“This is what she demanded of us, Selene,” Lucius replied. “Do you want to disobey her?”
Selene slowly lowered her arms. “Of course not.”
“Then kill him and be done with it.”
Silvanus watched Selene kneel down next to him. She gripped the wooden stake with both hands and immediately pulled it out. Silvanus felt the pain subside for a moment but his body still reeled from the attack. His watered eyes watched Lucius turn away and clasp his hands behind his lower back.
She raised the stake and aimed the pointed edge just above his heart. He felt his body tense and at the same time he began to heal—just a few more seconds before he would be strong enough to get to his feet and defend himself.
But he didn’t have any more seconds. Selene thrust the stake into his chest and he felt the pointed edge embed into his heart.
Silvanus closed his eyes and waited for the pain to subside. He always thought of death as something that’d never catch up with him in a million years. He’d lived longer than the majority of the Deamhan who ever existed and he never thought in those years that he’d go out like this.
Two thousand years. He sniggered at that thought.
In reality, there wasn’t any other way he wanted to die unless it was by the hands of another Deamhan.
He felt relieved that his species hadn’t lost their touch.
1
DARK CURSE. DEAMHAN CHRONICLES #2
CHAPTER TWO
The blood intoxicated Anastasia. It filtered through the air, mixing in with human sweat and fear. She closed her brown eyes and let the smell tickle her nerves while it traveled through every inch of her body. It circled through her heart and it would’ve made it beat faster, if it pumped at all.
The sanctuary saturated itself in it.
The human minion continued to tussle with her. He scratched her wrist in an attempt to free himself. She felt the warm liquid from her previous victims sticking to her face, covering her eyelids, and slowly dripping into her mouth. She opened her eyes letting it drip into them and she blinked, absorbing it into her body.
She stared into the eyes of the terrified human male. Tears rolled down his dirt-stained face creating small clear trails. His eyes shifted nervously left to right at the mutilated bodies surrounding him. She had killed every one of them, with her bare hands, and fed from them. He would be her last.
“One more time.” She increased her grip around his neck and pulled him in closer. “And do not lie to me, human.”
His eyes bulged and moved from her to the three bodies positioned on the couch, all leaning on one another in the living room. He saw one body of a female surrounded in a pool of blood in the middle of the floor. Near the kitchen three more bodies lay on the floor with their throats torn open. Another body remained seated at the kitchen table with its head lolled back, revealing a bite mark on its neck. He turned back to Anastasia who continued to stare at him with dark, menacing eyes and sharp teeth.
“I don’t know anything, I swear.” He stuttered as he spoke to her.
Anastasia increased her grip around his neck. “You know what I can do, what I will do. So tell me what I want to know and I won’t hurt you.”
He nodded frantically. “All the Deamhan left.”
She sighed and she slowly released her grip. She examined the area while in thought. In a three-hour period she had decimated four sanctuaries in her search for any Deamhan who supported Kei and in every sanctuary the minions fought her to the last person. It made no sense to her. Why try to fight for a Deamhan that cared nothing about them? In each sanctuary the Deamhan abandoned their human minions, their servants, in fear of Lucius’ reprisal. Selene declaring a Decretum, an order condemning Kei and his followers, ended up being the best thing that happened for the Deamhan in the city in a while.
The minion rubbed his throat and smiled, showing off his mottled teeth. “The sun is out Ramanga. It’s morning.”
Anastasia looked over her shoulder at the window. Between the cracks in the white bloody blinds the sun peaked through, slightly blinding her. Her first instinct was to retreat into the darkest corners of the room, but she didn’t want the minion to see an ounce of fear in her. Ramanga Deamhan feared nothing. She feared nothing.
The minion slowly raised himself to his feet with the support of the wall behind him. “I swear, I’m not lying to you.”
She picked at the clumps of hair and matter underneath her fingernails. “You minions are known to lie to protect the one you serve.”
“No!” The minion dropped to his knees. “I swear. Please.”
“Who do you serve?” Anastasia picked at the unwanted pieces of human flesh in her dark hair and she flicked it at him.
“I... I...”
“Who is your master?”
“He…I.” The minion forced a weak smile on his face. “I only serve you.”
“I don’t need a human to do my work for me.” She grabbed him by the arm and lifted him to his feet. “Answer my question.”
He remained silent.
She placed her hands on the side of his face and glared into his eyes. Staring into them she felt herself slowly entering his thoughts and losing all control. Quick images of his rocky childhood and his mischievous teenage years slammed into her with full force in sharp images. She caught a glimpse of his business career cut short by his wife cheating with a coworker. In a sanctuary on the coast of Virginia, he brought prostitutes from the street to his Deamhan master. For his reward they promised immortality. To Anastasia, these thoughts weren’t relevant. What she wanted to know remained hidden from her. Surprised, she lowered her hands.
“You’re blocking me.” She squinted.
The minion fell to the ground, wiping the blood that trickled from his nose. He then looked up at her. “I’m not hiding anything,” he said in his drowsy state. “I’m telling the truth. I don’t know anything.”
“So it seems.” Anastasia lifted him back to his feet. She stared at him, contemplating her next move. She could easily kill him and move on to the next sanctuary.
His constant fidgeting brought her back to reality. She snapped his neck and his body fell to the floor.
She walked slowly over to the blinds, wiping the blood from her victims on the back of her black pants. The bright morning sunlight singed her eyes and she moved back into the darkness. She didn’t fear sunlight nor did she hate it. If only her kind could go out during the day, she’d take advantage of it. The sun wouldn’t kill her instantly because of her age. However, too much exposure for a long period of time would still slowly boil her from the inside out. Stories of her kind being able to survive in the sunlight passed down from generation to generation but in her four hundred plus years of existence, she’d never come across any Deamhan who could survive in the sun without some kind of protection. Then again, much of what her sire told her, she didn’t believe anyway.
Since Kei and some of his supporters fled the city of Minneapolis, everything seemed different. They’d left a gaping hole which began to fill with vampires and other sorts of creatures she hadn’t seen in centuries. Even though she loathed the vampires more than Deamhan, they became much easier to deal with than the other creatures.
The smell of blood returned to her nostrils and she closed her eyes again, basking in the odor. She flicked her dark black hair from her right shoulder to her back and she retracted her sharp, Ramanga teeth. She walked into the kitchen and slowly approached the basement door. Gripping the knob, she opened it slowly and glared down into the basement’s obscure darkness. The first wooden step was rotted through and she tested it by placing her foot gently on it. Satisfied of its strength, she retreated down into the dark abyss and reached the cold floor within seconds. The smell of dank, wet concrete tingled her superb Deamhan sense of smell. She swiped her hand on the wall, looking for the switch to turn on the light but her eyes slowly adjusted and slowly the outline of three rows of coffins appeared to her.
Sh
e never liked coffins, even in her day when many Deamhan she knew vouched for them. When she did own one, just for the sake of owning one, it felt too confining and too close to the superstitions that humans had of vampires. She didn’t bother stealing another.
She walked slowly through the aisle, placing her fingers on each empty coffin that she walked by. At the end a white polished coffin exuded the stench of an unfamiliar odor. It made her roll her eyes. Leave it to a Deamhan to fulfill the stereotype of a vampire.
A small whimper from upstairs interrupted her thoughts.
She abruptly turned her attention to the basement stairs. She remained quiet and with all her concentration focused on the noise. The whimpering continued, followed by slow pacing footsteps. She walked over to the edge of the stairs and her nose caught a whiff of the unfamiliar scent again.
She didn’t smell it when she first walked through the doors, but she knew this sanctuary smelled different when she first entered. A mixed sanctuary wasn’t anything new to her. She had visited many like this one in her past. Centuries ago she took refuge in one. She walked up the stairs, taking her time, careful not to make a noise. She reached the top and the smell became stronger, seeping from the direction of the stairs to the second floor.
Anastasia slowly ascended the stairs, reaching the top landing of the second floor when the footsteps and whimpering stopped. She stood glaring at the dark hallway ahead of her. Anastasia walked by a poorly unkempt bathroom, glancing in to see its only window covered with makeshift cardboard and the bathtub filled with plastic bottles and other garbage. Cockroaches ran freely along the base of the hallway floor and across its stained worn-out carpet.
She placed her hands on the wall and continued down the hallway. She could never compare all of the smutty, overcrowded sanctuaries she had destroyed in Minneapolis with what real sanctuaries should be. The minions maintained the cleanliness to please their Deamhan masters but in this sanctuary, they lacked that specific talent.
The fetid smell became stronger and this time it tickled her nose. The stench overpowered her. Whomever the smell belonged to, she had to be careful. Any Deamhan was a potential threat. She had to stay out of reach of the Metusba who fed on the aura of their victims. She had to stay feet from the Lamia, who fed off the life force, which emulated from a victim’s mouth. She had to stay inches from the Lugat, who fed off the leftover psychic imprints. However, she didn’t mind staying close to her own type, the Ramanga, who fed off blood. The confrontation itself would soothe her already disgruntled nerves.
“I know you’re here.” Anastasia reached out to touch the walls, feeling the grime and dirt sticking to her fingertips. She reached the door and heard a set of two footsteps pacing. She paused in front of the door before twisting the doorknob to open it but it was locked from the inside. Beneath the door she saw a shadow scurrying from left to right.
Anastasia placed her hands on the door and pushed it open. It flew across the room, splintering in half and it hit the opposite side of the bedroom wall. Stained yellow dots peppered the wall and the air smelled like old rainwater that exuded from the roof. A stained mattress with ruffled covers sat in the middle of the floor. Anastasia saw them in the dark, huddled together in the corner. She stepped in, viewing the scattered toys around the room. In the corner the two young females stood silently with their eyes concentrated on her.
Anastasia stopped in her walk. The Dictum, a set of laws for the Deamhan, forbids their kind to sire someone so young, but no one paid attention to those laws anymore. Even she found herself guilty of disobeying a few of them. But the discovery of these two young girls silenced her voice. They smelled like Deamhan but she had yet to figure out what type of Deamhan they were.
She grinded her teeth and her mouth dropped slightly. “What are you?”
The two young girls didn’t speak. The youngest one cradled her torn teddy bear further into her chest.
“Why are your scents masked?”
Again they didn’t answer.
“What clan are you from?” The question seemed ridiculous to her but only after she had said it.
She finally got her answer.
The oldest girl gripped the younger one and they shifted further back into the shadowed corner. Then, without warning, Anastasia witnessed sharp fangs in the oldest girl’s mouth.
Her eyes bulged. Ramanga? She knew of all the Ramanga Deamhan in the city but these two children didn’t appear on her radar. Now she questioned who sired them and why. She sniffed again, to ensure her discovery. Still staring at them, she continued to wonder how many other Ramanga lived in the city right under her nose.
Anastasia acted fast.
She took another step forward and the girls sulked themselves further back into the corner. She stopped in mid-stride. “I won’t hurt you.” She wanted to stop them before they disappeared into the shadows. “You must be the oldest.” She pointed to the older girl with short brown hair. “Is she your sister?”
The youngest girl nodded but still didn’t speak.
Anastasia understood why they feared her. Still covered in dried blood, the girls smelled her Deamhan scent. Every Deamhan feared the Ramanga, even other Ramanga. They had the sharpest teeth.
“Who sired you? Where are you from? How long have you been here?” Becoming impatient, she inundated the girls with questions. While she wanted to know every single detail about them, her thoughts drifted to ripping their throats with her teeth.
The oldest girl stood up slowly and straightened the ruffles of her dirtied pink dress. Besides their obvious ignorance of cleanliness, they represented the other spectrum of their environment and this added to Anastasia’s curiosity. They belonged to someone; perhaps a minion Anastasia killed downstairs or someone who sired them and left. The youngest girl remained seated, cradling a small naked doll near her chest.
“I won’t hurt you, I promise,” Anastasia lied.
The oldest girl slowly stepped in front of her sister. “I’m not afraid of you,” she said in a shaky voice as her eyes turned black.
Anastasia slightly smiled, knowing that wasn’t the case.
“Don’t come any closer,” her childish voice warned.
Anastasia had no intention of doing anything to them yet. She watched the oldest girl ball her tiny fist, preparing herself for Anastasia’s attack. Anastasia sensed the little girl’s bravery and if it were any other circumstance, she would commend it. The little girl also reminded her of another girl, a human, whose family she’d slaughtered years ago in northern Minnesota during their hiking vacation. The memory began to singe within her. It wasn’t normal to think of her victims that way. Just the hint of sorrow made her feel weak and she immediately silenced the thought.
“I won’t come closer if you answer my questions, girl.”
“We know who you are.” The oldest girl lifted her sister to her feet.
“So then you understand why it’s in your best interest to answer my questions.”
The oldest girl wrapped her arm around her younger sister, pulling her in close by her side. Anastasia leaned against the wall. They looked beautiful, so young, and so innocent. Beautiful? Nothing should be beautiful. Were all Ramanga children like this? She had to admit, she fancied the thought.
“Where is your sire?”
The oldest girl shrugged.
“What are your names?” Anastasia asked. Still sensing that they didn’t trust her, she continued, “I won’t hurt you if you tell me what I need to know.”
The older girl spoke up. “Aisha and my sister, Annabelle.”
“Okay, Aisha.” Anastasia lowered herself to the floor in front of them, crossing her legs. “Who sired you?”
Annabelle looked up at her sister who stared at the floor in hesitation. Anastasia placed her elbow on her leg and she leaned her face into her hand. She couldn’t remember the last time she was ever this resigned.
“We can’t tell you,” Aisha answered.
“Can’t or won�
��t?”
“Can’t.”
“Fine.” She rolled her eyes. “But if not me, then who would you trust? A minion downstairs?”
Aisha shook her head no.
“You know that I am also a Ramanga. I can protect you. If others find out that you’re here, they won’t take their time killing you.”
Finally the little girl opened her mouth. “You won’t kill us?”
She quickly glanced at the girl. “No, I won’t.” For the first time in her existence, she didn’t know how to respond. She was usually quick on the draw, but this time she felt something that she couldn’t explain. Her maternal instincts kicked in.
She had never felt anything like it, even before she became a Ramanga.
She still remembered her human life and the need she had to be a wife and have children of her own. She spoke to her fiancé at the time, Robert, and they began to make preparations. Being the only child in her family, Anastasia remembered they had a magic number of “five” children; two girls and three boys. But all of that went away when her own sire ripped out Robert’s throat.
The caring, the understanding, the nurturing of these two children made her feel weak but nowadays she was starting to feel more and more vulnerable. These thoughts afflicted the Deamhan in her. She couldn’t love, she couldn’t feel but yet she found herself more and more concerned with the well-being of others, humans and Deamhan, around her. If she liked it or not, she had to admit that she could only decimate and kill minions for so long before it ate at her. She wanted to react and snuff it out of her system, the Deamhan way.
“Are you going to kill us?” Aisha’s soft voice snapped Anastasia from her thoughts.
“No.” Annabelle comforted her older sister. “She’s not going to kill us.”
The little girl’s growing faith in Anastasia would be her undoing.
“Like I said, I didn’t come here for you.” Anastasia watched Annabelle slowly move behind Aisha. In her tiny hands she continued to caress the disheveled hair of her weathered doll. “Did a minion bring you both here?”
Dark Curse (Deamhan Chronicles Book 2) Page 2
