by D B Nielsen
Think, Aislinn. Don’t be daft. Why now? What’s been happening in Esper that’s causing the dark mages to stir on Earth? Or does it have anything to do with Esper? What about Styx’s involvement? Could it be something more?
She tossed the electronic tablet aside, feeling somehow at odds in her own skin. Caleb would have been proud of her—she was finally reasoning beyond her own tragedy.
It wasn’t like she didn’t want to avenge her sister’s death on the last Druid. Not at all. Oh, she wanted him to suffer the most. The bastard. She wanted nothing more than to carve out his heart with a blunt spoon, open up his arteries, and bleed him dry like they’d tried to do to her. She would flay his skin off his crafty, enchanted carcass while keeping him alive and begging her for the mercy he never gave to her sister.
But what if it’s true? What if he can bring Sorcha back?
The flame-colored bracelet of finely woven human hair briefly shone under the storeroom lights as Aislinn unconsciously twirled it around and around her wrist.
She recalled his insidious words which burrowed deep into her soul. Daughter of Kayne, I shall offer you this: the return of your sister in exchange for your blood. Even Kayne cannot give you what I can, for the dark practice of necromancy is hidden to all but those few who are willing to seek such a prize.
But the other living member of the triune had been willing to take her blood without any deal being struck.
Were they still united, or were they now working on their own, each for himself? Or was it simply a case of indifference—whatever was the easiest way in getting her blood for their nefarious purposes?
She shook her head as if answering an unspoken question.
The dark mages had learned to leap-frog through centuries on Earth, only appearing occasionally when stealing the lifeforce from living creatures to sustain them. She had once believed there was only the triune who had taken her sister’s life, that they were the only ones she needed to account for, but she hadn’t calculated on there being a larger organization, and she didn’t know what their plans for her own vampire species were.
She had never liked politics, but it was time to put forward her claims to the Atum Council. But it wasn’t her place to call an extraordinary council meeting—only her brothers could do that as the heads of their respective covens, and it wasn’t something they did lightly. To her knowledge, the last time an extraordinary council meeting of the Atum Council had been called was during the reign of the Catholic Pope, Gregory VII, who instigated the Gregorian Reform back in the eleventh century. And since this was before her own rebirth, she had only read subjective accounts in the annals of their history, and only because it was required as part of her training. She had been informed of what had occurred during that period by Caleb and her closest sibling, Shang, head of the Australasian coven in Beijing, but she’d never thought it very important.
Somehow, she felt their dabbling in necromancy, and even their business with Styx, had to be related to whatever more they were planning.
Yet the answers she sought weren’t here on Earth but on Esper or elsewhere. And there wasn’t a hope in Demura of going there without the Atum Council’s permission if she intended to seek out the dark mages.
A sudden raucous cacophony came from the bar, surprisingly loud over the piercing, discordant music from the heavy-metal band pumping up the crowd. It immediately grabbed her attention, along with the strong scent of fresh blood, apparent to her hypersensitive sense of smell.
Oh Vlad! We’re in for it now!
It instantly drew her from the storeroom in damage-control mode.
As she dashed into the bar area, the revolving strobe lights tinged the dry-ice smoke a fiery hue, but the vampires continued to writhe and gyrate on the dance floor. Most were still unaware of the situation occurring at the bar, which was good. The place smelled of sweat and sex—
And blood.
Enough blood—from the blood shots, blood cocktails, and blood ale which they served—to mask the fresh, flowing blood with its strange, sickly sweet scent. Aislinn was grateful that most of the vampires were too drunk or too caught up in their entertainments to recognize the odor of a living human in the club.
Like the one perching uncertainly on the edge of the velvet barstool in front of a group of seething, predatory vampires.
The terrified human was accompanied by one of Dorian’s cronies. She knew him by reputation only—handsome and strong but too stupid to realize he was being used by her manipulative, cunning son. But even so, bringing a human into her club? That was a truly dick move, and she’d experienced some phenomenally dickish moves in her time. But this was just plain stupid beyond belief. It was guaranteed to rile her.
Aislinn was on the warpath.
At her approach and taking one look at the formidable, deadly fire in her eyes which projected a dire warning, the other rapacious vampires retreated, pushing and knocking against one another in their haste, hissing their disappointment.
Their actions caused a glass of the Nocturne’s popular dessert beverage, an extra-sweet cardamom-flavored Turkish blood blend, to tip over the edge of the counter where it was precariously placed. A pale, long-fingered hand caught the glass before it smashed on the floor. The hand belonged to a young man with thick, wavy hair and light-colored eyes, sitting beside the human.
“Drake, what is she doing here?” Aislinn asked without any introduction to the Malum whose Mark of Cain flared jet black on his forehead in recognition he was being addressed.
Drake gave her a wide, sensuous smile as he licked a couple of drops of the sweet, dark blood from the back of his hand, his pale tongue darting out between bright white teeth tantalizingly.
“Hello, Aislinn. Dorian mentioned this place was the best in town on a Wednesday night, and I can see he wasn’t wrong. But I thought I’d bring my own. I prefer my meals fresh rather than served from blood bags and vacutainers. I do like the hunt. And the kill. You’d understand. There’s nothing like it.” The blinding whiteness of his incisors caught the light. “Look, I’ll even pay for corkage.”
The female human had a petrified, doe-like expression on her face, as if she had only just realized she’d walked into a den of vampires, but the strong attraction their preternatural beauty exuded held her spellbound.
She was a pretty thing too, but far too young to be out with a rogue like Drake. Long, long legs extended beneath her short, short skirt. The kind of legs one might find on a cheerleader or figure skater. Her shiny black hair flowed down her back in a high ponytail. And her big blue eyes were perfectly accented with just the right amount of mascara and black eyeliner. But they were too bright, almost feverishly bright. The glassiness of her scared eyes balanced against her perfect skin, flawless and pale, giving her an unnatural, porcelain-doll appearance.
She was sweet and sexy. Modern vampire cuisine. And yet with her pale, supermodel appearance, she could have been easily mistaken for one of their kind. Except for her intoxicating scent and the warmth of the blood flowing in her veins.
Drake’s smile stretched wider as if he knew what Aislinn was thinking. He liked his prey sweet and young but with a touch of sensual innocence, like a bud about to flower. He would take this young girl in her ripeness and leave her broken body somewhere near the London Eye or the universities for the humans to find, enjoying the police and authorities mad scramble to stop a deadly serial killer before the news went viral on social media. He liked that kind of attention. It gave him a huge buzz.
“You offend my hospitality.” Aislinn kept her voice low, trying to avert causing more of a scene at the bar. “I see you’ve been taking lessons in bad manners from my son. That’s a real shame. Can’t say I’m impressed.”
“Maybe I need to try harder then.” Drake opened his mouth wide and snapped his deadly fangs down into place. “Don’t you serve anything fresh around here?”
“You know the rules.” She paused to give him the onceover. Even though he was quite an a
ttractive Malum who was used to drawing second looks from those surrounding him—but not enough to compete with Dorian whose perfect features inspired love sonnets from his followers and who wouldn’t have tolerated anyone outshining him in his vicinity—Aislinn’s expression remained frozen. “Read the sign above the bar—that’s if you can read.”
He brushed aside her insult.
Drake stretched lazily and placed his arm around the young girl’s shoulders, drawing her closer. It was a deliberate gesture of defiance. He didn’t bother to glance up at the sign above the bar, keeping his eyes firmly focused on Aislinn’s face, though Aislinn noticed the girl’s eyes flick upward and widen in fear.
Under the signage in large, bold letters: “No pets allowed” was another of the club’s rules: “No BYO/ Strictly Licensed”.
Humans were not allowed in vampire clubs for good reason—the presence of a human could initiate a feeding frenzy among the patrons. Drunken vampires, whatever their age, acted like newly turned Nubes, unable to control their insatiable appetite for blood. And they were particularly difficult to rein in once they’d smelled the intoxicating scent of fresh, human blood straight from the source, which was why it was easier to police their activities on the streets through the omnipresent surveillance and leave them to deal with the Cleaner afterward. If they violated the coven’s codes, they were severely dealt with—and punishment was usually determined by the mood Julius was in at the time.
These strict rules existed to protect their species from human hunters and avoid detection among ordinary humans. There was an uneasy truce—more like an unwritten agreement—existing in London between the human hunters, shapeshifters, and vampire species. The London cityscape was divided, lines drawn on a mental map demarcating the boundaries between species; where it was safe to hunt and where it was safe to feed.
The downtown vampire district had been in operation for centuries and rarely did either human hunters or shapeshifters venture there, as no one wanted to engage in an all-out war. Despite the Church’s orders, hunters were deterred by the strong presence of the elite corps of vampire Malums regularly frequenting the area, and by the desire to keep the immortal species hidden from human knowledge.
Humans, the kind who were ignorant to the existence of immortals, didn’t often come past the Nocturne at night. Not because they felt some supernatural vibe emanating from the place, which spooked them, but due to the macabre history of the area, stemming from the time of Jack the Ripper, with its numerous brothels and streetwalkers, earning its unwholesome, welcoming nickname, “Slash Alley”.
The area was filled with human businesses like the accounting firm nearby operating during the day. But after daylight hours, nightclubs, bars and pubs, late-night restaurants and fast food stands for immortal nightshift workers traded their numerous temptations. These were the common areas where the vampires congregated in the inner city. It was a lurid, thriving spectacle which came alive at night, along with the rest of London’s human nightscape in the West End.
But it was stringently regulated. And most vampires kept to the rules.
“Her kind aren’t welcome here.” Aislinn reminded Drake that the Nocturne’s continued operations, along with the rest of the vampire’s businesses in this region, were only possible because of their long-standing and highly formalized Atum Council with their rigid rules and institutions.
But the younger millennials were becoming careless, or perhaps more daring and foolish. The dangerous stunts they performed led to the amendment of Rule #795: all clubs were responsible for their own security and policing. And Aislinn wasn’t about to lose her liquor license because of one dick-brained Malum and her bastard son’s pranks.
“You know better than to bring her here. She’s a human.” Aislinn’s voice was as icy as the glaciers of Antarctica.
Menace rose from the other Malum like steam. She could almost see it as Drake spat his foul reply at her. “Elitist assholes.”
“Not at all. I prefer her kind to you.” Aislinn’s smile remained intact. If anything, it widened a little, along with her blackened pupils. “But you may recall my business partner goes by the maxim, ‘Humans are food, not friends.’ I’ll pass along your feedback. I’m certain he’ll be interested to hear what you have to say about our establishment.”
Caleb would have known just how to deal with Drake. The arrogant Malum, together with Dorian, had been trained by Caleb two centuries ago, but both had been kicked out of boot camp before completing their final exam in the Abattoir. Caleb had called it ‘insubordination’ but that wasn’t the real reason—after all, she and Varya had given him their fair share of grief. No, it was due to the uncontrolled darkness in them.
That darkness was in all vampires, especially the Malums, the highest caste of vampire, having the most infectious blood and the darkest souls. Yet, while they were capable of all kinds of depravities, they also functioned at an extremely high level of discipline and intellect, making them formidable warriors.
Drake demonstrated the natural martial prowess of most Malums, even if he failed to exhibit the typical cleverness and cunning, but it was rumored that his lust ran to children—not feeding on them, which was permitted, but attempting to turn them, which was not permitted.
This was the real reason why he and Dorian were kicked out of boot camp, as Caleb had discovered their foul experiments and put an end to it.
Aislinn suspected Dorian was the instigator of such corruption, but it couldn’t be proved. And sadly, Julius excused their behavior, attributing it to the folly of youth, and allowed them both to live, though he had placed them in solitary confinement. It might have stopped Drake but not Dorian. She knew that Dorian and Harry were continuing their sickening games with the humans, young and old, with Psychic Seth being one of their latest victims.
“Where is the old man? Dead? From what I hear, don’t expect any one of your companions to return from boot camp this time.” Drake laughed as he pulled the young girl closer to his body, forcing her to sit reclined against his broad chest, making her tremble with equal parts fear and fascination.
Aislinn opened her mouth to reply when the shift in the air caused by the girl’s movement had her rocketing at extraordinary speed around the bar to confront the other Malum. She suddenly had Drake by the throat, slamming him up against the mirrored wall, uncaring that it cracked from the forcefulness behind her aggressive maneuver.
The singing on stage petered out to a shocked hush, and suddenly, every vampire in the club was alert and on edge.
Blood was in the air and the threat of something more—something dark and dangerous.
The girl was on the floor among shards from the broken mirror, cuts on her hands and knees, sobbing loudly. The room was now silent and still like an indrawn breath, on a knife edge, ready to commence their feeding frenzy.
Chapter 20
Every eye in the club was upon them.
“Bitch,” Drake managed to say through a crushed windpipe.
Despite being six-foot-three and taller than her by several inches, Drake’s feet dangled in the air, and he couldn’t extricate himself from her fierce grip. He bared his teeth like an animal, eyes as black as his soul.
“Are you dealing in my club?” Aislinn asked, her voice flat and emotionless. But there was enough threat in it to make the stoutest heart quail. It sounded like she was stripping paint from the wall, or ready to strip Drake’s hide from his bones and turn him into a pair of leather boots. She didn’t wait for his lie. “This girl’s been given Black Magic. I can smell it in her blood.”
“That’s my own personal stash.”
He wasn’t kidding. From her standing position, Aislinn could see the twin holes in the girl’s neck, suggesting Drake had feasted recently. He had tapped the girl’s energy to boost his own.
Outrage pulsed through her, as hot as a fever.
“How much did she take?”
Drake gave a mean laugh. The girl whimpered. “She’s h
ad four doses of the newest version of the drug in forty-eight hours. Clockwork. She’s due for her next dose. Want to try it? It’s like Skittles. You can taste the rainbow.”
It required everything she had to control her blood rage, but this was not the time to lose her temper. Drake was moderately jacked up, but for such a large Malum, it would take more than what he’d already had from the girl’s blood to provide the kind of kick-in-the-gut high he was after.
“You’ve signed her death warrant.”
“They all die sometime, bitch.” He lashed out at her then, but Aislinn’s knee connected with Drake’s groin, making him double up in momentary pain, or what passed for doubling up since she still had her hand around his throat. In retaliation, Drake pulled out a knife from his boot and stabbed her in the ribs, snapping off the hilt so the blade remained stuck inside her.
“Stupid. A perfect waste of a good blade.” Before the wound could close, Aislinn used her muscles to work the blade out of her body, ejecting it like a splinter. It fell harmlessly, clattering loudly on the concrete floor. “But I really liked that T-shirt. I got it from a Led Zeppelin concert in Chicago back in ’77. You’re going to pay for that. And for a whole lot more. I can tell you now, numbnuts, you’re on a highway to Demura, not on a stairway to Etherean.”
But the girl’s drugged blood gave him an additional boost of strength. He was ablaze with Black Magic, and he wasn’t going down without a fight.
Drake aimed a cruel blow at her stomach, but she was ready for him, knowing he was jacked up. In a lightning-quick move, she drove him back. A series of axe kicks and sidekicks followed and were parried like an intricate dance. Finally, she yanked his left arm up behind his back as she spun him around and slammed him, face first, against the broken mirrored wall. Holding him in a hammerlock, Aislinn asked, “Who’s the bitch, now?”
He screamed, a shrill, sharp screech of uncontrolled blood rage that ended with a startling abruptness. Quick as a flick of her wrist, Aislinn’s hand whipped in front of his throat holding a jagged shard of the mirror she caught as more pieces went crashing down. The razor-sharp tip was up against his carotid artery, and a single drop of blood welled from where it penetrated his skin. One slip and he was a goner. It forced him into stillness.
