The Preternatural Chronicles: Books 0-3

by Hunter Blain

  A torrent of green and red hellfire violently erupted from the firepit, throwing me backward as I shielded my face with my forearms. I impacted the hard stone with enough force to rattle my brain. Smoke tendrils rose from my scorched trench coat and bald face.

  “Oh, man, not my beard,” I said to myself weakly as a hand rubbed my bare skin.

  An imposing figure stepped through the roiling flames, with muscular goat legs covered in pitch-black fur. Obsidian hooves glowed bright orange near the bottom, like a blacksmith’s creation, leaving molten footprints behind as he stepped into the cavern. Above his waist was tough leather skin the color of charred flesh covered in an unreadable road map of red, winding veins coursing over striations of proportionate muscle. Jutting from his huge back were massive reptilian wings reminiscent of a dragon’s, with obsidian spikes protruding from the joints. They unfolded, spanning at least twenty feet from tip to tip.

  On top of bulging shoulders sat the deformed face of a once beautiful man, with a crown of horns circling his head in unholy contrast to Jesus of Nazareth. Unlike the obsidian predominantly associated with Hell, these were made of bone-white ivory. They pierced through flesh, reaching a foot skyward at four even points around his skull. Halfway up each horn, a section branched off at a ninety-degree angle and curved around to meet another counterclockwise to it. Vapor curled off the corrupt halo, making the remaining points stabbing into the sky seem to dance in the haze. Green and red flames roared in the eye sockets of the beast that stood ten feet tall. Though I couldn’t see pupils, I knew his infernal gaze was locked on me.

  My hands began to tremble in frozen terror as Satan, Lord of Hell, Father of Lies, took ground-rumbling steps toward me. I didn’t know how I knew it was him, but I knew.

  Satan stuck out a hand tipped with massive claws that looked like they belonged on a horror-movie monster, and I began sliding on the rock floor.

  “No!” I shouted as my fingers attempted in vain to find purchase on the smooth stone. “NOOOOO!” I shrieked in unbridled panic as I slid closer to the horrific monster. Tears ran down my face as I attempted to flee the fate that was before me.

  I was lifted off the ground and into his closing fist. Fingers as dense as solid steel wrapped around my throat, but they didn’t squeeze with the intent of bursting my head like a party popper. I held on to his wrist as he lifted me toward his face. Plumes of smoke escaped his mouth as he exhaled.

  A voice emanated from within the depths of his massive chest, in an octave that would make James Earl Jones blush. “You cannot escape your fate, abomination. It is inevitable.” I had to squint as the immense heat struck my skin like a jet engine’s exhaust. “You. Belong. To me,” he paused between words, placing strong emphasis on his message.

  I quickly formulated a counterargument worthy of any court room, “Fuck…you.”

  The flames contained within his eye sockets spilled out, blinding me with their fury.

  “You dare to defy me? You will spend an eternity indulging in exquisite agony. Anguish and fear will consume your every thought as your feeble mind frays before finally snapping. Once insanity swallows all that you are, I will throw you into the deepest pit in Hell, where chaotic thoughts will be your only companions in the darkness.”

  Digging down deep, I summoned the type of confidence that only a man facing his own demise could muster. “Are you going to buy me dinner first? Or are we jumping straight into the mind fucking?” I goaded.

  He. Hadn’t. Liked. That. Satan bared fanged teeth, spilling saliva down his chin in his rage, before he did something that really terrified me. The evilest being in all of creation—smiled.

  I blinked and the scene changed. We were no longer in a monstrous cavern. I stood alone in a dark prison with a single, barred window. My breath caught in my throat, choked by my heart as I instantly recognized where I was. The smell of cooking meat drifted in the air as I approached the window. Even though I knew what I was going to see, I couldn’t stop myself. My lips trembled and tears welled as shaking hands gripped cold, iron bars.

  Wide eyes locked onto the scene outside the prison window that had haunted my dreams for centuries; but this wasn’t a dream. It was happening, and I was just as helpless in that moment as I had been in 1480. As muffled screams began to fade, I tried to use my preternatural strength to rip the bars from the stone wall, but they refused my demands. Holding the iron, I placed both feet on the wall and pulled with vein-bulging intensity. Capillaries broke in my face and eyes as the tendons in my forearms stretched then snapped, sending me crashing to the ground in a cloud of dust.

  I couldn’t feel the pain in my forearms as my human heart frantically pumped adrenaline-laced blood. Scrambling to my feet, I rushed back to the window and stuck curling hands through the bars, like a child grasping at a balloon as it escaped his fingers.

  Incomprehensible panic exploded in my mind as the aroma of cooking meat was overtaken by that of burnt flesh. The muffled cries from outside stopped then.

  “MOM!” I screamed at the top of my lungs as I stuck my hands out from between the bars, reaching…reaching…reaching…

  Chapter 4

  Houston, 1990

  I shot back into consciousness like a bullet from a gun, flailing my limbs as I slammed into reality. I shoved the iron lid with the fake bed on top so hard it crashed into the ceiling, shattering the wooden frame. It thudded to the ground next to me as I screamed bloody murder into the darkness of my room. As I shakily lifted myself into a sitting position, sobs wracked my body, forcing me to convulse as I inhaled for another bellow of helpless anguish. My next yell came as a wordless syllable that sounded reminiscent of “Mom” and ended with a wheeze as all the air was blown out of my lungs. I sucked in another massive breath and just cried into my hands.

  Da burst through my door, carrying the lantern, and cried out, “John? What is it? What’s wrong?!”

  “Sh-she’s dead!” As I spoke, the chaotic storm of my mind peaked before beginning to settle, allowing for cohesive thought to surface. Closing my eyes, I took in a ragged breath, letting the violently swirling snow globe of my mind calm down.

  “John, it was a dream. Only a dream. You’re safe now,” Da cooed, trying his best to bring me back into reality.

  “No! No, it wasn’t a fucking dream. I watched her die again!” My mind flashed to Satan’s eerie smile. “He did it on purpose! The fucker proved he can hurt more than just my body!”

  “Who?”

  “Lucifer, Satan, Mephistopheles, the fucking Devil! Whatever you want to call him.”

  “Lucifer came to you in your dreams? Are you sure?”

  Anger flashed like water on an oil fire, and I turned my grief-stricken face to my accuser. “DOES IT LOOK LIKE I’M FUCKING SURE?!” I bellowed.

  Da was rocked by my torment-fueled onslaught, but took it on the chin like a champ.

  “I believe you,” he said calmly, though with a sprinkle of hurt in his voice. I had never unleashed on him like that in all our years together. “If you are able, can you tell me everything he said?”

  I took in a few more deep, steadying breaths before closing my eyes and reliving the whole experience through my words. I finished by saying, “He knew all of my worst fears: my mom, being human and helpless again, and an eternity in his clutches.”

  Da nodded and looked at the wall with unfocused eyes. “It is not a coincidence that the Lord of Hell himself delivered such a specific message after you met the priest.”

  “Then that’s exactly what I’m going to fucking do. What time is it?”

  Da moved the lantern toward a clock on the wall. “It’s early still. Try to go back to sleep.” Moving the light around to take in the mess I had flung on the floor, he said, “I’ll clean up after you leave to meet Father Thomes.”

  “Thanks, Da,” I said as I lay back down, knowing full well I wasn’t going to be able to sleep again. He shut the door behind him, leaving me alone with my fragile thoughts in the dar
kness.

  Chapter 5

  Houston, 1990

  Da entered my room just past seven that night, signaling that it was time to get up. I knew the sun had gone down a few minutes before, when my preternatural strength had come rushing back to me.

  “How are you feeling?” Da inquired, similar to a parent asking how their sick child was doing.

  “I’m…I’m fine,” I lied to myself as much as to my friend. I was confident he didn’t buy the charade, but knew I would get over it with enough time. Perking up, I said, “Tell you what, though; I’m more ready to work with this priest than I was yesterday. All the winged fuck did by threatening me was make damn sure I’d work for the good guys.”

  “I’m honestly glad to hear it, John. You have such potential to help this world,” Da said, brimming with pride. “And here; I made you a small gift to commemorate the occasion.” Da extended a gray beanie he had knit during the day.

  “Gnarly, dude,” I said with a smile that was impossible to hide. I was touched. I slid the beanie over my fully healed head, fitting like a dream. “How do I look?”

  “With the trench coat and black clothing? Either like a hobo or a roadie for a metal band.”

  “Hey, which type of metal? Hair metal or…”

  “Oh, I don’t know, John. I suppose you look like a roadie for that weird-named band from Norway you sometimes go on about.”

  “Opeth? Neat! I’ll take it,” I said as I walked into the living room and toward the front door. “And it’s Sweden, not Norway,” I called over my shoulder as I crossed the threshold into the stairway.

  I made my way to the top, raised the cover of the marble coffin, and climbed out before replacing it. Stepping to the door, I lifted the titanium beam, set it to the side, and slid the massive stone door out of the way. I turned, placing my hands on the marble, and began moving it back in place, noticing as I did that I had worn slight grooves into the stone from constant use.

  Home secure, I oriented on the location of the church a few blocks away and began casually strolling through the cemetery toward the front gate.

  Once on the street, I took in the beautiful night sky, whistling as I walked. A gentle wind tugged at my coat and the hair that spilled from underneath my beanie, but none got into my eyes. I already loved this little piece of gray cloth.

  As I walked, I came upon a small business park where signs suggested you could buy plumbing components, haggle on unclaimed freight, or even get a massage at a shop that had bars on the tinted glass door. Past the barred opaque door was a clearing that led to my destination: Valenta’s Saloon.

  As I approached, my gaze followed the path of the street just past Val’s packed parking lot and to a small car dealership. The office was maybe twenty by twenty, with various used cars in the dirt-and-gravel parking lot. Deflated balloons hung from car antennas while a vinyl sign hanging from the roof read, “Buy Here, Pay Here.”

  Valenta’s Saloon—which appeared to be old enough to almost be considered historical by the city—sat like a jalopy between mostly modern cars. It was as if it had been there before and the owners of the land couldn’t force it to move, so they’d just built around it. Though the used-car business seemed even more askew if you asked me. I stepped onto the wooden porch of the stone building and walked up to a pair of full-sized doors that sat on bidirectional hinges. This effectively made them swinging doors, in honor of the old-timey saloons of the Wild West.

  I pushed through both doors to find a bar full of patrons enjoying all sorts of specialty drinks that only Valenta could provide. Some heads turned my way, briefly regarding me before returning to their conversations. Glamours weren’t required inside the premises due to a ward on the door that prevented nonsupes from entering the building. If approached, they would suddenly realize they had forgotten something of great importance at home and leave. Once clear, they wouldn’t remember where they had just left from. There weren’t many public places where supes could be themselves, which was why Val’s was so important.

  In the far corner sat a group of boisterous dwarves who guzzled mead like a whale eating plankton. Honey wine spilled down their beards as they sang and laughed.

  Two elves sat at the bar, sipping a wine so potent that I could smell it from the door.

  Sitting a few seats down from them was a troll with tusks that jutted out from his bottom lip. He was drinking a mixture of exotic yellow, red, and blue fermented fruits that swirled in the glass.

  One of my favorite parts about Valenta’s Saloon was the furniture, which was all custom-made wood carved by Valenta himself. There were rumors that the actual bar had been made for, and then taken from, Valhalla, where the fallen Vikings drank alongside their gods. Each table held its own distinct design, as if telling a story across time. I’d asked Val about his furniture, but he hadn’t talked about it. You were lucky to get more than a few grunts or nods out of the man.

  As I approached the bar, I regarded Val with a friendly smile. Though I had only been in Houston for less than a year, I had already picked up that Valenta liked to change his facial hair style. This month, he rocked a thick mustache that covered both his upper and lower lips in a light-brown veil the same color as his eyes. He wore a blue-and-black flannel button-up tucked inside khaki pants.

  Taking a seat at the bar, I waved like a lunatic to Val, who responded by walking over and asking in his thick southern drawl,

  “What’ll it be, boy.”

  “As if you have to ask. A Blood and Jack, good sir!”

  Nodding, he stepped through the swinging door of his back room, only to emerge less than a minute later holding a delicious bottle of enchanted liquor. The unique drink was made specifically for little ol’ me, seeing as how I was pretty damn sure to be the last vampire on this plane.

  He pulled a glass from under the bar and proceeded to fill it to the halfway point with the crimson delicacy.

  In order for Valenta to stock one’s drink of choice, one had to pay a pretty shilling up front. How he got the blood or who enchanted the liquor to work with my preternatural body, I had no idea. All I knew was that he was worth every penny.

  As I sipped on the tasty beverage that tickled my tongue and throat as it went down, I looked at Val and asked, “Know anything about the church up the road?”

  “Na’ much. Heard there’s a strong holy man live’n there. Mos’ folk steer clear.” His expression suggested he wanted to ask why I was inquiring about it. I ignored it and continued sipping my drink, feeling the tingle of inebriation set in the middle of my head.

  “Y’seem nervous, son,” Valenta said with a scowl.

  “Yeah. I, ah…have a big meeting tonight,” I said, staring at my drink. “Need all the confidence I can get.”

  “With tha priest?” Val pinpointed in a hushed whisper. From the mirror that ran along the back wall of the bar, I could see both elves’ ears twitch from where they sat. It had been subtle, as to almost not have happened at all; but I had caught it.

  “Yes,” I answered confidently. Let them hear. “If things go well, I’ll be working with the priest. It’s time I used my strength for something other than myself.”

  “Good on ya, son,” Val drawled in approval, nodding his head once. Then he did something I hadn’t been expecting: he poured me another drink and said, “On tha house.”

  I lifted the refreshed drink and tilted it in his direction before bringing it to my lips and taking a long pull. I was more anxious about tonight after my dream yesterday.

  When I was finished, I waved a wordless farewell to Valenta and headed out the door. My head felt lighter, more at ease, as I walked the few blocks to the gauche, blackened church. My anxiety over the importance of tonight weighed less on my shoulders.

  I arrived at the front gate, taking in a deep breath to steady my nerves, and swung the iron door leading to the courtyard.

  I took in the sheer grandeur of the church as I approached. Looking up, I saw that both the gargoyle and
angel statues seemed to follow me with their grime-covered faces that blotted out any definable features. I gulped, not liking the feeling of being watched.

  I ascended the few steps leading to the massive wooden front door and knocked three times. When nothing happened after a few moments, I lifted my knuckles to knock again before the clangs of locking mechanisms started sounding. After the series was complete, the impressive door swung open on creaking hinges that protested the weight they had to endure.

  Father Thomes Philseep stood in the doorway, adorned with his black robes, white collar, and a welcoming smile.

  “I see you found the church easily enough. Please, come in, my son.”

  The anxiety I’d thought was gone rose from the recesses of my mind and stole my tongue as I wordlessly entered the church. Father Thomes shut the heavy door behind me before walking past and into the cathedral. Pews lined either side of the walkway which led down to a stage where a podium stood alone; a thick, golden-page tome rested open.

  Above the stage hung a life-size Jesus as he was being crucified on the cross. His pain-stricken face was lifted to the sky as red paint ran down from his crown of thorns. It made me uncomfortable to gaze upon the man on stage.

  Father Thomes took a seat in one of the pews and motioned for me to sit across the aisle next to him. I did so, feeling my thick coat snag on the corner before falling to the wooden bench. It creaked in protest as I eased my ample 250 pounds on it. Father Thomes noticed how uncomfortable I was and said, “Relax, my son. You will not burst into flames if you sit comfortably.” As he spoke, I realized I was sitting on the edge of the seat with my knees together and my clasped hands resting in my lap.

  I exhaled the breath I had been holding and forced myself to sit back in my seat.

  “Sorry. Old habits from when I was a mortal,” I said meekly with a voice that cracked.