One by one the Invaders took the elevator back down to the club and off to their respective lives and schemes. Rebecca, Sarah, and Michael alone remained in the office.
Michael shot Sarah a sly glance. “So, dear Sarah, as Rebecca pointed out…”
“Yes, I spent the day with Lynne.” Sarah growled half-embarrassed. “And yes, I let her fuck me. Satisfied?”
“Why are you so angry?”
“More frustrated than angry.” Sarah shook her head. “Rebecca told me to go down that road, to try someone on the side, like you two both do. So I did. And I didn’t enjoy it like you hoped or even like I hoped. I just don’t think it’ll work for me.”
“You are new to the whole bisexual thing.” Said Rebecca sympathetically. “Perhaps another woman, as opposed to a man, was not the best choice for your first experiment.”
“No, that’s not it.” Said Sarah. “I’m just not like the two of you. Sex is fun. I enjoy it, but I’m not keen on this whole hopping-from-one-bed-to-another bit. I want to be with the two of you and only you two.”
“Fair enough.” Said Rebecca sympathetically. “You tried and it didn’t work out. We’re all making this up as we go along. You can choose to be monogamous, or I suppose the better phrase would be bigamous.”
“That’s all well and good.” Said Sarah, “but what I really want is for all of us to be that way. And I know that won’t happen.”
“We love you, Sarah,” said Michael cautiously, “but sexual fidelity is not in our nature.”
“I’m aware of that.” Grumbled Sarah. “We’re four months into this and I know now what will be our biggest trial. It’s really not about us at all. My issues with jealousy or your desire for libertine freedom are largely irrelevant. This is really about us as kindred. You’re Daeva and part of your nature, in addition to all the perks, is your inability to say no to pleasures. That’s the curse of your clan. I’m Ventrue and our curse is the slow descent into madness, a descent that is accelerated for me by my Malkovian sire. My schizophrenic episodes are rather sporadic at the moment, but they won’t stay that way.”
Sarah paused for a long moment. “We’re monsters and we keep trying to pretend we’re not. But we are cursed souls and happiness will not come easily to us. We keep talking about how hard this is to be together, but I don’t think any of us have the first clue what that really means. This difference of opinion about sex is just the beginning. It will get worse. It will get harder.”
There was a long pause. The look on Michael’s face was grim. “It’s not going to last forever. It just isn’t.” said Sarah darkly.
“We will make it last as long as we can.” Replied Michael defiantly. “This is about choice. We must choose, each night, to trust one another. We must choose, each night, to forgive one another. Even, and perhaps especially, when we’ve hurt one another.”
“Because hurting one another is going to be what will happen.” Added Rebecca. “Sarah’s right about one thing. This is not just about sex and relationships; it is about our very natures. We keep trying to change one another. Sarah, you keep hoping we’ll be monogamous but that’s not going to happen. We keep hoping to awaken some inner slut in you that really isn’t there. But maybe it’s better if we just stop all that and be honest with ourselves. Each of us is living into the person we truly are without all the expectations of religion or family or even society. That’s probably a good thing. We need to stop pretending it isn’t.”
Sarah nodded. “We need one another to be true to ourselves. If it hadn’t been for you, Rebecca, I’d have never been honest about that little part of me that is attracted to other women. Michael, you pulled me out of my shell. You believed in me. Made me stop being afraid of this body of mine or even this crazy brain.”
“And you stand tall as a brake against our excesses.” Added Michael, smiling at Sarah. “Never mind all the truth telling you once did with me with your Tarot cards and mind reading. Each of us has given a lot to the others.” He shook his head. “We’ve been going at this the wrong way. We keep trying to fix one another, as if something in us is broken. But that’s the old game all over again with the church or propriety or our parents dictating our fates, only now it isn’t them. It’s us.”
Rebecca nodded. “We need each other to be different. After all, that is who we fell in love with. Not a forced reflection but our true selves.”
“Truth matters.” Said Michael.
Sarah nodded. “It won’t be easier. We’re still going to trample on one another’s feelings a lot. And a change of strategy may not prevent the dire fate I just predicted a few moments ago. We still may be doomed.”
“We take each night as it comes.”
“Speaking of that,” said Rebecca, trying to change the subject. “What are we to do about this scheme of yours to get the mages involved in our little war?” When Sarah frowned at the interruption, Rebecca turned to her. “In many cases, dear Sarah, the worse thing we can do with the struggles of life and love is navel-gaze ourselves to death. Best to focus our energies elsewhere and, as Michael says, take each night as it comes.”
Sarah nodded reluctantly.
“Well, the same as for everyone else.” Answered Michael. “Proceed with all previous plans, but keep our eyes and ears pealed for an opportunity to infuriate the Consilium into action.” Michael sat down. “Somewhat ironically, we’re back at square one. When we began our encroachment on Villanova, we expected to aggravate the Consilium against Walsh, only to discover the mage in charge of that campus was Brotherhood instead.”
“We know from Dylan that the university campuses are almost universally under the control of various mages.” Offered Sarah. “Since Mitch has been spending a lot of time around Temple, perhaps that’s where we should start.”
“I’m reluctant to try that.” Said Michael. “The Consilium will presume Mitch has informed us about their presence at Temple. If we launch some manner of attack against them there, they are more like to presume it was us instead of Walsh. Better to hit them someplace where they don’t know we know where they are.”
Sarah nodded. That made sense.
“Be really nice if we could somehow get David and the Malleus on board to go after the Consilium too.” Michael paused, thinking the idea through. “Yeah, that’s probably the best of all possible worlds. Zao will see the Malleus as directly tied to Walsh and Walsh to the Brotherhood. The question is, can David be persuaded to pursue a different foe or will he obsess over me?”
“Depends on his nature, I suppose.” Said Sarah.
“He’ll obsess.” Said Rebecca confidently. “In large part because he won’t find you very easily.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because of what we were just talking about. Your true nature is a long way from the person you once pretended to be. Anything he knows about you from our past life is pretty much useless to him. He’ll guess that you’ve changed with becoming a vampire, but he won’t know how, and I doubt he’ll guess that the good little church boy you once were is now a philandering hedonistic demigod that most women wet their panties over.”
“He might be cleverer than you think.” Said Sarah. “If he’s guessed you’re different now, his first impulse might be to look at the opposite extreme. And that would land him right on top of who you are now.” Sarah shook her head. “You’re playing with fire. Fanatics are always dangerous. Mathias, the Mad Bishop, and this David seem to be cut from the same cloth. It’s best that we avoid him entirely, but obviously that won’t happen here. But I have a better idea than just waiting around for him to find us.”
“And that is?”
“We take the fight to him. The Malleus are a dangerous variable right now. I say we take them out.”
---
Boar returned to the North Fairmount camp to an envoy from the Ganshohawanee werewolf pack. The Gansh were the largest of the Philadelphia area werewolf packs and were held in high regard.
“Salvador Ortega sends his regards.” said the envoy obsequiously. “And invites you to moot on the grounds of the Mercer Museum in Doylestown two days hence.” The envoy then offered up a piece of bark from a tree. On the inside of it, a werewolf had scratched a single word in the First Tongue, the guttural runic language of werewolves: “Come.”
Boar accepted the piece of bark, an ancient tradition that he’d learned but never witnessed until now. A moot was a gathering of werewolf tribes, rarely done except in times of duress and great danger. The weakening Gauntlet was clearly alarming more than just the mages.
“We will be there.” Boar said formally. A grumbling murmur erupted from his packmates behind him. They would simply have to deal. Most of them had tried to join the Gansh at some point and been rejected as unfit and unworthy. Ortega was hardly their favorite person.
The two days passed quickly enough. Boar loaded up his entire pack and headed north into Bucks county, home turf for the Gansh, and to the Mercer museum. The museum was a 19th century ceramic tile factory adjoined by the mansion of its late owner, Henry Mercer. Mercer was something of an eccentric, a fanatical collector of random knickknacks and other items. A modern psychologist might call him a hoarder, but upon his death his collection of rare items was impressive enough to dedicate his home as a museum.
These days, the museum was host to all sorts of public and private events. The local historical society, the SCA, Civil War reenactors, church groups, Lions Clubs, and just about everyone else used the grounds for picnics and other gatherings. No one would find the massive gathering of seemingly-normal looking werewolves out of the ordinary.
Although “massive” might have been an exaggeration. The first thing Boar noted on their arrival was how small the gathering was. Perhaps one hundred individuals tops. He expected much more for the summons of a tribal chief of Ortega’s renown.
“So now what?” asked Cortez nervously.
“We mingle until Ortega says otherwise.” said Boar curtly. As always, he tried to project an aura of confidence, but this time it was more an act that usual. Boar too was nervous. In a gathering of uratha of this size, the odds of running into someone who knew of his part in the slaughter of the Roanoke, Virginia werewolf pack increased.
A buffet table of food was the centerpiece of the gathering, loaded up with all manner of meats from chicken and beef to more exotic fare like venison and pheasant. The North Fairmount werewolves got in line and loaded up plates full of food. They then scattered to find places to sit and “mingle” as Boar had instructed.
Janice stuck close to her Alpha, so she and Boar made their way over to a picnic table and sat down. The lone nebbish werewolf sitting there nodded at their arrival. “William P. Finch.” he introduced himself formally.
“Boar Boorman and this is Janice Miller.” replied Boar.
“The new Alpha of the Fairmount pack.” Finch lowered his head in deference.
“You part of the Gansh?”
“I am. I’m a crescent moon, one of their spirit walkers.”
“A shaman.”
“Techno-shaman, if you want to be specific. I commune with spirits of steel and circuitry. A somewhat more modern take on things.”
“Interesting.” said Boar.
Janice suddenly gave him a light swat on his arm to draw his attention. “He’s got a gun.” She growled, pointing out a young werewolf walking some distance away.
Like any social gathering with any sort of people, there were rules, spoken and unspoken. One of the rules of werewolf society was no weapons. The various forms of the wolf that an uratha could assume gave them more than enough tools for inflicting injury and death even on one another. But to carry a gun or a blade implied the use of silver and was considered a major faux pas among the uratha.
Finch followed their gaze. “That’s Julian Stark. He’s one of ours and the disciple of one of our elders, Konstantin Orlov.” Finch’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Our alpha has many enemies within his own pack. Orlov has just returned from being away several months and is flexing his muscles to embarrass the chief.”
“Politics.” lamented Boar.
“Your little pack might not have a lot of renown or influence, Mr. Boorman, but you also avoid a lot of this bullshit. A part of me envies you.”
“You could jump ship.” offered Janice.
Finch looked at her like she had two heads and rolled his eyes. Her suggestion, abandoning a pack of prestige like the Gansh for an upstart band like hers, was preposterous.
Boar ignored their exchange. “Is this why we were invited? To be drawn into these petty little games?”
“No, quite the opposite. But it’s not my place to tell you the details. I’ll leave that to my alpha. It shouldn’t be much longer.”
It wasn’t. The three of them devoured their meals and a few minutes after that, a loud howl echoed over the gathering. The attention of every werewolf present was drawn to the sound. A large Latino man in his early 50s stood upon one of the picnic tables.
Ortega was a surprise to Boar in many ways. The Ganshohawanee took their name from the Lenape word for “rushing waters” (their name for the Schuylkill River) and their origins lay in pre-colonial times among the local native tribes. But those days were long past and few werewolves in the modern day Gansh had any native blood. Still, despite Ortega’s obviously Latin name, Boar figured their leadership might still have traces of their traditional ancestry. It did not appear to be so.
Ortega was an anomaly in another way: his age. Werewolves could live a normal human lifespan, but their violent natures made that unlikely. Ortega had been Chief of the Gansh for around 20 years and had held off many challenges from much younger and likely stronger rivals. That he was still alive and in charge in his 50s was proof of his tenacity and power.
His personal charisma was also evident. Every eye remained glued to the chief as he began to speak. “Welcome,” he said. “it is good that so many are here.”
Murmurs began in the crowd and Boar became confused. “Not as many as we’d like. The Alpha is being polite.” grumbled Finch. “Most tribes and packs refused the summons.”
“Why is that?” asked Janice.
“They’re cowards.” snarled Finch, doing little to mask his disgust and anger.
“An unprecedented threat is emerging and it is time we put aside our differences and rivalries before it consumes us. Many of you know the history of this region and you what it spawned. As mortal man rushes towards a singular point in time with both anxiety and excitement, they run the risk of fueling this threat. I have called all of you here so that we may find fellowship with one another. That we may become friends. That may we unite and find an answer to the danger of Ma’atia’to.”
The murmurs grew louder. Whatever that name meant, it sent a shiver of fear through the crowd.
“Who’s that?” Boar asked.
“You don’t know?” Finch looked at Boar incredulously.
“No. I’m not from here and my pack has been kept in the dark...”
Finch shook his head. “...because of politics. Your pack lives on the fiend’s very doorstep and you don’t even know it’s there. Well, I’m no storyteller. Ortega should tell you. It is best that you go to him now and find out why you are here.”
“Very well.” said Boar, standing up. He marched towards where Ortega had just finished speaking.
The venerable chief spotted Boar’s approach. “You must be Boar Boorman.” said Ortega with a hint of pride. “I am most pleased that you and your pack are here.”
“There is much here that does not make sense to me, Great Chief. I was told my pack were made up of misfits and outcasts, wolves that you rejected, and yet now you receive us with honor?”
“Times have changed.” said Ortega. “And you have proven yourselves by the retaking of St. Agnes. Now you are our vanguard.”
“Against what? Who is Ma’atia’to?”
“What do you know of the secret history of this place?”
“Almost nothing as my pack was taught almost nothing of it.”
“Then we need to remedy that. You should know what we are all facing. You have heard of the Dark Brotherhood?”
“The mage sect? Yes.”
“The Brotherhood came when the white man came.” began Ortega. “They were the last survivors of a diabolical cult that had thrived in the chaos of Oliver Cromwell’s civil war. When the monarchy was reestablished in England, the English hunted them down, slaughtering them as heretics and witches. They thought they’d gotten them all and the cult vanished into history. But they were wrong. Some escaped.
“A handful made their way to the New World on the same colony ships that brought William Penn and his Quakers. In secret, the cult began anew. But it remained small, weak. Like most white men in those days, they concerned themselves with simply surviving in this new land and they gave little time to their demonic ideals. That would change.
“One of their number, a man named Abel Trueblood, sought a parcel of land to the west of what is now Philadelphia. It was occupied by a sizable village of Lenape natives. So Trueblood gathered his fellow cultists and a few other cruel-hearted whites who needed little prompting to slaughter Indians. They fell upon that village in an orgy of blood and slaughter. None survived: Men, women, children. They killed them all and in doing so, they gave birth to something. Something beyond this world, a spirit of murder and slaughter.”
“Ma’atia’to.” interjected Boar.
Ortega nodded. “Yes. That is the ‘demon’ the Brotherhood cult now worships. It spoke to Trueblood and promised him power in return for more blood and death. The demonic spirit was true to its word. As Trueblood and his cultists rampaged across the frontier, killing the natives by the hundreds, the spirit gave them the power it had promised. The cult’s leaders awoke and became infernal sorcerers.
“The native uratha came to hate the spirit. It was they that gave it a name: Ma’atia’to. It lives still, constantly calling to the Brotherhood members. Pledging them gifts and power for more and more slaughter.”
“And the Brotherhood obliges.” said Boar.
“Indeed it does. You understand the nature of the spirits of this world. All things have their spirits and all spirits are fed and sustained by the thing that birthed them. A spirit of a tree is born of that tree and while the tree lives and thrives, so too does the spirit. The larger and more grand the tree becomes, so too does the spirit then grow and become more powerful. A spirit of murder is no different. It is born of murder and murder feeds and sustains it. The greater the slaughter, the stronger the spirit becomes.
“But now as humanity races towards the new millennium, fear of apocalypse has begun to infect their souls. That fear is weakening the Gauntlet between this world and the spiritual realms. And that is why I have called everyone here. We must answer this weakening directly. If the Gauntlet collapses here, then it will release a spirit of evil and murder of unimaginable power upon an unsuspecting humanity. They fear apocalypse. That very fear might be a self-fulfilling prophecy.”
The other Alphas and pack elders had gathered around them by now. “So now we must decide what we are to do about this?” said one.
Ortega nodded. “Yes, that is why we are here.”
“We could attack the spirit directly. Seek to destroy it in the Spirit Realm.” said another elder.
“It is too powerful.” growled another. This werewolf had a thick Russian accent and Boar guessed this was Orlov. The gun at his hip was another clue. Orlov continued. “A better strategy would be to kill the demon’s servants. We kill the mages and vampires that worship him.”
“And that would be slaughter also. Even united, we have not the strength to war against both kindred and wizard.”
“The vampires and mages are not united themselves.” added Boar. “There are factions among them that would stand with us.” He paused. “They would welcome the help. They know the threat too.”
“What would bloodsuckers know of things spiritual?” snarled Orlov. “I have heard of you, Boar Boorman. You are a traitor to your own kind, one who consorts with our most hated enemies.”
“That is unfair.” said Ortega. “We have long lent out our strength to any who would meet our price. And while it is Tatiana’s changeling court that has most often sought our aid, there are many here who have had their dealings with vampire and wizard.” Ortega looked at Boar. “Perhaps they should be at this table as well.”
“Expect no help from the changelings. The Freehold has cancelled all contracts with our tribes.” said another werewolf. “The weakening of the Gauntlet likewise portends the weakening of the Hedge. They fear the return of the True Fae and they are going into hiding.”
“Cowards.” growled another.
“Cowardice seems to be our greatest foe here. Over half the packs you summoned, Great Chief, did not answer.” said Orlov. “And the mages of the Consilium will be no help. They are weak and led by a man frightened of his own shadow. I have come with arms from Russia, weapons that we can use against our enemies. We rally our kin-touched to our side and we will have the numbers to overwhelm the Brotherhood and their vampire allies. Once they are dead, Ma’atia’to will have no one to call it across the Gauntlet. Problem solved.”
“Convenient,” said Ortega. “that it gives you the excuse to slaughter your most hated enemies as well.”
“That it serves my personal desires does not make it a bad plan.”
“You forget the hunters.” said Boar. “We go in shooting and two things will happen. One, the hunters will come out in droves and two, we will accelerate the fear of the mortal populace that is already degrading the strength of the Gauntlet.”
“You have already proven that the hunter threat is not as great as it once was.” Orlov replied. “Your pack of misfits has already avenged one of our people’s greatest disgraces. As to the fear that we will create, that is a risk admittedly. But what of these proposals is without risk? Do any of us truly think that we will come out of these times intact?”
Orlov spun towards one of his peers, the elder who’d proposed facing Ma’atia’to directly. “Let us charge into the Spirit Realm as they did in Denver against the idigam there. It will be a massacre even if we are successful.” He then turned back to Boar. “And let us make allies of vampires and mages or of our kin-touched and go forth to do battle in the streets against the Brotherhood. Those infernal mages are strong and many of their vampire allies a century old or older. How well will we fare in that fight?”
Ortega nodded. “You are right. No plan has guarantee of success and no plan does not come without extreme sacrifice. But we must choose a coarse.”
“I have made my opinion known.” said Orlov. “We cannot trust mage nor kindred. Best to arm our mortal families and take the fight to the Brotherhood.”
Boar spoke up. “And I say we can trust them and they will bring power beyond what mortal weapons can do to our cause.” Boar nodded. “But on the latter point, I agree with Orlov. We take the fight to the Brotherhood.”
The gathered uratha leaders nodded and muttered agreement. Ortega called for quiet after a few minutes. “It seems the question is one of who will our allies be. There is merit in both proposals, perhaps enough for us to consider a compromise. Why not do both?” He looked at Orlov. “Your hatred of kindred and mage is well known, Konstantin, but these are not the times for vengeance. Arm the kin-touched and rally them to our cause.” Ortega then turned to Boar. “And as for you, go to your friends and allies. I will meet with them to discuss terms of an accord.”
“You will regret that.” snarled Orlov angrily.
---
Prince Elias Walsh walked into the room to find Regulus Noble hunched over his desk, flipping through the pages of a rather large and ancient looking tome.
“Well, this is a surprise.” Said the vampire prince.
Regulus’ eyes glanced up at Walsh. “In what way?”
Walsh gave a playful smack on a nearby instrument of torture. “To find you nose deep in a book rather than flaying the skin off some nubile young thing.”
Regulus looked up and stared at the Prince. “You sound disappointed.”
“I wouldn’t have minded a little snack.” Walsh rubbed his fingers against the side of the instrument, coming away with some reddish dust on his thumb. He sucked it off his thumb; it was dried blood as he suspected, but obviously neither very fresh nor tasty.
“The time of sacrifice is not long in coming. There will be blood enough then. Until then, our duties to our master are likely to become more narrow in focus, particularly in light of the fact that our enemies will begin to move against us.”
“They suspect nothing. Monroe, Zao, all of them ignorant.”
Regulus chuckled grimly. “Are they?”
Walsh’s eyes narrowed. The two fiends were roughly equal in age, with Walsh having been embraced around the turn of the 19th century, but Regulus had an annoying habit of talking down to the Prince as if he were the elder and wiser of the two of them. A habit Walsh resented and a habit he sensed being used against him now.
“What are you getting at?”
“While I know you’ve been hiding out here nursing your wounded pride over being outmaneuvered by that Virginian whelp, I doubt even you have been completely oblivious to the gathering of werewolves that took place two nights ago in Doylestown.”
“I knew about it. I simply do not care.”
“You should. The beasts sense the truth.”
“What truth?”
“What do you know of spiritual matters?”
“I know that mortal religions know next to nothing about the true nature of our reality, that there is a spirit realm and within it reside all manner of creatures.”
“Good enough.” Said Regulus, his demeanor of impatient-teacher not abating in the slightest. “What keeps all those ‘creatures’ as you put them on their side of reality are a series of barriers that we generally call the Gauntlet. The more frightened people become, the more convinced they are that the world will end on New Years Eve of this year, the weaker that barrier becomes.”
“And it’s already happening.”
“And the werewolves know it.” Said Regulus. “If they are massing in force, it means they seek to set aside their tribal differences to face a greater threat. They know of our master and it is likely they intend to do whatever they can to stop us.”
“So, it is to be war with the shapechangers then.”
“It’s already begun. My good friends in the St. Agnes chapter of the Ashwood Abbey were ejected rather forcefully from their manse last week. The territory the Abbey stole from the werewolves is now back in their hands.”
“Your pet hunters are little concern of mine.” Scoffed Walsh.
“Your friends in the Order of the Dragon are likely to be next. The Abbey guarded a powerful nexus, a place where the Gauntlet is naturally weak. And now the werewolves control that breech, standing guard against whatever might try to come through. You can bet the werewolves are gunning for other such nexus, some of which are under the control of your fellow kindred.”
“The Dragons are hardly allies of mine. Let the werewolves batter them senseless.”
“And if the Dragons petition for aid, will you truly refuse them?” retorted Regulus incredulously. “There are others who might step up to the challenge. Others who are looking for allies to use against you…and us.”
“Don’t tell me how to play the game, Regulus. I have only so much patience for your condescending bullshit.”
“Then do your job, Prince. The werewolves are a threat to our plan. Do what you must to keep them from controlling those nexus.”
“And you? What will you be doing while I stick my neck out for some of my worst enemies?”
“Turning this disintegrating Gauntlet to our advantage.” Said Regulus with a sly smile.
---
Mitch darted inside the restaurant just as the rain began to come down in earnest. He spat out an impolite expletive and shook the water from his hair before scanning about. Sitting there, waiting patiently near the hostess station was Keri. Her eyes, as always it seemed, were focused on him.
“Well,” said Mitch, somewhat embarrassed by his loss of temper. “Wonderful weather we’re having tonight.” Keri smiled at his sarcasm.
“It’s March. Typical.”
“I’m not late, am I?”
“No, I was just early. I already put in for a table.”
Then, as if on cue, the hostess came over to escort them to their place. Keri stood up and motioned for Mitch to lead the way. Together, they followed the hostess to their table, got their menus, and sat down.
“So, what looks good?” Mitch said out loud, perusing the menu.
“You’re a strange one, you know that?”
“Excuse me?” Mitch put the menu down and looked at her.
“You heard me. The man I asked out the other night was confident, self-assured, and brave. Tough enough to chase down a group of thugs without a moment’s hesitation. Yet, you’re sitting here, nervous, fidgety, and afraid to look me in the eye.”
“Alright,” said Mitch, conceding defeat. “You’re right. This isn’t me. I’m off my game. Still, I can’t be doing too bad. You’re here…with me. Rather than in bed with Michael right now.”
“You seem convinced that I would choose him over you.”
“Everyone else does.”
“I’m not ‘everyone else.’” Said Keri firmly. “Besides, fucking the boss is probably a bad idea. And then there’s the fact that I owe you one.”
“What for?”
“Getting me the job without having to prove that a chick only 5 feet tall has what it takes to be a bouncer in a nightclub.”
“Sammy McKay.” Replied Mitch.
Now it was Keri’s turn to be confused. “Excuse me?”
“Sammy McKay was a police officer in Virginia Beach where Michael and I used to live. She was like you. Short but tough. Didn’t take shit from anybody. Was more than willing to take on drunken louts twice her size. There wasn’t a one of us that didn’t think the world of her. Taught us to not underestimate short people.”
“You fucked her, didn’t you?”
Mitch laughed. “You remind me a lot of her. She was up front and blunt too. Yes, we were together. But she was Michael’s, not that she really belonged to anybody. If she wanted you, she went after you. Other arrangements not withstanding.”
“So you cheated on your friend with her?”
“No, he knew. He knew her. He knew she was going to do whatever she was going to do anyway, so it never got between us. Sammy was just that way. Aggressive. Determined. Self-assured.”
“Like you are…normally.”
“Well, that’s just the thing. She was like a man in that; guess there was something refreshing about that. I liked it.”
“And yet, you won’t give me the same credit.”
Mitch smiled, realizing the trap had just sprang shut on him. “Okay, you got me there.”
“So why am I different?”
“You’re not. In fact, that’s what I’m scared of. You’re going to be just like all the others.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Back in November, I was accused of something, a crime. And it’s dogged me ever since. Like an albatross around my neck. Every date who’s found out about it goes running for the hills screaming. I keep figuring you’re next.”
“What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything. I was accused of rape.”
“Okay.” Said Keri. She returned to her menu. “The Chicken Cordon Blue looks good.”
Mitch looked at her with utter bafflement. “Did you not hear me?”
“I did. There are two things I can do. I can go ‘running for the hills screaming’ as you put it, based entirely on the presumption that you are guilty of this crime. But let’s consider the evidence. You’re sitting here across from me at a restaurant, not in a jail cell. So you have likely been exonerated of said crime. Given the oh-so-rapid pace of our justice system, I can only presume that charges were dismissed for lack of evidence.”
“Or I’m out on bail.”
“If that’s the case, then the magistrate did not see you a significant enough threat to remand you. Weighing all the evidence, I’d say you’re telling the truth when you say you did not do this thing.”
“Women don’t lie about rape.”
“No, we don’t. Not normally. So you have that against you. But here’s the other thing. If you wanted to hide this from me, it wouldn’t have been hard.”
“Others found out.”
“You’ve saved me the trouble of that. A guilty man would likely not admit to this so openly.”
“Figured I’d get the pain of rejection out of the way early.”
Keri smiled. “It’s too early in our friendship for that to happen. Which brings me, at last, to the second thing I can do in response to your confession: I can take my chances with you, which is what I’m choosing to do.” Her smile gained a sinister cast. “If you are lying and if you try something with me, let’s remember who can kick whose ass.”
---
David watched mindlessly as page after page of text scrolled past on the screen of his laptop. His search program was running along nicely. Sure, he could have programmed it to display nothing but a counter, but where was the fun in that? Besides, scanning the deep recesses of the Internet where hunters lurked was not something you trusted to Yahoo or Google, no matter how sophisticated their algorithms. This was a process that took time.
A knock came at his chamber door. “Come.” David barked. Brother Andre walked inside.
“Am I disturbing you, Brother David?”
“No.”
“May I ask what that is?”
“I’m scanning the Internet for any posts about our demonic targets. Looking to see if hunters of any stripe have crossed their paths before. Did you need something of me?”
“I was curious to see if you would be interested in saying mass tomorrow.”
“I appreciate the honor, but I am no priest. I have taken no vows save obedience to the Malleus Malificarum.”
Andre was clearly surprised by this. “My apologies. I presumed...”
“You are not the first to make that error. Don’t be upset. I’m not.”
“You are a mystery to me. Your youth. Your expertise. Your lack of ordination. How would someone like you gain so high a position in our order?” queried Andre. “If you don’t mind my asking...”
“Not at all, Brother Andre.” said David magnanimously. “If all that baffles you, I have one more. I wasn’t even raised Catholic. I was a Protestant, an Evangelical, for my formative years.”
“How did you come to Catholicism then?”
“I strove from my earliest memories to be a man of God. I kept the commandments. I strove to be better than my peers. And I was rewarded for my efforts. God saw fit to bless my devotion with much success. I was popular in school. I had many friends. I had academic achievement. All of this led to my acceptance at MIT in computer science. I was on the fast track to becoming the next Bill Gates.
“While, in college, I met her. A fellow student, gorgeous, blonde, slender, smart. Her name was Jennifer and we fell head over heals for one another. Our relationship was going wonderfully. My life was perfect in every way. And that, of course, made me a target for Satan’s plots.
“Out of nowhere, Jennifer suddenly grew distant, uninterested, morose even. I began to question her devotion to me. One evening, I went to her apartment unannounced only to find her in the arms of another man. Only he wasn’t a man. He drew back from her with eyes cold as ice, blood dripping from his fangs, and I was confronted with the undeniable reality that vampires were not a fiction after all. I fled in terror. I ran and he pursued. But God was with me and I somehow evaded his search.
“My quest began at that point. I began conversations with pastors and preachers and all sorts of religious leaders. Most of them scoffed at my story or offered meaningless platitudes about spiritual warfare and the influence of Satan on our world. They were clueless, blind, but there was one who was not. One day, I was approached by Father Finn McIntyre, a Catholic priest. He told me about his encounter with the demonic, about how he too faced down a monster most thought mythological.”
“I have met Father McIntyre. He is well regarded in our order.”
“You can guess then what happened next. I came to realize that here in Holy Mother Church were the means to battle this evil. The Protestant tradition that I grew up in had long ago rejected rite and ritual as nothing more than useless pomp, but I now knew that those traditions serve a purpose and that the Roman church was far better equipped to deal with the real darkness out there. So I converted and I serve God now as a hunter of the Malleus Malificarum.”
David smiled at Andre. “One of my first missions was to hunt down that beast that was devouring my fiancée. I staked him for the sun and I did likewise to her for good measure. It’s a bit messier to do that to a human being.”
“An innocent?” Andre looked shocked.
“She was no innocent!" snapped David fiercely. "A willing whore of a demon who deserved nothing less than to share his fate. Don’t look so horrified. My willingness to do what is necessary is the reason for my success. The demonic must be destroyed. Everything it touches must be destroyed. There are no innocents when it comes to these creatures. Their taint cannot be allowed to spread. God apparently agrees with me, for if my methods are so objectionable, why else would I be Grand Inquisitor?”
“But you believe me and all our order here to be influenced by a vampire. Is that your intentions for us?” Andre tensed, as if readying for a fight.
“You are not yet tainted, although I have no doubt the vampire intends to do that to you at some point. Perhaps soon. You are fortunate, Brother Andre, that I arrived when I did. A month or two more, I might have to put you down as well. But fear not, I have no such intention of doing so now. You are safe from me, although not, I think, from it.”
“That is not a comforting thought.”
“Nor should it be. My task here is two fold. One is to liberate you from the influence of this creature who you think to be an Archangel. We will put him to the test when next he arrives, although I suspect we will be able to lure him easily enough by our other task.” David pulled out the photographs of the vampires Andre had given him.
“If a vampire gave us those, then is it not logical to assume he wants them destroyed as badly as we do?”
“Evil feeds upon itself, as I said before. But my suspicion is these will lead us to others and they might prove to be ones that our faux-archangel does not want destroyed. Stray too far off the reservation and he will come calling.” David shuffled through the photos, stopping when he found Michael’s. “My plan is not to destroy these, at least not at first. We will watch, observe, and track them. Let them lead us to their peers. And then we will strike at them.”
“You have a particular interest in that one. The blonde with glasses.”
“I do. I told you of my friendships, my popularity. He was one of my friends once. A wayward obstinate fellow, the sort that would try to find loopholes in God’s commandments so he could figure out what he could get away with. Trying to have his cake and eat it too. Trying to be Christian and yet worldly at the same time. Doesn’t surprise me that he fell into darkness. Apostasy and hypocrisy were his constant companions.” David tapped Michael’s photo. “I will enjoy destroying this one. But all in good time. First, let him lead us to his companions.”
---
David was roused from sleep by a soft dinging sound from his laptop. The search program had finished. It had scoured the far reaches of the Internet and had returned a positive result. He’d found something about Michael.
He sat up in bed and looked to the clock. It was 5:20 am. The monks would be rising for matins soon. He wiped the sleep from his eyes and went over to his computer. He tapped on the touchpad mouse and looked over the quick summary of results.
David then moved to sort his findings chronologically. The first reports were news articles from Blacksburg, Virginia: noting not Michael’s disappearance, but the car accident deaths of two people who had been searching for him, Rebecca Phillips and Shawn Sexton. David didn’t know Shawn, but Rebecca he remembered quite well.
“So, Michael, your first act as a monster was to avenge yourself on Becca for her refusal to acknowledge your crush on her. How crude and how fitting.” David thought to himself. He kept searching. The next post was a news report from Hampton, Virginia.
“Feds Bust Teen Porn Operation at Local Hotspot” screamed the headline. It told of the Fox Club raid, where federal agents busted the popular hang out for all sorts of criminal activity: drugs, street racing, and, of course, the illicit recordings made of customers who’d snuck off to private rooms for a little nookie. Michael was listed as the club’s owner, but the article noted he’d evaded arrest.
“Fitting. The demons would never allow one of their own to come to judgment by mortal authorities. He was set up; his operation sold out by one of his rivals.” David pulled out a notepad and scribbled some quick notes. He then continued searching.
The next results were the “APB” posts put up on several Usenet forums used by independent hunters. These were quite detailed, if a little dated, noting Michael’s appearance and habits in Virginia Beach. These also noted his frequent appearances at a nightclub on the beach called Nightstyles.
“I’m sensing a trend here.” thought David. “It fits the person I once knew. Desperate for affection and attention. Why wouldn’t he frequent or even sponsor nightclubs and bars? Debauchery, easy sex, all to be had in such places. So that’s how they got you, my old friend? The vampires offered you everything you ever wanted. You stupid fool.”
David tapped his notepad, lost in thought. “You’re not in Virginia anymore. My friends here have sighted you in Philadelphia, but it’s unlikely your old habits have changed. The best place to find you is in a club or bar. Once I do, I’ll show you what hell really is.”
---
Elias Walsh wrinkled his nose as he entered into Regulus Noble’s laboratory. This was his second visit in almost as many days; a potentially dangerous habit to get into. If Monroe or the other vampires of the College knew of his close ties to the Dark Brotherhood, it would go ill for him very quickly.
And speaking of illness, that was what he smelled: sickness, disease, rot. The place was positively rank. Vampires, due to their physiology and inability to digest food, did not disgust easily, yet here was Walsh reaching up to pinch his own nose closed against the smell.
“What is that Godforsaken smell?” He growled in complaint. Walsh looked about the room and saw two likely sources of the rank odor. The first was the largely dismembered body of a young man, decapitated and gutted as a butcher might a steer for beef. The body had been further mutilated beyond that; much of its ribcage was missing and a bit of skin removed from its back. The second item was an odd item on the floor that roughly resembled a bone-white colored trap-leaf of a Venus fly-trap plant, roughly one foot in length. It was wrapped in what appeared to be human skin.
“All part of the demonstration.” Said Regulus. The dark magus was almost giddy with delight. “As I said when I asked you here, I found a way to turn our recent troubles to our advantage.”
“That did not take long.”
“No, it did not and that surprised even me. Turns out this weakened barrier between our world and the realms of the spirit has many advantages. Spirit magic that is otherwise different or non-functional is now possible. For instance, the ritual I’m about to demonstrate should not work and yet it does. Behold!” He waved his arms dramatically in the direction of the Venus Fly-Trap thing.
“What is that?”
“A fetish. A shell and spines of bone, filled with meat and viscera from a sacrificed human being, wrapped in human skin, and bound with thread made of human offal. This is bait, in a sense. A trap set to lure a very specific and very vicious kind of spirit.” Regulus picked up the telephone on his desk. “Dimitrius, bring her up.”
A minute or two later, the manservant arrived carrying the limp body of a naked young woman. She was not dead, merely drugged, nearly unconscious. “Put her there.” Instructed Regulus.
Dimitrius complied without a word, setting the girl down in the center of an elaborately drawn symbol on the floor. Walsh, although not magically savvy, could guess it was some manner of summoning circle. The girl was pretty; likely a prostitute from one of their brothels or an unfortunate innocent snatched off the street. Either way, her life was likely to take a very unpleasant and potentially fatal turn in the next few minutes. The usual fate of those who fell into the Dark Brotherhood’s hands.
“Stand back and watch.” Said Regulus. He began muttering what sounded to Walsh’s ears as gibberish, but Walsh guessed it was likely vile blasphemies uttered in the tongue of sorcerers or demons or both. Whatever it was, something was answering its call.
Something appeared above the girl, looking like nothing more frightening or dangerous than a wisp of white smoke. It descended upon her and she breathed it in. Her reaction was immediate. Whatever drug had muddled her mind seemed to vanish instantly as her eyes grew wide in panic. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound emerged. Her body convulsed and her eyes turned black.
“Spirit possession.” Commented Walsh aloud. “Interesting.”
“We’re not done.” Said Regulus. “Now to seal the deal.”
The girl lurched forward, awkward and clumsy like a toddler that had not yet mastered the skill of walking. She grabbed the fetish in both hands and brought it to her mouth. Her maw opened like a snake, unnaturally large and physically impossible for a normal human, allowing her to swallow the fetish in one gigantic bite.
And then the horrific transformation began. She dropped to her knees and her body lurched first backwards. Walsh watched with an equal mix of horror and fascination as her chest burst open. But there was no blood, no gore. Her skin and muscles and ribcage merely spread open, exposing the organs beneath to the open air. He watched as her heart beat, her lungs expanded and contracted with each rapid breath. Then she lurched forward in another convulsion. Now he could see her back as the skin on it seemed to retreat away from her spinal column. Vertebrae were exposed and formed a bony ridge across her back. Her skin faded and turned an ugly ashen grey. And then, she stopped moving.
“Stand.” Regulus commanded.
The girl stood up, calmly and gracefully and stood before the two of them.
“What a monster.” Exclaimed Walsh.
“Indeed. Now for a demonstration. Elias, try to push her down.”
Walsh chuckled. No human was a match for a vampire in physical strength, so this ought to be easy. He moved up to her and shoved her. She braced against him and held fast. She did not budge.
“She has strength now to match kindred or even werewolves.” Explained Regulus. “Her skin and even the exposed organs are hardened against the weapons of mortals. She’s the perfect soldier, completely fearless and without remorse or conscience. As long as I or any other mage that summons one of these spirit-soldiers can maintain control, they’ll do our bidding.”
“And how many of these can you make?”
“There are no lack of cannibal murder spirits beyond the Gauntlet to summon. Controlling them requires a bit of willpower, but each mage of my coven that knows a bit of spirit magic ought to be able to control at least two. We could comfortably field a squad of about a dozen of these monsters.”
“And if a mage loses control? What then?”
“Unraveling the summoning spell is simpler than creating it. No need to worry about our creations turning against us.”
“Where do we begin?”
“The werewolves in Fairmount Park need to be taught a lesson in manners. After that, who knows?”
---
Boar stirred under the covers. He felt Natasha’s warmth against him as his eyes fluttered open. He was lying on his back and his eyes slowly focused on his surroundings. The sky above him was bright blue and the air was crisp, but not too cold. He looked about at the burned out shell of a church where they were sleeping.
The North Fairmount Pack had taken well to their new “home,” having moved into the old church and the lawn around it to keep watch over the locus, the “hole” between the material world and the spirit realms that the Abbey had possessed for so long.
It had been a good night. A quiet night. No activity from the locus. No spirits. No material enemies either. Boar wondered about that. It seemed, as a friend of Michael Allens, that trouble was never far away. How long would it be before some enemy raised its head? How long would this “calm before the storm” last?
His grim thoughts were interrupted by the sensation of something warm and wet on his manhood. He lifted up the covers to discover Natasha had slipped beneath and was giving him a nice early-morning blow job.
“You’d best be careful about that, my dear.” Teased Boar playfully. “Remember what happened last time?”
They all did. It may have been quiet now, but their last encounter with a rogue spirit proved rather memorable. It began in a similar moment. Boar had initiated that time, slipping up behind Natasha, seductively showering her neck with kisses, working her pants down, and then entering her for some passionate lovemaking. But their lusts had gotten the attention of something on the other side of that spiritual doorway, a spirit of passion, and it came across to visit.
Spirits are, of course, drawn to the thing that spawned them and they encourage more of the same in order to feet. As Boar and Natasha ravaged each other, the spirit began to subtly influence the rest of the pack. After a short while, Boar took a brief moment to look around him, only to discover the rest of his wolves had paired off with their mates and were having sex as well.
It had the appearance of a Roman orgy and, as arousing as it was to watch, Boar suspected something was wrong. He was not alone. Meghan Dalton, the pack shaman, had paused from her own affections with her husband at almost the exact same moment. More attuned to the spirit realms because of her role as shaman, she knew exactly what was going on.
Reluctantly, they both disengaged from their partners to chase the spirit back across the boundary. As rogues spirits go, this one was pretty harmless, although if left unchecked it might have caused greater trouble as it grew in power from the orgy it had triggered.
“You’re not getting away from me again.” Said Natasha firmly. “We didn’t finish the other day.”
“Yeah, for the same reason we have to be careful.”
“What are the odds we’re going to draw another spirit of lust across the Gauntlet again?”
“I’d rather not take chances.” As he felt her mouth on him again, Boar had to admit this was not a battle he wanted to win.
Cortez walked over rather urgently. With Natasha hidden under the covers, it not completely obvious what was going on, but Cortez was not completely dense either. “Sorry, boss, we got trouble.”
“Not again.” Grumbled Natasha from under the blanket.
Boar jumped to his feet and followed his pack’s beta to the door of the church. Together they looked out across the field. On the far side, a group of grey-skinned humanoid figures were gathering, a single normal-looking human at the lead.
“Those aren’t normal humans.” Said Boar. “Summon the pack.”
So much for the calm before the storm.
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