New Story (no title)

[Archangel]

“Oh, shit! What the hell?”

The coffee was seared to the bottom of the pot, dry and harsh and burning, the acrid smell of beans stinging the nostrils painfully. Cliff jumped up, growling, and snatched the pot from the range. With a quick oath, he put the carafe into the sink and ran the water at full force, cold enough to numb his probing fingers. Immediately, the glass of the carafe shattered into a million pieces, the shards spreading into the sink and one especially sharp piece slicing a numb finger. Curses flew through Cliff’s lips as he stuck the cut finger into the flowing water then into his mouth, stemming the flow of swears with a flow of blood.

The house seemed quiet as Cliff nursed the bleeding finger, only the soft sound of the cars passing outside breaking the stillness. Sitting in the hot summer sun of southern France, the small house on the Rue des Arbres appeared pensive and thoughtful, as if waiting for something to appear from the sticky, Mediterranean air and end the apprehension. The small yard wavered in lines of heat as it led up to the extraordinarily thick front door with the quadruple locks, flanked by windows that were bolted and shuttered. The stucco walls sweat in the humid air, and the wood swelled from the heat.

The compound in which the house was located added to the feeling of waiting anxiety. Situated in a very wealthy and exclusive neighborhood, the compound consisted of a few small domiciles that were collectively surrounded by a wall twelve feet high and an arm’s length thick. The compound was built like a fortress, all hard stone and utilitarian living units, as well it should have been. There was no other way to house a Duke whose very existence was shrouded in secret and whose life was constantly in peril.

With a disgusted sigh, Cliff opened the basement door quickly and walked the remains of the coffee pot to the garbage can in the cellar. My job is bad enough without shit like this happening, he thought to himself sullenly, still doggedly nursing the cut finger as he worked. Not that his job was too difficult or dangerous. Being only a single bodyguard in an armored citadel like the Rue des Arbres compound was just busy work; sitting in a small house and reading magazines comprised most of his day. In a place as well protected as the Duke’s personal abode, an individual guard had nothing to worry about.

As Cliff returned to his customary seat in the front hallway of one of the anonymous little houses scattered throughout the compound, Jeff came in from the backyard. His skin, what could be seen around the black uniform, looked red and burnt, his shirt soaked in sweat, and his eyes nearly squinted shut behind his sunglasses. He had been doing his rounds along the outer perimeter all night long, shooing away school-aged kids with cigarettes and over-amorous boyfriends who figured the shady and hidden property of the Duke to be a great place to get away from their parents. And he had been late coming in, which explained his apparent heat problems. He crossed through the well-appointed but ultimately unused dining room and noticed Cliff, finger in mouth, sitting in his chair in the windowless hallway.

“What the hell happened to you?” Jeff asked laughingly, amused at his friend’s sulky expression. They were good friends, and occupied the upstairs master bedroom together, although not by choice. They had made the best of it, and adapted well to their new and boring jobs in France.

“Fucking coffee pot shattered while I was reading my paper,” Cliff announced loudly, obviously still angry at the pot for breaking. “Fucking glass was too fucking thin, I say. These fucking French make everything fucking half-assed. No coffee pot from the States would’a broken so easy.” He grumbled for quite some time on the subject of relative glass strength, obviously warming up to his favorite subject: abusing the French culture. Jeff smiled in commiseration, and more than a little amusement, and continued upstairs. He had worked the night shift, and eight o’clock in the morning was his sleeping time. Jeff thought over the past night sleepily as he drifted off, thinking lastly about the Duke and his current predicament. Ignoring the shudder of fear with that last thought, he passed off into sleep.

Cliff continued to sit downstairs in the hall, paper again in hand, cell phone close by in case the Boss had an unlikely emergency. And with his finger firmly ensconced in his mouth, Cliff passed through the day.
**********************************************
Cliff jumped, startled from his slumber by the buzzing of his cell phone. “Must have drifted off,” he muttered to himself as he glanced at his watch. It was 10 pm, dark, and two hours past the end of his shift. Feeling injured that Jeff hadn’t come to relieve him, Cliff stood up sorely and reached for the cell phone, which continued to ring in that peculiar tone that signaled a text message marked “Urgent”. He glanced at the short message and his eyes bulged out of his head.

Dropping the phone, his hands instinctively reached inside his jacket to produce two fully-loaded .33 semi-automatics, one in each hand. With an oath, he leaped up the stairs, heading towards the still-sleeping Jeff. The phone, as it lay discarded on the floor, still read the same message:

911! 911! ALPHA TO DUKE, BETA CLEARS THE WAY, GAMMA PULLS REAR GUARD! MOVE!

The meaning was clear: the fortress had been breached, and the Duke had to be evacuated. And since Cliff and Jeff were both Gammas, Cliff knew what that meant: death.
*****************************************************
He burst into the bedroom, the heavy drapes strangely untied and hanging in the wind. The only light in the room came from the large and bright moon hanging outside the window, which neatly silhouetted the bed and the still body of Jeff. Cliff, too worried and too dense to notice the open windows, hurried to Jeff’s side, shaking his shoulder as soon as he got there.

“Jeff, Jeff! Wake up! Security’s been breached, we’re on rear guard! But fuck rear guard, let’s get the fuck out! I don’t want to be caught by those dirty....” He stopped in mid-shake as he noticed that Jeff had not responded to his vigorous form of an alarm clock, and looked closely at his friend. That was when the odor hit him, an intense but delicious coppery smell, a smell that brought certain thoughts to Cliff’s mind along with one overriding fact: Jeff was soaked in blood.

Throwing back the rumpled covers, Cliff got one last look at his good friend Jeff. Clothed in moonlight, the body was nearly unrecognizable, even if the sun had shone brightly on it at high noon. The entire torso had been ripped open, and glossy red and pink entrails lay over the sheets like so many sausages. The chest cavity had been destroyed and robbed of its prime inhabitant: the heart. The hands were bloody pulps with bits of bone stuck in them, obviously injured as the doomed guard had attempted to fight off his attackers in a last-ditch effort to save his life. Both forearms were broken, as were both thighs, and the extremities all seemed to possess gigantic gouges and scoops, as if pieces had been bitten off. But the worst yet was the head; the way the mouth was caved in, the eyes spilled out onto the cheeks, and the nose obviously gnawed off, not to mention the sickening yellowishness of spilt brains that adorned the pillow.

However, Cliff had no tears for his mangled friend. Because at that moment, as his eyes caught the sight of all that devastation, he heard a peculiar shuffle of feet behind him. Like a hunting cat, he went into a forward dive, clearing the bed with superhuman ease and landing on the other side, facing the opposite direction. His guns went up with blazing speed and he peered into the darkness, quickly taking aim but not yet firing.

What approached him now, what stepped out from the shadows by the bed, the killer of his friend Jeff, had haunted the nightmares of Cliff’s kind since the beginning of time. It walked slowly, with a superior canine grace, and entered the moonlight. The silvery luminescence lit upon the four-legged figure, naked and bristling with hard fur along its knobby and bent spine and down its dog-like paws and lower appendages that had once been human forearms, hands and legs. The man-like face, with an elongated muzzle filled with sharp and protruding teeth below the intelligent and cunning eyes, stared intently at the raised weapons, and the long tongue came out laughingly from between the slobbery lips.

The creature opened its muzzle and, in apparent mockery of human speech, somehow formed growling, grating words from the canine mouth it possessed. With supreme self-confidence, the creature stared into the eyes of its victim and spoke. “Human, you will die now, like your pathetic friend, and I will eat your heart. Your guns can’t stop me. I am an Immortal, and you will fall before me.”

And so it resumed its slow and arrogant approach.

Suddenly, Cliff did something so wholly unexpected, so completely astonishing to the wolf being, that it stopped its slobbering advance in confusion. Cliff, staring with seeming terror at the approaching horror, began to laugh. He laughed long and hard, and the tears streamed down his face. The guns never moved from their position, the fingers still on the triggers, but Cliff laughed until his face turned a strange bluish tint. The wolf, not understanding, stood still and slowly built up its confusion into rage as this mere man mocked it so severely.

The laughing ceased, and Cliff snuffled quickly to clear his throat. Then he looked directly into the man-wolf’s eyes, which were nearly level with his own, and spoke.

“Fuck you, Mister High-And-Mighty,” he began, and the wolf snarled in anger. As he spoke, Cliff circled slowly around the bed. “You may have killed my friend, but you’re not getting me so easily. You see, you got lucky with my friend Jeff; you got him in his sleep. But I’m awake, and that makes me much harder to take down. Because, as you can see, you aren’t the only one who isn’t human.”

With that last phrase, Cliff opened his mouth wide and the wolf looked in and saw. The eyeteeth, normally the longest of the human front teeth, were long, long enough to be noticeable and growing longer every second. And they were sharp, reflecting razor-sharp edges in the silvery moonlight.

As the reality of the situation dawned on the wolf-beast, Cliff took the initiative. He sprung straight up into the air and, as he reached ceiling height, he flipped over quickly, landing upside-down in a crouch, with his feet lightly touching the ceiling. With a quick but massive push, he ricocheted himself off the cathedral ceiling right towards the beast, bowling the creature over with his massive strength. Both went off into a roll, recovering quickly, but Cliff’s catlike grace and ability to land upright gave him a distinct advantage. He was up and had his guns trained on the wolf before the wolf could even turn around and find the supernatural creature.

With loud reports, the .33s went off in two distinct shots. One bullet missed completely, but the other skinned the wolf’s lower leg in passing, barely leaving a mark and nearly no blood. The beast, however, hissed in pain and glanced quickly down at the wound that had started to smoke and burn.

“Silver!” it snarled in shock. Then, before Cliff could shoot again, the wolf sprang to the right, taking out a lamp as he went.

“Fucking right it’s silver!” yelled Cliff as he began emptying the clip as the beast leapt desperately around the small room. It ran up walls, defied gravity by running briefly across the ceiling, supernaturally wriggled at lightning speed under chairs, and just generally never stopped moving. “That’s right, you fucking dog, you better run!”

Suddenly, there came a point when Cliff pulled both triggers, and only dull thuds came from the hot and smoking guns. Cliff, realizing he was out of ammo, frantically reached into his pocket for two more clips. The wolf, however, saw its chance, and moved cautiously to take advantage of it. Slinking slowly, the silver burning holes in its tough hide where the bullets had grazed, the wolf approached the frantic man. It licked its chops, thoroughly looking forward to the meal.

Then, suddenly, Cliff wasn’t there. His clothes and his guns floated briefly in the air, empty and unsupported, then fell to the ground. All that remained of Cliff was a shadow that flowed out of the clothes and blended in with the shadows on the wall, avoiding the moonlight.

The wolf was not fooled. It had faced Cliff’s kin before, and it was not deterred. It stayed in the center of the moonlight that streamed through the window, hiding in the light that the shadow could not enter.

“Come out, Blood Drinker,” it called to the darkest shadows. “Come out and face me. You have no guns, neither do I. We will finish this.” It looked around, searching for the shadow it knew lurked nearby.

Suddenly, from the darkness above, Cliff assumed his now-naked natural form and pounced upon the wolf, snarling an inhuman snarl. They collapsed into a rolling, writhing heap, grunting and growling as each tried to find a death-grip on the other. Razor teeth from one cut the skin of the other to tatters, and claws from the wolf ravaged the other while Cliff slowly but surely found purchase. And then suddenly it was over: the wolf moved too slowly, and the blood-drinker sunk his fangs into the jugular, lifeblood flowing into his mouth and all over the floor. The wolf convulsed tearingly and, with one last sigh, ceased to move.

Cliff stood up, naked and covered in blood, most of it not his own. Slowly, as the wolf blood flowed into his system from his bloated stomach, he felt his strength returning. His cuts and ravages began to knit closed, and the pain slowly dissipated. The healing would be brief, now that he had just fed, and he was sure that he could get out as soon as he was done.

He walked over to his clothes, leaned over and picked them up. And as he did so, another wolf being stepped out quietly from the closet behind his bent back. Cliff didn’t even see or hear it as it leapt upon him, and he certainly didn’t feel it when the creature ate his still-beating heart.

[Archangel]

The Boss strode through the underground tunnels that connected the buildings of the Rue des Arbres compound in a very unpleasant mood. So unpleasant, in fact, that by the time he reached his destination under the main Ducal residence, he left behind several dead corpses, bereft of their lifeblood. The servants and thralls in the room cringed in fear as the Boss strode in, his mouth dripping red from his various victims. Although all of the creatures in that hidden room deep underground were creatures of the night and immortal to a point, they all feared the Boss.

“Where’s the Duke?” he roared in an unnaturally amplified voice, his fangs glinting sharply in the poor tunnel light. His large frame, muscular for one of his kind and well defined, was tastefully covered in urbane night-dress, suitable for a fashionable debutante out on the town in Paris. What the civil clothes belied was the pure ferocity of those muscles, the intense hatred and cruelty beating within the pulsing chest, the hell that was a vampire. Only the eyes betrayed the Boss to those who would look: wide, bloodshot and glazed, a maniac’s eyes. In a mood such as he was in, his eyes betrayed the death that awaited all those servants who did not obey. He leveled his eyes upon the crowd of quivering soldiers and waited.

One brave undead soul, obviously a group leader, stepped forward meekly and, mustering his courage, responded in a single expelled breath. “The Duke, my Lord, has not yet arrived from upstairs and even though I sent half the Alpha group up to get him they haven’t come back yet, and we were wondering what to do, my Lord” he gasped, and then, as if in fear of a reprimand, he quickly added “Sir,” and a smart salute.

The Boss stared at him for a long moment, his face inscrutable. Then, with a soft but deep sigh, he turned his back on the group. When he spoke, it was so quiet that only the Boss himself heard the remark. “Then, the Duke is dead.”

“What was that, sir?” asked Alpha leader, who had missed the low murmur.

The Boss whirled around, and the group cowered at his unbridled rage. His eyes glowed a blood red, his mouth slavered and his fangs protruded forth, prominent and threatening. With his breast heaving, the Boss stepped forward and grabbed the Alpha leader’s head in a single immensely strong hand and lifted him off his feet. “I said the Duke is dead!” he roared right in the unfortunate’s face. “The fucking Duke is Werewolf food right now, you idiot! Oh, you filth, you only sent half of Alpha force? Because of your mistake, the Duke’s heart is in the belly of a Wolf, and you have no apologies?”

As the terrified, squirming leader attempted to give his apologies right there and then, the Boss began to squeeze, harder and harder. After a few agonizing seconds, the Alpha leader’s head crushed under the pressure, and with the sound of a ripe melon after a three-story drop, the brain matter of the unfortunate creature spread across the Boss’s hands and all over the floor. He dropped the carcass, and indifferently wiped his hands on his pants as he spit ruefully on the dead creature.

“Who was the second in command?” he commanded imperiously. One undead arose shakily, knowing full well that he couldn’t deceive the Boss, but pissing his pants as he faced the maniac. The Boss nodded and spoke, “You’re in command now. Get your men out of this fucking cesspool.”

With a general cry of relief, the entire Alpha team leaped up and rushed unceremoniously out the door. None wanted to be the last in the room with this murdering, devilish fiend. As the last left, the Boss stood alone in the little chamber, his only company the dead carcass of the former soldier. Then, suddenly, the Boss grinned a broad grin.

With the Duke gone, the throne was open. No one could stop him now, not even that simpering, pathetic Prince, once the old King died. His devilish smile could have killed a songbird in flight, soured milk, or withered grass on a rainy day. What a pleasure to have the Wolves do his dirty work for him! He looked up towards the surface, where the werewolves were obviously enjoying their work, and he smiled his vampire’s smile. All in all, it had been an excellent day.

The carcass on the ground stirred and shook, and as the Boss glanced down, the head began to knit itself back together. The carcass, like any vampire body should do, was healing itself from a wound that would have killed any other creature. The Boss knelt down and watched as the shattered, leaking brain began to pulse and grow to its former proportions, and the skull sealed its cracks and began to reform over the devastation. The Boss smiled again and, with a single solid movement, he reached into the body’s chest cavity and removed the heart. Chewing on his prize with relish, he stood and left the room and the carcass, now truly dead.
****************************************************
The wolves ravaged through each and every house, no longer quiet and no longer searching, simply killing and enjoying. The Blood Drinkers fell by the dozen, and although some Wolves were lost in the vicious and bloody fighting, the attack was in fact a huge success. The Duke himself, their prime objective, had been robbed of his heart, and now began the feast.

The gates opened for the first time that night, for the attackers had entered quietly on grotesque paws through one of the back entrances. The solid steel clanged incongruently in the night air, so full of growls and weird howling, and the noise rang on like a solemn death knell. Then, as the wolves quieted and peered curiously at the gate, the sound died off and left another behind: the soft ticking of boots on cobblestones. The boots ticked insistently across the central courtyard of the compound, and those still in the houses ran outside to join their brothers out on the drive. As each member emerged from each house, they joined in line behind the boots, following obediently like dogs gone to heel. And as they walked, they changed.

Canine hair sucked back into flesh, as if every hair had been caught from the inside by the follicle and pulled slowly inward. Jaws clicked and cracked as the bones broke and reformed, the muzzle reducing to a strong jaw line and flat, human teeth. Paws and their toes lengthened and thinned, becoming fingered hands with opposable thumbs. And spines shook, cracked, and straightened, as the shape went from four-legged to hunched and hominid to upright and human. All the while, they followed the clicking boots, and the owner of those boots, and soon the grotesque procession had transformed into a long, silent line of men. The ringleader walked on.

The line of now human forms reached the edge of the compound, where the Duke’s private house was located. There, they paused, as if in undecided. But their ringleader simply ascended the front stairs, the clicking of his boots echoing in the square, and turned to face the line. He was short, his body small and wiry. His face was grizzled and his long black hair unkempt and disheveled. He was the only one dressed, in a black trench coat, ripped jeans, and a dark pair of battered old cowboy boots. But his eyes were clear and intelligent, and his mouth moved with confidence and assurance.

“Brothers!” His voice boomed, and many a wolfish human face smiled at the sound of it. “We come here now, on this glorious evening, to feast upon the body of the Duke Radis de Montelore, one of the Aristocracy of Blood Drinkers. You should all be proud of yourselves, for you have done the improbable: you have breached the walls of the Rue des Arbes compound, and defeated our age-old enemies! Rejoice now, brothers, and feast upon the delicious flesh of Immortals! This place is yours now, and that is how it should be!”

With that, every single pair of hands applauded, and every single mouth cheered loud and long. And the wearer of the boots entered the house of the Duke. He would eat of the Duke’s flesh tonight, and taste the sweet meat of an Aristocrat.
**************************************************
The darkness of the house was calm and soothing to her eyes as she lay, quietly, in bed. Night birds softly chirped in the black, and small insects peeped and chirruped in the night. The bed was soft and comfortable, and she lay happily wrapped in his arms, eyes open and staring. Her breath caught in her throat, and she sighed with pleasure as he flexed his arms around her, holding her tightly, reassuring her and reaffirming their love. That night was theirs, and she felt happy to the very marrow of her bones.

She slipped out of his sleeping embrace and stood up. Softly, so as not to disturb him, she headed for the bathroom and turned on the light. Staring at herself in the mirror, she smiled and began to wash up.

What she saw in the mirror was a very beautiful young woman, with a gorgeous smile and beautiful green eyes. Her long hair was wavy and soft, but flamed a brilliant red in the light over the sink, a flaring, intense color that lit the room. With a petite body and creamy white skin, she was definitely an attractive young woman. She stood completely naked in the mirror, admiring her body as she washed up and happily smiling away. She made sure not to wash his scent off of her body as she softly soaped up her hands, and began to clean herself carefully.

“Faith,” came the soft call from the bedroom. “Come back to bed. I’m lonely.” His voice was quiet and deep, the kind of voice that made Faith tingle with pleasure. She smiled all the wider at his words, and quickly finished. Slipping back into bed with him, she snuggled up to her lover in the darkness, and he could feel her heart beating rapidly as she kissed him, just once, on the lips. His hands brushed softly against her breasts, but there was no urgency in their touch, just a gentle, warm love that thrilled her for one brief instant. He ran his hands through her hair then, just softly, and she sighed again in pleasure at the gentle touch.

“Oh Caleb,” she whispered into his ear, “If only this night could last forever. If only we could lie like this for all of time. If only….” He only smiled at her, and with that, she closed her eyes, and drifted into sleep.
***************************************************
The sun slowly climbed over the horizon, lighting the library with bright yellow fire. A slanted beam of sunlight crawled across the desk towards a pile of books, little motes flitting softly through the air in the calm. Archimedes Hatcher sat at the table, his small and sprightly form hunched over a thick tome, his eyes intent on his studies. Nose always stuck in a book, thought Caleb agreeably as he entered the library. Always studying, that one.

“Archimedes,” he spoke, and the young man looked up from his book, blinking owlishly. “You called for me?”

Now, Caleb himself was in the prime of his life, young and strong and confident. But Archimedes made him feel like an old man whenever they were together. With a jaunty, roguish smile and a face as smooth as a child’s, the small man was the picture of youth. He got up from the table, brushed back the long hair from his face, and smiled brightly.

“Caleb, Caleb! Just the man I wanted to see! Please, come have a seat.” He cleared off a space at the table for the man. When they were both seated again, Archimedes looked up into Caleb’s face, and Caleb could see the young man’s eyes dancing with glee.

“You’ll never guess the news, my boy, you’ll never guess! It’s by far the happiest news we’ve heard in a long, long time, yes it is, my friend! Have you heard? Oh, probably not, it just came in last night. You were not around last night, so no one could have told you. My, my, my, it is such good news! Where were you last night? With Faith, I suppose. How is she? Oh, I meant to tell her….” Archimedes always went on in this fashion, completely oblivious to time and point, merely saying the first things that came to his mind. Caleb nodded and smiled, his happiness masking the impatience he felt for the news but indulging the young man and his small talk. Finally, as Archimedes rambled on about weather patterns and good books to read, Caleb could hold back no longer. Clearing his throat, he frowned a little and said,

“The news, Archimedes? What news is that?”

“Of course, of course! The news!” And he said it with such emphasis that Caleb knew it was intensely important. Archimedes arched his eyebrows, and smiled as if sharing a secret joke with an intimate friend. “The news, my good man, is very simple, actually. The Duke Radis de Montelore…is dead.”

Caleb could practically feel his jaw hitting the table.

“But…but…how?”

“Oh, I believe we both know how,” responded Archimedes. And with that, he hunched his shoulders forward and spoke in an undertone, as if someone was in the library besides the two of them, and as if this was an extraordinarily large secret. “The Wolves, Caleb, the Wolves! Rue des Arbes was infiltrated during the night, and the Duke has lost his heart. Isn’t that just wonderful?” And his eyes sparkled with merriment.

Caleb wasn’t sure what to say. The Duke had been a powerful, deadly enemy, and to hear that he was gone was a complete shock. Maybe one of the lesser earls, or a vassal or two, that would have been expected. But the Duke? And the timing was perfect. With the King in his state of health, there was no better time to upset the Blood Drinkers than now, Caleb knew that. But to hear that the Duke had finally died…what a surprise!

“What will our response be?” he asked the young man, eager now to hear every little detail.

“Why, we’re bulking up on security, that’s first and foremost. The Wolves are out in extraordinary numbers, and we don’t want to have any mistakes. When an Aristocrat dies, it’s a very big deal, and we can’t be caught unawares. I’ve sent Jonathan out to tie up any loose ends we may have in the Harbor and pull out of there, before we start losing men. We are not unprepared for this, Caleb, as you well know.” And his eyes glittered with a wisdom that seemed to belie his age.

“Of course, Archimedes. I didn’t mean to say….”

“Now, now, my boy. No need for apologies. There was no harm done.”

Caleb’s brow furrowed as he began to think, trying to guess the next move that the Wolves and the Blood Drinkers would make, trying to look into their minds and see what was next. That was why he had been called here, Caleb understood. No one knew their enemies like Caleb knew them. Archimedes watched him closely, his lips parted in anticipation, his eyes flashing shrewdly.

“The Wolves will not press their advantage,” he began, “not yet. Jonas is too smart for that. They will lie low for a month, maybe two, until the Aristocrats decide it’s time to press their luck once again. The Blood Drinkers however are more likely to overreact, to go on the offensive. Mass conversions will take place, the likes of which have not been seen for fifty years or more. They will be hard pressed for a while, because they’ve been dealt a severe blow to their morale. But they will fight back. And the overall effect is that werewolf and vampire kind will be much too busy fighting amongst themselves, and will ignore us almost completely.”

The young man nodded sagely, smiling. “Exactly what I suspected, my boy. I just needed my expert to confirm my suspicions.” And with that, he winked.

“However,” remarked Caleb, and Archimedes’ face instantly fell, “I almost forgot one factor. Duke Kane is now third in line for the throne. And we both know what that means.”

Archimedes’ eyes drifted into the middle ground, glazing over and becoming introspective. “Yes, of course, I nearly forgot. He wouldn’t possibly do it...would he?”

And Caleb could only nod sadly, silent once again. The sun moved down the wall of the library, and the two sat, staring away from each other, lost in thought.
*************************************************
Faith woke up without Caleb by her side, and frowned a little moue of disappointment. Getting up swiftly, she shivered in the morning air and got dressed, pulling on her clothes over her naked body. It was 10:00, and she was already late.

She hurried through the halls, nearly panting with exertion, her books held tightly in her hands. She passed the office, where the bored secretary sat filing her nails, and strode on to the classroom. Room B-14. In the basement. God, what an assignment! It was 10:30, and class had started 15 minutes before. She arrived just as the first person was about to leave, standing up and gathering his books. Slipping in through the door, she shot the student a glance filled with daggers and moved to the front of the class, where she always sat. Putting her books down, she turned and looked at all of the students. And that’s when she noticed their mouths were agape.

“Sorry I’m late,” she began, flushing as everyone stared at her, especially the young men. “I…well, I…it was a busy morning and I….” She soon gave up on the lame excuses, and merely looked down at her desk, her cheeks red.

One young man raised his hand, and she looked over at him under her eyelids, her hair cascading around her face and hiding her from sight. With a sigh, she pushed back her hair, tucking it behind one ear, and heard the young man say,

“Are you the professor?”

So that’s what they were all open-mouthed about! She breathed a little sigh of relief, and looked up, some confidence returning.

“Yes, I am. You may all call me Miss Mackenzie, and this is Bio 424. Anybody in the wrong class is free to leave now, if you wish.” No one wished. Especially not the young men.

Blushing brightly, Faith continued with her first day script, going over all the essentials that go along with every class. It was trying sometimes, being such a young professor, and the fact that she was beautiful to boot made it all the more difficult. No one took her seriously, classrooms of rowdy young men were constantly staring at her, and she found it hard to overcome her painful shyness, especially around new students. It would take weeks before she really opened up in her classes, memorizing names and grades, running busy office hours, and just simply befriending the young people she would see day in and day out for over 14 weeks. It was a tough job, underpaid and overworked, but she loved it when she finally began to really teach, and not just lecture. It was for that reason that she had become a professor, and for that reason only.

And despite her age, she was well qualified for her position. Earning a PhD in Biochemistry in just 5 years, especially from an Ivy League school, made her somewhat a wunderkind in her field. Young, beautiful, and intensely intelligent, Faith was just one person who earned a lot of jealousy by those less gifted. She handled that envy badly, to her dismay, quite incapable of understanding why others felt the way they did about her. Because in truth, she was a good soul, and, with all her intelligence, would never truly grasp some of the more sordid sections of the human heart.

Class ended on time, and everybody filed out. Faith sat now at her desk, watching the students leave as she waited for the next class. She had fifteen minutes to get over to the next building, so she could afford to take her time. She collected her books and notes once again, and stood up, preparing to leave. But now the door opened again, and a tall man strode into the classroom. He was gray haired and distinguished, but he wasn’t old, quite the opposite in fact. His body somehow managed to exude strength and gracefulness, and his pace was confident and powerful. The only thing that marred any handsome qualities that strength conveyed was the horrible scar on his face, a mass of burnt and wrinkled flesh that looked painful and undoubtedly had been. Faith looked up, and smiled a bright, girlish smile as the man walked up to her desk.

“Michael!” She exclaimed, and jumped up to hug him heartily. “I haven’t seen you in ages! Where have you been?”

His frown, a habitual mask on his face, relaxed as she hugged him, and he almost smiled. Almost. With a noncommittal grunt, he responded, “Oh, here and there. You know me,” and he hugged her back. She casually avoided the lump at his side as she gripped him, barely coming up to his shoulder and almost unable to reach all the way around him. Michael was a big man, but no one could mistake that mass for fat.

“So, why here and now, Michael?” She asked as they disengaged, still standing comfortably close and still smiling.

“I just wanted to see you, Faith. Does there need to be any other reason?” He asked calmly, looking at the beautiful young woman steadily.

But she gave him a sideways glance full of suspicion, and her smile turned crafty. “Did Archimedes send you? I know he did!”

Now the big man did smile, in appreciation. “I could never fool you, could I? You’re far too smart for me. Yes, Archimedes sent me. When are you done with classes today?”

“Around 2:15, why?”

“Because,” he responded cryptically, “today is training day. Didn’t you know that?”

And now it was Faith’s turn to frown, this time with worry. “Training? Today? But so soon after the last session? What, am I being rushed?”

The frown was back on Michael’s face. “You haven’t heard the news yet, I take it. Well, you’re in for a bit of a surprise, aren’t you? Come to Archimedes’ office at 2:30. We’ll be waiting.”

[Archangel]

Faith did her best to be punctual, and arrived five minutes early. Slipping into the luxurious office, she looked quickly around the room, a bit surprised.

“Well, is this a party for the boys only, or can I join?”

Archimedes sat behind the mahogany desk, his small body dwarfed by the immense piece of furniture. Michael stood at his side, the bulge in his waist a bit more prominent somehow, resting against a windowpane and frowning thoughtfully. Caleb was also in the room, and stepped forward to hug Faith in greeting. Everyone present knew how the two felt about each other, and so there was no need to hide and hedge their love for one another. And there was another man in the room, one whose eyes met Faith’s as she spoke.

“Hello Jonathan,” she said tightly, and tried to smile at him.

Dr. Jonathan Mason was a tall, thin man, with cold, dead eyes and steely gray hair. He was whiplike and hard in his appearance, almost military in style and military in taste, his whole demeanor not one of the scholar he was. He was cold, impersonal, and harshly demanding. Why Archimedes kept him around was anyone’s guess, as his personality was one that clashed with just about anyone else’s. But he was an efficient bureaucrat, one that did everything that he needed to do to get the job done.

He merely nodded in Faith’s direction, and turned a close-lipped frown on Archimedes.

“Should I tell her now, or do you want to wait a bit longer for suspense?” he asked acidly, a sneer apparent in his voice.

Archimedes took this easily, and waved his hand, as if unconcerned. “Tell her now, by all means Jonathan. She is the last to know.” The young man’s eyes once again danced with glee, and he smiled a bright and happy smile.

“What is this? What’s going on?” asked the confused young woman.

Mason turned to Faith, and his voice was hard and to the point. “The Wolves have killed the Duke Radis de Montelore, and the entire Immortal world is in chaos. There, was that concise enough for you?” He asked of Archimedes, and turned away in disgust, edging closer to the large bookcase in the rear.

Faith was shocked. She turned to Caleb, and he nodded to confirm Mason’s words. Then she turned to Archimedes, who simply waved his hand to dispel the confusion.

“Yes, Jonathan, that was fine. Faith, my dear, we need to talk.” And with that, she sat down at the desk, and listened as Archimedes told her the story of the Duke’s death. Caleb sat down next to her, and listened raptly as the young man told his story. Michael leaned in tentatively at first, appearing unconcerned but quickly becoming wrapped in the story. And even Mason, whose sneering contempt was still evident on his face, seemed to perk up and listen to the young man as he wove his story. He spoke of the Rue des Arbes compound, of the infiltration by the Wolves, and of the sheer horror of the slaughter. Dozens dead, and dead for good. Mass bloodshed. A perfect victory for the Wolves. The Blood Drinkers’ horrible losses. And then Archimedes spoke directly to his small group, addressing them and meeting their gazes.

“And that is why I’ve asked you here, my dear. Why I’ve asked all of you here. It’s time to start training day, and you all know what that means. Recruitment must be at a critical level, if we are to remain ahead of the Immortals. And there is to be no slacking on the job. It is essential that we maintain the utmost level of secrecy throughout all this. If the Immortals should find us now, of all times, we could well be destroyed.” Archimedes spoke in a quiet voice, his customary smile wiped from his face. His gaze was sage and strong, if slightly brooding and melancholic.

Mason turned back to face the group, and spoke as well, his words clipped but his meaning clear. “What we need to do is what we’ve needed to do all along. We need the humans on our side. We need to let the world know what’s happening, and why. We need to stop the bloodshed before it goes further.”

But Archimedes shook his head. This was an old argument, one that went on constantly between the two of them. “No, Jonathan. That will not spare the humans. It will only make them frightened and afraid. There will be panic, if they understood the world of Immortals. Our world.”

“Our world? Who is this our? Who are we, to decide something of this incredible magnitude?”

Archimedes flashed him a look, one that said Mason was going too far in questioning the Order. “You know very well who we are, Jonathan. You know what we can do, what powers and influences are in our possession. So do not speak as if we are a divided front, that it is us and the humans against the Blood Drinkers and the Wolves. We ARE humans, Jonathan, the last of a dying breed, that’s true, but humans nonetheless. And we have a duty to protect those less fortunate from what they cannot see, what they cannot understand. You have followed this course all your life. Why now would you deviate? Why now would you risk it all?”

Jonathan was silent, his ideas still the same but his restraint increased. He knew that to cross Archimedes was to invoke his punishments, and the point was too worn to argue it now. And so he kept quiet.

Archimedes eyed him, as if challenging him to continue. He looked regal, sitting behind his mahogany desk, a look that belied his apparent age. Faith noticed the ageless quality to his face, the quiet dignity that most young men did not possess, and she admired him as she had always admired him. He was a very special man. Faith reached out, and took Caleb’s hand in her own. She squeezed it softly, lovingly, and then spoke to the small man behind the desk.

“Archimedes, I know training day is necessary. I know we have many young acolytes whose skills need honing. But so soon? We risk tiring out the young ones, and surely that would be detrimental to our cause.”

At this, Caleb spoke up. He looked Archimedes in the eye, and spoke in a hushed tone, but his meaning was clear. “Duke Kane.”

Suddenly, Faith understood. Her face drained of its color, and she nodded numbly. “We’ll start immediately, Archimedes. Today, even.”

They all nodded, except for Mason, and looked at each other thoughtfully.

OOC: And that's all I've got. Continue?

[Vahalior]

The sharp thundering sound of water being sprayed in the warehouse brought Bjorn back to his senses. Without opening his eyes, he licked his long slender hands, savouring the taste as the still warm blood ran across his tongue. Trying to block out the delicious coppery scent, he began to contemplate the situation. The water was descending from a fair height, likely from some form of fire surpression system, though with the smell of blood in the air, detecting anything else was beyond his capability. He could hear the water beginning to form shallow puddles in places, which would soon merge into much larger puddles and flood the warehouse entirely, he assumed. The soaked strands of his long, black hair laid against his face almost malevolently, yet any attempts to push them back failed. He was weak, not with hunger, nor from any injury. Weak with guilt of what he had just done. He gradually opened one eye, then, gasping, scrunched it shut again. Opening both this time wide, blinking several times in disbelief, before leaving them open and staring helplessly around the warehouse.

A deep red layer covered the floor, blood splatters covering the various boxes and vehicles scattered abandoned around the floor. The bodies ripped and mutilated, limbs forcibly ripped from their sockets then cast aside. Spent bullet cases littered the floor, giving metallic glints amongst the red river that covered the floor. Bjorn felt the all to familiar numbing sensation in his mouth, his pupils dilating as he stared, enraptured at the blood. A slight, vacant grin began forming on his face as he felt a burning sensation building up in his chest, as though his heart could actually begin to beat once again, coupled with a slightly sick feeling in his gut, the feeling that was weakening, that which told him what he was doing was wrong.

The blood frothed slightly in places, before Bjorn began moving forward with wet footsteps, making his way towards the warehouses office. The black leather trench coat kept the water from dampening the clothes beneath, and the heavy boots let no water in to discomfort his feet, but they didn't stop the water beating down on his face. He was tall, for his build, even the large trench coat couldn't bulk out his gaunt frame, and given his affliction, gaining additional body fat, or muscle, was now quite impossible. His skin secreted no oils, and shed no skin, yet he always wore the same black gloves, just incase.

The door was hanging ajar, several stray bullets had become embedded in its frame and resulted in it beginning to fall away. The sound of water falling had faded slightly from this vantage point four meters up, yet it still dominated his hearing. Cautiously, he pushed the door open and slipped inside. The lights had almost failed, only a dim sodium glow of the street lights outside managed to illuminate the room. Objects were scattered around, paper work, office stationary, the desk over turned to form a makeshift barracade that the previous owners had never had a chance to use.

"FREEZE MOTHER FU(KER!" Someone screamed, his voice wavering in fear, before a stray bullet richocheted off the wall. Focusing his eyes, Bjorn eventually spotted a young man, likely only just turned twenty, crumpled against the floor clutching a small handgun, his knuckles white, and pointing it with shaking hands in Bjorns direction.

"Behold face of your enemy." A second voice filled the room, heavily accented, though it wasn't an accent Bjorn was familiar with. It was clearly male though, and belonged to an old man. "Take shot! Take shot!" The man stared at Bjorn for a second, before exhaling and pulling the trigger, his face turning pure white as he did so. The bullet slammed into Bjorns shoulder, the force of the impact knocking him backwards a step and making him slam against the wall. Grunting slightly, Bjorn glared at the man, before taking a few steps forward and kicking the gun from his hand and grabbing him by the throat and forcing him to his feet.

The TV screen flickered on and filled the dark room with a hazy grey light. "Behold! Creature takes a bullet, and your shot hurts it not!" The man was veiled by shadow, all feature blanked out.

"Are you going to come and fight me, or just send these incompetant lackey's that are barely worth my time." He gave the young man a quick glance up, and then down, before moving his head slightly closer and sniffing his neck. Bjorn flashed the man a toothy grin, ensuring he could see his fangs before turning back to the TV. "Still, a snack is a snack I guess."

"My lackeys fight you until I decide you fight me!" With that the screen flicked off and the room darkened once again. Bjorn turned back to the young man, now turning blue from lack of oxygen. Semi-concious, he tried to give Bjorn a pleading, helpless look, yet Bjorns face had twisted into a beastial snarl. With a animalistic hiss, Bjorn lunged forward and plunged his fangs deep into the mans neck.

[Archangel]

The stairs were long. Much too long. There was no elevator, because that would attract far too much attention, what with maintenance and an aboveground opening. No, the stairs were still the only way down, because they were hidden in the basement of one of the libraries. They were in a position where no one could find them if they didn’t already know they were there, and even if they were found, they led to a small maze of passageways that had to be memorized before access was allowed. For most of the initiates, the maze was easily mastered, and that was in fact one of the first tests. But, more to the point, the staircase was incredibly long.

“Why can’t we put in an escalator or something?” complained one of the initiates softly to another as they passed down the stairs. Faith simply smiled and led the way down, her hand holding up a curious device that looked like a small globe but emitted the light of a fluorescent strip and was of course cool to the touch. The students were not used to training day. She had walked these steps a hundred times, sometimes balancing weights on her shoulders to train her muscles, sometimes carrying stacks of paper or other objects down into the depths. There were exactly 1,382 steps, she knew, she had counted, and they weren’t exactly easy steps either.

Finally the group reached the bottom. Comprised of Faith, Caleb, and four initiates, they were the last of the members to arrive. Stepping into an anteroom, Faith gestured for the initiates to get to their lockers, and stepped into Caleb’s arms. He held her tightly as the pair watched the four go to their assigned lockers, large and a bit bulky, and take out their training suits. All four of these initiates were male, so Faith and Caleb politely stepped out of the anteroom and walked towards the control room, arm in arm. The initiates all knew where to go and what to do. They didn’t need guidance.

On the way to the control room, they came across Michael in a side room, facing a small group of very young-looking students. They were all dressed in identical training suits, black one-piece suits apparently made of some sort of nylon, clinging tightly to the body and yet breathable. He was just beginning his lesson, and Faith, ever curious, stopped to listen to him. This was one of the most interesting things: when new initiates were taken into the Cavern for the first time. She could just imagine their faces. But for now, she listened carefully to what Michael was saying.

“Listen up all of you. You being here is a trust, a sacred bond that must not be broken. You have all passed the entrance exams, and have been told that what you do is top secret, never to be exposed to the outside world. Well, I’m here to tell you this: your life is now ours. If word of this place ever reaches the ears or eyes of somebody that is not one of us, I promise you that I myself will order your execution. We here do not joke around, we do not kid, and we do not have fun. We are deadly serious.” He gave the small group a stern look, and a stern look from such an imposing and deadly man was enough to silence any doubts and engender half a million fears.

“Now is the time. Now is when you learn who it is you are, and what it is you’re training for. Now is when we teach you the secrets of the most powerful group of humans on the face of this planet. Now is when you learn about the Mages.”

Some of the faces in the crowd looked at him with doubt, confusion, some even outright amusement. Mages? Mages were figures out of mythology, creatures of magic and wisdom that surpassed all normal humans. Mages weren’t real, were they?

As if reading their minds, Michael spoke. “Yes, Mages are real. Mages are among us even now. Look to the door.” He gestured towards Faith, who raised a shy hand at the group as all the heads turned to look at her. “Who you see there is Faith Mackenzie, Biology and Chemistry professor in the world above, and a PhD in her own right. But down here, she’s something more. She’s a Mage, First Class, one of the highest-ranking members of our group and one of the most powerful. Doesn’t look like much, does she?” He chuckled a bit, but his expression immediately returned to its frightening grimace. “Do not underestimate her. As a Mage, she has the power at this very moment to reduce you to your component molecules and disperse you like wind disperses sand. Oh, do you doubt this?”

One of the initiates had a look on her face, an incredulous look that betrayed her inner feelings of doubt. “But sir…nobody can do that. It’s…impossible.”

Michael quirked one gray eyebrow at Faith, who smiled slightly. She stepped more fully into the room, and Caleb stood quietly outside the door, watching with a smirk on his face. As she stepped in, she gathered her mind around the task at hand, and felt the pulling begin. Static electricity arced between hairs as her red locks stood on end. She raised her arms, and between her outstretched fingers jumped little sparks of lightning. She felt the almost-weightlessness of it, the feeling of swelling like a balloon filled with helium, and her beautiful emerald eyes turned a fascinating pure white. The initiates watched in awed horror, their faces frozen in expressions of fear and confusion, as she gently stood there. And they felt the energy pouring out of her, like a wave of pure nothingness, rushing out in a flash. All this happened in less than three seconds, and they were utterly astounded.

Faith pointed one hand towards Michael. He held up a small dry-eraser, holding it delicately in his big fingers. Faith’s index finger pointed towards it, and she felt the power arcing from her finger to the eraser, unseen power but strong nonetheless. Like a small release of pressure, she commanded it done in her mind, her thoughts bent on the eraser. And like that, it was gone. No eraser remained in Michael’s hand. A dry black pile of dust lay on the floor below where the eraser had been. And Faith still felt full of the power, possessed with it, almost as if the eraser hadn’t been enough. The pressure was too much…she focused hard, her mind bending to her will. And suddenly it was over. She stood there again, a petite little red-haired thing, her eyes the same emerald shade, her hair in place, her body no longer swelling with power. And she had a chagrined little look on her face, as if she was embarrassed of what had just happened.

In the silence that followed her disintegration, Michael’s basso voice rose up and washed over the initiates. “And that, children, was a small sample of the powers of a Mage. Would any of you like to learn more?” Immediately, a dozen heads turned, and a dozen hands were raised, as if they were in a third grade class again. Michael’s laughter followed Faith out as she left the room, and wrapped her arm around Caleb again.

“First, students, initiates…I’ll tell you about the Immortals.”

OOC: More to come later, I feel in a writing mood so I'll probably go into the backstory soon, and then hit the training. Then we can go out and about, and fight us some Immortals. I'll probably throw a bit more about Wolves and Blood Drinkers in there somewhere, and start to reveal the plot of the story. If there's anyone who wants to join in, just join whenever you'd like, kinda like V did. I don't mind at all, I'll just add you to the Word document like I added him.