with many oddities and eccentricities in his life, and he didn’t like the tone in this man’s voice. It carried an edge, a hint of something strange and dark.

  “You really are knowledgeable in this,” Papa said.

  “Fascinated, really. Hell, I even know where the Angel is.”

  Papa Midnight set his glass of gin and tonic down, and turned to face the mysterious man.

  “That’s impossible.”

  “Ah, so you know about the Angel then?”

  “The Angel holds the power—he can destroy the entire vampire race. But his location has been a mystery for ages.”

  Papa Midnight shivered, despite the heat in the club generated by the dancing, gyrating bodies.

  “It’s not that big of a mystery, friend.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  The man laughed and shook his head. “You don’t have to.” He reached into his pocket and Papa Midnight sat up straight. The man smiled as he pulled out a pen and a notepad. “What? Did you think I was going to pull a gun or a knife on you?” He let out another small laugh.

  When he put a fountain pen to thick, heavy paper, the penmanship was more elegant than any writing Papa Midnight had ever seen. He moved the pen across the paper in short, sharp bursts before tearing the sheet from the pad, and then he folded it once before handing it to Papa Midnight.

  The voodoo priest took the note and opened it. There were several numbers written on it. He looked up at the man.

  “What the hell is this?”

  “Coordinates. It will take you to where the Angel sleeps. He only needs to be awakened by the right one.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  The man grinned. “Because you are not the one, Papa Midnight. And even if you knew who it was, you’d be searching for a human in a city of millions. This is a game, between you and I. I’m curious, and I have all the time in the world to watch you fail.”

  The voodoo priest narrowed his eyes. “Fail at what? What are you talking about? And how do you know my name?”

  “Oh, but I do know that and quite a bit more about you, Vondell.”

  Papa Midnight wiped the sweat from his brow. He looked down at the piece of paper again and noticed the name printed at the top of the stationary—Ambrose.

  “Wait a second. Who—”

  But when he looked up again, the strange gray-haired man was gone.

  29

  Dax jerked awake, gasping as his eyes opened wide. The last thing he remembered was leaving the barn and watching it explode behind him. And he couldn’t get the faces of his loved ones mounted on the meat hooks out of his mind.

  “It was just a nightmare,” he said to himself as he took deep breaths.

  He sat up and rubbed the sweat from his forehead. The upstairs bedroom he’d fallen asleep in had once belonged to a boy. From the pictures on the mirror, he appeared to have been around eleven or twelve years old. Superhero posters and pages cut out from music magazines covered the walls. Dax noticed a picture of the masked heavy metal band Slipknot on the wall and shook his head.

  The Casket Girls appeared in the doorway.

  “You all right?” Alex asked.

  “Bad dream.” Dax g
rabbed his shirt and put it on.

  “Can you guys give us a few minutes?” Alex asked the other two girls.

  “Sure,” Zoe said.

  “I’ll be out front keeping watch and doing some target practice on that old tree,” Saw said.

  The two girls left and Alex entered the room, shutting the door behind her. She went to the dresser and sat down on top of it.

  “You were practically screaming while you were sleeping,” Alex said. “We kept coming to check on you, and weren’t sure whether to wake you or not. But you kept sleeping. You were way more tired than I thought you were.”

  The sun shone through the gaps in the blinds. Dax furrowed his brow.

  “How long was I asleep?”

  “All night. We figured we’d let you rest.”

  “But we needed to keep going,” Dax said. “You should’ve woken me.”

  “It’s fine. If you’d have been in my position and seen you, you wouldn’t have woken you. Believe me.”

  “I think that, if you were screaming, I might have.”

  “You didn’t start that until early this morning. I slept through it, but Zoe was up and on watch, and she came and got me.” Alex shook her head. “I’ve never seen anything quite like it. It was almost as violent as a seizure. But something told me not to wake you. I figured you would wake up on your own. But that must have been one hell of a nightmare.”

  Dax averted his eyes. She had made the right choice. Though it had been a nightmare, Dax’s dreams were important.

  “It wasn’t a nightmare so much as it was a message.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ever since I’ve left New Orleans, I’ve been having these visits from Papa Midnight in my dreams. In all of them, we’ve met at the same place—at a dirt crossroad with nothing but a single tree standing there. But last night was different. Last night, I was visited by a Screamer. But not just any Screamer—an old friend who was turned.”

  “It was the Screamer I described to you, wasn’t it? Ambrose’s new second-in-command?”