The Preternatural Chronicles: Books 0-3

by Hunter Blain

  The smell of molding clothes and dirt wafted into my nostrils as a whisper came from behind me. Startled, I tried to turn my head when cold, stonelike hands grasped either side of my face and forced my gaze into two beautifully colored orbs that had opened in the blackness in front of me. They were indescribable, as if painted using the colors of a sunset. Purples, blues, and reds circled the irises in a captivating and elegant dance. I was mesmerized, and nothing else in the universe mattered except those eyes.

  More sternly, without the pauses or emphasis, he asked, “Are you a man of honor?”

  I didn’t remember telling my mouth to speak or my mind to formulate an answer, but the word, “Aye,” dreamily slipped out.

  He continued, “If I were to aid in the revenge of you and yours, would you feel indebted to me?”

  “Aye,” I drawled. The inside of my head felt like being in a warm bed on a winter’s morning.

  “Wonderful!” he said as his grip fell from my face. My head cleared as his eyes melted into a single shade of purple.

  His speech slid back into the theatrics. “My name is Ulric, and I need someone of this age to be my companion and guide. You see, I have been asleep for some time and would appreciate a current view on the modern world. Our time together will be filled with travel, riches, power, and revenge.” At this last word, he smiled a wide grin, exposing his teeth. There were two that were particularly noticeable, as they were longer and ended in sharp points, akin to those of wolves.

  “Rodents, actually,” he stated as if I had spoken my thoughts aloud. “Wolves’ jaws are made for holding their prey in place and tearing flesh. Rodents, bats specifically, have piercing fangs that puncture their prey without tearing so that blood flows most efficiently.”

  Confused, I asked, “A’ye claiming t’be a rat?”

  He threw his head back and gave a throaty and dramatic laugh. After he recovered, he said, “No, no, my dear boy. You would say that a fox and a cat are different creatures, would you not?”

  “Aye, a’course.”

  “Yet they both share the same feeding style. The jaws grab the throat of their prey and squeeze until the air stops. And voila! The animal can no longer draw breath and expires. I share similarities with that of the bat.”

  “Ye survive on blood?! Are ye a demon?!” I felt panic starting to rise in my core, tightening my chest.

  He smiled. “Perhaps,” he pondered. There was a pause as he considered. The wind had died down outside, leaving only the sound of a roaring fire somewhere close by. “Perhaps not. I do not really know, to be honest. What I do know is this: after centuries of walking this world, I am the last. Until now, that is.”

  With a waving gesture from his hand, the torches in the dungeon blazed to life, bathing everything in an orange haze. The light scorched my unprepared eyes, making my head ache and my stomach lurch, and I had to squeeze them shut with discernible effort. After a few moments, I was able to blink them open and focus on the dirt-encrusted man in front of me. His clothing was rotting away, as if he were a street urchin. The red coat he wore was now a dirty dark brown with rusted buttons that once could have been brass or some other distinguished metal. There were frills coming out of the sleeves, which were matted and in tatters, and his pantaloons were riddled with holes. The silk shirt underneath his coat was mostly intact, and the leather shoes he wore were also in good condition, albeit coated in dirt.

  The man looked like he had been caught in a mudslide and survived. He had short dark hair—covered with earth—that slightly receded on either side of a widow’s peak; a clean jaw stood proportional to the rest of his face; crow’s feet had only just begun at the corners of his eyes, and frown lines jutted between his eyebrows. Pearly teeth were overexposed from the widest grin I had ever seen. It unnerved me. Sailors described man-eating fish that shared the same smile. I had thought them the tales of drunkards, but here they were, gleaming in the dark.

  He pointed his fisted hand toward me, then long fingers opened dramatically and my chains crumbled to dust around my wrists. My numb arms dropped in front of me and pulled the rest of my body down with them. The stone floor covered in dirt and blood rushed up to meet my face. Familiar stars danced just behind my eyelids, and my stomach threatened to expel the bile it contained.

  “It would appear that the strike to the back of your skull was more severe than I first thought. No matter. All will be well in a moment. But first, I want you to enjoy your death.” He let the last syllable linger, tasting the weight of the word.

  Getting my elbows underneath me and looking up at the strange man, my throat tried to escape to the pit of my stomach. The pain throughout my body was dulled by my brain pulling all resources to focus on what he had just said.

  Swallowing what felt like razor blades down my barren throat, I croaked, “Me…me death?”

  My breathing became shallow, and fear blossomed with every pounding heartbeat, trying to convince my numb limbs to flee as he walked over. The man effortlessly picked me up by my shoulders and pulled my face close to his.

  “Yes, child. For you to accept my gift, you must first die. Only after will you have the means to seek revenge on those who killed your father…and your mother.” The last words were purposeful and drawn out.

  The blood drained from my face and I started to get light-headed. Only this monster in man’s clothing holding me up kept my limp body from collapsing to the ground. I could barely hear my own voice, as if speaking through a dream, “Me…ma?” Tears threatened to leap to their death from the corners of my eyes.

  “Just now, I’m afraid,” he said as he dragged me over to the small barred window. With ease, he turned me around in his hands and let me peer outside. There, indeed, was a roaring fire that I had vaguely been aware of. In the center of it stood a statue of a bull made from bronze. Soldiers stood around it, with the commander giving orders to douse the flames. It took several buckets from the stream close by to extinguish the blaze. A few more were thrown over the bull, the water sizzling into steam and sending a white cloud billowing through the night’s air.

  I could see there was a door in the middle of the bull. The realization of what I was seeing began to tickle the front of my brain as a soldier reached over and grabbed the handle. With a yelp, he pulled back and dropped to his knees, grasping the wrist of the hand that was now blistering.

  The commander scolded him further, “Use a gauntlet or deerskin, you fool.”

  The soldier looked at him with pain-filled eyes and a gaping mouth. “Y-yes ma’lord,” he stammered.

  He reached into his satchel, pulled out a piece of deerskin, and tentatively grabbed the handle with it. With a twist and a pull, the door fell open and steam rushed to escape, hitting the soldier. He took several steps back while waving his hands in front of his face, less he be consumed by the cloud. A light breeze brought the acrid smell of seared flesh.

  I stood watching, not wanting to believe, as the vapor dissipated. Inside was a lump of scalded flesh in a fetal position. It had my mother’s dress on.

  My mouth tried to say the words, “The wind,” but nothing came out. Tears brimmed and fell down my dirty cheeks, creating streaks through the blood and dirt. Snot bubbled out of my nose. My heart sank as what I was seeing took hold. I sobbed, painfully. My body jerked with every breath. The stranger wrapped his arm around my face, where my sobs of heartache were muffled by his sleeve at the crook of his arm. I was vaguely aware of the smell of dirt filling my nose, but that was a distant thought in my reeling mind.

  “That was not the wind you heard,” Ulric purred into my ear, his voice just above a whisper. “Those were her screams of anguish inside the bull. They roasted your mother alive, John.”

  Centuries later, in a decimated library in Nazi-occupied France, I found a book on what are now known as medieval tortures. I read through it with a knotted stomach, clenched jaw, and blurry eyes. A fire is built under the bull, causing the bronze to slowly heat. Flesh bubbles and spl
its. Meat separates from bone. It takes several minutes for the person to go into shock.

  Several mortal lifetimes later, the pain feels as fresh as a gaping wound that refuses to heal.

  With Ulric still holding me, my vision sharpened, and all I could focus on was the commander who had killed my family. I felt my teeth clench, and my breaths came in ragged shudders.

  “I’m…going…to…kill…ye,” I said between furious, heart-wrenching sobs.

  “So you accept my proposal, then?” Ulric asked with a smile in his voice.

  “Aye, aye, a thousand times aye!” I growled. “I will laugh into tha’ fiends face as he dies. Then he can burn in Hell.”

  “Then let us begin.”

  Still looking out the window, I felt his breath on my neck.

  “Now, this might hurt a little,” he purred, and then an explosion of fire pierced my neck. The burning spread down my side and up my head. I stayed focused on my nemesis as my vision blackened around the edges. My heart drummed erratically, trying to pump blood that was quickly diminishing. My breathing became shallow as darkness enveloped my sight. Everything went still as my heart stopped.

  Chapter 5

  Present day

  Valenta’s Saloon was only a handful of blocks away from the church, and closer still to my resting place. Its convenience was only rivaled by the fact that the saloon was a hub that catered to the supernatural elements of Houston. It sat on a street nestled between dilapidated buildings that used to sell cars or give massages. A single flickering security bulb illuminated the weed-infested parking lot, which contained cars of varying cost and rarity. I was confident that most were unlocked, considering no one would dare touch a car in Valenta’s parking lot. On the rare occasions it had happened, the patrons had found the thieves, though the police couldn’t say the same.

  As I pushed past the saloon-style doors, I surveyed the room. It was emptier than usual, with only a few supes occupying a table in the back corner. I couldn’t see past their glamour, but I could smell that they were of the troll family. Trolls were notoriously difficult to kill because of their healing factor. Though not as fast or as efficient as my own, they could have a limb removed and, as long as they didn’t lose it, could sew the pieces back together and heal within hours.

  Normally I would keep my eye on their ilk, but Val’s Saloon was neutral ground to all supes. Anyone who violated the agreement would be dealt with by any and all without consequence.

  I walked past the threshold and made my way toward the bar.

  The room was a big square, with Val’s actual bar taking up one full side. There were tables spread throughout made from various woods of varying ages. Val would never admit to anything, but it was rumored that his bar had been taken straight from Valhalla itself, where the fallen would enjoy their drinks for free. Not a lot of profit to be made.

  The chairs matched the wood of their respective tables. No one knew how old Valenta was. So, my theory was that he had been the proprietor of a saloon or some apropos variant over the centuries. As the business would grow, he would keep the old furniture and make new ones himself. I’d seen him whittling away behind the bar, and had taken notice of his efficiency with a blade.

  When I first met Val, I was my usual witty, borderline-standoffish self and made a “your mom” joke. Without taking his eyes off me, he pulled up a raw piece of wood from a pile just under the bar and took his pocket knife to it with unparalleled craftsmanship. Within less than a minute, a nice, sharp stake was placed on the bar right in front of me. The message was clear. He motioned for me to pick it up, which I hesitantly did. My eyes were drawn to the carving of a man with strikingly similar characteristics to myself being impaled in the chest by the hooded personification of Death. I was quick to apologize and explain my particular sense of humor. We’ve been good ever since.

  “Hey, Val, did your bar get bigger or are you serving clam chowder again?” I asked the man standing behind the counter as I approached, motioning to the empty seats.

  “Fuck’n smartass,” the man responded with a thick southern drawl. Valenta was a man of average height and thick muscle hidden underneath long, flannel sleeves that were slightly rolled up to just above the wrist. His hair was the same light brown color as his eyes, which hid a world of confidence, age, and wisdom behind them. Every time I saw him, I could swear he had a different facial hair style. This time, it was a handlebar moustache leading up to muttonchops.

  “Summoning your inner Wyatt Earp?” I joked while stroking my own lavish face muscle known as a beard.

  “Breaks up the monotony of existence, son,” he responded without looking up from the glass he was cleaning. This was one of my favorite things about Val; he was OCD when it came to cleanliness. I had brought it up to him one time and his response had been, “Next to godliness.”

  Moving on, I inquired, “Seriously though, why’s the place deader than Fantastic Four’s sequel?”

  Looking up from his duties, he stared into my eyes with an impossibly more serious expression and said, “There’s been chatter, John. One of them Hell zealots…”

  “Hell-lots!” I interrupted excitedly, fisting the air at my pun.

  Without missing a beat, Val picked up where he had left off, “…is going to be successful in open’n the doorway to the pits below. Somethen’s commen, and supes are gettin’ while the gettin’s good.”

  To scare supernaturals was no easy feat. An image of Father Thomes flashed in my mind; he had mentioned the surplus of summonings as of late. They were on the precipice of getting out of hand. My blood ran cold…er.

  “What do your little birdies say about this chatter?” I asked with feigned confidence, fearing that I already knew the answer.

  “The prophecy, boy. The final showdown at the O.K. Corral between above and below,” he said grimly, shaking his head. His attention had refocused on his glass, which was now clean. He picked up another and held it up to one of the dim lights, inspecting it for imperfections left by the industrial washer.

  “Then where the fuck is everyone running to?!” I all but cried out in frustration. “Hoboken, New Jersey?”

  “There are more planes than these three, boy,” he matter-of-factly reminded me.

  The pit dropped from my stomach. “You mean, they are freaking hiding in those planes because they think it’s safer?! Val, what the hell is coming?”

  “Exactly,” he said. “I ’magen the Fae are have’n a heyday with the surplus of inventory. Now, what’ll you have, son?”

  After a moment of searching his eyes, I sighed and said, “Give me a Bloody Jack, and make it a double.”

  While Val mixed the enchanted Jack with a fresh bag of blood from the local clinic where he had connections, my mind drifted to the horrors Ulric had informed me of in regards to the other planes. He had made sure to implant a healthy respect bordering on fear of the Fae court in particular. They were a crafty lot, as beautiful as they were fierce. Their intelligence was rivaled only by their cunning.

  Ulric had told me a story about a man lost in a forest during a particularly harsh winter storm, who had begged the gods for a fire to keep him warm. It hadn’t been a god who had answered. The most beautiful woman the man had ever seen appeared beside him and asked, “If I give you warmth, will you return the favor?” To which the man had vivaciously nodded his head in agreement. With a wave of her hand on the kindling the man had stacked, she started a roaring fire that provided him with enough warmth to survive the night.

  In the morning, it was said that she had skinned the man to make a coat to return the favor. Word was that, to this day, a member of Fae royalty still walked around with her man-coat. I vaguely wondered if PETA would have a problem with that.

  There were lesser Fae, like the trolls in the corner, who were just straight up barbaric in their approach. I much preferred them over anyone in the courts.

  Returning to my train of thought, I asked Val, “Any specifics about the prophecy I shoul
d know?”

  Shaking his head, he replied, “I’ve told you ’bout as much as I know. ’Cept there was one thing. Legend has it that there are documents, scrolls of some sort, that share insight into what’s comin’. Maybe even how to prevent it.”

  “Let me guess,” I said, rolling my eyes, “no one knows where they are.”

  “Bingo,” he said, sliding my drink across the bar. He poured a shot of home-brewed whiskey for himself, held his glass up, and toasted, “Salud.”

  “To the end of creation,” I responded, clinking my glass with his before taking a delicious sip. Blood removed from a living body and kept cold wasn’t the same as straight from the tap, but it did help sate the cravings, similar to putting aloe vera on a sunburn, or so I’d been told. I didn’t get in the sun much.

  As I enjoyed my drink and let myself relax, I said to Val, “This is a little above my paygrade, isn’t it? Maybe I should let this one go and sit back.”

  “Th’only thing necessary for the triumph o’ evil is fer good men t’do nothen,” Val responded.

  At that, the front door slammed open, followed by a gust of wind that swirled throughout the saloon, knocking over glasses and sending napkins flying into a vortex.

  Val simply covered his drink with his palm while I rushed to shoot it down my throat, spilling enough of it to warrant another dry-cleaning bill. Luckily, I knew a guy.

  In walked Captain Dickhead himself, followed by a small entourage of hired goons.

  Nathanial Locke stood around 6’4” with long, sinewy limbs, and liked to shop at Hot Topic. I guess black was his color, as it was hard to be the head of the supes criminal organization while wearing pink. The dark suit he had on was probably from the Victorian era, complete with black frills spilling out from everywhere. Someone should tell him that it was a two-button world now. The black mask he wore was outlined in pure gold, going from his greasy hairline down to his upper lip, and then continuing down both sides of his mouth to his jawline. Only his lips and cleanly shaven chin showed.