Blood Runs Thin (Original Series)

Marcus Johansen was the leader of the House of Roue, the most powerful human alive, but he cowered in the corner of his panic room, staring at the monitors that quietly screeched static at him. The room shook with each pounding explosion, shaking loose dirt and debris from untold nooks and crannies. Panic threatened to overwhelm him as his breathing was rapid and ragged, his heartbeat pounded in his ears. Another pounding came, a monitor shook loose and crashed to the floor. He shrieked, and clutched at himself tighter and tighter, terrified at the things at his doorstep. 

Silence finally fell, even the gentle hum of gunfire was gone, something he only just noticed. Slowly the dignitary stood, his back still pressed to the wall, his eyes locked on the solid steel door. He prayed they had relented or had perished, prayed whatever was out there causing chaos and destroying his home were gone. He felt hope well up in him, maybe he was safe. The whole house shook again, metal from the door groaned and creaked. Terror took the sounds from him before he could make them.

The door deformed, degree by degree, inch by inch, pieces that were welded shut popped open, rivets sprang out. All he could do was watch in abject horror as his last line of security finally screamed a metallic cry and was wrenched from the frame outwards. The human leader felt his bladder let loose its contents as his eyes made out two figures in the dusty hole in the wall; one massive, one much smaller, but seemingly much more lethal. A voice slithered through the wreckage, dark and violent, "Marcus Johansen, Leader of the House of Roue, your presence is requested." 

The human tried to answer, but his voice was still locked from sheer and utter terror. The giant shadow remained in darkness, but the smaller one stepped through the frame, a vision out of a nightmare. Eyes glowing red, skin beyond pale with ribbons of purple and black veins, fingers longer than any humans, clothes tattered from fire and bullets, and awash in blood, it dripped from long fangs and claws. The crimson liquid made small trails in the dust and debris as the vampire walked forward. "Forgive my rudeness. I'm Michael, that's Raecien. And you will be coming with us."

As Michael got closer to Marcus the human could feel his world go dark, his vision narrowed, and finally his breath sigh out as he fainted. For a long time the world was darkness with flashes of the outside world making it's way through the fog. He caught a glimpse of his home, torn asunder, pure, white walls now stained red with blood and viscera, a man begged for his life only to have his skull crushed, his brains adding to the gore, a car, and finally large glass windows. He slept for a time, the horror of the world gone, for now.

Marcus knew he was upside down, knew he was swaying, but he couldn't figure out why. A soft, gentle, almost musical voice cooed to him, "Marcus. It's time to wake up. Oh, Marcus." Finally the human opened his burning eyes and saw the vampire with the purple eyes, his shoulder length black hair, and chiseled, perfect features. "Oh dear God. I'm going to die, aren't I? You're going to kill me!" There were more words, but they all became a mess of blubbering. Michael smiled at him, almost sweetly, "No, Marcus, no. You'll live a long and happy life, as long as you help us." 

The human sobbed, but tried to ask how, the vampire answered the question, "You're going to tell me where to get as much gold as I can. All the gold to fund an army. And if you do that, you'll live." Marcus' blubbering had slowed enough to speak, "You promise me you won't kill me. I'll tell you how and where to get everything you need." Michaels hand rested on his ribs gently and the swaying stopped, "I promise." The leader of the house of Roue extended his hand, it shook as it waited confirmation from his captor. The vampire's hand was like ice, but they shook on the deal.

The giant wolf that was with him at the house appeared and dropped Marcus down gently as he sobbed his thanks. It took hours for all the information to be conveyed, all the layouts of safe houses, all the caches of personal wealth, every ounce of gold accounted for. After the plan was concocted Raecien was silent as he escorted the human to a small room with no windows, the door locked behind their human guest. Mixed feelings ran through him as he thought about his betrayal. He had bought his way to life with the money and lives of others. He dismissed the entire thing and slept.

It felt like days, but he doubted it had been that long, he was fed a few times, so that was no successful measure of time. Then the door opened and Michael entered, "Well, my dear friend. Everything was successful. We have the gold, we will raise an army soon. And I just wanted to thank you, personally, for all you've done. But our friendship is at an end, and I'm afraid you must be added to the list of casualties." Panic flooded through the human, "But...but you said you wouldn't kill me!" The vampire had stood and was nearly at the door before he turned back, "I did. And I'm not."

Raecien replaced the small, thin, vampire. All words had left Marcus and he could only repeat 'Oh, dear God!' Over and over, as he watched the wolf change into something even more frightening than his already gigantic stature. Before long the giant wolf was just that: A giant wolf. It loomed over him, his steps thudded in the quiet room, drowning out the prayers. It roared a triumphant call. The last thing Marcus heard was his skull being crushed between the massive jaws of the beast as his scream echoed.

Blood Runs Thin (Original Series)

Michael woke early. To his right was the window to his second story bedroom, to his left was Balthezar, in a deep slumber and naked. He ran his hand through his hair, surprised to find it almost shoulder length, but it had been a busy few months. The guerilla war they'd been fighting had taken its toll on all of them, even Master Raecien was slumbering in the next room, dreaming of something that made him mutter in his sleep.

Michael wondered why he woke up, searching his thoughts as the rain drummed away at the dimly lit window, dusk or dawn was irrelevant, the pane was painted a placid orange. Waking without purpose was something that had always annoyed Michael, even when he was human, so the search for a reason intensified as he swung his bare legs off the side of the bed, taking a deep breath while stretching. He had received his shipment of weapons from Phil just a few days ago, the last internal email from The Community had been intercepted and hacked, the last kill count caused by the three was in the triple digits. He couldn't figure it out. The only one awake in the house got up and decided to take a shower, no point in wasting energy.

The vampire couldn't believe that the giant man standing next to his bed had gone unnoticed this entire time. Michaels purple eyes met with the man's perfect emerald ones. The intruder was near as big as Raecien, in height and muscle, tattoos ran across his flesh like twisted vines, interrupted only by scars. The vampire wasn't fast enough to stop the kick that knocked him across his large room and through a concrete pillar, turning it to dust and pain. He cried out from the broken ribs and heavy landing, it was enough to wake his slumbering lover. Balthezar leapt from the bed and rammed his shoulder into the massive man, but the effect was minimal. As soon as his bare feet touched the floor the curly haired vampire opened up a flurry of punches and kicks, putting everything he had into it. Again the man was unimpressed, using his massive arms as a shield against the volley of attacks. Balthezar brought out his claws as Raecien joined the crowded room, looking for the trouble. He saw it, and the attempts Balthezar was making, and knew what the assassin was, "Balthezar don't touch him! He's an alchemist!" But his warnig came too late.

With deft speed the alchemist shot his hand out and grabbed the older vampire by the throat, whose skin began to smoke and burn, his usually deep and majestic voice turned into a scream. Michael called out, trying to move and join the fight, but the massive wolf had already scooped him up like a handbag. Raecien made for the nearest exit, which was a window, looking out on the river. Michael was able to look into Balthezars eyes just before the Alchemist plunged his free hand into the vampires chest, silencing the lingering scream.

The massive assassin tossed aside Balthezars already smoldering body and turned his attention to the two fleeing, but it was too late, Raecien and Michael were through the window and into the dusk. Michaels heart was torn apart, wanting to transform and rip the assassin to shreds, crushing agony, bleak sorrow. He hadn't noticed that the setting had changed from his cold warehouse to the woods behind it, nor did he notice his bruised ribs, or his lack of clothing.

The wolfs deep voice broke Michael out of his stupor, "Can you walk?" The vampire nodded and was put down, finding his own feet touching the ground felt alien. Raecien bowed his massive head, "I'm sorry we lost him. He was a good man." Cold fury was coiled inside Michael, begging to be unleashed, but it wasn't his companion that deserved the lashing, "Thank you, Master Raecien. He was a good man. And we'll carve his name into every single person from The Community, I swear it."

"You're a formidable foe, Michael, but this is something different. That was an Alchemist. They're the worlds oldest assassins. Their touch is lethal to you and I, our heightened senses don't work with them, and their strength is more than even mine." Every word was like a droplet of water falling upon a white hot rod of iron, doing nothing to quell the fury of the temperature. "How do we beat them, Master Raecien?" The wolf sighed deeply, "We don't. We buy them." Michael nodded, "We hit the humans, take their gold, and build ourselves a silent army. Except for the one that killed Balthezar. I want his heart."

Blood Runs Thin (Original Series)

Michael sat still, watching the rain pour out over the night, making everything shine. The moon was particularly beautiful, its shape reflected in the pools of water on the empty street. Crouched like a gargoyle overlooking its domain, the vampire let the smells of the world wash through him, bringing back beautiful memories, and memories that filled him with rage. 

Atop the pointed roof of his warehouse, soaked to the bone, he waited. The place was empty now, as Phil's workshop relocated to a nearby suburb. He wasn't happy about it, but it had to be done. Michael stayed behind, sending his new partner in crime to retrieve his sire, after letting him experience the pleasantries that were doled out by The Community. They'd all be hunted, no doubt, but Michael wanted to make sure that their world burned before he gave his final breath. 

The plan, as long as it would take, would be executed the way he wanted it to be, no other way. As the details of it began to sprint through his mind, a scent caught his nose: fresh human blood. He knew his sire was near. He stretched and stood, waiting for the arrival of his old friend, and his new wolf one, the night still washed with  rain. Lightning flashed across the sky, turning the night to day just for an instant. He didn't need the assistance, but Michael easily spotted his compatriots coming in from the edge of the forest line.

Balthezar was naked as the day he was born, his muscular body and thick curly hair soaked, parts of him swinging back and forth with his gait. Raecien was just as drenched, but seemed nowhere near as jovial as the nude vampire, a grimace firmly affixed to his bearded face. Their pace slowed as they approached the warehouse and the waiting vampire, who smiled and growled their greeting, "Welcome home, friends. Let us plot the end of the world." 

Inside, out of the rain, Michael led his little company to the office, where clothes awaited Balthezar, and a reward for Raecien. Talks and planing were held off until the old vampire was dressed, and the wolf had consumed his leg of beef. Michael watched his sire dress, remembering nights they'd spent together, vivid and gentle. But it wasn't time for that, now. "I can always tell when you stare at me, Chell." Balthezar's voice brought the young vampire out of his thoughts. 

Michael could feel his face heat, "Don't call me Chell, you know I never liked it." Raecien paused his noisy eating and rolled his eyes at the whole exchange, choosing to turn his back to the other species and continue his delicious meal. "So what is this grand plan, Chell? Do we burn down the capital? Assassinate all the officials? Expose a corrupt system? Or simply take them all to war?" the sire asked, pulling on his shirt and freeing his wet hair from the collar. 

His purple eyes faded to the gold of the Fire of the Night, conveying the deep conviction and hatred Michael felt, "No. We start a civil war, watch them kill each other off, and then burn what's left of them. We light a conflagration so immense that only ashes and blackened bones will be left for us to crush underfoot." Balthezar's demeanor darkened with the words, his jovial nature nearly completely defeated. "And the innocent, Chell, what of them?" Michael's eyes still burned as he answered, "There are none." 

The old vampire was afraid to ask, but he didn't need to. "After they came for me, they went for Aviel. She didn't go down easily, so they took their time with her." Images of her body flashed through Michael's mind, her naked form in the throes of both pleasure and unbearable pain. "After Aviel, it was Maris, then Julia, David, Eleanor, Rebecca....Shae." The last name made all the difference. Balthezar hadn't talked to his sister for a few years, since they'd both left the house of Tor, hoping to start over. 

"Did...did she..." Balthezar couldn't finish, but Michael answered, "No. She suffered the worst. I'm sorry." The old vampire put his fists on the metal desk that held his clothes, trying to choke back the fury gathering inside, aching to be loosed on anything, and violently. He didn't hear the desk creak and groan as it bent under his strength. Testing his voice wasn't an option, not for a few more moments. Even Raecien's noisy meal had halted, though his back was still turned.

Michael waited, knowing how much it hurt, feeling the pain emanating from his sire in waves. Balthezar's silence broke. He spoke only two words, "What's first?" The young vampire placed a sympathetic hand on his sire's shoulder, "Markov." Raecien stood slowly and turned to face the vampires, his face contorted with confusion, "The human second in command?" 

Michael's brow lowered into a stern look, "Is there an issue, Master Raecien?" The wolf growled, anger in his voice, "Not an issue, but a request." Both the vampires waited, "I get to eat his heart."

The vampire with the purple eyes couldn't help but smile. He went to his wolf friend and wiped away some blood from the wolf's lips, left over from the meal. 

"Of course you may." 

Blood Runs Thin (Original Series)

Balthezar stared at the wall across from the one he was chained to, wishing the sun would set, already. The thirst during the day was far worse than at night, he discovered. Though none of the sunlight that came in from the giant windows above him touched his skin, it was reflected harshly by the slathered on white paint, making it harmless, but still very painful. Cuffs made of a mix of steel and iron were clasped very tightly around his wrists, sapping his strength and causing him constant pain, suspending his arms above his head with nowhere to rest his body, he'd dangle in agony while he tried to let his legs rest.

The thirst was only part of his pain. He hungered intensely, his stomach at war with itself constantly, growling and moaning. They'd denied him blood thus far, but he wouldn't mind other food, either. He tried not to imagine all the good food he'd eaten in his long life, it only made his pangs worse. Being a prisoner of The Community was not the way he'd envisioned his days ending, that was for sure. He knew, now, why Michael had done what he did, and as much as the ancient vampire wanted to be angry, he couldn't. It had taken weeks of torture, starvation, beatings, and ceaseless questions to open Balthezar's eyes. He swore he'd never close them again.

Pain was nothing to the vampire, but the thirst was all but unbearable, cracked lips split open every time he moved. His mouth was coated with sand, his throat felt like paper, even the memory of a drink was something he could barely recall. The iron restraints sapped his abilities, the reflected sun weakened his already waning will, and the news he'd learned made the dark nights an enemy, instead of his home. Balthezar swore vengeance upon the ones who did this, silently, over and over. It became a mantra of hatred and pain, etched in his mind forever. He counted, in his mind, the ones he needed to kill, then counted the ones that he'd kill for sheer pleasure.

Quietly the sun set, the white paint reflecting orange for just a few moments, then darkness fell. Balthezar sighed with relief as his naked body no longer felt like it was on fire. He didn't care if the cuffs bit to the bone, again, he sagged against the solid concrete wall, letting the coolness of it drop his body temperature. It was a painful, but easy, decision to stay there, hanging like that, for a while. Suffering was but a distant memory for a while, and sleep came. Dreams were a luxury, comfort a tax, peace of mind a wish, the vampire in chains could afford none of them, even tears were too much to ask for.

Blood, or at least the scent of it, brought him awake, slowly he came around, his nose working to find the source. 'Another cruel trick, another form of torture.' he thought to himself. But the smell was strong, and fresh. Curiosity and hunger finished waking up Balthezar, his senses on high alert, on his aching feet, he tried desperately to find the source, but the iron wouldn't let him. Another splash came, this time so strong he nearly lost control, the blood seemed to be right outside his cell door. He fought back every instinct inside himself, no matter how loudly it screamed, and waited.

The world seemed so still, but his thoughts raged, 'Who was outside? Why did they spill fresh blood? Was it his executioners? Did they finally come to collect? Were they baiting him? Were they wishing for him to give into the beast within?' If they were, they were near their goal, his control was slipping quickly. His vision was blurring, the edges of the world were beginning to tint red, even the iron restraints were just a buzz at the edge of his perception. Tired, ached muscles began to awaken, straightening and straining themselves against the crippling cuffs. Somewhere, in the misty fog of his mind, Balthezar bade farewell to his sanity.

The entire room shook so hard dust was knocked out of the creases in the stone walls, the vampire lost his footing, the chains bit deep and pulled him away from the edge. Balthezar stared at the thick iron door in confusion as another shock rocked the small cell, causing more debris, and even a heavy stone to crack with an earsplitting report. It seemed like gravity was distorting the door, twisting and pulling it here and there, misshaping it. The metal screamed and collapsed upon itself, the door vanishing in a plume of dust and concrete. The vampire prisoner stared with wide eyes, not knowing what would come through the hole.

A man stepped through, ducking his head beneath the top, thick with muscle, a beard, piercing eyes, and hair down his back. In one hand he carried the keys to the restraints, in the other was a human guard, barely conscious. This was no man, but a Lycan, Balthezar noticed. With a flick the man was tossed into the center of the cell, then the wolf focused his attention on the captive, “Good evening. I am Raecien, Guardian of the Word, and my master asks you to join him for dinner.” He gestured at the moaning heap in uniform on the floor, “Consider this an appetizer.” With a single step the distance from door to restraints was closed.

As gentle as a man his size could be, Raecien undid the cuffs, then stepped back as Balthezar fell to the ground in a slump. Abilities began to come back, like opening shutters for the sun to come in, slow at first, but then all at once. The vampire stared at the giant man, his emerald green eyes fixated, but the rumbling in his stomach and the burning in his veins made the human too appetizing to ignore any longer. It was the most savage bite Balthezar had delivered in a very long time, but it made draining the man quick. Reinvigorated he stood and faced the Lycan, wiping his chin of the excess, “And who is your master, Raecien, Guardian of the Word?”

A low growl came from the wolf and he hesitated, but answered as if someone were twisting his arm to do it, “Master Michael of the House of Tor.” Belthazar's eyes went wide as saucers with the realization of what this meant. “And how do you propose to get us out of here, Master Raecien?” All the wolf answered was “Hold still.” as he wrapped his giant arm around the vampire's waist and leaped through a giant window above where the cuffs were chained to the wall. The back up arrived at the cell just as the remnants of the glass window danced across the concrete floor and their drained comrade, their arrival too late.

As they ran through the woods, in the rain, under the bright moon, Belthazar smiled at the feeling of dirt under his feet, leaves and all of nature against his naked body. He vowed he'd never complain about the rain again.  

Blood Runs Thin (Original Series)

Michael sat stone still, watching the door that he knew would be turned to splinters at any moment, thinking of how he was going to deliver the news. It was an odd turn of events, to everyone else, but to the vampire with the purple eyes, it was just right. The community was in turmoil, the wolves were dancing to the tune that he aptly played, the vampires were suspecting of all, and the humans were racked with paranoia. Each race, ready to cut the other's throat, if it meant their domination.

Hair tickled at his pale cheek as he waited, a draft coming through the decrepit house that he was in. Fitting he'd deliver the news here, in the den of a house that so many lives had been lost in. For a moment he let his eyes wander, taking in the staircase of rotting and rotted wood, the laminate floor that had long since curled and split, the ceiling barely hanging on to the structure, the moss and fungus ridden walls doing their best to hide the skeleton of this place. In it's own way it was quite beautiful.

Scents from all the years this house has been standing still clung to the structure, telling a violent history. A pang of sorrow hit Michael as he thought about the violence he was about to add to the long and bloody list of deeds done within this place. It wouldn't be long. While still looking at the festered beauty around him he checked himself, his weapons, his clothing, all ready for the fight about to begin. Finally, the smell of wolf came through the house, carried on the breeze dancing through the holes in the walls.

As the vampire predicted, the door was torn asunder, reducing it to splinters and dust, by the gigantic hands of an Alpha wolf. He was a huge specimen of the species. Standing over seven feet tall, thick with muscle, long hair flowing to the middle of his back, a closely cropped beard decorating a strong and noble jaw. This wolf was no assassin, he was a member of the Houses. Michael smiled through the chaos still flitting through the air at his new house guest.

"Welcome. My name is Michael. Before we begin would you be so kind as to introduce yourself?" The wolf walked in the doorway, ducking the frame and bowed slightly, "I am Raecien, Guardian of the Word." The wolf stood back up to full height, "Whenever you are ready, Michael." It brought a smile to the vampire's mouth as he stood, bowed at the waist, and answered, "Thank you, Master Raecian. En Garde." With a deep breath it began.

This wolf was strong, willing, and ready for the fight. Michael's strength counted for almost nothing as he delivered punch after punch, each action lightning fast and all punctuated with kicks that went after vital points. The wolf blocked, evaded, and countered, his punches much heavier than the vampires, knocking Michael's thin frame through a wall, the chair he sat in, and part of the railing of the stairs. And all without exuding any effort.

Dust and pulverized plaster and drywall floated through the morning rays that penetrated the kitchen, missing Michael by inches as he lay on the floor, catching his breath and spitting the blood from his mouth. More crunched under the Lycan's foot as he approached the downed vampire, "Michael, I want you to know that I take no pleasure in this, but it must be done." Another stream of red spouted from already stained lips as the vampire answered, "I know, Master Raecien, I know. However, it's all happening as it must."

The vampire's claws left four red, angry cuts across the chest of the wolf, another strike aimed for the throat. The surprise angered the Lycan, and with a growl he began to change, fur growing, claws elongating, fangs and ears presenting. Michael knew the fight was about to get infinitely more difficult, but he, too, had been holding back. With speed to rival his own the Lycan grabbed Michael's waist and flung him through a wall and back to the entrance of the house.

The wolf stood confused as it watched Michael land on his feet, stand, and take a deep breath. Purple eyes turned to a burning yellow, claws appeared at the end of each digit, and fangs grew to intimidating size. A confident Raecien took a step forward, already aware of the transformations of the vampires, but stopped short of his second step as he watched Michael continue to change. Black and blue veins began to line the vampire's skin, lips turned a deep purple, and the white of the eyes became red as blood, standing out against the bluish skin surrounding them.

Power ran through Michael's veins like fire, igniting want and chaos in him. His vision turned red, every throbbing and pulsing vein in the wolf was visible to him, the smells of the world were suddenly vivid and more poignant than ever. 'This is what was necessary', a thought that was above the animalistic drive that coursed through every fiber of being of the vampire, now fully unleashed. The fight began again.

The wolf was thrown through a wall, a second wall, and through the ceiling and into the second floor of the house. Raecien lay on his side, trying to catch his breath, holding closed wounds, hoping they would heal quickly. He struggled to stand, leaving a large, bloody print on the floor. Blood soaked his fur and ran over his hand holding the ragged pieces of flesh together. He tried to listen through the pain and ascertain where the vampire was, but his head spun with the blows he'd received. He'd never fought a vampire, or anything else, for that matter, that moved that fast and hit that hard.

The Lycan's heightened hearing couldn't find the vampire. He considered his last resort, knowing that any moment that thing would burst into the small room and finish him. The creaking of the first step alerted him. The second one did the same. It was a slow and methodical pace, menacing and terrifying, even to the giant wolf. Another step. Raecien decided he had no choice and let go of his restraint, transforming himself into a full fledged Lycan. The last step sounded it's cry just as the process was complete.

A roar announced his readiness for battle, his wounds healed, his fangs bared, the Lycan waited for his opponent. And he didn't have to wait long. The door between the wolf and the stairs didn't move, no other steps creaked. The vampire flew up through the hole in the floor with an unworldly hiss. The wolf was not prepared and Michael took full advantage, digging his clawed fingers into the wolf, wrapping his legs against the thick torso, and lastly, sinking his fangs into that muscular neck.

Michael drank deep, draining huge amounts of blood from the wolf as it thrashed at him, fighting the cold and fatigue that was currently seeping into it's core. The panic subsided for a moment and the Lycan's huge hand found the vampire's leg and ripped the blood sucker away. Not to waste the opportunity Raecien slammed the undead creature through the floor, hoping it was enough to give him some time to recuperate. Slowly the feral form he was in began to slip, and soon he was back to his human form again, holding his still bleeding neck.

Michael collected himself and forced back the creature he'd become, retracting his fangs and his claws as he walked up the stairs again, dusting himself off. The red faded away and his normal vision returned, his muscles relaxed again, and rational thought returned. At the top of the stairs the vampire opened the door to find the wolf behind it on it's knees and clasping at the wounds in it's neck. Such a giant creature in such a supine position was nearly art to the vampire's eyes. Raecien's honey colored eyes met his own purple ones with hate and determination. The wolf roared and threw itself into an attack of desperation.

"Stop." An almost whisper quiet command came from the thin lips of Michael. Inches from his throat and chest were the Lycan's claws, ready to rip him asunder. The wolf's muscles were rigid with exertion, but they were frozen in place. "Stand." Another command came from the vampire. Shaking with the effort of fighting against what was happening the wolf stood tall, like a soldier ready for orders. Raecien's eyes were wide with terror and confusion as another command came, "Kneel." Grunts came with the action, railing against his own body as it did what the vampire commanded.

With one fist and one knee on the floor the wolf before Michael quivered. The vampire figured the poor thing deserved an explanation, squatting down and placing his finger under Raecien's chin. "Look at me." Panic was still heavy in those beautiful eyes as Michael spoke, "We're of the old blood, the old ways, you and I. And back then the wolves weren't free. They served the House of Tor. As you, now, will. The blood pact is complete." Rage replaced panic in Raecien's eyes as he realized what had happened, the trap he'd stepped in to, the slavery he'd brought upon himself.

"Rise." Unwillingly the Lycan stood straight, again, his eyes burning with hate. Michael's hands went gently up to the giant's face and moved away wisps of hair, wiped blood away from lips and brow, and then rested gently on his new companion's hairy cheek, "Don't worry, Raecien, I wish you no harm. And I truly regret having to do this, and you have my undying word that you will be free again. But. For the time being, my good man, we will create chaos. We'll bring about blood, death, and disorder." Michael's other hand came to rest upon Raecien's chest, feeling the heart beat so rapidly beneath it as their eyes met. "We're going to wage war. Merciless, vengeful, world rending, beautiful, beautiful war."

Life After Death (Original Series)

The blue SUV that had sped by had woken up more than a few of the dead, leading them on a slow, but determined chase. Ryan watched them all, shuffling, rotting, half-frozen, as they all marched after a thing they couldn't hope to catch. He couldn't catch it, either, but he did have an idea where they were going. The least he could do was take a trip out of his way to warn the little community about their impending visitors, and possible doom. The harbinger of doom thing was not how he liked to be, but he figured the more people in this world, the better. Hidden in the woods, just off the road he began his trek, working his long legs through the slushy snow and mud. Though his frame was thin, he did have an exceptional coat, thanks to that sporting goods store in the town over, and some very nice boots and galoshes. What he didn't have was food. He was afraid that his stomach might actually tip off the dead.

Ryan'd been traveling for days, trying to find a place to hide out or sleep in, but nothing was available. Each place was soaked with dead or had some very inhospitable people living there. Almost every time he'd encountered them, either the living or the dead, he'd chosen the non-violent route. He was taller, thinner, faster, than most individuals still living, so it was to his advantage. He paused for a moment, letting the ghost of a memory scream across his thoughts. Ryan shook his head, his long hair swaying back and forth in front of his light brown eyes, some strands sticking in his ever growing beard. 'No. That wasn't his fault. He didn't do it on purpose. Circumstances are what they are, and they.....' A gust of ice wind carrying crystals that stung his face broke the thoughts. It was an easy decision to keep walking for a while in complete silence, physically, and mentally.

The rhythmic crunch, crunch, crunch, of boots on snow was comforting to Ryan, the moans of the dead interrupting the steady sounds every now and again. Although they were easy to ignore, each new one gave the snow trekking man chills, especially the children. Again his mind tried to go to a darker place, but he fought against it, changing his course deeper into the woods, but keeping the direction the same. This was more dangerous, but the moans were a lot quieter, and allowed him to think without having to think about what happened. The moaning picked up for a second, one moan, more specifically, rose above the rest. It was a single dead, shambling through the woods, turned towards the settlement before Ryan's crunching caught his attention. He seemed to be freshly turned, a young black man with a bow across his chest, and one hand. The dead bared his teeth and moaned, turning fully towards Ryan, reaching out with a hand and a stump.

He had to be quick, those moans attract other dead. The long-neck hammer came free of it's leather harness on his hip, ready for the kill. Crunch, crunch, crunch, his steps went as he closed the gap between him and the dead. Ryan's long arm arched from above his head, coming down on the dead's skull. The sound was dull, but it reminded Ryan of when he used to bite into an apple, wet with a snap. The dead went down with no further incident, and the victor began to collect his winnings. Out of all the weapons and useful things he got Ryan was the most excited for the food. So excited he climbed a nearby tree and slowly ate a half frozen can of peaches. He didn't believe he'd ever eaten something so delicious in his entire life. After making sure the entire can was empty he picked up his trek again.

Dusk loomed on the horizon like a threatening shadow, ready to swoop down and take away the light, and leave the world in darkness and turmoil. Ryan's weary legs had lead him back to his original course, closer to the road, his stomach finally stopped grumbling and groaning from hunger. Soon he'd have to stop and find a tree to sleep in, but he'd continue just a little longer. Ryan used to love the night, used to love the sunset, especially when it turned red, the same dark red as her hair. Those thoughts of what he'd done finally caught up with him, finally found him weak enough. All at once, though, the dead stopped their march. Collectively they turned around, facing the opposite way of the settlement. Ryan's blood ran cold.

The roar of three engines began as a soft purr in the distance, but grew to ear splitting levels as they approached closer. Whooping, yelling, heavy metal music, all made the air thick and violent. Ryan hid behind a nearby tree as the three monster trucks with giant tires began to clear through all the dead on the road, the ones that weren't caught under the tires were bashed with long lead pipes. The man hiding behind the tree was still, eyes wide and staring, and utterly terrified. The one man driving the lead truck leaned out the window and pointed towards that settlement a day out and shouted "Fresh meat, boys!" Again the engines roared and they rolled forward.

Ryan couldn't control his legs, his thoughts, his panic, he started running. The rumors of marauders were true. Cannibals seeking easy prey. As he raced to try and save them her image came back, the last one he had of her when she was still alive. His sweet Bea, his only daughter, bitten, but never turned. He made sure she never wandered the earth like that. He saw her matted hair, even redder with blood soaking through it, her pale skin, her lifeless eyes, her smile that she wore all the way until he buried her along side her mother, her sister, and her brother. Ryan wasn't a religious man, but he prayed, now. "Please, God, please let me save them! Let me save one! Just one, please!" His breath, in the forms of clouds, carried his pleas upward and onward.

Blood Runs Thin (Original Series)

Phil didn't remember falling asleep. He didn't remember going to bed or even being in his own home. He just knew, now, that he was waking up. The faint sensation of swaying was also disorienting, but even more so was the feeling of being upside down. Thick ropes binded up his ankles and kept him in the air, but what he was swinging from was also a mystery. His vision was blurred for a couple of reasons, missing his glasses, and grogginess from being unconscious. 

The smell of something strange was strong in where ever he was, it was also a little cold, even through his cover-alls from work. Big windows poured in late afternoon sun the color of amber, but the finer details were lost without his glasses. He groaned a bit as he brought his hands up to his face to try and rub the film of sleep away. He froze when he heard a voice. "Oh good. You're awake. Was afraid I'd have gone too far." The voice was familiar, soft, soothing, almost. He tried to turn his body, but only managed to make his head swivel towards the owner of the voice. A blurry figure was standing not too far away.

"Gone too far with what? And, uh, who are you?" Phil knew his situation was less than ideal, but his curiosity won out. "Oh. Forgive me. These are yours." Phil's glasses were pressed into his palm and he immediately put them on. The world was suddenly clear. He was in an empty warehouse, hanging from a rafter, and the voice belonged to a vampire. A vampire he'd known for a few years, now. "Hi, Michael. What's going on?" Confusion trumped curiosity that time. Michael stepped forward, concern in his purple eyes, "Are you okay? Do you need water or anything?" 

The man hanging upside down tested his lips and mouth, but they were okay, his head hurt slightly, but it was negligible. "No, I'm okay. What's with the hanging thing?" Michael showed relief, but nodded, ready to launch into an explanation, "I'm so sorry about this Phil. I want you to know you've been nothing but a good friend to me these years. Some people know that you supply me with specialized weapons, every now and again, and I had to clean up those loose ends before they lead back to you." Michael motioned to a place where his hanging friend could not see, then turned him to witness it.

Now Phil new that smell, and the source, now, too. Half a dozen bodies were strung up, just like him, their necks slashed, and their faces a mask of glossy red, all their eyes glazed over and sleepy looking. Michael walked amongst the hanging bodies as he continued to speak, "These people were less than cooperative, but, then again, they don't know me like you do. So here's the short and ugly version of it, my good friend: I need direct access to where you get your supplies and weapons from. Due to certain circumstances I'm being forced to cut out the middle man, as it were." 

The hanging man could barely believe his eyes as they went over every gory detail of the way the others had died, some he knew, most he didn't. And now the words of his violet eyed friend were setting in at a rapid pace. Phil knew the violence the vampire could summon in a heart beat. That's how they met, after all. Phil wandering to his car in a drunken stupor one evening, three feral vampires saw him as a meal, Michael dispatched them all with efficiency that would startle anyone not used to seeing that level of decimation. He and Phil spent the rest of the night drinking together and discussing the world that existed beneath human kind's feet. 

The entire conversation was easy for Phil, he'd been a horror movie fanatic for most of his life, and his way to repay his debt was easy, considering he had an engineering degree in eight different fields. His new vampire friend had refused the help, saying there was no debt to pay, but he insisted. He wouldn't have guessed, all those years ago, that an unlikely friendship would have lead to this. He chose his words carefully, knowing Michael didn't like liars or being lead on, "There's no middle man, Michael. I do all the stuff I've sold to you myself. I have a workshop downtown where I build things for various people. And there isn't a stockpile of weapons or ammo, either. I keep it that way in case somebody gets curious and breaks in or the ATF show up."

Phil watched his friend weigh his words in silence. In the meantime he fought lightheaded feelings and a wave of nausea caused by the swaying. The vampire nodded, accepting the explanation, "Well, my good friend. Seems you now have a full time career working for me, than." With in a few seconds the rope was cut and Phil was on his feet, carried like he weighed nothing by his friend, which was odd for his six foot, two hundred plus pound frame. "I was never going to kill you, by the way, I just needed information." Michael offered with a smile and a clap on the shouler.

The nervous laughter that bubbled up from Phil couldn't be helped, "Okay, good! 'Cause you had me going for a second, with the whole bodies hanging thing." Michael laughed in return, about to say something when Phil's world went deaf. It felt like someone had just punched him a few times in the back, taking the air from his lungs. He heard his name called in panic, then other men shouting various orders, but he couldn't make out the words. His eyes went down to his chest and saw four large holes oozing blood. 

Behind him Michael roared with ferocity and men began to scream in between automatic rifle fire. Phil sank to his knees, his hands coming up to his chest to press on the wounds, hoping to do something to help. His glasses were shaken off his face as his shoulder met the wet ground, the world was silent again, but he couldn't draw a breath. As if out of nowhere his vampire friend was now above him, shouting his name over and over. There was panic in his voice, fear and tears in his eyes, as he, too, tried to put pressure on the bleeding holes.

There was no pain, but Phil felt the warm tears fall on his cheek as Michael kept asking something over and over. The world was tunneling into darkness, his lungs ached for air, but he concentrated on his friend's voice. "...I can't do it unless you say 'Yes'! Do you want me to turn you? Phil! Answer me, please!" The answer was easy, but getting it out wasn't. He forced his lungs to take a breath, bringing the pain that had been absent, screaming into his body. He could only manage a whisper, "Yes." 

Life After Death (Original Series)

Pressing his back to the wall that refused to give, Kevin's chest heaved, though he was barely aware of his lung's attempt to get more air. His eyes were locked straight ahead, while his mind barely comprehended what had just transpired. As his body began to return to his control, he took inventory of each newly traumatized appendage. 

His head ached fiercely, and long arms felt like lead weights tied to his shoulders. Kevin's core was nothing but a knot of pain with an uncanny need to cramp. His legs were all but absent save the feeling of tingling flesh beneath his still cold skin. He finally took notice of all the sticky, grimy blood covering both his hands like macabre gloves. The webs of it tightened on his face as it dried, and his boots were almost soaked through with it. In his right hand was a bent crowbar, in the other lay a two-pound metal mallet. 

Kevin's breathing finally began to slow; his body finally relaxing. The wall against his back felt good, not only from the cold seeping through his jacket, but from the support against his ache. Just past his boots was where the chaos began. Blood pooled and congealed in large amounts, reflecting the single lantern that burned in the small shack. The last ghoul he killed lay just a few inches from his feet, its head split open, grey mush spilling from the crack.

As perception set in, the true scope of the maelstrom that he had survived came into focus. The bodies of the dead lay in almost a perfect half circle around Kevin and his spot against the wall. Everything was coated with a sheen of blood; some in rivulets, some in spray, some in gouts. He moved his head for the first time in a while, trying to count the bodies around him. Even after catching his breath, a deep sigh came out when he finished counting, and the number tallied 19. While he counted, it was the first time he'd paid attention to their faces, shocked to see the diversity. He saw teens to people in their 50s, all with lips pulled back, eyes locked in that hungry look, and all bearing a skin color that did not belong to the living. 

Deciding not to dwell on it, Kevin's eyes searched the rest of the house, finding his pack in the corner, along with several items that could prove useful, brought in by his new housemates. There was something in the back of his mind. It sounded like someone trying to get his attention in a large crowd, so he paid it no attention, for now. With a little effort, Kevin worked his hand open, his skin tacky and taut from the drying blood. Once the crowbar clinked to the floor, he wiped away the wetness on his face, trying to make his mind get things in order again. 

His other hand followed suit, then his muscular core, and finallly his legs pushed him upright. Kevin was on his feet again, his mind firing up like the motor on a monster truck, working to get the information before him in order and processed. That voice in the back of his mind kept trying to get his attention. Collecting the items he'd inventoried from the dead, the only living human in the small, one-room shack waded through viscera and gore to the pack in the corner. Stuffing the collectables inside, he only turned back to his original spot to collect his two bludgeoning weapons. His pistol sat comfortably on his hip, while his rifle nestled in a blanket tied to his pack. The first 'thump' against the door brought the voice that was in the back of his head screaming to the forefront. It said, "The noise that you just made killing those ghouls would, and has, attracted more of them!"

It was high time to leave, but there was no exit but the front door. The man in the shack leaned against his  wall and sighed, appreciating the situation. For some reason his mind fastened on a memory of something a friend of his said back in El Paso, "The definition of insanity is not the absence of sanity, but doing the same exact thing over and over again, and expecting a different result." He couldn't help the smile that came, even as the rickety door danced and shook with each new thump and crash against it from the dead outside, trying to get in. He didn't know why he said it outloud, but he did, "I'm not going to do the exact same thing." As the last word fell on lifeless ears, Kevin drew a deep breath, filling his once-panicked lungs with cold air.

The door splintered into toothpicks from the kick that powerful legs delivered. Eight ghouls stumbled, the force knocking them all back a few paces. Their eyes found their culprit: a tall, muscular, black man, with a deep scowl, and determination steeling his resolve. The first ghoul, a woman with long red hair, opened her mouth and groaned at her new prize of living flesh. It didn't last long, nor did the other seven groans. Kevin's footprints cut through snow that was now slushy, red, and a few bodies heavier. The river was close by, and even in this cold, he could get clean. The smell of what he was covered in had just begun to creep up his nose, and he didn't like it one bit. He wanted to be clean, even if it meant being cold. 

At the river, thick with ice and slush, Kevin found a nice part absent of anything that might freeze to his skin. He dropped his pack, and pulled up the jacket sleeves, vowing to clean it later, and plunged his hands into the clear water. It almost immediately began to swirl red around his wrists, as he scrubbed at them for as long as he could take it, bringing handfuls of water to his face in between. The adrenaline had yet to subside, so the cold didn't bother him. He looked around, to make sure he was safe. That's when he spotted her, on the other side of the small river, floating on her back, stuck on a rock near the shore.

Conviced that there were no dead around, Kevin crossed the river via some nearby rocks, and ran to the woman. She had a bow strapped across her back, a pistol in her holster, and short hair. He pulled her from the water and spoke softly while jostling her, trying to wake her. "Hey! Lady! Come on, man, you picked a hell of a place to take a nap. Yo!" A twig snapped in the distance and Kevin's eyes darted up, searching for the cause, only finding a stump of a tree a few feet tall. He looked back down just in time to see the woman bite down and rip off three of his fingers on his right hand. He stared in shock as he raised his hand, trying to move the digits that weren't there anymore. 

As fast as he physically could, Kevin pulled the machete free of the sheath on top of the lady's pack, and ran to the stump. Without any thought or hesitation, Kevin raised the blade and hoped it was sharp enough. With every muscle tense and his mind clear, the blade went through his wrist and into the stump with a sharp 'thwack.' The blood didn't start right away, and he took advantage of it, pulling the cord to the hood of his jacket out, and tying it around the stump where his right hand used to be. He hoped it was enough for now.

He heard the woman moan and shuffle toward him, pulling herself by her arms. Kevin figured she'd broken her back. Her mouth area was a contrast to the rest of her face, stained bright red in his blood, the rest pale and washed out. Kevin pulled the machete from the stump, and proceeded to put her out of her misery, hitting her so many times with the blade that it broke in half, and stuck in what was left of her skull. 

After carefully wrapping his wound and thoroughly searching through the lady's pack, Kevin took to the road again. He remembered he'd heard of some place east of where he was called 'Hadley's Hope.' He hoped they were still there. He hoped he remained human long enough to reach it. 

Blood Runs Thin (Original Series)

In a dark room, deep in the center of The Community headquarters, sat three men and one woman. All dressed to impress, all with faces as stern and strong as rock. Within The Community the three men were easily identifiable, the female too. At the round table made of the tree that hung Judas Escariot sat the most powerful men in all the free world: Viktor Taelrith of the House of Lee, the vampire lord, Marcus Johansen of the House of Roue, the final say in the human side, and lastly Eiren Fenris of the House of Lucian, lord of the Lycanthropes. Last was Monica, new Mediator, elected after Lola's tragedy.

It was a tense silence, each lord measuring the other, gauging the other royal members of their race. This was the first meeting between all the races in over 500 years. The last time they'd all come together was to decide the fate of individuals that would do anything to usurp the rule of The Community. It seemed they met again under similar circumstances, though quite different, where the last time it was a group, this was a single man. None of the trio wanted to be the one to speak first, it was seen as an act of impatience and rudeness to the others.

"These are not the acts of a Lycanthrope." Eiren offered to the silence, breaking it, finally. "They are made to look like they are, but the evidence is far from the truth." The other men took a moment before answering, Viktor speaking first, "Clearly they are. We've found sigils of your clan at every attack. If not done directly by a wolf, then they certainly are an accomplice." Marcus followed, "There is no way it can be just one individual as we've been lead to believe. This vampire..." He picked up the notes before him and read for a second before going on, "Michael. Does not have the capabilities to do the things he's done all by himself. It's just not physically possible."

Silence had once again reclaimed the room. But only for a short time whilst Eiren stroked his strawberry red beard in thought with his huge hand. "He could. If he were of the House of Tor." The statement sat ill with the two men across from him. Displeasure at mention of the name sat heavy onViktor's thin face, deepening the shadows on his pale skin. Marcus shared the look, frowning in anger, his perfect skin stretched over his features, betraying his age. "The House of Tor is fallen. There is no one left with those...gifts." The vampire lord sat back in his chair, as if to dismiss the entire thing. Marcus agreed with a nod and turned his attention to the papers in front of him, trying to further the inquiry, when Monica's voice chimed in, "That is incorrect, Lord Taelrith."

Monica sat in her chair, the one designated for the Mediator, in her grey suit, young face and short, black hair. "One of the House of Tor is still alive. And he also sired Michael. You know him as Belthazar. His real name is Amon. He is not the age he says he is, but he did join the House of Lee near 800 years ago." As she spoke the trio of men were fixated on her, hanging on every word. "He now sits on the council in the House of Lee. It is unclear if he has the dark gifts of the Tor, but it is suspected that he does." Marcus and Eiren both turned their angry gazes on Viktor, who stammered his words out, "I wouldn't have known! I've only lead the house for 500 years. This was beyond my time!"

Marcus sighed with disgust, "It seems your house has again let The Community down, Viktor. Remind me, again, of the shining victory over the Tor. How the mighty prevailed and the wicked were vanquished. What was their crime, again?" The vampire shot a look of pure fury at him, the Fire of the Night burning bright, "They were murderers, thought themselves the law keepers of our kind. They were one of the elder clans, but could not conform to The Masquerade, before The Community was founded. Once The Community came along they wanted even less to do with it. This also proves the point that he has an accomplice in the wolves. One of their dark gifts was to control your kind." A scowl was shot the way of the Lycanthrope lord, who growled deeply in response, before answering.

"I am the oldest of the free wolves, last living descendant of Lucian! If he were to be able to control anyone it'd be me." He rose from his seat to tower over the table and the others sitting at it, "Would you care to be more specific with your accusation, bat?" Before the other could answer Monica's calm voice chimed like a bell "Gentlemen. This is an inquiry. Not a battle royale. Sit down, Lord Fenris. Lord Taelrith, be careful with what you choose to say." With reluctance the leader of the Lycanthropes sat back down, Viktor's fire also fading, extinguished by the Mediator, "I accuse no one, Eiren." Both conceded to each other with a nod.

Marcus had grown impatient with the show, "Look. All we know is that there is a murderer, going after all but the wolf kind. I don't know about controlling other species or the such, but I do know that this man comes from a long line of assassins and political powerhouses and is gunning for no one in particular. His random pattern of murder and chaos, accomplice or not, is costing us all. We need to stop him." Eiren pointed a thick finger at the head of the House of Roue, "Wasn't it YOUR hunters that let him go in the first place? Why has no one questioned the men that went after him in the first place?"

The human leader shook his head and dug a handful of photos from his leather bag, sliding them over to the Lycanthrope, "We did. In fact we went this morning to try. This is how we found them. All of eight of them. No matter how creative we humans are we can't recreate that kind of violence." Eiren slid through the pictures, flayed open bodies in almost each one, their faces frozen in terror, or in mid scream, throats torn out, limbs severed, and in the last one another sigil of the House of Lucian on parchment, thrown upon an opened rib cage. The brown paper was soaked red, the sigil barely recognizable. The giant wolf pushed the pictures to the vampire, who refused to look at them. Marcus took them back and asked, "Are you sure you're the only living descendant? Is there another?"

An answer was a long time coming, "I am. During the last great war all my brothers and sisters were killed." Even after answering, he still thought for a time. Silence came back to the room, heavy and lasting. Monica's perfect voice chimed again, "If there is no more lines of questioning then I shall declare this inquiry closed. Any final thoughts or questions?" She looked at Marcus, he shook his head, Viktor did the same, Eiren spoke, "They said they found a piece of paper at the first murder scene with a single word on it. What did it say?" The other two lords didn't know, but Monica did, "It said 'Praelior.'"

The three most powerful men sat in confusion at the word for a while, until Marcus asked, "What does it mean?" Monica once more had three sets of eyes keenly tuned directly at her. With that same congenial smile she'd worn this entire procedure she answered, her body language betraying nothing, her perfectly blue eyes sparkling with life, "It's ancient Latin. Almost as old as Aramaic. It means 'War.'"  

I'm No Monster (Original Short)

Lola fussed with her purse and her keys silently, trying to get into the car. Her day had been hectic. With everything going on between the humans and the vampires and now new politics were being thrown around. She shook her head at all the paperwork she knew she'd have to deal with come Monday. THAT was horrifying. She shut the door of her Mercedes SUV and pushed the button to fire up the engine and take her home. She hoped traffic would be light today. She could use something easy today.

As she drove she put the whole day on cruise control, letting her subconscious deal with sorting out the rest of her issues. A poppy little ballad with some woman played on in the background as Lola eased through the minimal traffic. The thoughts of a rogue vampire doing all this to disrupt the truce was almost absurd! Why would anyone want that? To go back to the dark ages, again? She shook her head as she began to quietly sing along, the train of thought still continuing. Her last thought on the highway was about Balthezar and what The Community planned to do with him.

Now the stop and go of neighborhoods replaced the long and placid freeway, her vehicle handling it all with ease. Lola considered leaving The Community, stop being a peacekeeper for two factions that had nothing but hate for one another, but they paid her well. Her law degree wouldn't have afforded her her car or her four bedroom house, which she pulled into as she finished her thoughts. As she sighed out the last of her work day she got her purse and her cell phone, which chimed about an email received. The keys with the big gold "L" attached to them jingled for a second before she pushed her door open. There was beeping and digital voices asking for a password and she complied with a sigh, pushing 'enter' to silence it all.

The voice that came from behind her was smooth and gentle with a hint of surprise, "I would have guessed your mother's birthday." Lola tried to whirl around to meet the owner of the voice, but her world became a violent blur. She barely recognized her glasstop table as she went through it, shattering it to a billion pieces. She couldn't help the moan that escaped her throat as she tried to find her hands and knees, shards and edges cutting up her palms and knees. Again the voice spoke from behind her, "I'm very sorry you're involved in this, truly I am. But things are what they are. I know you're sick and you've been waiting to be turned. That's why you accepted the job of Mediator or Peacekeeper or whatever the title is now a days." Lola crawled forward, looking for her phone or where it may have landed.

Her dizzy eyes found it a few feet away, she pushed herself towards her goal. Her world became a hurried rush of images as she flew the air once again, this time her china cabinet caught her with rigid and painful arms. She knew things had broken that time and panic took over, "Who...who are you? What do you...want?" She choked out between blood filled coughs. Her body was numb with terror, she found her feet fast and saw her attacker. He was tall, thin, hair a bit longer than the norm with a clean shaven face, handsome, his eyes shone with The Fire of the Night. Vampire. His hand shot out at barely conceivable speed and wrapped long fingers around her throat as he answered, "I want an end." She tried to fight him off, but she was far too weak, as he dragged her over to the next room with her two favorite chairs. Lola's bruised and broken body was shoved into one and he sat in the other.

She struggled to breath with the broken ribs in her chest, but she had to try to talk sense into the vampire. "An end...to what?" He studied her with violet eyes for a moment before waving his hand in a dismissing manner, "Don't worry about that, Lola. Just know that you are an innocent in all this." Her whole body pulsated with pain as she tried again, "My husband...." The vampire cut her off, "Hasn't been home for years. I hear divorce does that to some couples. What a man to leave just when you find out you have cancer, huh?" She ignored the jibe, "How do you know that?" He sat back, relaxing a bit, "It's what I have to do, Lola. Again. I am very, very sorry for all this. I promise I'll try to make the end quick. You'll have to forgive everything else up until then. It can't look like a vampire or a human killed you." She watched and began to cry softly as he raised his hand, the fingernails lengthening to claws. He stood before her, his other hand doing the same.

She still had an ounce of fight left, and she knew what they hated more than anything. She looked up at his beautiful pale face, "At least tell me your name!" She protested. "I am Michael." He bowed just a bit. She spit blood on him, "You're nothing but a monster." Michael, the vampire, didn't wipe away the spray of blood. "I'm not a monster. But I believe I can fulfill those fears rather nicely." Lola's scream was cut short.

Michael stood up and let out a sigh, looking down at the shredded remains of Lola's blue business suit and body. Now that the violence was finished business had to be conducted. After further trashing the house and leaving big, obvious clues, he went back to her body. The brand new cell phone unlocked with the birthdate of Lola's mother. He scrolled through the contacts with his still red digits and dialed the emergency line for the bureaucrats that ran The Community. He put the phone in her hand that still had fingers, and dropped a note atop the carnage. The hard part was about to begin.

Have To Know (Original Short)

Mark sat in the backseat, to his left Manuel, a medic, the man in the passenger seat was a mechanic, the driver another shooter, like himself. The blue SUV they all sat in screamed down the road, attracting more of the dead to them, but he didn’t care. Mark’s sister was the pilot of that helo. And he had made a promise to protect her. The ones he had promised were now long gone, but the promise still stands.

The snow was heavy on the ground, the last two weeks it’d been relentless. This only made Mark worry more, clutching the rails of his rifle and letting the metal bite into his flesh made sensitive from the cold. It eased the rising panic of thinking of his youngest sister, and only surviving family member, alone and running through hordes of the dead. The silence inside the vehicle was near deafening, all four of the men inside deep in concentration with the task at hand.

The drive would be easy. The roads had long since been cleared and the abandoned vehicles looted and moved aside. It made runs into towns for supplies and transport of approved survivors easier. Mark’s mind, however, was on what could have went wrong with the chopper. As far as he’d known the thing was in pristine condition, maintained and kept with careful scrutiny. He didn’t even want to entertain the idea that she had been shot down. But then that would bring the questions: by who? Why?

The answers he, himself, concocted made him uneasy so he checked his gear as the vehicle took a hard right. His pistol and rifle were silenced, the tac vest he had on was filled to the brim with ammo, and two knives completed the ensemble. Mark didn’t mind being a shooter, hell, he was built for it. Around six feet tall and near two hundred pounds of solid muscle, short cropped brown hair, with a square jaw. The other three in the car were varying builds, but it was more than obvious that Manuel was the shortest and scrawniest of the four. For some odd reason that comforted Mark.

The car took a sharp right turn. And what was the gentle hum of the street beneath the wheels was now the cacophony of dirt and sticks and the like being kicked into the wells and under chassis of the vehicle. Their journey was near an end. The four men looked to the field where the pillar of smoke climbed high into the sky, visible flames licking at the base of it. Jake, the driver began to assess the distance and started barking their orders, “Okay. Ten seconds, no more, no less. If the chopper don’t fly anymore let it burn. Find the pilots. If they’ve turned do what has to be done. If they’re alive we’ll find them.” He shot a look back at Mark, letting him know that one way or another his sister would be accounted for.

The flaming wreckage went from a small picture to just as large as life and the numbers were there, too. The dead were thick and gathered around the downed aircraft, hoping to find a meal made of living human. With some quick maneuvering the driver swung around and cleared a side of the helo for them to inspect, the bodies thunking loudly against the side of their car. Ten seconds to establish what happened. Mark let that thought take over as he let the floodgates of adrenaline fly open.

All four doors were kicked open, four sets of boots hit the ground, four minds started a grim task. The first shout was the mechanic, declaring the chopper useless, the second was announcing there was nothing but a bloody skeleton left of the other pilot, the third said that it was not June, his sister. Mark listened very carefully as he picked off ghouls that got too close to the car and the team. Their ten seconds was up. As they all made for the car Mark noticed a trail of shot zombies leading away from the crash. “She went that way!” The driver acknowledged it as they all climbed back in.

Hope blossomed like a fire with fuel thrown on it as Mark put one leg into the backseat, shifting his weight inside. Then it hit him. A set of rotted teeth came from beneath the car and sunk deep into his leg, right above his ankle. He screamed and tore free his limb, leaving behind some flesh. His door slammed closed and he looked up to find three faces staring at him. Before one of them could reach for their pistol he pleaded with them, “Let me find my sister, first! You can deal with me then. The bite is on my leg. I have at least two hours.” The other shooter began to slowly draw his pistol and Mark tried again. “Please. I have to know.”

Hands began to bang and claw at the windows and doors and the driver finally said, “Fine.” The vehicle was shifted into gear and they began to plow through the gathering horde, following the prominent trail of the dead. Mark watched intently, looking for signs, trying to think how his sister would think. Even as he did, though, he could feel his hope die more and more with every painful pulse of the fresh bite. The SUV danced over holes and small hills, making it more and more excruciating for Mark. In his head he pleaded, ‘Please be alive, sis. Please.’

Almost two miles from the site of the downed copter they found a single room shed in the middle of a corn field, the vegetables around trampled flat by the dead. More than twenty of the ghouls lay on the floor around the shack, showcasing his sister’s ability to shoot. Quietly he removed all his ammunition, his weapons, his tac vest, and had only his pistol in hand. Mark cleared his mind, felt the gun in his palm, felt the last glimmer of hope shining bright that his sister was alive. He placed his hand on the handle, “One shot means she’s alive. Two means go home.” The three nodded in silence, ignoring the dead that were currently stalking towards them as Mark left the car.

Three men watched the dark shack, eyes wide and waiting. Even the constant moans of the dead seemed quieter than a whisper. The first shot rang out, lighting the entire shack, beaming through the spaces between the boards that comprised it. It felt like an hour for the three men, watching, waiting, hoping. Another shot rang out and the shed lit again for a brilliant instant before darkness reclaimed it.

Old friends, new blood (Original Short)

Michael had come to hate heights lately. First jumping from them, then throwing others from them. Now he found himself in a very precarious situation, similar to the ones he’d put others in recently: hanging over the edge of a very tall building at the end of an arm that was attached to a very angry vampire. Though he didn’t need to breath it was still very uncomfortable to have a hand gripped tightly around his throat. In all the things he’d done to get this war under way he’d never been worried. Until now.

“You would have the houses war again?!” Balthezar was furious, the fire of the night in his eyes shone to near neon proportions, his voice had deepened and was not much more than a gutteral growl. Michael began to answer when he was shaken violently, interrupted by the vampire still holding him over the edge, “Do you forget I sit in court of the House of Lee?” Michael waited a moment before tried to answer.

“Not just the houses. The humans, too.” Michael hadn’t forgotten where his sire sat, nor had he forgotten the temper and fury that his sire possessed. With a roar Michael’s thin body was thrown against the brick wall that housed the door to the roof. Mortar, dust, and pieces of the wall joined the thrown vampire on the floor. Through the physical pain that was near overwhelming Michael fought back the mental anguish of hurting someone he was once so close to. Even as he was picked back up by his hair and slammed against the already cracked wall again he wanted to apologize to his friend, but couldn’t. The plan wouldn’t work otherwise.

“Have you lost your mind?!?” Belthazar, much taller than Michael, and much more muscular, with black, curly hair down to the small of his back, finally stood back to hear an explanation. The thin vampire struggled to straighten himself, sliding up against broken bricks, “No, Belthazar, I have not lost my mind. I was setup. As were others. Many others. Our brothers and sisters were played and fed to the hunters. It is time for the houses to fall.” The ancient vampire was not moved by the words. It showed. Michael fought back tears, knowing what would have to happen next.

His plan had been moving at the proper pace, but now with his sire interfering, things would have to be accelerated. “You could’ve requested a trial, Michael. You could have plead your-” “MY CASE? TO THE SAME ONES THAT HAD PUT ME IN THAT TRAP?” It was Michael’s turn to roar with that voice most vampires hated to use, “The hunters were waiting for me! How bloody convenient they would show up the second after a human gets fed upon! How droll that they had silver bullets with UV accents in their weapons, ready to go! How funny that they opened fire as I tried to tell them what happened!”

This time the weight of what had been said made the ancient one take a step back and look away, trying to hide his emotion. The time was drawing near for this part of the plan to be executed. Michael wanted to apologize, wanted to say he was sorry, wanted to plead for forgiveness, but couldn’t. Silver killed vampires. Iron slows them down. Both hurt very much, no matter the quantity. The younger of the two could feel his body hot, his breath racing, the blood of that human advocate still pumping through his veins, fueling him like high octane fuel thrown on a fire.

Belthazar still looked away as he spoke, “I can help you, Michael. It’s not how it used to be. I can still help you get out of all of this. Just come with-” The impact of the knife in his side silenced him. The iron blade was buried hilt deep, rendering the ancient one all but paralyzed with pain, as Michael cradled him while he fell to the ground, grunting and groaning. The fire had gone out of both their eyes as they looked at each other, one with pleading, one with determination. “You’ll know what our brothers and sisters went through. What I went through. You’ll know, Master.”

Michael hiked up his sleeve and forced Balthezar’s mouth open, the ancient’s fangs at the ready. With little effort the pointed teeth of the elder sank into flesh, bringing blood forth. Michael wiped the sorrow from his face, replacing it with concentration as he forced his sire to drink. Eyes wide with pain were suddenly wide with alarm and understanding at what was being done. Belthazar was being force fed blood tainted with human blood. The tests would confirm it. He’d become an outcast.

Michael drew the knife out of his sire. With a gentle hand he moved the curly black locks away from his friend’s face, speaking softly, “When they come for you, and they will, come find me. Just know that I do this for the better of our kind. The houses must fall and a new regime must be made. Goodbye for now, Master.” The thin vampire stood, sheathed the iron blade and walked to the fire escape.

The broken door to the rooftop was kicked open by hunters just as Michael disappeared below the line of bricks. They asked the vampire on the floor the standard questions. Then one motioned to the other the blood that was still wet. With an apology one of the hunters produced a blood scanner, designed to detect human blood in a vampire, and asked for Belthazar’s hand.

The Stepping Stone (Original Short)

Michael sat back for months, watching all the infighting, backbiting, murders, and now ensuing power vacuum. He smiled. All this from three words and a little blood spilled. It was beauty. Four hundred plus years on this earth and he relished and abused, now, one simple fact: violence is in people's nature and so is the want to contradict. Now, the fever pitch was being reached, and it was time to initiate the next phase of his plan.

The streets were quiet as he walked, letting his highly tuned senses wander and take in the world around him. Orange street lights above gave everything a glow that was almost beautiful. Michael's thin frame was at home in the cold, the wind blowing softly against his designer shirt, giving him a thrilling chill. He wouldn't be cold for long. Soon he'd be soaked in blood and gore, his tender flesh would be bruised, and his appetite whet. Very soon. The block was approaching fast, and through his mind he ran the plan again, double checking for errors and faults.

Three bouncers sat outside the nightclub and asked for identification and a cover charge. Michael idly scratched his newly grown beard and wondered how his lengthening hair looked as he stepped through the door, sniffing the air for what he wanted. Pulsing music pounded his sensitive ears, a kaleidoscope of colors danced across faces and bodies, and Michael couldn't help but think of the last time he was in a place like this. A fanged smile ghosted across his thin lips.

Gently and politely he made his way through the crowd, to the bar. He didn't usually drink, but this place stank, he needed the liquor to drown out the smell. This particular club wasn't filled with vampires, no, this was a completely human place. After receiving his vodka on the rocks he leaned against the highly polished metal of the bar and expected a sting from the holster he'd been wearing lately, but it was absent. He didn't need guns for this part. This was easy.

He let the night go for an hour, taking in a few drinks to help cancel out the stale sweat stench, he even tried to enjoy the music. If random beeps and squeals and a voice thrown in every now and again to humanize it was what was considered music these days. Michael's eyes kept glancing over the second floor of the place, waiting for a certain light to come on, signaling his prey had arrived. As he waited people would try to make conversation with him, complimenting his clothes, his hair, his beard, and even asking for a dance. He smiled and politely declined them all, thanking others.

The alcohol flowing through his veins gave him a warm feeling inside, and made it all a bit more bearable. Doubt started to rear it's head as his violet eyes again played over the room he needed to be occupied. He sighed, breathing out the atmosphere, and looked again. Eureka. The tinted window lit up blue and shadows of men and women began to pile in. Michael left his drink at the bar and began to walk, now with purpose, to the staircase.

The first bouncer, human, held out a hand and attempted to stop him. Two choices lay ahead of him: violence or smarts. He opted for the latter. "I'm here for Anna. She's expecting me. My name is Jeremiah." The man reached into his pocket and drew out a paper, read it, eyed Michael up and down, then let him through. This happened three more times before he made it into the room. The door closed behind him and almost no one paid attention to him as he measured the four men in the room and his one target.

The violence was lightning fast. Michael's claws and superior strength made quick work of the body guards and now he stood before Anna, a woman in her 30's, well dressed and attractive, with blood sprayed across her face. She was the advocate and the peacemaker between the human hunters and certain political parties in the vampire world. Michael's hand, stained red past the wrist, making his hands look like they were gloved, grabbed her by the neck and stood her up.

She pleaded, clawed and kicked at him as he walked over to the window with her. Finally she asked, "What do you want?" Michael could only grin as he answered, "War." She began to protest but then he sank his fangs into her neck, shaking his head back and forth, tearing open her jugular. He drank deep. Her heart began to slow and he stopped, rearing back and licking the precious blood from his lips. "Please. Don't misunderstand. You're only a stepping stone. You had to die. But know, that in doing so, you will bring about great change."

Her glossed over eyes stared at him as her pale lips tried to form words. He slammed her head against the glass, cracking it. Again he slammed, more cracks. One last time and she flew through. Glass and chaos rained down upon the scene below. Michael walked away, enjoying the screams and the cacophony building below. With her dead the vampire houses that used her would have to do a lot of explaining to the humans, it would be obvious who killed her. More fuel to the fire. As he walked out the back door, wiping away all the crimson he smiled again.

The heavy door opened into the cool night, the smells, noise, and buzzing of the club were now behind him. Michael turned left and walked down the alley behind the place, lacing himself through the cars. He came upon another alley. He was about to enjoy his little victory when a fist collided with his chin, sending him against a brick wall. He met the floor fast, almost as fast as his assailant. With a spin Michael was on his feet, ready to meet his foe, but suddenly halted. He stared into the face of an old friend. An ancient friend. His sire. The name of the one who made him, and was now standing before him, fell from his lips, "Balthezar?"