Let Them Dance (Original short)

Michael walked through the club, feeling the pounding bass coming from giant speakers at the other end of the establishment. Lights flashed and strobed along with the heavy beats as highs squealed and lows churned the bodies around him into a dancing frenzy. None of them knew the danger that lurked there, between them, the immortals of bloodlust. Vampires. He was one, too, but his goal was clear: Kill them all. Or as many as he could. Seven months ago he was set up. An old man begging to be released from misery, a high payout for his family, and all that doomed a vampire who vehemently refused to join a house.

Vampire politics were much the same as humans: corruption, backbiting, infighting, betrayal, and secret alliances. All of which kept houses up and running, and on top of the business of selling blood and shelter to those that were outside of their inner circles. Michael had avoided it for 437 years and now he found himself at the epicenter of a scandal that reached very high up into the ranks of several houses. He would not stand for it. He had thought that the humans were the ones waging war and thus swore a blood oath against them, not knowing the true nature of what he had been involved in.

Now he walked amongst them as they turned drunken and drugged eyes away to ignore what they didn't consider a threat. But he was. The lion amongst the wolves, the shark swimming through the piranhas, a king cobra slithering through the nest of vipers. Soon the mayhem would begin. Soon the screams would come. Soon death would walk with the immortals and stay his scythe no more. 'Let them dance,' he thought to himself, allowing a gift of mercy, for now, before it all began. He did, too. He let the rhythm take him, closed his eyes and let his senses, already heightened, be carried to the heavens by feeling and a need to move, alone.

He thrust his hands in the air, moved his hips, rocked back and forth, and swayed with the music that pumped forth. The club, numbering near 200 occupants, seemed to move with him. None saw the clips full of silver bullets tipped with garlic nitrate that lined the back of his belt. Not one noticed the twin pistols dancing along with him in the holsters beneath his coat, both set for automatic fire. The blade that nestled close to his hip went unnoticed by all. Michael's eyes opened and saw the spray-painted banner behind the DJ that read 'Reign In Blood,' and thought it so fitting. It was time.

He stilled in the middle of the dance floor, his violet eyes picking out each and every one of his targets, oblivious to the violence about to be wrought. He closed his eyes once more and smiled, enjoying the calm. Music gave way to gunfire. Gunfire gave way to screams. Screams gave way to burning after Michael drew and started firing, the specialized bullets reducing their recipients to a pile of smoldering ash and orange sparks that flitted through the air, changing colors with the lights as they continued to flux.

The pistols jumped in his hands, as he screamed with fury and glee. Blood sprayed and ash flew. Many begged for their lives, and Michael did not give them quarter. Others tried attacking, but he was too fast for them. Most of them were fledglings, barely discovering their abilities, trying to take down a seasoned hunter with all of his senses and abilities trained and in line. So many tried to flee, but the doors were sealed; a lock-in rave, is what promised their doom. Vampires. The pinnacle of the food chain. Now just fodder for the predator who preyed upon them.

Clips dropped and were replaced as he kept firing. They fought back, many piling atop him as he tried to continue his wanton slaughter. Only then did the blade he carried cry out to taste flesh, too. And he obliged. An arc of the weapon felled enough to get the weight off of him as he dropped his pistols; for now, they were not done singing. Claws and fangs came at him like spears and daggers, but he was faster. Michael moved like rushing water sluicing itself between still rocks, lightning cutting through a million rain drops. Now over half the club was dead and burning.

He made his way back to his twin pistols and picked them up, quieting the blade, and allowed hot iron to again herald death. It felt like eternity since it had begun, but the song playing silently in the background had just finished fading away. He took out a note, dropped it upon the now empty dance floor and walked to a window, letting himself out. The first blow was struck. Now the war amongst the clans and houses would ignite into a conflagration that would burn down the vampire ranks.

Michael had one last thought, as he looked back over his shoulder at the chaos that had just quieted, regarding the strings he was tying to certain individuals in this plot. And he smiled as it crept across his mind, 'Let them dance.'

An Immortals Tale: Part 9

An Immortals Tale
The Man In The Black Suit
Part 9
"Technically"


Crunch. Jon's head was killing him, even with his eyes closed. Crunch. That sound was determined. Crunch. The solid wood chair under him cradled his body with ease, the smell of the world outside of his closed eyes was waiting to be discovered. Crunch. With a groan and a lot of effort Jon brought his head up, forcing his winced eyes open. The world first seeped in, then poured in, then flooded into finality.

Jon was in his old chair, in his old monastery, sitting at his old wooden round table, with his old friend sitting across from him, a wide, goofy smile on his face and an apple in his hand. Jon's friend was thin, very thin, but handsome. All the girls around the village would nearly faint with his easy smile. Wide eyes, a broad, warm smile, and brown hair that stuck up made up his clean-shaven features. The smile never left his face as his jaw worked the apple and with a thick British accent drawled, "Good morning, sunshine!" Jon's face must have been twisted with displeasure because he went on, "Oh come on, now! Is that any way to greet an old friend?" The immortal's head swiveled around, taking in his old place.

Brown clay walls accented with wood surrounded him, torches hung in iron brackets, a fire crackled and danced in the fireplace, the smell of burning pitch was heavy, black, greasy stains ran up the walls above the many torches. Iron accents and a heavy oak door made up the rest of the decor, along with crosses and a single picture of the Last Supper. Finally Jon's tired eyes came back to rest on his friend. "What am I doing here?" he croaked out in an accent he'd worked to get rid of many years ago. His friend waved the apple around and scrunched up his face as he began his explanation, the first word drawn out, "Well. Technically you're not here. Technically, you're still in the bar where you were knocked unconscious. Technically, I am a manifestation of your newly formed powers trying to find a better way to explain themselves and their uses to you. Technically." With a satisfied nod, he crunched the apple again, looking at Jon for his response. "I'm...dreaming?" The hand without the apple came up and gave him the 'so-so' gesture, "You're not really dreaming. I'm just a conduit that your mind is using to give you the easiest path to understanding." Jon was having a hard time understanding, "So you're just a figment of my imagination? This place isn't real and I'm still on the floor with people standing over me, attempting to steal my soul away?" With wide, brown eyes, his friend nodded confirmation.

Jon sat up, pulling straight his old robes, adjusting himself for the drawn-out explanation. Just as the first words began to form in his mouth, the room started to suddenly darken. The torches and fire in the hearth still burned their amber color, but the light seemed to be dying down. His friend sighed and tossed the apple over his shoulder, "Well. Looks like we're out of time, Jon. But before you go remember this: Words are very, very powerful. The reason your powers chose me is because you remembered I was a Wordsmith." Jon suddenly began to feel very panicked, cold started to creep into his body, "Yeah, you were a Wordsmith, so what?" Darkness crept on, strangling the light. "I gave normal words power, not magic - Power. With your new abilities you got certain perks. Remind me. What's the Latin translation of 'The Voice of God'?" That big, toothy grin was the last thing that Jon saw before the darkness took him.

He was back in the bar now, not twelfth century London. All the old smells came back: wine, cigarettes, whiskey, the still smoldering ashes of his friend Ricky. Jon could barely perceive the hands above him, glowing orange, the bones black in contrast. His lips struggled with the words, the final clue that his old friend had given him. "V..ox....d..." soft syllables were strained past near-paralyzed lips. Murmurs above him tried to figure out what he was trying to say. Jon tried with all his might, this time, "Vox....Dios....."

Jon's eyes were suddenly wide open, his mind no longer in a fog, but racing. Power suddenly flowed through him like water sluicing off a person lying in a river. The words made sense. He said them again, his voice driven with fury and intensity, "VOX DIOS!" A bomb of orange light went off, a ring of it pushing outward, the cloaked bodies standing over the immortal on the floor sent flying. Some crashed into tables and chairs, others smashed the mirrors on the walls. All of the energy that had been stolen away slammed back into Jon, and once more he was a raging inferno of justice, on his feet again.

A cloaked figure stood and threw its hands out, sending gouts of flame at Jon. He didn't need the words, anymore, the power had been awakened. Jon could see the glow behind his eyes as he gathered the power in his throat and released it in an instant. The fire was extinguished, the clear, but visible geyser of energy kept going, taking with it the right arm of the caster and a chunk of the concrete pillar behind them. With a shrill scream and a spray of blood, the hooded one crashed to the floor, clutching the stump where their limb once was. A call for retreat sounded behind him and the other figures all dashed for the door, bypassing Jon. The Immortal could only glare at them as they moved faster than he could track, even with his newfound powers.

The last one up and to retreat was the one missing their arm. It limped as it went, but before reaching the door turned back, "We are not done with you, Paladin! You may think yourself righteous! But you've been named before! Judas Iscariot!" The hood fell back and revealed a face that only a nightmare could describe: green reptilian skin, pulled tight over a deformed skull, no lips, sharp rows of teeth lining a mouth filled with black saliva, yellow eyes. All the features, though alien, conveyed femininity.

Jon was already gathering another bolt of energy when her words struck him. With a hiss, the creature disappeared out the door. Jon was more than perplexed; his muscles and bones still ached from the wallops of air that had struck him earlier. Without another sound or thought, Jon righted a toppled chair and sat down, grieving for his vampire friend, letting his mind dance over the creature's final statement. As his thoughts went to sorrowful and dark places, the cell phone, that had miraculously survived the entire endeavor, went off. With hot tears stinging his eyes and a long sigh, Jon retrieved the vibrating thing in his pocket and opened the message. It was an anonymous sender, but the message was not encrypted. It said one thing: "The Circle of Altu'Rang."

House Of Lies (Original Short)

"Your father was a ruthless bastard..." My uncle Jimmy used to say after he'd had a few drinks in him. "We had M16's and grenades and he used to use a knife. Moved like a shadow at midnight." That New York cop accent slipping through though he's been living in California for the past 20 something years. I smile at him with practiced affection at his tale. He doesn't know that I know something: The truth about him and my father. Both my parents are dead. They had died in a vicious car accident leaving me to the only person that my family would have trusted: My uncle Jimmy Dons. After their death he took me and moved to the west coast in an attempt to start a new life and give me a shot at something normal. My name is Jack DeMonstros, 21 years old. Yeah, I know. Hell of a name. But we'll come back to that later. "After the war we'd come home and they called us 'Baby killers'! Can you believe that bullshit?!? Worse than that they could only give us jobs as cops!" I sip my beer and puff on a cigarette as I watch him, drunk and at the grill, in the back of my mind a theater plays all the things that I will make happen. He goes on with tales of the war, reciting them to his cop buddies that surround us in our tiny backyard, people he's known for years. The spatula in his hand is waved around like he was drawing the pictures of his narrative, and sometimes it was a rifle, sometimes a handgun, all to illustrate the story he was weaving at the time.

Before I was born my uncle and my father served in the war together. After that they became cops. After that my uncle became corrupt, trying to take my father with him into the depths. My father refused. So they staged a coupe. My mother and father were shot down and pushed off a bridge in their car somewhere in New York. My uncle pulled the trigger. He thought it was the end of it. But plans had already been made. Three years ago a box showed up on my doorstep, no return address, no postage. I managed to open the chest and inside were things that changed my life: Videos made by my parents. They explained what had happened to them, what they saw coming, and videos that trained me. Trained me to be a killer like my father. For three years I've studied them intensely, learning every trick, every word memorized. And soon I became like my father. Soon the blades in the box that was sent to me, 20 plus years later, by my parents, were second nature to me. Every night before I'd gone to bed, for three years, I'd watched a video of them both, telling me they loved me.

He hadn't even noticed that I'd been wearing the very cross necklace my father wore all those years ago. Didn't notice the extra inch or two of muscle I'd put on for the deed yet to be done. He would. I had them all here. Every one of them that took that which was most precious to me before I ever knew them. Now was the time. My empty beer bottle shattered against the floor as I launched myself forward, they never saw it coming. The blade on my hip was out and working, spilling blood and viscera, entering soft, screaming flesh as I dispatched them all. The metallic smell of what they'd spilled by my hand filled my nose, pushing me onward. My uncle Jimmy was stunned to see such violence from his frail, antisocial, quiet spoken nephew. My shoes squished audibly against the soil now soaked with crimson as I approached him, eyes wide in disbelief. He uttered one word: Why? The handle of my knife, my father's knife, came down on his head with a sick thud. He was unconscious. I dragged the rest of the bodies into the kitchen and arranged them, as I'd been told. Then drug my uncle to the den. My muscles quaked and shivered as I peeled the soaking shirt off myself while I tied him to a chair. He'd get his answer soon. While he slept I poured gasoline all over the house, all over his dead friends, all over him.

He woke with a groggy moan, seeking to move his immobilized limbs, but couldn't. I sat in a chair across him, shirtless, the cross hanging from my neck in a gentle sway. He asked why I'd done all this in a slur. With a grunt I turned him to face our TV and without a word let the videos my father and mother made all those years ago do the explaining. He was wide awake, making excuses, justifying his actions, pleading with me, then cursing me. It had been somewhere near ten o'clock at night when I began this spree of violence, but it was dawn by the time he rattled out his last breath. I took the knife with me, cleaning it, and storing it in my coat as I breathed one last, deep sigh, and tossed the lit match into the house he'd built. A house of lies and deceit. I only stayed a few minutes to make sure the flames engulfed and consumed everything inside before taking the few thousand dollars that were in the trunk and walking away. The last words to leave my mouth that night were the words my father had said from beyond the grave: "Revenge takes time, cunning, strength, and in the end the undying belief in the truth." I walked away from my life. Walked away from the lies. And into the night I disappeared with my hand gripping my father's cross tight, giving me the ability to start anew. Revenge is never easy. But it is very, very, gratifying.

The Blade Of The Princess Part 1 of 2. (Original Short)

Her sword cleaved through another one of the giant rodents with ease, severing bone, sinew, and muscle. She wouldn't stop until she had eradicated them. There were dozens of them, coming from all directions of the dark and misty woods. Her armor saved her, as did a protection spell. She spotted the next assailants in her peripheral vision, and let the power she had inside herself awaken and collect in her left hand, the one without the short sword. As fast as thought, a ball of liquid flame appeared in her upturned palm and she flung it at the half-dozen fanged creatures. Though the ball of fire - that could burn any living thing down to the bone in seconds - was near her, she ignored it. She was raised with magic, and it was a part of her. The creatures that looked like giant rats with equally giant, gnashing teeth, burst into flames and screamed a horrible death.

She again began slashing, tearing, ripping through the hordes with her sword, throwing balls of flame and air so compressed it was as thick as steel and sharp as any blade. Soon the threat was no more than gore and ash. Sweat slicked her body, pushed to its limits. Her breathing was rapid and deep, sucking in thick, cold air and pushing it out with effort. Her bare thighs tingled from a slight breeze sifting through the thick woods, her neckline sharing the same sensation as she sheathed her sword. Pulling back bright auburn hair, the fleeting wind cooled her slightly. Her breast plate was heavy, and the thick leather belt round her waist weighed down by the enchanted blade was chafing. Her boots, that reached to her knees, were sweaty. Adding insult to injury, she was covered in blood and fur from her encounter. She wanted to feel clean again, but the nearest town was a day's journey in the opposite direction, and she needed to press on.

With an exhausted sigh, K'anda, the princess of Zhu'ul, started down the long path ahead. Mid-morning sun beat heavily down on her little trail. Her mind was put to the task ahead of her: find a king for her land. Men were of short commodity, sold as slaves, as womankind ruled the lands freely. The last great war was waged and many of the men in her land, and the surrounding kingdoms, were destroyed. Though the war happened years before she was born, the tales were heavy with her people. Old, silver-haired females would share them, telling of the fire that fell from the heavens and burned the lands. Of the monuments that stood proud and symbolized so many things, but were now ashes and rubble. Though she was a day's walk from it, K'anda decided to visit the 'Lake of a Thousand Eyes,' something her elders suggested she do before she wed.

The air was sweet with blooming flowers and the rains that had come days before. Her gold eyes scanned the landscape for threats as the trees gave way to an open field with a dirt trail cut through it. She kept her pace steady, not letting the grand and flat nature of the new terrain spook her. Off in the distance she glimpsed huge, yellow glowing eyes in the dusky tree line that belonged to Leviathan Owls. They were the size of a full-grown man, but could sometimes easily double that. They hunted what they wanted, and hunters were quick and full of pride to show off if they'd ever killed one. The afternoon came in heavy with more sunlight and dark clouds on the horizon. It would rain tonight, and she was still a half day's travel to the Agaden mountain village where she'd choose her mate.

The field she walked in was wide, but the woods bordered it with menacing stature. The forest had been cleared to let people travel without fear of the vicious things lurking behind the giant trees with dark bark. K'anda kept walking, knowing that a wayward house had to be somewhere near. Huts that travelers had set up to stay in for the night were mostly deplorable hovels, but it was better than chancing an encounter with a Moon Wolf. These bloodthirsty creatures bore glowing red eyes, fur as black as coal, and were three times the size of a large dog. Thinking of them made her eyes sweep the waist-tall grass again, coming to rest on a sign that indicated the direction to nearest hut, the Lake of a Thousand Eyes, and the Agaden village. With another, more careful look, she discerned the path to the lake cut through the grass. With quiet resolve, K'anda made the choice to head down it.

The path took the princess through another section of woods, though this time the rodents of unusual size didn't mar her journey. She ate apples picked off low-hanging branches that were brown and sweet with a cinnamon flavor. Red, green, and yellow peppers wrapped in mint leaves the size of her palm supplemented the apples. Although content with a full stomach, she still stank of sweat and blood from her morning encounter. The sky darkened to a bruised red with streaks of yellow and pink swashed through it, while the sun sank behind distant, snow-capped mountains. As she walked, the air changed from arid and sweet to thick and moist. The lake was not far and she would have to spend the night there, hopefully in an empty shanty of a fisherwoman who had long forgotten it.

Finally the dark trees broke on to white sand, and a lake that seemed to have no end. The stars had just begun to shine by the time she'd reached the Lake of a Thousand Eyes. The still water was like glass, reflecting each of the bright stars above. She looked to the left and right, but saw no land on either side, just more water. Along the shore of the monstrous lake sat simple huts, each with one window glowing orange from a carefully lit fire. Though the lake was more than beautiful as it was now, shining like diamonds strewn across black velvet, it wasn't the reason for its name. The miracle of the name came from what happened at dawn, and only to those brave enough to swim or row out onto the waters.

Smoke from the fires built white pillars into the darkening sky, and she used them as landmarks to find one without an occupant. The door swung in with little effort, revealing an iron stove with a chimney, a small bed with a straw mat for a mattress and a single window facing east. The door had a latch on the inside, but the window didn't open. Until then K'anda hadn't noticed how exhausted she was, so the dirty bed looked more fine and comforting by the moment. She swung the stove door open and discovered still burnable pieces of wood inside. Like flexing a muscle, she brought forth the power residing deep inside her and collected it in her palm, tossing the small ball of flames into the hearth to ignite the wood. It immediately caught and she now had an orange hue around the small shanty to go about her business. Though she wanted to throw herself onto the straw mattress, she knew she'd regret not removing her armor and boots first.

The process was quick and well-practiced; soon her sword, belt, leather skirt and chest piece sat across from the bed under the window, alongside her boots. Only white underthings that she wore for modesty remained. The night was cooling rapidly, so she was thankful for the small fire and stove to fight off the chill. The straw mat poked her with coarse fibers and rough straw, but it was more comfortable than she could imagine due to her level of exhaustion. With a long sigh, she let sleep take her. K'anda swam through dreams of her childhood, her sisters, and the palace that awaited her return. Her mother's face, warm and smiling, framed in black hair, and decorated with ice-blue eyes, was the last image she saw before she was jerked awake by screams.

The eyes of the Princess Warrior from Zhu'ul snapped open. She was quickly on her feet and running, undoing the latch and flying out the door onto the wet sand. The moon was high and illuminated the shore perfectly. The ground beneath her feet shook, and the sound of timber cracking and splintering apart filled the air. The shanty two over from hers had been smashed by a giant tentacle. Her gold eyes traced the offender back to its owner and saw the monstrosity: A squid. A squid twice the height of the tallest tree she'd seen today had come ashore to plunder the small, wood shacks. The inhabitants of the shore fled the oncoming attack. It seemed the stories of giants living in the lake were true. K'anda was glad she didn't try to swim the glassy waters at night.

Her royal ancestry provided her with magic. Her kind were rare, and treasured by their parents. That was why, though she was not the eldest, she would be queen of her land. She clenched her jaw with the effort and her arms followed, calling forth powerful lightning that danced down her tanned skin, from shoulder to clenched fist. Her eyes firmly fixated on the target to receive the lethal dose. This was the opposite of flexing her muscles. She relaxed them, using the well-practiced aim she had to direct the bolts flying from her outstretched fingertips to the creature. With a loud 'crack' the night lit up like high noon and her aim proved true. The ground, water, and air shook with the deep bellow of the creature as the white lightning danced from the big burn spot it had just received.

The squid slowly turned its giant, spade-shaped head and body toward the offender, tentacles slamming down on the beach, sending shocks and waves of sparkling sand into the air. Black orbs that were the creature's eyes saw her, standing alone in her white slip of a shirt and panties. She flexed again, bringing forth more power to lay another bolt into the thing, when she was distracted by the four women running in her direction. Calling out a warning, it came too late. A giant tentacle smashed down upon them, their screams interrupted, and cut short. The white sand that flew up was stained with red, trails of sinew and entrails connected the massive appendage to the beach below as it was retracted.

Fury fed her powers, the lightning dancing across her skin turned from white to red, this time. K'anda screamed as she let fly the lethal power, twice as large as the last. It tore across the light brown skin of the squid, leaving a huge gouge. High-pitched whines emitted from the monster as it accepted its defeat and started to slink back into the lake, its cries and moans carrying across the shore. The princess wondered how many had died. In the middle of the chaos of the people, screams, and darkness, it was impossible to tell.

A moon tired of the violence below slowly began to hide behind heavy clouds, and then the rain came: heavy and hard. The ice cold droplets felt good, but she was still tired, and now more so. She walked slowly back to her cabin to let the rain wash off a little of the muck and grime she was covered in. After hanging her things to dry, she went back to sleep, dreaming of what was to come.

Dawn broke through the tiny window, the fire in the hearth dead. She climbed up to consciousness, fighting to come awake. She had to move fast if she were to witness the miracle. She donned her underthings and tied together the rest of her armor and sword, dragging them down to the dock that stretched deep into the lake. She ignored the red spots of blood on the sand when she left her shack, paid no attention to the smashed shacks that had claimed others while they slept. Instead she concentrated on witnessing the miracle. Giant, dark shapes unidentifiable on the surface swam through the crystal-clear waters below. They sought shelter from the coming sun. It was a dangerous time, but she took a deep breath and plunged off the side, into the frigid waters.

Her long, muscular legs pumped and her arms pushed her down, fish and all other manners of creature moving out of her way as she descended. It would happen soon. Then she saw it. The reason for the name of the lake. A giant stone square, still a ways down from her, but large enough to be easily seen. It was gigantic. The stone turned brown and green from the algae under the water, but still some grey parts shone through. There were countless squares cut into the stone face of the giant, dark and staring at their visitor. Then the rays of the sun caught up and suddenly the squares was shining bright, each one giving the sun back its light and with luster. The sight was truly amazing. She marveled at it, drank it in, memorized the details as best she could. Then she noticed the equally giant letters on a rock bed nearby: O, E, T, L, H. She wondered what the word was, originally.

She broke the surface of the lake, gulping in air and finally feeling clean. After calming her breathing she made her way to the dock where her things were. Squeezing excess water from her hair and underthings, she donned her armor and weapon once again. Her duty as the next queen of her land pressed her on. Agaden waited. Her first steps today started the rest of her life. K'anda of Zhu'ul was now near the end of her journey.