William had walked out of the building at the precise moment for him to witness in disembodied disbelief as the guard had struck down Abigail in the most cowardly manner he had ever beheld. As he walked over to where Abigail’s body lay prone on the ground, the mob parted at his approach. William bent forward and wrenched the wood from the corpse then he put his large arms around her still form and hugged her fiercely.
Tears welled in his eyes as he roared a curse at the mob and then the Inquisitor.
“Cowards! Murderers of women and children! I will see you all burn in hell for this!” William turned to the Inquisitor, “And you!” He pointed his finger at the man. “You, I will send you to hell. Even if it means my own end I shall see you there tonight!”
The Inquisitor, now encouraged by the death of the woman, stood defiantly and held his silver crucifix before him.
“Heathen! Demon! Your words strike no fear in me for I and all here do the Lord’s work!”
William gently caressed Abigail’s cheek and then set her limp form back on the ground. With a flash of movement, he closed the distance between himself and the Inquisitor, so quickly that the remaining guard didn’t have time to flinch before William had the Spaniard by the throat.
The Inquisitor made gurgling, choking sounds as William squeezed with all the strength he could muster. The Inquisitor’s face had just begun to turn a light shade of blue when the remaining guard came up behind William and struck him on the head with the window shutter. As William fell some of the mob regained its courage; several hands grabbed at William holding him fast in a kneeling position as the Inquisitor coughed while trying to get in as much air as he could.
The Inquisitor was screaming some prayer about heathens, heretics and demons as he touched the crucifix to William’s forehead. At first, the gesture struck William as humorous; he was about to overwhelm those who were attempting to hold him down when a small flicker of orange light caused him to freeze. It was a small ember still ablaze with the remnants of flame from the inferno which had been his home. William watched the ember float on the wind and carry it straight toward his head. Realization flooded William’s mind and he quickly accepted his fate as the ember landed lightly, although otherwise unseen by all, in his hair.
Hair that was still soaked with the turpentine and oil mixture.
William’s hair and head ignited at the same moment the metal of the crucifix touched his forehead. The fire on top of William’s head spread rapidly to his clothes, covering William in a deadly blanket of flame. The men restraining William let go immediately, but the Inquisitor was not as lucky as his own sleeve ignited before he could pull his arm away.
Panic now overwhelmed the mob and people began to scatter. Turning away from William, the Inquisitor desperately tried to douse the flames on his sleeve. It was a sight akin to a demon rising right out of hell to see William stand. His entire body had been saturated by the turpentine mixture and the flames instantaneously engulfed him, but William acted as if he didn’t even notice. He grabbed the remaining guard, completely ignoring the fire that was burning him alive.
The Inquisitor had extinguished the flame on his sleeve in time to see the horror unfolding before him. William’s skin blackened and sizzled, his eyes began to boil in their sockets but he held on, undaunted, as the guard’s clothes ignited. William’s face was no longer recognizable; his mouth was spread in an insane smile. With an effort derived from sheer will, anger and hatred William dove to the ground, taking the guard down with him.
The guard’s fanciful uniform and other personal draperies became kindling; the man screamed as his clothes caught fire and the smell of his own burning flesh filled his nostrils. The Inquisitor could only watch, helpless as his charge and their quarry burned together in a deadly embrace until the flesh of both men had completely blackened and smoldered. The guard began to convulse as William fell limply on top of him, still alight and burning. A few moments later the guard stopped thrashing and lay still along with the others who had died this evening.
The Inquisitor whispered a quick prayer underneath a hand raised to his nose, attempting to quell the nausea threatening to overwhelm him. Suddenly he realized he was completely alone. The mob had all run off, leaving the dead strewn about the property. The only sound was that of the roaring fire still engulfing the house.
The Inquisitor hugged himself fiercely as he looked around nervously. He needed to return to the road that would take him to the docks where his ship was moored, a road that would take him directly past the place where he had left Alphonso’s body. Arriving at the location all he found was a small puddle of blood.
Fear grabbed hold of the Inquisitor as he desperately began to survey the grounds for any sign of tracks indicating whether someone had taken the body away or…. Finding no telling sign of what might have happened, panic replaced fear and the Inquisitor broke into a run for the docks and his ship. He arrived with a face completely white from the fear and exertion, yet, he still managed to give the orders to launch for Spain immediately. When the Captain protested they hadn’t had time to take on enough provisions for the journey home, the Inquisitor insisted he leave behind however many members of the crew weren’t necessary for an immediate departure. Reluctantly, the Captain complied and the Spanish galleon set sail for Spain.
Two days later the Spanish galleon passed less than one hundred yards from an isolated sandy beach near the cliffs of Dover. The blood drained bodies of the Inquisitor and the majority of the crew were all heaved over one side of the ship while a lone passenger dove into the water and swam toward the beach. The relieved crew immediately turned the ship for open sea and headed home.
When the ship finally made it back to Spain the remaining crew members were immediately taken into custody. All spoke of a stowaway who slaughtered and feasted on the blood of officers and deck hands and had tortured the Inquisitor for nearly two full days before he let the man die. When asked for details about the stowaway, the terror in their words revealed superstition. Some spoke of a demon, others described a vampire, while several spoke of Lucifer himself. The one consistency among all of the descriptions was that the stowaway was very tall with long, snow white hair.
Part II: Stasis
Chapter 5
Los Angeles. The Sunset Strip. 11:23 P.M.
The night was cool, dry and pleasant. Another perfect evening in Southern California where a slow, steady breeze flowed in from the ocean; the same breeze that pushed the day’s automobile exhaust out of the area and into the San Fernando Valley. The sulfurous cloud would rise like a phantom, waft over the hills, and take one final bite at the Earth’s ozone layer before it disappeared into the upper atmosphere.
The city was alive at this hour, with neon and otherwise illuminated lights pulsing like a nervous system. Expensive cars acted like red blood cells carrying their cargo of people through arterial freeways toward their various organic destinations. As in any living body system, the city too had a core or “heart”, the only difference being this city’s heart could be found at a different location every six months or so.
The heart in this concrete and steel carcass would be whichever nightclub was “in” or the “place to be.” Lines of people and limousines would extend for city blocks waiting for the opportunity for passage into its hallowed chambers. For the past eight months this centralized hot zone was The Inferno. Entrance was controlled religiously, with celebrities and high rollers given instant access. Single women who were dressed to impress, which really meant “stripper formal with loose morals”, were scrutinized by the various bouncers, but also given immediate access. These were not absolute entrance requirements; rather they were the subjective perceptions of the four well-dressed and highly imposing men who blocked passageway into this modern-day cathedral.
Unnoticed by most were two ferocious looking gentlemen, also serving as security for the club at a rear entrance. Through this door another group of people gained access to the club. Enter here
the drug dealers, high priced prostitutes and other vice peddlers who preyed upon the rich and privileged. This element was controlled and encouraged by the operators of The Inferno, even though the management vehemently denied the fact. The operators of the club understood they were in the business of entertainment and fulfillment and, as the patrons were slaves to their vices, it meant money to the club if the patrons were given access to their needs and desires.
The entire spectacle was the brainchild of Phillip Devereaux, a former concert promoter for some of the most successful musical groups of the nineties. Tired of the constant travel and the need to deal with the immature ravings of the addicts he pushed into superstardom, Phillip decided to use his exceptional talents at creating something based within his home city of Los Angeles. He already knew most of glamorous Hollywood, so LA seemed to be the right location for his enterprise. The biggest hurdle in the creation of his personal Eden was the extension of the life expectancy of the nightclub beyond the six-month to one-year limit which was the norm within the nightclub industry.
The solution, Phillip knew, was balance.
Phillip believed The Inferno had to contain the high profile glitz of glamorous Hollywood, while making the low profile grime, also of Hollywood, available to the people who attended his establishment. The club crowd has always lived the “sex, drugs and rock and roll” lifestyle. Prohibition had its Speakeasy, the ‘70s had Studio 54, and the new millennium had The Inferno. By providing the glamour and the grime, Phillip achieved a high gloss environment where the stars of the moment came to be seen, while also allowing the shadows of humanity to work sticky fingers into those who gained admittance. The main targets were the rich and beautiful, those who wasted hundreds and thousands of dollars on a regular basis lest they be considered “out” of the “in” crowd. This ostracism was as unacceptable a fate to the ego-laden socialites of Los Angeles as mortal sin was to the devout.
Despite an otherwise dreary exterior, The Inferno had an air about it, especially at night when the whole structure would vibrate from the thunderous booms of the sub-woofers inside. Heavy soundproofing kept all noise from spilling into the streets, despite the steady rhythmic pulsations that could be felt through the soles of your shoes. The outside revealed nothing of its lush interior since the building was remodeled from a former office and storage facility near the center of the high rent district on the Sunset Strip in West LA. The ceiling and walls of The Inferno were covered with multi-million dollar lighting and sound equipment that would be the envy of some of the greatest productions on Broadway or any concert venue. The Inferno had been gutted of all non-structural walls and columns, resulting in an enormous dance flour with a spectacular ceiling four stories high. Extending from the south wall were enclosed balconies on the second and third story levels. The main floor was accessible to all who entered the club. The DJs, house dancers, roving security, and the customers (especially) all gyrated to a cacophony of music, sound, sight and sweat on this level.
There was also a basement level, uncreatively nicknamed “Hell” by those who knew of its existence. This area was accessible first by invitation, then by membership to only the most hardcore of players. This below ground realm was a club within a club, the dark side of not only The Inferno, but of human nature itself. The “members only” entry allowed a select group into this realm where they “enjoyed” the delights of all things fetishistic to carnal. All behavior, with the exception of violence, was tolerated. The rules were few and existed only to maintain the marginal legality of the club. This was a dangerous place, but not because of threat of physical injury. Phillip’s Gestapo-like security took all the necessary precautions to protect the clientele. No, here the danger lurked for those who were ill-prepared for the vices available. These vulnerable souls were often tangled into webs which could not easily be unwound; not without a sojourn into rehab at the very least.
Despite the risqué atmosphere of the basement, its existence was a little known secret. The entrance to Hell was located on the second story balcony above the main floor. Here was where the VIPs, celebrities and special invitees made their way. The unknowns and wannabes paraded themselves before those who had access to this second level because invitation by a celebrity or VIP to this sacrosanct area would equivalent to, or at least be the start of, becoming a celebrity or VIP. High priced liquors, cigars and gourmet food were all served by professional waiters and waitresses. The entire floor was illuminated by candlelight from an immense number of candles giving the space a regal feel. The privileged sat in leather and velvet loungers viewing the action below from the darkened balconies, deciding the right moment to “descend into Hell.” Once ready for their descent, they would gain access to a spiral staircase which led down past the main area and into the earth.
“Abandon all hope ye who enter here” a la Dante’s Inferno.
The one constant within all of these levels was the connection of the sound systems and lighting. True, candles illuminated the second level; however, the lights of the main room could be seen and even felt by those on the second level. This was done for a variety of reasons: first to keep the uniformity of the music and lighting, lest they otherwise clash, and second, to allow all levels to act in unison should any emergency occur. Fire was the greatest threat to any club; therefore, if one area were compromised, the activation of an emergency switch would cripple the noise and lights for all three levels, enabling everyone to reach safety within a short time frame. Even the restrooms were “plugged in” adding a sense of continuity to the call of nature. Phillip loved this feature of his club. Although it was done for the same safety reasons, he often joked of urinating by strobe lights.
The third story balcony held the offices where Phillip Devereaux sat tonight as he did every night. His desk was made from black granite, which was almost invisible in the darkened room. Working in the dark kept the crowd below from seeing through the one-way glass which enclosed the third floor balcony like box seats at a football stadium. The only illumination came from the black and white security monitors on the far side of the room and the computer monitor mounted on the left side of the black granite desk. Sharing the space with Phillip were two security guards who kept constant watch over the monitors and, therefore, over the entire inner workings of the nightclub.
Phillip sat with his back to the glass walls as he studied the accounts, computing the profits and losses for the club through the current date. The club was ten months old at this point and the profits continued to increase and surpass the previous month. This was extremely encouraging. Most nightclubs began to plateau or drop profits by the sixth or seventh month in existence due to another more grandiose club opening. The Inferno had set the bar so high nothing short of a Las Vegas mega resort could hope to topple it. This was the goal Phillip had set for the club and it seemed to be working.
Breathing a sigh of relief and pride with regard to the final numbers, Phillip sat back in his leather office chair. He loosened a button on his black silk shirt and spun toward the one way glass for a look down into the crowd below. Stretching his arms out, he gazed down and locked his eyes on a young woman who danced in a powerful undulating fashion on the main floor. She was wearing a fluorescent green, one-piece spandex mini-dress that gripped her body like a second skin. The dress was so short that each time she raised her hands above her head the dress would hike up over her and reveal her naked hips and pelvis. Feigning embarrassment, she would slowly pull down the fabric, which glowed brightly in the black lights. Then she would “adjust” her perfectly out of proportion, surgically enhanced breasts. Phillip watched as she giggled slightly while dropping her head to one side and looking up into the eyes of her gawking audience.
Her flamboyance was quickly making her the center of attention on the main floor. Phillip had noticed her earlier when he arrived at the club and made a mental note to congratulate the front door security for covertly getting her into the club in spite of her “under the legal limit”
age. He could almost hear the cash registers “chi-chinging” all of the money being spent by her would-be suitors buying highly overpriced champagne in an attempt to get into her “lack of” pants.
He chuckled to himself as he stood up from the desk and stretched his legs. Smoothing out his linen pants, he walked away from the window toward the one quiet room in the entire building ; his own little spot of contemplation away from all external noise came in the form of a private executive restroom. This room was the one area in the whole building not subject to the music and lights of the club.
* * *
Outside on the street the line to get into the club extended two blocks down Sunset Boulevard. Eric Sims had been the head bouncer for The Inferno since it opened ten months ago. He was the one responsible for making the decisions regarding who gained admittance and how much money it would take to change a rejection into an approval. Eric pocketed the money a group of eight women slipped him as they entered the club, replaced the velvet crowd-control cord on the pedestal and looked out among the crowd to inspect the next customer in line. A familiar face replaced the spot in line where the last of the women had stood. Although familiar, the face immediately sent tangible rage and frustration into his core.
“Awe no, not you again!” Eric managed in a frustrated laugh.
The lanky figure standing in front of him was smiling and, as opposed to the shy and nervous disposition displayed on previous nights, seemed unnervingly confident.
“Listen man,” Eric said in an exasperated tone to the figure in front of him, “don’t make us throw your ass off the property again. Your money’s no good here so let’s not make a scene, all right?”
Blood Harvest Page 3
