by Jeya Jenson
Adrien spread his hands out on the table. He had large, powerful hands, fingers long and square, nails cut short. His palms were heavily calloused, the back of his hands riddled with scars. He knew backbreaking labor, had never shirked from hard work. He imagined it was much like the toiling young AJ had probably known on his family’s farm. He’d felt the grasp of poverty’s fingers on the throat, experienced the great divide between those who have and those who have not.
Another sigh, a pursing of the lips. The cash layout for a new identity hadn’t come cheap. His funds were running short. He only had twelve thousand dollars in cash—hardly enough to keep body and soul together long.
It’s enough to see me through this.
Adrien flexed his fingers. More than the hands of a workingman, his were the hands of a man who’d taken many lives. His avowed mission was to kill the beasts walking the night in search of victims. There was no turning his back on his own true birthright.
Amhais.
The word was an old one, roughly translating to mean shadow-stalker. Since man became a freethinking being, the battle has raged between these two deadly enemies. There were people gifted with the 'third eye' that allowed them to recognize the ethereal beings spawned by the Devil and his legion of demons. The Amhais were watchers…and slayers, when necessary. There was much more comprising heaven and earth than any single mind could envision. Across many dimensions, there was a battle raging; for lives, for souls…for flesh and blood.
The blood flowing through his veins had a sullied pedigree, one reaching back to the earliest days of genesis, when Lucifer was cast out of heaven. He was tainted with the very blood of God’s fallen angels, the devil’s minions in the underworld. Spawned of a malevolent forefather, even the precious radiance of true light shunned the Kynn.
He wasn’t sure how he’d come to acquire such an unholy thirst, but he felt the key lay in the very ingredient used to create a vampire: Blood. When introduced into a healthy body, it seemed to act as a sort of virus, overwhelming and rearranging human DNA into an entirely new structure. The night Lilith had 'made' him, he’d died—part of the self-induced asphyxiation of the body killing itself. His heart ceased beating, his lungs drawing air. Her breath arriving in his lungs had revived him.
Another sip, but this time his coffee tasted bitter. He swallowed, fighting a rush of nausea. His stomach curdled, churning acid. As a human being, he’d never imagined viewing the world through other eyes. As a Kynn, he not only saw, he perceived the veiled realms existing beyond mortal boundaries and limitations.
He’d always expected to lose his life in the hunt. He’d never anticipated that he would one day join their ranks. He had all the gifts of the vampire—and their curse. He didn’t choose or covet the ways of such misbegotten beasts. The appetites of his 'kith' were insatiable; forbidden and unholy. He continually cursed his own fall to his need to survive even as he secretly anticipated the hunt for fresh conquests.
As much as I might despise what I am, he silently lamented. I am one of them.
His penance for his own crimes against humanity must be—and always would be—total isolation. He would never walk with a mate, sire another like himself. Until the day he died, he believed he would be alone.
He sighed, lips pressing together in distaste. His coffee was cold, the cup more than half full. He didn’t want anymore. There was a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach and he knew too well that that meant.
It’s been two weeks since I last fed.
He was pushing the edge—keeping himself hungry in some sort of self-imposed penance that he didn’t entirely understand. He didn’t like what he was, didn’t relish what he had to do to survive. But he had accepted it because the alternative—not existing at all—was even more frightening. Becoming part of the clan had changed him in more ways than one. The man he’d been before his capture and torture was a person he could never aspire to be again. He had never considered himself an innocent. He knew the ways of the world.
He thought about the dream again. It was always there, lurking at the edge of his consciousness, just waiting for his eyelids to fall, for the walls of mental defense to crumble in his sleep.
Why did he still fear her? Lilith was decades in her grave, but her memory lingered in the vaults of his mind, rising up like a demonic angel from a sealed tomb.
She kept me like a pet, he remembered, chaining me like a dog to keep me under her control. Her spells were powerful ones and she’d used her occult knowledge to torment him, forcing him into performing sexual acts for her perverse entertainment. He’d resisted her depraved cruelty, to no avail. With each day that passed, the tainted hungers of the Kynn became more fiercely imprinted on his own soul. Struggling to deny his inhuman desires for the taste of blood, the pulse of pure sexual energy was a contest he’d fought to no avail. When she’d sired him, he’d become one of them.
Fallen from grace.
Cast into hell.
Eternally.
There was no redemption.
But there is revenge, he thought.
“Not just Devon,” he muttered. His hands closed into fists, fingernails digging into his palms. The pain was welcome, reaffirming the direction he’d chosen to take. “Far from it.”
Carnavorn had a wife now, a very pregnant wife. Normally the Kynn did not reproduce, but recruited from the ranks of human beings. Somehow some deviant force had brought together two unique souls who were able to procreate. Devon’s wife, Rachel, was six months pregnant.
Adrien had often questioned his destiny, wondering what perverse god of justice maneuvered to drop him into the center of his enemy’s camp. Now, there was no more wondering. Recent events had led him to believe that he—above all others—had been chosen for a holy mission.
“Three months before hell’s spawn is birthed into this world,” he growled, not caring that no human ears listened. “Twelve weeks to put Devon and his kith in their graves.”
Like a hound on the scent of possum, he felt his calling as an Amhais more strongly than ever before. He was anointed, the lone man who could prevent the birthing of a new race of Kynn.
Could he back off?
No way. With malice in his heart and an oath of vengeance on his lips, he’d foregone his chance to walk away. The task before him was a daunting one. Time was against him in every way, but he’d vowed to beat the clock.
Even if he must die trying.
Chapter Two
Friday night. Mystique was jammed wall to wall. Multi-color strobe lights whooshed to the thudding beat of a Marilyn Manson remix of an early eighties pop tune. Faux fog crept across the dance floor, rising to mingle with the thick haze of cigarette smoke. The theme was an eclectic mix of occult and medieval, pandering to people who believed in magick, people wishing to escape the dull drudgery of everyday life by immersing themselves in vampire-themed fantasies after dark. Scantily-clad waitresses wove through the sea of bodies, intent on delivering food and drinks.
Devon Carnavorn stood in front of his two-way wall of mirrors, gazing down onto the dance floor. The goth crowd was out in full force. Anyone not having a selection of tattoos, piercings and spiky jewelry was ridiculed as a freak. In any other place but Mystique the patrons would be considered ready for the state mental hospital. Faces pale, eyes lined with kohl, lips a slash of crimson, they mutilated themselves in ways that bordered on emotionally ill. These people drank and drugged, viewing the world through dilated pupils as large and empty as black holes and wishing they weren’t a part of it.
As he watched sweating bodies thrash to the music, a slight smile played around the corners of his mouth. He understood his patrons, those lost souls who fit like square pegs in round holes. They were searching for something beyond themselves—something that would give meaning to their tiny lives. He understood because he’d once been a young man searching for a greater meaning beyond life, beyond death. But where he’d found the answers to his many questions, these deluded sou
ls never would. Many were called to join the true ranks of predators on the night. Few were chosen as worthy enough to cross over from human to immortal.
Devon felt he was blessed to be chosen, and for that he would always be most grateful. A hundred and nine years had passed since his initiation into the clan of the Kynn. His lover and sire, Ariel Van Sandt, was a rare beauty, striking of visage, a very old soul. She’d led him into a world of blood and sexual hunger, teaching him that by embracing their exquisite agonies, he could truly grasp true bliss. Before encountering her, he’d believed that he was walking through life with blinders on. It was like seeing in black and white without ever experiencing the joy of color. Ariel had gifted him with the ability to see—to seize—those colors.
Ariel. Her name was only a whisper on the night wind in this present time. Memories of her were tucked away in a box in the back of his mind, a box rarely opened nowadays. He was distressed that her image had begun to fade of late; her death had occurred over a century ago. In that time he had found and sired the woman who was his own destined she-shaey, his blood mate. Was it because of his happiness with Rachel and the pending delivery of their twins that he was beginning to forget Ariel?
Maybe it is better to let Ariel’s memory go…
Devon shook his head, frowning at the unwelcome thought. There was still a piece of his past that was unresolved. A past he had to deal with, lest it threaten Rachel and their unborn children.
He checked his watch.
Ten after twelve; a new day was in the throes of birth. The night was winding down, but the patrons were not. His restless gaze flitted back over the crowd below, toward the entrance. As if on cue the doors came open and a lone figure entered.
A brief smile crossed Devon’s lips followed by an absent nod. Here was the man he’d been expecting.
Nothing was extreme or unusually out of place about the stranger’s appearance. He was outfitted entirely in black; jeans, shirt, boots, all covered by a calf-length denim duster. Even though the sun had gone down hours before, he wore sunglasses, lenses black and impenetrable. It was totally audacious, and unreservedly eye-catching. The stranger looked like he might belong, but that was far from the truth. He had the hardcore looks that at once appealed and intimidated. He didn’t belong. People felt it, too. All heads immediately swiveled like pivots, taking him in. It was as though a god had walked into their presence.
“Morgan Saint-Evanston,” Devon murmured under his breath. “I wondered if you would come.” He literally and physically held his breath. He’d taken a chance in getting in touch with his old acquaintance. It was a meeting he both anticipated and dreaded. There was no turning back. He’d placed the call and an answer had arrived. He could not very well say he’d changed his mind.
Devon watched as Saint-Evanston paid the cover charge, fifteen dollars. He did not take the eighty-five dollars in change he had coming. When paying with cash he never handed over anything less than crisp hundred-dollar-bills and he never took the change—a quirk most enjoyed. Two bouncers trained to look for trouble immediately intercepted him. No weapons were allowed in the bar and it was clear to their trained eyes that more than the average patron had arrived.
Devon winced. This could get nasty. Morgan was never unarmed. Ever. To his relief, no violence ensued. Morgan’s hand rose up like a Cobra coming to attention, a single finger extended as a warning. He said something, tersely, quickly and the bouncers moved aside, all grace and smiles. Devon had no doubts about the tone and content of Morgan’s words. He’d heard a few of Morgan’s threats in earlier times—what that man could say—and could do—would put the fear of God into the most depraved heart. Morgan demanded, and received, respect.
The drama continued. Saint-Evanston briefly surveyed the layout of the bar, noting all strategic areas, entrance and all exits, then dipped back his head. You could almost hear the gears in his head ticking when he deigned to remove his sunglasses. Morgan knew exactly who was standing behind that second story wall of mirrors. He wasn’t the kind of man who’d take a chance on getting trapped in a place he didn’t want to be. Always on the lookout for the enemy, he trusted no one. If things did not fall into place his way, he’d vanish—never to be seen again.
When Morgan decided to walk through the bar something strange happened; the crowd rippled aside until not a single person impeded his path. The minutes seemed to tick by in slow motion. A buzz filled the smoky atmosphere, not of music or of voices in conversation. It was silence. Dead. Awed. Silence. His ominously clad figure vanished from view a minute later.
Devon did not find it odd or unusual that people should part like the Red Sea to admit the stranger into the belly of the beast—even mortals knew when death walked among them. He did find it absolutely fascinating. He clearly exuded an aura of power, a silent signal that said, “look, but don’t touch”. Saint-Evanston could intimidate with just the arch of an eyebrow, and heaven forbid that he turn his laser-beam stare your way. That was true power. An enviable power.
It was not a power Devon would ever seek for himself, though. That kind of power came with many enemies. It also came with a crucible, an agony that many would find unendurable. Morgan endured, but his cost was a high one. He was not entirely stable, or sane. His mind was a thin wire stretched taut, his temper hair-trigger. It was dangerous to seek out such a being; the entity he had summoned was of a different kind within the fabric of the occult. Yet there was method in Devon’s own madness, one he hoped would pan out.
When you are dealing with the devil, he thought, show no fear.
He was prepared when door to his office swung open.
Without a by-your-leave, Saint-Evanston swept in as though he owned the place. Rosalie Dayton, Devon’s manager, followed in his wake. She was moving as fast as a lady her age could. In her case, it was pretty damn speedy.
“I’m sorry,” he heard Rosalie saying, “But I don’t believe you have an appointment to see Mr. Carnavorn.” Tenacious as a bulldog on crack, it was hard to get past Rosalie. His visitor had apparently slipped on through the lower floor offices with the ease of a chameleon.
“You can’t go in there,” she insisted.
“Then stop me,” Saint-Evanston growled over his shoulder.
Passing under the threshold, a flick of his fingers shut the door firmly in the face of his pursuer—even though he’d not touched it. Without lingering, he made a complete transit of the office, visually examining everything, missing nothing. Satisfied with what he found, he paused before the wall of mirrors, briefly glancing down over the people partying away their night.
Morgan looked almost as Devon remembered, considering that a century had passed since he’d last set eyes on the man. His pale complexion, mane of unruly black hair and piercing dark eyes added up to an exotic, almost stunning look. He was handsome, full of self-confidence and walked as if everyone should jump to his beck and call. He was not young; lines were imprinted around his eyes, giving one the suspicion that forty was closer than he cared to admit. His most striking feature was an inch-wide streak of silver threading through his hair, beginning at his left temple and working its way completely to the to the tip. With his eye-catching appearance came a very Irish temper, which he used to his every advantage. An entity of indeterminate age, he was rumored to be well over a thousand years old, though a true number was impossible to pin down. Gray had always threaded his black hair, but the silver streak was a new addition, a sign that even immortals were far from eternal—he was showing signs of burning out.
There was no beating around the bush. Saint-Evanston’s greeting was short and to the point. “I see you have made quite a success for yourself in this world.” He spoke steadily and often paused deliberately, a psychological ploy that commanded attention while creating an aura of control.
Hands in his trouser pockets, Devon also looked down on the establishment that had made his name a household word. Instead of hiding in quiet obscurity, as many nocturnal beings did, he
had brilliantly exploited the gothic subculture, bringing it into the public eye through a successful chain of nightclubs. Mystique had made him a fortune. And money was very valuable in aiding movement through the centuries unscathed. Money was his pad, his shield against prying, curious eyes.
“They want so badly to believe,” he remarked, nodding his head to indicate the people below. “If only they knew the truth.”
Saint-Evanston put out a hand to touch the glass. “It is better that they do not,” he reflected with little amusement. For a moment Devon feared he would shatter the mirror, send sharp shards of glass raining down on the people below. He knew Morgan could do it. All it would take was an inclination and a little mental push.
Devon drew in a breath. He didn’t dare maneuver the conversation toward its real objective—at least not yet.
“I suppose it is better that we keep to our place. The truth would be more frightening.” More than a fantasy he perpetuated on the public, Devon was very aware that the occult subculture had wound itself very tightly around mortal reality.
Morgan let his hand drop. “Why let them know their lives and souls are simply the barter on our market?” He dipped into a pocket of his coat and extracted a slim gold cigarette case. Flipping it open and selecting one of the brown cylinders, he planted it in one corner of his mouth with the move of an experienced smoker. “It is fitting that we stay hidden in the shadows. We exist outside the natural order of life and death. Such defiance of that order is to be feared. It is where we have always belonged.”
Devon wrinkled his nose in distaste. He never could understand the appeal of having a burning stick of weed inches away from one’s nose.
