Releasing the Demons (The Order of the Senary)

by L. D. Rose

  Visions of what she remembered about the worldwide atrocity known as the G-Fusion Project bombarded her mind. Human embryos fertilized, mutated, and transfected with vampire DNA. Those same embryos implanted and birthed by surrogate mothers. The hybrids used as both predator and prey during the so-called ‘experiments,’ pitted against one another like animals. The news reports said the project had been unsuccessful, a colossal failure and a horrific crime against humanity.

  Ethicists had come out of the woodwork, along with activist groups, human rights organizations, protesters, rioters—the entire planet had been up in arms. The United Nations had shut it down after every country under its organization agreed to eradicate the biological tyranny.

  Including the United States.

  And apparently, one of its subjects now walked right beside her.

  So much for eradication.

  “You’re half human, half—”

  “Yes,” he answered before she finished, staring straight ahead as he took a sharp left.

  “But how? There were no survivors.”

  “Well, you’re looking at one.”

  Ha. She sure was. And she kept her eyes locked on him, submerged in an ocean of disbelief. “You’re one of the vigilantes they talk about on the news.”

  Blaze pulled a pack of Marlboros from his back pocket, letting out a sound that was half-grunt, half-chuckle.

  “You’ve saved thousands of people.”

  He removed another cigarette and slid it between his lips, tucking the pack away.

  “You’ve wiped out hundreds of nests in the city, nests we couldn’t get within a mile radius of.”

  He lifted both of his scarred hands to the cigarette, covering it as if lighting it. But he didn’t have a lighter, did he?

  “You took out Ramsden six months ago.”

  Smoke bloomed around his hands as he took a drag and dropped them.

  No lighter. He has no lighter, holy shit!

  “My brother did, yes,” he finally said.

  “Rome?”

  “No, another.”

  “How many of you are there?”

  “Six. At least in the city.”

  “There are more?”

  “Everywhere. Small groups of us, but we’re all over the world.”

  He didn’t have a lighter. “How did you do that?”

  He turned another corner. “Do what?”

  “Light your cigarette.”

  Blaze slowed. Glanced at her. He’d made a mistake—it was written all over his face. He’d shown her something she wasn’t supposed to see.

  Valerie suddenly recognized where they were. Familiar tenements lined both sides of the street, stories upon stories high, with graffiti scrawled on their walls. Rap music thumped in the distance, kids shouted around street corners, and garbage bags lined the sidewalks like black beads on a string.

  They were in Elena Delgado’s neighborhood. And as dread grabbed hold of her courage and dragged it down into her churning stomach, Valerie halted and demanded, “Where are you taking me?”

  Blaze moved a few paces ahead before he spun around to face her. Big, dark, powerful, and able to light cigarettes with his hands.

  Able to burn a defenseless woman while she lay in bed.

  “I’m not going to hurt you, Val.”

  Valerie slipped her hand behind her back, going for her PPK. “Why are we here?”

  “Look.” He took a step toward her. “Just calm down, all right?”

  “Stay where you are,” she warned, her voice surprisingly steady. She gripped the gun, the normally comforting sensation now providing nothing of the sort. “Don’t come any closer.”

  A warm breeze swept past them. Then Blaze went completely still.

  His chest rose and fell as he took a deep breath. His nostrils flared, like a wolf scenting prey, and he turned his attention to an alley across the street. She wasn’t the one he’d scented.

  It was something else.

  Blaze moved and Valerie pulled her gun, but he’d already crossed the street, disappearing down the alley. Christ, he moved fast. She lifted the PPK, securing it with both hands as she forced her fear-laden legs to follow him. She pressed her back against the crumbling brick wall of the alley’s adjacent building, her heart punching like a panicked fist against her ribcage.

  What’s he doing? Is he running away? Playing games? Hunting?

  Valerie edged cautiously into the shade of the building. Blaze hovered over something in front of a dumpster, but at this angle, she couldn’t see what it was. Then she smelled it, coppery and sickly sweet.

  Blood. Lots of blood.

  She pushed off the brick wall, stepping into the center of the alley to get a better view, gun aimed and readied. Blaze straightened from a squat as he cursed, slamming a fist into the dumpster. Valerie flinched at the deafening crack but she kept her form as her eyes fell on the dead black male at his feet.

  Homes. It was Homer Jenkins.

  “I’m on the next block, in the alley between six-four and six-five. You can find me there if you need me.” Words that had made her smile only a few days ago. And now here she was, in that alley, and he was dead.

  Blaze cradled his head in what looked like anguish, turning away from the body and facing the opposite end of the alley. The dumpster was covered in demonic cult-like symbols, painted in the blood of a homeless man. Valerie focused on the body and immediately wished she hadn’t, bile burning the back of her throat.

  Homes had been sliced open from neck to groin, his organs on display for the world to see. The weapon of choice had been a rusty switchblade, dropped carelessly beside his eternally frozen face. His glassy dark eyes were wide open and his mouth was an ‘O’ of terror, caked with coagulated blood. His fisherman’s hat lay beside his head, probably fallen from the struggle. Valerie focused on his open belly, seeing what appeared to be paper shoved in his innards. She took a step closer and realized with growing horror that it was money.

  Someone had shoved hundred dollar bills into his guts.

  Her stomach roiled as a sea of acid, coffee, and bile rushed up her esophagus. Her strong stomach betrayed her now, unable to bear the sight before her. She turned and vomited under a fire escape, clinging onto the dirty rungs for dear life.

  Valerie heard Blaze move, sneakers scraping pavement and grit grinding beneath rubber soles. She straightened, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand after she spat out the last of her breakfast. Her body slick with sweat from the wrenching heaves, her eyes kept watering and her mouth tasted rancid. Steadying herself against the fire escape, she turned to see Blaze lifting Homes’s body into the dumpster along with all the evidence of his murder.

  Shock erased her ability to speak as Blaze tore off his bloodstained tank top and threw it on top of the body. The serpent on his back was now fully exposed, a black and crimson monster with angel’s wings.

  Then a low keening cut through the air, swelling into a high-pitched screech.

  Valerie watched in horror as a pair of dark, bloody hands rose from within the dumpster, clawing blindly at the air. The screech became a cacophony of feral growls, pitching low, then high. Low.

  Then high.

  He’s turning. Homes was turning into a vampire in broad daylight.

  Blaze whipped off both of his gloves, revealing his scarred hands, and splayed them against the dumpster, right over the morbid ciphers. The temperature in the alley skyrocketed, turning the air into hot molasses, and the dumpster erupted in flames. The monster formerly known as Homes screamed, his bloodied hands thrashing wildly before disappearing into the fire. The oh-so familiar smell of burning flesh and garbage pervaded the air, chasing away the stench of blood and replacing it with a new kind of death.

  B
laze stepped back from the dumpster as the screaming faded, breathing heavily as his hands fell to his sides. His skin shone as he lifted his face toward the sky. With a hard swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbed as he struggled to catch his breath.

  Valerie’s PPK had gone limp in her hand. She wondered if she was dreaming, because there was no way this could possibly be real.

  “I need your help, Detective.” Blaze’s ragged voice tore through the thick air, snapping her out of her trance.

  She gulped down the taste of devastation, her ears crackling. She could only summon one word, the sound weak and broken. “Why?”

  He lowered his head and looked at her, his hidden gaze searing straight into her soul.

  “I know who did this. And I need you to help me find him.”

  “I interviewed him. Homer Jenkins. He told me everything about you.”

  They were alone in a nearby playground, rusty swings creaking in the breeze. Valerie sat on a faded yellow merry-go-round, leaning her head against the railing, smelling of jasmine, nausea, and exhaustion. Her gun was gone, returned to its holster at the small of her back.

  At least she wasn’t pointing it at him anymore.

  “That’s how I tracked you down. He told me about your car, what you looked like, that you’d been with Elena.”

  Blaze paced back and forth like a man in solitary, absorbing her words with growing dismay. He should’ve been angry, cross, but he was nothing of the sort. Homes had done what he thought was right. Blaze wouldn’t have expected any less of him. Sure, Homes was a street rat, but he was harmless, an innocent man.

  A man who was now dead because of him.

  The bodies just keep stacking up, don’t they?

  The image of Homes’s mutilated corpse hovered in his mind, a gruesome transparency laid over his vision, another nightmare to add to his extensive collection. Chimola’s hand was all over it. The ciphers, the method, the money. Blaze had no doubt of who’d put on that ghastly display.

  He could picture the scenario. Homes defending his money with his rusty switchblade because some leech was after him; Homes thinking it had to be the money, the money Blaze had given him, because vampires wouldn’t dumpster dive.

  Then Cyrus, easily gaining the upper hand, gutting Homes and stuffing him with what he so fervently protected. Homes’s body must’ve been there for at least two days in order to turn.

  Now there was a good chance Cyrus had Valerie in his sights. And possibly Deron as well. Shit, maybe the bastard had eyes on them right now.

  Valerie looked at him as if he were some kind of foreign insect, unsure of whether to retch or step on him. She studied the tattoos he’d kept hidden. The tribal sun around his navel, El Diablo arched in cursive across his belly, and Quetzalcoatl, the Aztec feathered serpent on his back. He should start carrying extra shirts on him more often. The tattoos were supposed to be camo, for people to look through him, but here she was, staring right at him under the microscope of her mind. A slow-rising panic tightened his chest at the thought of her being able to see the scars. They were hidden well, but if you stared long enough, you could find them.

  You could find them all.

  Heart pounding, Blaze fished for his beloved pack of Marlboros and knocked out another cigarette. He lit it openly this time without a qualm, since it was now obvious what he was capable of.

  “Pyrokinesis,” she murmured, still staring at him with her pretty eyes. He wondered what color they were. “Is that what it’s called?”

  He took a drag, filled his lungs, and held it there. He waited for the sweet burn in his chest before he blew out the smoke, away from her. It made him lightheaded and it felt damn good. “Something like that.”

  Three kids rounded the street corner, laughing and goofing off as they approached the playground. But once they caught sight of Blaze, they turned and ran.

  Smart kids.

  Valerie watched them go. “I would’ve never believed it was real if I hadn’t seen it.”

  Blaze thought of dancing flames, flailing hands, and smoke staining the sky. “Most don’t.” He sucked in more nicotine.

  “Smoking is bad for you,” she muttered the warning as she closed her eyes.

  He could almost taste her exhaustion as he smoked and paced. “Life is bad for you.”

  “I’m sure Homes wouldn’t have agreed. Or Elena.”

  Blaze stopped abruptly. No, they wouldn’t have. “I need you to tell me how she died. I need all the details.”

  Her eyelids cracked to a mere slit. “I showed you the photographs.”

  “I couldn’t see them.”

  “What do you mean you couldn’t see them?”

  “I mean exactly what I said. I couldn’t see them.”

  Light dawned in those pretty eyes as they widened. “You’re blind.”

  His lips curved but he felt black inside. “No. I just don’t see like you do.”

  “How so?” she asked, her interest piqued as she straightened. “Don’t tell me you have x-ray vision or something crazy like that.”

  “Infrared. I see in infrared.”

  Shock. It was all over her face as she gawked at his sunglasses. She could gawk all she wanted, he wasn’t about to take them off. “Really?”

  “Photographs are useless to me. I can only see what gives off heat, absorbs light, or anything warm in general. People, cars.” Blood. “Anything under the sun’s rays. If it’s cold,” he shrugged, “I’m screwed.”

  “Can you see in color?”

  “Rome has shown me a few things, so I can figure them out sometimes. But other than that, the world is red to me.”

  Just like hell.

  Valerie looked away, down at the grass, as if imagining what it would be like. Stop trying, baby. “How about reading, writing?”

  “I used to be able to read braille.”

  “Not anymore?”

  “Not since I stopped feeling my hands.”

  She turned to him, her jaw slack.

  “Nerve damage,” he added, feeling positively wretched. “From burning myself.”

  “Do you always burn yourself?”

  “Most of the time.” He blew out another plume of smoke. “Yeah.”

  Her lips pressed into a thin line as her eyes settled on the burns. Panic tightened his chest again. He fought the urge to drop the butt and shove his hands in his pockets, but there was no use in hiding them. The damage was beyond hiding anyway, even with his gloves on. He didn’t even know why he still wore them.

  If she judged him, he couldn’t tell, since she managed to keep that stolid poker face on. But he sensed the guilt in her eyes. And sympathy.

  He didn’t need sympathy.

  “Elena,” Blaze reminded her as he drew in more smoke. “Details.”

  For several minutes he listened as Valerie explained everything to him. From the moment she’d been called onto the scene at Elena’s apartment, right up through Rome scrubbing the minds of her buddies. Cyrus had been clean, thorough, framing Blaze flawlessly. But what boggled his mind was how Cyrus had managed to burn Elena so precisely without the trait.

  Cyrus was just another leech. A powerful leech, yes, but a leech nonetheless. He didn’t have any special abilities outside the vampire norm. At least not that Blaze knew about, and he was positive Cyrus would’ve used everything he had on him. Chimola’s kills ran along the lines of slaughters like Homes, nasty and brutal. Of course, Elena’s was no less severe, but it didn’t fit the pattern.

  Was there someone else involved? Someone who held the power and curse of fire like Blaze did? Was it another hybrid, another Knight, like himself?

  If the latter were true, then they were in for a whole world of trouble.

  Valerie had been entirely uncomfortable rel
aying the details of the case. It somehow bothered her, to the point where it seemed personal. Blaze wondered why, or if she’d somehow known Elena. She appeared friendly with the Bella Vista girls. Maybe she knew someone who’d died in a similar manner. Maybe it had been someone close to her.

  There had to be a reason for the tragedy she kept secret; a reason for hunting vampires in the Bronx of all places. Why she’d traded any semblance of normalcy she could ever have for an existence of violence and murder.

  He knew a life ruled by vengeance when he saw it.

  “Is he like you? This Cyrus guy . . . is he a pyrokinetic?”

  Blaze had taken a seat beside her on the merry-go-round, the chipped rail between them. Sweet jasmine filled his nose, a scent that had nothing to do with perfume and everything to do with her blood type. A-positive, just like him.

  The sky began to change colors, the sun caressing them one last time before it plunged them into twilight, then darkness.

  He had to get her home. Soon.

  “No, he’s nothing like me.” Blaze puffed on his cigarette. How many had he smoked? “And I’m nothing like him.”

  “How come I’ve never heard of this guy?”

  “Because he’s a fucking coward. He only comes out to feed, then crawls back into the hole he came from.”

  “Is he one of Konstantinov’s?”

  “No, he’s rogue. He might be just as powerful as Konstantinov, in his own twisted way. He left the city a while ago and Rome thinks he cut a deal with the Sire to get back onto his turf.”