The Bonded

by John Falin

  “Would a Weapons Master not care for his weapons?” He is clearly offended, but permits the insult to dissipate as Franz starts down the spiral staircase in silence to join the others.

  Of course I attempt to follow, then feel the strength of this young man against my chest as he stops me mid-stride with one hand. “That cellar has nothing for you,” he gently states.

  “If there’s going to be a fight, I need a weapon. At least give me my knife back.” I hate smirks!

  He condescendingly replies, “Your knife was a human weapon and you are most certainly—not—human.”

  The shock of his words stops me. I faintly understand that they are some sort of preternatural humans, and perhaps on a deeper level, I know we have that similarity on a smaller scale, but how can they not be human? More importantly, how I am not human? “How do I protect myself against a species like you?” I emphasize species just to get a rise out of him.

  In restrained anger he whispers through clenched teeth, “Look at your fingers, young one, and you will find a weapon more lethal than a little play knife.” Ouch, that hurts. I love that knife. “And you will not be in combat with my species, this evening at least. The waers are growing restless and they can only be killed by decapitation, removing the heart, incineration, or exsanguinations. These swords address three of the four.”

  Franz echoes in the distance, “In other words, chopped, cut, burned, or bled.”

  With a diminishing laugh, the Weapons Master crinkles his nose and continues, “Yet, you possess natural defenses that may keep you alive.”

  Wait… what? My hands rise so that I don’t lose this 6th grade staring contest and I peripherally see them, fingernails an inch long, but as strong as bone and as sharp as a talon. I press my thumb into my middle finger and immediately know that these are killing tools, and apparently retractable as I notice my under-achieving pinky finger still in process. “I see your point—no pun intended. What are waers and why can’t I have a sword? You must have plenty in your weapons cellar.”

  “There is not time for a waer history lesson, but concerning the swords, one has to earn a sword. It takes years, even decades for some to have a sword made for them. ‘One weapon, one vam… one of us.’”

  “Alright, well I’ll take a 9mm, then.”

  He disapprovingly shakes his head like a frustrated parent teaching a child math and replies, “Their skin is similar to elephant hide, thick and pliant enough to repel projectiles and their bones are stronger than steel. Slashing and cutting may be archaic by today’s standards, but a necessary art for winning these battles,” he says slowly with eyes half-shut, as if enjoying a private moment of pleasure. Slowly, his incisors penetrate closed lips and reveal themselves at full length. They aren’t fangs, but grow a half inch with sharpened points for piercing tough skin and jagged sides for ripping it out.

  He sees my dismay and laughs softly with murder echoing on the edge. “First time? You have a lot to learn about our species young one. You’ll feel yours soon enough”

  And with that, our conversation ends as Franz and several others rise from the cellar with cold focus, heading upstairs.

  Chapter 3

  I find myself alone at the door’s threshold as all others left eagerly to prepare for battle. I take in a deep breath, attempting to replenish muscles that seem to ache from a lack of oxygen. The muscles groan and tighten with tension in response, as if they were protesting my ignorance of their true needs. I take one more of those to calm my nerves and step out into my new reality.

  I’m greeted by the utter dismissal of a dozen or so of my new closest friends. As they huddle around, whispering angry words and spitting out hushed curses, it’s apparent that there is a similarity in their appearances. They all vary in height, but no one exceeds the five foot ten average height in this country. Builds are unique as well, ranging from Franz and his hulking muscles to the Weapons Master’s androgynous frame. All of them possess darker hair and contrasting eyes that practically glow. Surely, they must enjoy some advantage in the murky dark of night.

  Out of habit I twist my right wrist for a quick glance at my watch, and what do you know, its 8:30 p.m. on Tuesday and I’ve slept for four days. I strain my neck upward to locate the source of light that permits me to see the colors and images so well, only to find no street lights, house lights, or other modern conveniences—just the thousands of scattered stars burning themselves to a slow death for my benefit. Nothing escapes my perception, from the yellow teeth of Franz to the nervous black rabbit poised for a survival sprint on the edge of the forest. It’s a strange sight, not like the sun illuminating most and hiding some within its cooler shadows, and not similar to infrared or military starlight goggles. Yet, there’s nothing hidden from me and no shade unknown. I imagine my light eyes absorbing starlight like any nocturnal predator to the ‘nth degree.

  The ordinariness of it all is surreal. Nine houses from upscale, secluded bedroom communities arranged in a crescent sequence. The landscape rattles free a deep memory of a time spent a year in the North Country, wandering through the Adirondack Mountains. They are relatively immature for a mountain range, but their jagged peaks and smoky lakes scream caution to the casual vacationer. Yet the clean air exhaled by local Sugar Maples, Balsam Firs, and White Pines created a healing ground for those who suffered from tuberculosis. Through the years, as medicines were discovered, that population dwindled, but the locals still tough out the harsh winters to experience the majesty as spring is born.

  Their houses are all unique, constructed with cedars, mahoganies, and other exotic woods complimented with oversized windows to create a sense of community with nature. Its influence is apparent. The separate driveways join a main dirt road as different creeks join a river. The dirt road casually meanders down and through a semi-dense forest, vanishing as if swallowed by some dark and sinister maw. The night is cool and a subtle breeze caresses my face.

  Oops-a-daisy… Well, that’s what my folks used to call it when we would drive over a small hill and my stomach would float up my chest. It’s nausea and laughter playing tickle fight in my gut. I look around with expedience to ensure no one has noticed my hard swallow and discomfort when I find the source. Her long black hair is light and perfectly straight thrown this way and that by the slightest breeze. Chiseled cheeks and a focused stare, she must have been studying me. Our eyes meet and she slowly trails hers down… then up, giving me the onceover to ensure I am either ready for the imminent fight or bed. I’m hoping for the latter and expecting the former. She allows a glimpse of a smile, and in that moment, I know that Percy and I are more. More of what, I don’t know, but it is more. A scent stirs a memory, chilling my heart and inching its way into my nervous system. Enter the leader…

  Everyone immediately redirects their attention to this slightly built and graying man. He is taller than the rest at six foot and has a commanding presence that one is born with, not developed. In my experience, age has always carried respect because of wisdom and reverence, but that is only half given. A true and healthy long-term respect is earned through commitment, sacrifice, and most importantly… victory. I’ve seen leaders achieve victory through inclusion, through compassion, and through fear. I must admit that the battles I’ve experienced were led by people who were feared, not liked. By the lack of eye contact amongst my close friends, he is no exception.

  It is somewhat unusual to find older men who have the time or will to keep up with the whimsical trends of fashion, but this guy looks like People magazine’s Man of the Year with his tailored pants and slender-fit collared shirt to match. But I know his trappings are a façade because the fierceness of his gaze is the cold that killed without mercy in Siberia.

  Teeth protruding, he barks an order for total silence and everyone hushes with urgency. He says, “The waers are instigating a war. We have not provoked them, but we will end this tonight!” The restless murmurs of excitement begin. “We have been at peace for hundreds of years, ye
t we knew this time was inevitable. There can be only one of the dark races to rule! Our two sentries, Tristan and Frances, fought with honor, but were ruthlessly slaughtered by these beasts as they broke our perimeters. They will be here in moments, but have no secret fears, my family. They are stronger, but we are never without our wits and skills.” Sighs of relief and the anticipation of killing make strange bedfellows.

  “Cassius, what would you have us do?” says the Weapons Master.

  “Everyone is to form a circle seven feet apart to ensure our enemies can be seen in all directions.” There is a pause of uncertainty. “Now!”

  Everyone, including me, scramble for what we believe to be the best strategic position, and I hear the soft gentleness in his voice as he says, “Put the young one in the middle and protect him… no matter the cost.”

  Eyes dart back and forth at this new revelation. Stillness was the answer as his words were a verbal stun gun that momentarily disrupts all of our ability to use logic. Just as someone begins to question the orders, Cassius cocks his head to the side like he has water in his ear, with hushed concentration. What the hell is going… Then I hear it.

  It starts with a lethargic, distant note that swells in volume. Another joins in harmony, then another, and another. Moments later, there are a dozen parts to this frightening song as I realize it is the howling of their enemies. It is a cacophony of haunting sounds that terrify the mind and paralyze the body. It’s the predecessor to psychological warfare. I’ve experienced wolves before; they’re intelligent and crafty animals that communicate well in a pack, especially while on a hunt.

  The cowardly wind disappears into the night and my preternatural hearing informs me they are only yards away from the edge of the woods and we are surrounded. This just keeps getting better. The odor is moldy, like clothes left damp for days mixed with a distinct aroma of fresh dirt. The stink of sweat and body odor fills my nostrils and I want to cough out the pungent air. Our silence is intense as we issue an alert to all of our senses.

  Hanz interrupts the moment with an almost inaudible whisper. “There, ten feet in. They watch us and measure our numbers.”

  I’ve always hated suspense movies. Why can’t they just get to the fight? The anticipation has nearly reached climax when I see the shadows of large predators escape from the forest’s mouth. The first one was incredibly large at around six foot nine, yet he walks delicately with absolutely no sound as his 350-pound frame crushes the pliant ground beneath him. He stops thirty feet from Cassius and the eight others follow suit.

  The wind must have been ashamed for running away because it returns with a sudden harsh gust, blowing their long and unkempt hair from right to left, stealing attention from his yellow eyes, which are the color of the sun. They all have short ZZ Top beards that defiantly resist the wind, but relent when the gusts were strong enough. These guys strike an amazing resemblance to the bootlegging mountain men of Tennessee with their hairy chests and backs. Gnarly hair pushing their T-shirts away from their skin. Men indeed, but I’ve never seen one hairier. With today’s men shaving chests, backs, and whatever else I can only imagine, these guys would never be popular with the ladies. I almost feel sorry for them as he parts his lips for a snarl, and a mouth filled with four sharp incisors drips fresh blood. I look a little closer and see their jaws are slightly bulging, surely to accommodate those flesh-ripping teeth. I wonder if the tribe feels a little emasculated with only two teeth that are tiny in comparison.

  The waer up front begins the conversation. “Cassius, it’s been too long.” His raspy, deep voice irritably emphasizes the latter half.

  Cassius has his poker face on and replies, “You know the rules, Quilici. You and I authored the truce between the waers and vampires (wait, vampires?) that has given us peace for centuries. Yet, you have the audacity to kill two of my tribe without provocation and come to my home? This is an outrage and an act of war!”

  A long thoughtful moment passes; then Quilici counters, “No, Cassius, he is an act of war!!” I feel the heat of his accusation because his finger is pointed directly at me. I’m dismayed and not alone. As the tribe mumbles in confusion, I scan for Percy and discover her eyeing me with concern and the violent protectiveness a mother gives a child.

  One of the tribe speaks out. “What is the meaning of this, Cassius?”

  Cassius retorts in chilling anger. “Silence!” Even the waers obey. He must be a powerful opponent if these guys give him that kind of respect. He intentionally draws attention to his right hand as he wraps his fingers one at a time around the hilt of a sword and inches it out of its resting place. The sword, raised in his hand, calls to me. Not with words, but in a yearning, a compelling. I resist the allure with tension and catch myself in a sick fantasy of killing Cassius to get it. The sword is blazing silver with embedded ancient hieroglyphs that resemble the popular tribal tattoos of today. I reach out with my senses and feel movement within the sword, swirling with energy and… consciousness? The hypnotism abruptly ends with his reply. “If it is war you want, Quilici, let it begin.”

  In an instant, the waers are on the move, coordinated and tactical in their approach. As the tribe flexes and contracts, careful not to break the circle, the waers explode with a mad dash, each with an opponent in mind. They blurt out guttural noises and yips of warning, as each knew exactly where to go and how to launch the first wave of attack. All this in a matter of seconds.

  The first victim is directly to my left, a medium-built buddy of Hanz that intentionally bumped shoulders with me as he exited the house. I’ve never been a fan of pissing contests, so I have a secret chuckle at his expense. His aggressor towers over him at about six foot seven and uses every bit of that size to intimidate Mr. Pisser. The waer simply charges and tackles him with the force of a bullet train in Germany. I hear the air blast out of his lungs with a wet gurgle of blood to give it emphasis. While airborne, Mr. Pisser rolls to the right and uses the waer’s mass as a tool for momentum. He barely escapes his full weight from the fall. They begin to slap fight like little schoolgirls, but when you’re the schoolgirl and he’s 300 plus pounds of bulked up muscle, guess who wins? The waer finally raises his right hand with claws extended and brings it down with such velocity that I feel the effect through ripples of air. Wow, I’m super sensitive. His long and sinewy fingers slice through Mr. Pisser’s neck and leave a chord or two connected to his dissatisfaction. Blood is a geyser erupting five feet high with chunks of meaty flesh and vessels claimed by his ragged beard and bristle hair. The waer lets out a bellowed howl that is deafening and slightly high-pitched with excitement.

  I thieve a moment to ensure no one is about to kill me and to see who else is getting their ass handed to them. It’s a blood bath. Roars and screams from victors and victims saturate the air. The vamps aren’t faring well, but they are not the only ones who have dead friends. Seth is giving a lesson on what it means to earn the title Weapons Master to an unfortunate waer who presumed catching dinner would be easy this evening. Apparently, the waers are more naturally geared for close combat. Their hands are clawed and too large to handle the delicate balance of a sword or axe. So the vamps capitalize on this little evolutionary advantage with trained skill and bloodlust. His sword is a blur of silver and traces of gold as he slices and dices. First, he cuts under the left wrist, separating the tendons that control the left-handed waer. To his credit, the waer doesn’t even flinch… Never show weakness in a fight. The second laceration is awarded to the tendons behind the right knee, making his left hook impossible. This guy is really good! Now that his opponent is on one knee, bleeding profusely, the time is ripe for a couple of clever sarcastic remarks, but none of that here. Weapons Master merely draws his right arm back high and, blindingly fast, swings the sword down, decapitating his foe in one clean slice, perfectly aimed between the vertebrae. Uh-oh, another geyser of hot and sticky, but this time a couple of drops finds their way onto my bottom lip.

  It hits my nose first. A m
etallic fragrance so sweet that my eyes roll back, twitching in pleasure. I lose all awareness and slide my tongue through my teeth just for a small taste. After all, how could something this sweet be bad for you? As the chaos of war rages around me, my ears feel like I’m on an airplane and they haven’t popped yet. The ambient noise peacefully settles while a distant buzz begins its journey in me. It starts small, but grows so loud that the chatter and screams of battle are completely silent and all I can hear is the thumping of my aching heart. The pounding is a veracious hunger, a passionate need, a desire so palpable that I have no friends or enemies, just those who, through a little effort on my part, will give me what I needed. And that is more blood. I feel my teeth grow erect and my nails unsheathe in a maelstrom of murderous desire and my old friendly demon presses hard against me to get out. Come on, Adriel, control it.

  After a couple of deep breaths, I see him, the waer who butchered Mr. Pisser. His eyes, swirling with uncontrolled rage, lock on me as a target. Blood absorbed into his beard and clumped in his hair, he looks like a poster for a “B” horror movie. I match his rabid temper and let the pressure seep, just a little, into my body. Our gaze is an understanding; one of us dies.

  I hear the distant command from Quilici, “Stop, Caedmon! Control your lust! He is to survive!” There are moments in the heat of battle when focus is so intense that surroundings hold no meaning. It’s just the waer and me with no thought of conscience or orders. Our circle is closed as we both see the blood snaking through our necks with hypnotic need. I’m frozen for a moment in this trance, but a moment is all that is needed for Caedmon to initiate the violent dance. He moves sluggishly, but I feel his full strength as he hits me in the chest. I land about thirty feet away and roll backward to my feet, desperately trying to recapture the air before it leaves my body. He is strong, very strong. My chest burns with pain. The other vamps seem to take a punch better. I’m slightly thinner than they are, so I make a mental note not to get caught with another one.