by A. L. Mengel
He screamed from deep within his chest as he grew to a muscular beast and his clothes ripped to shreds and fell to the ground.
The cop dropped his flashlight in the grass, looking up at the monster Darius had become; for a moment, the cop froze, his eyes as wide as plates, and then he turned and ran. The cop’s partner cautiously stepped forward, and then stopped; he stood still in frozen shock. The cop struggled to keep his gun still locked on Darius, as his hand shook.
“Hold it right there!” the cop said, but his voice was quivering.
It did not deter Darius.
With one swipe of his claw, the super muscular demon that Darius had become tore the gun out of the policeman’s hand – ripping the limb off in a spray of blood that coated the bushes. The other cop returned to the scene, hanging back at the gate, pleading for backup in his walkie-talkie, over and over again, as his eyes nervously watched Darius tear his partner apart limb from limb.
Darius did not pay any attention to the frantic pleas for backup.
Darius dropped the cop’s body in the bushes, as it continued to writhe and shake. He descended on the other and grabbed the radio and squeezed it to bits, the roping muscle taught against the green-brown skin as he destroyed the device, the veins pulsating with shreds of muscle. With one swift movement, he tore off the policeman’s head with one swipe of the other arm.
Darius did not have time for something so bothersome like the local police.
Towering over the dead cop, he surveyed the situation.
He breathed deeply, hard and grating – but he was not out of breath. He watched the limbless cop writhe in pain like a spider stripped of its legs, wriggling about, his main arteries spewing blood, cascading in pools throughout the park, staining the bushes and grass bright red.
Deep and dark red.
Darius calmed and cursed himself.
Why was it so hard to control his demon within? Of course, in this situation, he needed to transform and take care of the situation. But it did not matter. They were plain and useless. But so much wasted blood. What a pity.
Back in form, he brushed himself off.
Looking down at the bodies below, he bent down and scooped up his prey. Such a young and beautiful mortal. The boy couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. Well-tended, close cut dark hair, a neatly trimmed short moustache – certainly he was loved, and would be missed. What a shame he was now just a corpse. How he would love to drain him all over again!
It was time to end all this.
He dropped the body into the grass, the limbs splayed like a rag doll, and he ascended into the air, leaving the three bodies below, in a lake of blood, in the middle of the park in the dead of night.
And then he flew.
He rose up above the city, up so high that the park appeared as just a green spot on the landscape; lights dotted the darkness like diamonds, and the tall, majestic buildings, dressed in their pastels and pinks lined the edge of the ocean, cast blurry reflections on the waters of the dark blue Atlantic.
*~*~*
Antoine loved all the sinful mortals around every corner.
Miami Beach was always packed with people. The streets, the tropical feel, the numerous palm trees and the cute pastel two story motels lent a feeling of the island life. But looking upwards at the towering, glittery skyscrapers that rose above the small shops, restaurants and nightclubs reminded one that Miami Beach is truly a metropolis in its own right.
Day and night the sidewalks were filled with throngs of shoppers, beach revelers, sun worshippers and vacationers young and old – all their footsteps marching over the peeling maroon paint and sand covering the walkways that lined the busy, congested avenues.
But the people that Antoine sought ventured out after the sun went down.
All the flesh that he could taste and venture to at all hours of the night…the feeding was a smorgasbord, and it went on every night seven nights a week, until it was time for him to return to Coral Gables.
There were also some nights that Antoine did not venture to South Beach, but rather headed north to an area of Palm Beach that he so much loved to roam.
And no matter where he walked, Antoine always returned in his Mercedes to Coral Gables, the city in Miami that was most quintessentially Spanish and Southern – from the giant oak tree lined streets hanging Spanish moss over the passersby, to the street names that would attest to the town’s uniqueness – Anastasia, Ponce De Leon, Andelusia. Home to the famous haunted Biltmore Hotel.
Coral Gables - truly an old, charming and stylish town of class and luxury. This is the area in Miami where the well-to-do would live, those who spent countless hours in their expensive cars commuting to lofty positions in downtown, or at Blue Lagoon, and then drive home - past the Miracle Mile and the coral colored fountains and palms, pulling into their gated driveways and enormous, expensive homes. All during this while, of course, they would look the other direction and put out of their heads that towns like Hialeah - with small, shoebox-like homes with beat up, rusted out late model cars sitting in driveways and police sirens wailing in the distance - lie just a few miles away from the opulence and old-time grandeur of Coral Gables.
Antoine’s Mercedes typically pulled down Anastasia Avenue to First.
First Street is perpendicular to Anastasia, which Antoine takes off of South Dixie Highway from the beach or the Manors. It is lined with enormous weeping willow trees, palms and other tropical foliage. The houses are enormous, and the average home price on the street is in the millions. Of course, Antoine had to have the largest home by far, and the previous owner was quite tasty indeed! Each day, Antoine would pull his Mercedes through the massive wrought-iron gates into the largest home on the street.
Antoine acquired the house shortly after he came to Miami.
The house was owned by the late Hernan Perez, and was a Spanish mansion through and through. Tall, majestic windows overlooked a carefully manicured tropical garden, and a winding stone path led to the sidewalk. But what was really impressive were the soaring columns that framed the front porch. It made the house a cross between what would be a Spanish Style Southern Mansion and an estate plantation.
Antoine chose the house for a number of reasons. He would always tell people that it was the architecture, but most knew that it was somehow linked to Antoine’s affair with the owner’s son.
Prior to the acquisition, he lived in a condominium at the ocean, and after he fell in love with the city and saw it for what it was, he decided to pursue a Miami home to somewhat settle. And this house was perfect in a perfectly southern town that was always turned on and active.
The boy that Antoine became enamored with had a wonderful olive complexion and dark, close-cropped black hair and smooth clear skin.
Roberto was his name.
He once was a sophomore in college at the University of Miami studying to become a doctor.
His short, black hair was spiked and gelled like all of the young boys would do; he always wore stylish, silver rimmed glasses tinted blue to add a hint of mysteriousness.
Perhaps the mystery of Roberto is what drew Antoine closer to him.
Antoine had been walking down Washington Avenue late one weekend night - perhaps two or three in the morning. He had fed, and was satisfied, and was just enjoying the Miami night, not really looking in any direction. Of course, there was a crowd on the street, club goers of every different denomination, in all different styles of dress. Most were dressed to kill with the latest expensive button down shirts and slacks. Others wore faded jeans and t-shirts, but all boisterous and laughing, heading in every different direction. All darted through the stand-still traffic in front of the pulsating nightclubs on Washington Avenue…rushing to the lines snaking between velvet ropes on red carpet leading into smoky colorful palaces.
But then, Antoine set his eyes on Roberto – down the block from where Antoine had been standing that humid and still summer night.
A face in the crowd, smili
ng, nodding, but also looking.
Through the throngs of people, shining out and calling to him. Slowly, Antoine approached him. The young man looked like he was alone. He was a face in this crowd, and time, for a moment, stood still. It seemed as though the crowds stopped and quieted, and that Roberto caught Antoine’s gaze, if just for a moment. Roberto was leaning against the side in the shadows of the buildings, crowds of people moving all around them as they remained transfixed on one another. Roberto’s face jumped out to Antoine like a shiny penny in a sea full of dull, dirty ones.
This is him, he thought. Now isn’t that just beautiful…
CHAPTER FIVE
The night sky glistened with stars, a dark blue velvet drape over the neon lit pastel pinks and yellows highlighting the terra cotta stone buildings of Miami; the crystalline city from above became smaller and smaller once ascending through the pillow of the clouds; the streetlights shone like small diamonds scattered in black sea of nothingness; the city became more pronounced in its borders, telescoping through a tunnel of darkness.
The clouds wafted past, as the night air grew cold and stark. Looking beyond, farther west to where the sky grew pink, towards the waters of the Gulf, the clouds leapt forward, seeking unexplored territory.
The jeweled city stood at the base of the land peninsula shining upwards, piercing the vast darkness of the night. Looking down through the clouds, Antoine descended. Down, closer and closer he fell, gracefully and with determination, his arms raised like an angel. Nowhere else would be the perfect place to embark on his mission.
Sacrafice.
It was the perfect lure, the perfect bait.
Descending quietly, the miniscule dots took shape, grew larger and transformed into buildings. The streets widened and the trees lined the avenues, as cars raced down the avenues, and finally people dotted the sidewalks scurrying in every different direction, all heading a different way, with a different agenda.
He glided between the low, brightly lit buildings of Miami Beach and landed on his feet almost silently in a dark alley, not far from the hubbub of activity, but far enough that the air was almost silent and stagnant. Straight ahead of him were the throngs of tourists visible between the tall buildings on either side of the alley, and Antoine studied each group of people, moving in, and then quickly out of frame, like they were walking across his own private cinema screen. The people darted in and out of the candlelit cafés lining Ocean Drive; at each one a young, smiling hostess standing in front – offering samples and menus.
But none of that interested Antoine.
What he saw from above is what interested him. And that wasn’t on Ocean Drive.
It was back on Washington, two blocks to the west. As Antoine glided through the crowds, it seemed as if no one noticed him. Dressed in his signature black on black, he floated through the families, couples and all the others looking around dazzled at the fancy glistening boutique hotels of South Beach.
What interested Antoine was what was waiting for him two blocks away. And he was being called to it.
I am coming to you…I hear your call. Not since years ago, not since Luxor did I encounter you. I see you, I see you in the sands, I see you lying and waiting, waiting for me to come. I see you in the earthquake, in the fissures and the flames, waiting for me.
Waiting for me to return with what is yours.
Antoine stopped dead in his tracks.
He looked up.
Standing before him was the most gigantic, imposing cathedral he had ever laid his eyes upon. But it was not a cathedral that one may imagine. It was dark, sinister and gothic – and at the base was a large and daunting stone staircase that led to a pair of giant wooden doors framed by dark stone walls. There were small stained-glass windows scattered about making the building seem more like a medieval castle rather than an ornate place of worship. It stood out as a striking contrast to the lighter colored, pale pastel hotels and hostels with a gloomy presence.
But it was not a place of worship. It never was.
Built ten years earlier as the Cathedral night club, it used to be one of the hottest clubs on Miami Beach that attracted celebrities and starlets as well as massive crowds of partygoers who wanted to see and be seen. But it was short lived, and now was a dark skeleton of its former self.
Antoine stood at the base of the stairs, staring straight ahead at the daunting building. But it wasn’t the cathedral that preyed on his mind. That was just a building. What he felt – the feeling that surrounded him as he stood before the doors – was her presence.
He knew she was here.
Looking for him. A puff of wind blew across his face, blowing his hair. He closed his eyes, and turned around.
There she was.
She was standing across Washington when Antoine saw her – and he knew that she saw him. But she gave no indication that she did. Through the sea of taxicabs and SUV’s, past the throngs of tourists and clubbers alike – she stood. She leaned against a palm tree, smoking a cigarette – blending in to the crowds, seemingly undetectable.
That most certainly was Claret.
She hid behind large, dark stylish sunglasses, her face framed with straight auburn hair, styled to appear more like a model or stylist than an ancient mythical figure – but he knew it was her. She was looking the other direction, to the south, but he knew that she knew exactly where Antoine was standing across on the steps.
She exhaled a cloud of smoke and stubbed out her cigarette with a black stiletto boot, pressing it into the mulched ground that surrounded the base of the tree. She stepped back and brushed her black leather coat off, looking downwards, checking her purse, pulling out her phone, and blending in just perfectly.
And as she turned and started to walk away, her head turned back for a moment to Antoine’s direction, seeming to stare right at him. She pulled her sunglasses down the ridge of her nose, looking across the street to the steps where Antoine had been standing, and Antoine froze for a moment.
Antoine ducked back slowly and carefully behind a large bush at the base of the steps to the Cathedral. Had she seen him? She knew he was there. Of course she had seen him.
Claret walked slowly yet with determination down the opposite side of Washington, and as Antoine slowly emerged from behind the bush he never stopped watching her.
What is she doing in Miami? Antoine thought, his mind racing. And where is she going?
He took his eyes off of her for a moment, and turned towards the wall. He placed his head in his hands, and leaned hard against the building. He closed his eyes, and a tear fell down his cheek.
The Chalice. Oh good God, no.
After a few minutes, he got up and regained his composure. There was no way that feeling sorry for himself would rectify the situation. He had to keep track of Claret - that was for certain. She was vengeful and clever, and would stop at nothing to regain what was once hers.
Antoine ducked past the shrub and headed down the steps, his eyes still frantically searching the crowd for Claret. He walked down Washington, desperate to catch up with her. Dodging the crowds, he spotted her once again, standing at the corner of Washington and 5th.
She checked her watch.
She certainly knew how to blend in.
Her head turned slowly, one more time, in Antoine’s direction. She was standing before a large building that looked like a nightclub, with large imposing doors covered by black curtains and smoke that billowed out into the night air from below the curtains.
For a moment – just for a moment - she seemed to smile. It was small, waning smile, maybe really just a grin, but Antoine noticed it nonetheless. It was a smile that was meant for him to see and only him to notice, but it spoke to him.
It said: I’ve got you!
She ducked into the curtain and disappeared into the smoke.
And later on that evening, when Antoine replayed the events in his mind, he had thought that maybe he had imagined it. Had he?
But Antoine remai
ned still as he stood across the street, staring at the door that Claret had disappeared into. Claret disappeared into the curtains, and for quite some time. He stared in disbelief at the building.
Was that really Claret?
It had to have been. And as he turned to finally leave, facing a sea of faces that fought past him, he stood in one place. Closing his eyes and raising his head to the sky, he cherished the cool night air.
Despite the relaxation of the calming aspect of the wind, he could not ease his anxiety. He felt the sweat still deep under his arms, he noticed the beating of his heart, and he knew that her presence was the foretelling of dark times to come. He knew that Claret only appeared under demonic persuasion and the only demon that Antoine could think of was a demon from his past that still consistently haunts his days and his nights.
And he knew, deep in his soul, that it was Claret – the demonic seductress that even Asmodai would cower and relent to - just walked through those doors.
He walked back in a daze, unfazed by the chaos and the crowds. Even when a hard-partying group of young, towering jocks almost knocked him over, he did not budge nor did he react.
Right now, he felt defeated.
Claret was here, she was in Miami, and she knew where he was. And it was too late. The damage had already been done.
And she was ready to take her revenge.
CHAPTER SIX
South Beach at night.
The light and dreamy reflection of the chic and trendy hotels that lined Ocean Avenue cast a warm glow – the blurry brightness shone atop the dark Atlantic waters, like a moving painting, alive and pulsating with the waves. The serenity of the waterline, bathed in cool pale blue moonlight, and the pleasant dull roar of the surf, served as a striking contrast to the noise and chaos that dominated the streets a short distance away. The towering palm trees did nothing to conceal the lines of expensive cars, the roller-bladers, boisterous night strollers, dog walkers and diners that crowded the sidewalks.
