THE DARK TRILOGY BOOK ONE:
DARK TIDINGS
By: Tracie D. Lukasiewicz
He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster.
--Nietzche
PROLOGUE
She seized up suddenly from her sleep. Sweat slid down her forehead and dripped off of her chin and nose as she looked desperately out of the window. It was still light out, there was still time.
Snatching her shoes from beside the door, Charlotte tore into the hallway. Where is she? Where is Penelope? She must warn her! From the shadows came a giggle and suddenly Penelope appeared in the hallway.
“C’mon Charlotte!” Penelope laughed as she ran down the hallway toward her doom.
“No, Penelope—you have to wait! I need to tell you something. It's important!” But Charlotte’s small cry was lost underneath the sound of Penelope’s giggles and the storm that was rising outside. Penelope swept through the kitchen and out of the backdoor to the yard. Charlotte paused briefly in the kitchen, just long enough to pick up a small steak knife from the drying rack next to the sink.
She followed Penelope out of the house, struggling to keep up with her older sister who was much taller and faster than she. The wind whipped the leaves around her as she grasped her skirt. Darn her mother and the insistence that a proper young lady wears a dress to church on Sundays! Ludicrous.
“Charlotte, hurry up! We’re going to miss it!” Penelope called. She was already to the gate.
“It” was a gathering of some of the neighborhood children in a nearby cemetery. It was supposed to be just kids having fun. It was not going to be fun this time.
“Penelope, you have to stop,” she gasped. “You don’t understand!”
Charlotte's demands went unheeded as Penelope continued on ahead, eager to meet her friends. Charlotte was too slow, too small. Four years older, Penelope had always been outgoing, had always found it easy to make friends. Charlotte typically found herself alone. She was more comfortable that way, usually. But in the cemetery, Charlotte seemed to finally fit in. She found reassurance in the sounds and in the beings that she found hidden there that no one else seemed to see or even sense. The others were just having fun, unaware that they were always watching. Waiting.
Tonight it would no longer be fun and games. She had been told that danger was looming and she had to stop Penelope.
Or stop It.
She saw Penelope enter the clearing where the other children had gathered. Candles were lit and covered against the coming storm. All of the children wore their Sunday best, having snuck out after dinner while their parents were visiting with friends and relatives. They would not be missed for at least an hour, plenty of time for the séance.
Charlotte burst into the clearing as well, racing after Penelope as the chanting began. Penelope took her place in the circle and held hands with Sharon and Edward. It had begun. Charlotte tripped and fell.
“Penelope! No, listen to me, please! I—”
The wind swept through the circle, dousing all but one of the candles. The children cried out in excited alarm. There was nothing to fear; the wind was simply adding to the experience, to the atmosphere.
It was already too late.
From the darkness came a whinny and in the shadows stood the outline of a beautiful white horse, seemingly lit from within. Charlotte heard Penelope gasp in delight as she became entranced by its beauty. An experienced equestrian, Penelope had a connection to horses that was virtually uncanny. It was as though they spoke to her.
“No, Penelope, it’s not real! It’s not what you think!” Charlotte pulled herself up and rushed to grab onto Penelope's skirt as her sister broke away from the circle to go to the horse. Penelope shook her off, irritated that Charlotte was trying to keep her from this majestic animal, enraptured by its spell. As Penelope hurried towards it, the beautiful white mare turned and ran back into the dark, menacing woods that ran along the cemetery.
Penelope disappeared into the woods after the horse with Charlotte close behind—but not close enough. As before, Charlotte failed to keep up and Penelope drew farther ahead until Charlotte could no longer make her out in the darkness. Charlotte called out to her softly, afraid to call the attention of the creature to herself but desperate to try and stop it.
Suddenly, Charlotte heard a noise. A disgusting sound, one she was never able to forget as the years passed on from this day. The sound of slurping and chomping.
The sound of a ghoul eating her sister.
She rounded a tree and there it was. No longer a beautiful, majestic white mare, it had now taken a somewhat human shape, but its movements were not at all human. It was extremely tall—a giant at about twelve feet—and it crouched on long, thin legs the color and consistency of burnt skin. A six inch talon stuck out above each heel. It was hunchback, the large hump sitting on top of its round, bony shoulders. Long arms stretched to the ground like that of an ape. Skin seemed to just hang off of the creature, as though stretched like rubber and then left to sag along its misshapen body.
A branch cracked under her foot and she watched, horrified, as the creature turned its head to look her way. The same burnt skin was pulled taunt over its face, highlighting every bump and scar—and there were many. It was bald and its veins pumped and bulged all over its forehead and skull. Rows layered upon rows of sharp, jagged teeth stretched across its face with no lips to hide them. It reminded Charlotte of the jaws of a shark. And the eyes? Just empty sockets that seemed to stare at nothing.
But the eyes did see. They saw Charlotte. The ghoul left the remains of her sister and began to come toward her, grinning its hellish smile and making a most unnatural noise: a growl within a wail so loud and piercing that Charlotte had to cover her ears.
As the ghoul moved toward her, she held the steak knife tightly in her sweaty little hand. She knew that it was unlikely to help her defeat the undead monstrosity, but she could not back down, could not go down without a fight. Charlotte moved on instinct alone, her desire for survival and vengeance outweighing everything else.
A cold chill wrapped around her and rain poured down as she felt the company of the Dead surrounding her. She felt somewhat comforted by their presence although she knew they were unable to help her.
The ghoul again let out its eerie shriek as it leaned over her, its hideous jaw gaping open, saliva dripping from its teeth. Charlotte fell and began to peddle backward through the dirt as fast as she could. The ghoul came closer and closer, but despite her fear she forced herself to glare up at it, gripping the knife as she prepared for it to strike.
Suddenly, a form emerged from the shadows and leaped between her and the ghoul.
”While I do admire your bravery, my dear,” said a man’s
voice with an elegant and polished tone, “I do believe that this
will cut it.” Chuckling at his pun, a tall, thin man dressed in a
long, black trench coat and hat began to battle the ghoul with a
beautiful, silver sword that glinted in the moonlight.
The battle was short-lived; her rescuer quickly and with surprising grace disabled the ghoul by slicing off its arms and head. The monster's evil cry echoed through the night even as its head fell and rolled to the ground. The man turned and bent over, his hand stretched out to her.
Charlotte looked up at him, hesitant but unafraid. The man had a long shock of black hair that licked his shoulders. His pale skin seemed to glow in the moonlight, his dark eyes intense and searching as he gazed into hers, as though he was looking through to her soul.
“My name is Jonah. And yours?” he said, his handsome face lined with concerned. Jonah's mouth broke into a slight smile as she took his hand to be helped up, and she saw the fangs of a vampire peeking out at her from within the cavern of his mouth. “Charlotte. Charlotte Waymire,” she said, gripping his hand and getting to her feet.
“Well, Charlotte,” he said, looking solemnly over at Penelope’s still form. “I’m terribly, terribly sorry for your loss.” Charlotte began to shake uncontrollably as she walked toward her sister’s body, ravaged almost unrecognizable by the ghoul. What would she tell her parents? It was just as the man, the dead man, had told her in the dream—and Charlotte had failed to save her despite the warning.
Charlotte determined that she would never let a tragedy like this happen again. Her eyes had been opened—she was aware that she was different. Charlotte had been given a gift. She could see them, she could feel them. And she could kill them.
The Monsters.
Jonah watched as the young girl walked over to the lifeless form that lay in the grass and knew instantly that she was no ordinary human. As Charlotte stood gazing down at her sister, at least a hundred of the Dead floated and swooped over her, sharing in her grief.
CHAPTER ONE:
A MONSTROUS HISTORY
Monsters exist.
So do many of the things that go bump in the night that you have likely written off as fiction, the result of an overtired mind or an overzealous imagination.
My name is Jonah Pryce and I am a 166 year old vampire. I was thirty-one years old when my human life ended in 1844. I was not married. I was more of a swinging bachelor and somewhat notorious in my town for being a man about town, if you will.
One fateful night, all of that changed.
Initially, I embraced my new-found life. I enjoyed the thrill of the hunt, the satisfaction of the kill. I even, for a little while, allowed my life as a vampire to get quite out of control.
But that is a story for another time.
Now, however, I am a member of a specialized group of soldiers known simply as the Legion. Man cannot survive without the Legion. And Monsters cannot survive without Man, which is how the Legion came to be in the first place.
Hundreds of thousands of years ago, man and woman were evolving into what they are today. And yes, the Monsters were always there, evolving and surviving right along with them—and because of them. Werewolves, vampires—and also the Magic Ones (Witches and Wizards) and the Beings (Fairies and Elves as examples)—all existed then and even before. Humans provided an ample and, more importantly, challenging form of prey for the Monsters.
There are also the Dark Ones: Demons, Ghouls and other dark creatures—those without any semblance of conscience or humanity—are categorized this way. Demons are the most vile and devious of all, creating havoc and misery for humans, Beings and Monsters alike.
And they love it.
Getting back to my original story, then. As you can imagine, it became difficult to sustain this ample prey (humans) with so many creatures attempting to dine on them. It also became quite trying to conceal the massacres that inevitably occurred when a group of vampires became overzealous or a pack of werewolves got out of hand. As time went on, religious and land wars as well as acts of nature (simulated by the Giants) became easy explanations for the damage done but, let’s be honest, you can only use that excuse so often before the humans begin to figure it out. I mean, they are gullible but no one could ever consider Man to be stupid.
So the Monsters, Beings and Magic Ones came together to form the Alliance of 1447. In blood, the leaders of each group signed an agreement that unruly human bloodshed must come to an end because supply would eventually run out. Or the humans would begin to realize that they were being hunted and killed on a far more regular basis than they could imagine and might actually use their intelligence to figure out ways to fight back. This of course did happen in some respects due to a few Monsters being less than discreet. But I digress.
An agreement such as this is, of course, not to be reached easily. There were many of the supernatural creatures who rebelled against the Alliance for a long time, killing humans with such a vengeance that it was almost impossible to cover up. Vlad the Impaler even went so far as to torture humans with impalement on stakes and drink their blood, which was implicitly forbidden in the Alliance. This brash behavior is of course what led to the most famous of all vampire fictions, Dracula, an exposure that vampires truly could not afford.
So the leaders were again forced to meet and discuss repercussions. This led to the creation of the Legiune or, in English, the Legion. The Legion is a group of soldiers chosen by the leaders of each group in the Alliance. Our duty is to find those who are breaking the Alliance and stop them.
Or eliminate them.
We are highly trained and do not wait for an explanation. Legionnaires are known for being extremely inconspicuous and dangerous.
Most Legionnaires travel in pairs or trios. I prefer to work alone.
At least, that was until I met Charlotte. Prior to that fateful night years ago, I was completely against any assimilation of humans into our World. It was out of the question that we allow them to know of our secrets, our true nature, our existence. Charlotte has changed me, perhaps for the better. I have begun to see this issue in a different light, to realize the potential benefits of working with—select—humans.
On rare occasions, a human has been known to break out of the mold and to be able to touch our kind in one way or another: psychics, mediums, necromancers.
Either willingly—or forcefully—these humans have eventually fallen silent.
CHAPTER TWO:
CHARLOTTE
I despise rain.
It's slippery, it's inhibiting, it's cold. And I dislike cold even more. Being that I am a vampire with a virtually nonexistent body temperature, I am always cold.
I know that films and television love to portray vampires as some kind of rain and storm-loving obsessives that use bad weather to prey on people’s fears and cover up their bad deeds. Perhaps that is true for some, or maybe even most, vampires but not for me. It impairs my ability to run at top speed and my reaction time is delayed from the chill. All in all, not enjoyable.
Therefore, this night finds me impatiently waiting for Charlotte in the middle of a storm, begrudging the rain for the hindrance it will have on the task at hand.
Unfortunately, this job cannot be put on hold for better weather.
Lightning slices through the trees as they bend and weave, dancing in the wind. Thunder crashes and I pull my collar up around my ears and my hat down further over my eyes. The wind blows a heavy spray of water into my mouth and I angrily spit it out.
“Charlotte, where the hell are you?” I mutter angrily. Suddenly, amidst the chaos of the storm, I hear a rumbling that is distinctly different from the sound of thunder.
To an average human ear, the sound would have blended in with the storm for a considerably longer period of time. I can hear it from a few miles away and have a feeling I know exactly what, or rather who, the noise belongs to.
I look up as I hear the sound of the engine come to a thunderous crescendo on top of the next hill.
Charlotte has a new toy.
Charlotte and I have been working together since we met that fateful night when she was eight years old and lost her sister. I saw something in her then, a spark, a connection that I could not disregard. Therefore, I took her under my wing, made her my protégé in the art of killing Monsters.
Charlotte is the first human to ever be trained in the ways of the Legiune. No one in the Legion or the Alliance knows about her and I firmly intend to keep it that way. Charlotte is also unaware of this part of my life; she believes that I am battling Monsters for the greater good. She has no idea that it is my job.
There are times when this gnaws at me, moments when I consider that it would be better to be honest with her but, as I said before, very few humans have ever been privy to the secrets of my World. I know what the repercussions would be and, of course, the Legionnaires do not wait for an explanation.
I mean, I’m good but I’m not that good.
It was not always easy to train with Charlotte. Her parents understandably became extremely overprotective of her after the loss of her sister. She told them it was a bear attack, which was the best explanation she could provide. I mean, what human in their right mind could even imagine the horror that Charlotte witnessed that night? Not many, I can tell you that much. It was just simpler for everyone involved if Charlotte altered the truth.
In the meantime she grew up, went to high school and college, tried to project the appearance of a normal life. We trained when we could; I taught her the way of the sword, the dagger, the gun. We practiced and sparred in the basement of my home so she would learn how to defeat creatures of all kinds—Goblins, Werewolves, Witches, Demons and, yes, even vampires.
As far as enemies go, vampires, unfortunately, are very difficult to defeat. We are fast, we are strong, and we can hear and smell for miles. Sunlight is an issue although it probably will not kill us—I have never personally seen a vampire burst into flame or ash in sunlight. Our primary form of torture? Staking us through the hands or wrists—anywhere, really—we heal around it and the result is a hideous, piercing pain at the source of the penetration.
The best way to kill a vampire? The old, traditional stake-in-the-heart or cut off the head. Otherwise, if you trust in most of the old wives' tales—garlic, holy water, crosses—you are barking up the wrong tree, as they say, and you will figure that out very quickly.
I look at her now, at the woman she has become: strong, intelligent, dangerous. Charlotte sits atop a large but sleek black vintage motorcycle at the crest of the hill. She is dressed in all black and across her chest is the criss-cross of the straps that hold her holy water and salt-glazed machete in place. On her hips sits a ring of silver bullets. Over her shoulder hangs a shotgun filled with salt and in a shoulder holster hangs a large pistol filled with more silver bullets.
Charlotte has various weapons secured in pockets and holsters on her “war pants” as she likes to call them, all with the primary purpose of defeating the Monsters: daggers, salt bags and other trinkets (she has a silver chain she likes to use against werewolves—chains are easy to wrap around necks and paws—things like that. The mythology is true in that respect; werewolves cannot withstand silver. They also only see in black and white in canine form, one of their other main weaknesses outside of silver).
“What is that?” I ask as she pulls up and cuts the engine.
Her blue eyes cut over to me and glint mischievously. “A 1979 Harley Davidson Sportster 1000 XLH. With a few modifications of course,” she smiles. “You like?”
Always one for fast, loud vehicles, undoubtedly she and her gear-head friend Jerry had been tinkering with it for a couple of months now. Honestly, in spite of my desire that Charlotte remain a bit more under the radar, keeping in mind that the loud vehicles she enjoys rambling around in have the potential to call unnecessary attention to herself, the motorcycle seems very fitting—she looks good on it. She revs the engine and removes her helmet, her long blonde hair tumbling over her shoulders.
“It suits you, I suppose,” I reply shortly. I pull my hat down against the rain as she climbs off of the bike. Lightning flashes overhead. “Not so logical for this kind of weather, however.”
“Yeah, well, Jerry and I finished working on it today and I couldn’t resist taking it for a spin,” Then, as though a switch has been flipped, she becomes all business. “So, is this what you suspected?”
“Yes, it’s definitely a Nest,” I reply.
No Legionnaire job is particularly pleasurable but I truly despise dealing with a Nest. Especially alone, which is why I called Charlotte for some assistance. Nothing I cannot handle but it will go much more smoothly with Charlotte at my side.
Plus, I have not seen Charlotte in awhile. I have missed her.
Oftentimes, Charlotte and I work alone, cross-country or sometimes even traveling overseas if the need arises. We keep in contact with disposable cell phones and untraceable emails but are constantly moving from place to place, from job to job. If something becomes too intense, or unappealing as the case may be, we call the other and meet up. Every couple of months, we try to return to our ‘home-base’ as we like to call it: my estate in Savannah, Georgia.
Tonight we find ourselves in Cleveland, Ohio contending with a Nest. I rather enjoy Cleveland and its rock music; last night I stole into the hall of fame and had a walk around.
The rain comes as a result of an unusually hot August, one of the hottest on record, which has led to an abundance of thunderstorms.
My favorite.
So, I am sure you are wondering exactly what is a Nest? Well, first of all, allow me to inform you that shape-shifters exist in many forms and live essentially normal, everyday lives among humans. I must also point out at this time that I am absolutely not referring to Werewolves in this case. Werewolves are, to be blunt, vicious and just the worst kind of shape-shifter; they behave more like animals than humans. Over time, they have learned to control their abilities and to blend, but all in all a werewolf can never be wholly trusted.
Now, a shape-shifter has the ability to take the form of an animal. In fact, Shape-shifters are what humans of long ago, take for example Egyptians, considered Gods. Hence the frequent drawings of human bodies with birds’ heads and things of that nature. Shape-shifters come in many different forms: cats, dogs, birds, et cetera but only take the form of one kind of animal.
Most importantly, a shape-shifter cannot change other humans into shape-shifters. This is fiction; the shifting is a trait passed down from generation to generation which sometimes can skip.
One of the most dangerous forms of shape-shifters is the Phoenix. Much like the well-known myth, these shape-shifters take on a bird form; a large beautiful, golden bird with a long, plume of colorful feathers that hang down in a long tail which curls. The same bright feathers alight their head in a stunning and radiant bunch. Their eyes shimmer and shine, a bright gold like a jewel, entrancing you while they are secretly and nonchalantly unfurling the long, sharp talon which they use to cut open their victims.
When capturing their human victims, primarily men, the Phoenix have the ability to take on the shape of a beautiful woman with long, flowing hair and a shapely, golden body. Their talon hides inside the back of their hand until they are ready to strike. (There is a form of marine shape-shifter that is a relative to the Phoenix—if you have ever heard tales of mermaids or sirens tempting and singing for fishermen at sea only to lead them to their death, this is the work of the Phoenix cousin known in our World as the Maladies).
Unless you know how to defeat them.
Very tricky and devious, the Phoenix are incredibly difficult to kill. Not only must you be fast and agile, you must also be able to resist their temptations and powers of distraction, which we label the Influence. All of those in our World use the Influence to some degree: Elves use this ability to blend in the human world; vampires use it to subdue their human prey; Witches use it to hide their hideous appearance. As a result of our own ability to manipulate, I and others of my world are not susceptible and therefore can see through the power of the Influence.
Charlotte, as a human, would typically fall victim to the Phoenix but she has the ability to see past it to their true selves. Since the night we met, Charlotte has been able to see through the Influence, although not always entirely. Some of us are too powerful for her to see through—and yet, lately, I do believe her ability has been growing stronger.
With regard to this night here in Cleveland, however, I know that Charlotte will be able to remove enough of the cloak of Influence hiding the Phoenix to see what is most important: their talons and their primary source of pain—their tails.
I look up toward the rooftop of the second tallest building in Cleveland and sigh. Charlotte looks up as well, shielding her eyes against the rain as though that might help her spot the danger lurking above.
“I did a little research last night. It makes complete sense to me why the Phoenix would choose this building,” she takes a breath and begins to recite some facts as we walk toward the building. “Cleveland’s Terminal Tower. Home of Tower City Shopping Center. It was built in 1930 , 52 floors, 708 feet tall. There's an observation deck but it’s only been used once in awhile since 9-11.”
“So it's high, it's remote and it's sturdy.”
“Exactly.”
The Terminal Tower is enveloped in a crisp, golden light, causing it to look very much like the castle it was intended to replicate when it was built. A large tower emerges from the 280 foot caissons upon which it rests, each tier giving way to another until finally reaching the top where its long antenna stretches into the night.
We will be climbing to the top tier.
I set my shoulders now, resolute in my mission. It is time to get to work.
CHAPTER THREE:
PROPHECY
Charlotte and I quietly approach the Terminal Tower. It is vital that we remain as silent as possible because the Phoenix have exceptional hearing and, much like an Owl, can pinpoint the location of sounds very accurately. Therefore we must smother any noise as much as possible in order to maintain an element of surprise.
I look through the glass front doors and note that the interior of the building is almost entirely in darkness outside of security lights that dot the ceiling periodically throughout the main lobby. There is likely a security guard somewhere in the building, perhaps in an office having a snack, leisurely watching the security cameras. I am sure that working security here is typically an uneventful job. Regardless, a security guard does not pose much of a threat to us because we will not be entering the Terminal Tower the traditional way.
I follow Charlotte as she walks around the building to an alley around back. I watch as she quietly rests a large black duffel bag onto the pavement. She unzips it and removes a wide black strap which she buckles around her shoulders and waist, careful to keep her machete and shotgun loose so that they are at the ready. From the duffel she also retrieves a pair of night vision goggles which she then puts on and flips the switch. Charlotte then picks up a large object much like a bow and arrow called a grapple gun. She raises it steady, rests it upon her hip and looks over to me with a quick nod. She is ready.
I jump lithely onto the side of the building and begin to climb to the top, using only the great strength in my hands and feet to propel me upward. I move very swiftly and on a clear, dry night, I could reach the top in about a minute, flat. With the rain, however, I have to be a little more cautious, therefore it may take me a few seconds more, give or take. Hopefully the few extra seconds will not jeopardize the task at hand.
As I near the top of the building, I begin to see the brightly colored Nest, their cloths moving with surprising grace and elegance in the wind of the storm. The Phoenix enjoy decorating their nesting places with bright colors; all colors are not only represented but in their best forms: not blue but indigo; not purple but amethyst; not orange but amber. Soft cloths and plush pillows line the bottoms of their nests and long, flowing tapestries act as canopies to surround the individual nests and maintain privacy.
Flowers dot the nests here and there with the occasional butterfly wing or dragonfly. The effect of all of these elements put together is very Bohemian and unique, and really quite stunning with all of the elements melding together in a majestic and unparalleled scheme. There is truly nothing like it. It is unfortunate that so many are unable to witness it.
At this time, you may be wondering why it is that Charlotte and I must intervene in this particular Nest. First of all, it has nothing to do with where they are nesting. The Legion has no issue with the Phoenix building their homes and raising their young wherever they want. Because of their exceptional ability in using the Influence to hide amongst humans, the Phoenix can basically live and breed without detection. Therefore, it is not often that a Legionnaire is called to interfere with a Nest. The problem with this particular Nest is that coupled with the usual flowers and butterfly wings is a much more intrusive and dangerous decoration.
The Phoenix are obsessed with eyes. Their own eyes are very powerful, their gaze so intense that they cannot even look into the eyes of one another. Unfortunately, there is nothing quite like the eyes of a human child to them—perhaps it has something to do with the innocence of a child’s gaze, the trust—perhaps it is due to the ease with which a Phoenix can entrance a child, capture them.
And remove their eyeballs to display throughout the Nest.
As a Legionnaire, I have been assigned to enforce Law X53 of the Alliance: No Being, Monster or Magical One shall senselessly murder a human, above all a human child. I would say that killing children for the sole purpose of decorating your home with their eyes qualifies as a violation of this law, don’t you agree?
I know that this is going to be a difficult task. There is truth to the traditional myth: there is a power that the Phoenix possess that is known in our World as the Essence. The Essence is a life force that connects the Phoenix to the past and the future and allows them to move through time; it is not a rebirth so much as a skipping through time. It is the Essence that keeps them youthful and enables the Phoenix to live very long lives as well as to be an extremely elusive enemy. The Phoenix can use the Essence to skip around in time during battle, basically teleporting with a burst of light and flame, and as a result they are able to attack unexpectedly and from all directions.
The Essence lights each phoenix from the inside; the light gliding through them and around them and out of the ends of their tails, constantly ebbing and flowing. It is a golden light and within, like thousands of little dragonflies, twinkle little bright dots of light: marks in the Essence of leaps through time. Tonight, in opposition to the penetrating darkness, the Nest is like a shining star, a beacon in the driving rain.
I stop near the top of the building. I can hear their calls to each other; their songs are quite lovely. Like the Maladies, the Phoenix can sing a lilting song filled with joy and woe, love and loss, all in one delicate melody. This particular song is their lullaby for the babies. I sit still for a moment, listening. I feel a little badly that I have to interrupt. But then I think about the human children who have suffered and I draw myself up for the task at hand.
Hanging over the edge of the roof with my right hand, I quietly remove a small flashlight from my pocket with my left and shine it down to Charlotte. The signal for her to begin her ascent. I hear her grapple gun shoot a string up toward my position on the building. A claw at the end of the rope catches on the roof and she begins her ascent. I pull myself up and over into the Nest, drawing my sword as I fall right into the center.
The singing stops; the Phoenix are very still and quiet as they stare angrily at me. They are seated all around on piles of pillows and cloths, their tails curled around them. A few have not noticed my arrival and have their heads tucked under their wings as they rest. Many of the phoenix are large and appear to be quite old, therefore they are likely very experienced fighters and teleporters. I look away from their powerful gaze and look around to see the little blue, brown, green and even violet eyes—all watching me from their places within the dancing cloths.
“This Nest is required to receive punishment under Law X53 of the Alliance for the senseless murder of human children. I can see the evidence of the crime plainly enough,” I gesture around to the 'decorations.' “As a member of the Legion, I am here to serve that punishment.” I say the last part and take a battle stance, careful to watch for the first challenger. I do not have to wait long.
In a swirl of light and flames, the largest of the Phoenix leaps in front of me, eyes narrowed and flashing. Instantly, she transforms into a human form and with a high-pitched cry charges, slashing at me with her talons. I swing away with my sword as she eludes me by appearing and disappearing, over and over until I finally achieve success and grasp onto her long tail of feathers. They almost slip from my fingers but I manage to hold tight and slice it off with my sword. The phoenix lets out a mournful sound, even in death sounding musical and lovely, before vanishing in a burst of light and dust.
More phoenix are upon me in an instant, coming from above, from the side, even emerging from below, in human form and bird from. I deftly continue to battle them and manage to take off the tails of three more before one jumps onto my back. I swing around and then push off of the ground toward the walls of the Terminal Tower, carrying us both through the air and attempting to smash the phoenix between the building and myself. It vanishes with a cry just before I hit the wall and create a deep crater in the cement with my force. I sigh as I slide down the side of the building to the ground below, realizing that this Nest is proving to be a more worthy adversary than I had anticipated.
It’s a good thing that I brought back up.
I barely heard Charlotte as she topped the tier of the building and it was not until she pulled out her machete with a satisfying ‘shink!’ that the Phoenix realized she was there. By then, it was too late.
Charlotte swooped in with a fiendish cry, slicing and dicing the Phoenix and distracting them just enough that I could begin to overtake them. I found myself a little bit in awe as I watched her pull out a new weapon I had never seen before: similar to the silver chain she uses on werewolves, Charlotte held in her left hand a strap that wrapped around her hand and attached to a length of flexible metal. The metal was obviously sharp, and excessively so, because when she whipped it around the nearest phoenix tail, it severed it quickly and easily. She caught me watching and with a half-smile and a glint in her eye, Charlotte winked and continued the fight, as did I.
In short order, we were left with one. Charlotte and I walked toward it, she brandishing her machete in her right hand, the length of metal in the other; I with my sword, which had been given to me many, many years ago as a gift. Her face and mine were dotted and smeared with the violet blood of the Phoenix.
The remaining phoenix was in her human form, golden skin shining and glinting in the dissipating light. The storm had moved away and so the brightly colored cloths of the former Nest now hung limp and sad without their inhabitants and without the bright lights of their Essence. Only her Essence remained, shining brightly with her fear.
“Wait!” the phoenix said. Her voice echoed, as though coming from far away. Charlotte and I paused slightly and glanced briefly at one another, agreeing upon caution. Obviously, this phoenix was considering making an escape to another time, something that is frowned upon by their race involved in battle. As a rule, they never back down.
“Wait,” she whispered. “I have information. A prediction of your future that has been on the wind.” The phoenix paused, looking back and forth between us as we continued to move toward her, flanking her, boxing her in. “Mostly it concerns you,” she looked toward Charlotte, then to me, “but you have been mentioned as well.”
I grown inwardly as I realize I am about to bargain with a phoenix, something I have never, ever done and will never admit to having done if ever asked later. I look over at Charlotte, who returns my look with an air of skepticism and a roll of her eyes.
Only for her.
“Continue,” I respond, noting Charlotte’s slight intake of breath in surprise. She knows that I do not negotiate. “What have you heard?” I meet the phoenix’s eyes unflinchingly. “This had better be good.”
The phoenix brightens up then, grateful—the coward—for the opportunity to avoid death. In one graceful movement, she kneels down before us, her long golden hair falling over her entire body, her body bent in a way that no true human could ever achieve. The phoenix did it effortlessly, however. This bow is intended for those receiving the utmost respect of the Phoenix. She was surrendering.
“I am Lindora, daughter of Symphonie,” she informs us as she gracefully returns to a normal standing position.
I look at her with a bit of a start. “Symphonie is the eldest of the Phoenix,” I inform Charlotte. So, in other words, we are now face to face with what in the human world would be considered a princess. Because Symphonie is the oldest surviving Phoenix, this makes her of the highest rank among their kind.
I have encountered Symphonie only once and only for the briefest of moments because she is so well-protected. However, I glimpsed her in bird form and was truly astonished. Instead of aging her, time has treated her extremely well: her rainbow colored plume and tail hangs down long and lovely, flowing down her back in a waterfall of harmonious colored tresses, her golden feathers shine like a jewel with the glow of her Essence and brightens the air around her like a star. It was truly a mesmerizing sight to see.
In a flash, she was gone, whisked away by the soldiers they call the Rutu.
It made a little more sense now why Lindora would rather surrender than face a battle. As Symphonie’s daughter, she is a kind of royalty and it would be a great loss to the Phoenix if she was to be defeated. Obviously, we had already eliminated the Rutu designated to protect her.
Lindora settles down into a cross-legged sitting position on top of a red pillow and indicates that we should do the same. I decline with a shake of my head, preferring to remain at the ready just in case Lindora tried anything out of hand. Charlotte takes a seat on the cement across from Lindora, resting her machete on top of her knees.
Lindora sighs pulls a piece of hanging cloth over her lap to cover her bare body. Our quick entrance into the Nest had not allowed time for anyone to dress. She smiles at Charlotte, who is quick to avert her eyes from Lindora's intense gaze.
“You are very special,” Lindora begins. “You have a very special gift, one that allows you to meld within both the world of humans and the world of the Others: the Beings,” she nods toward me, “the Monsters.” The smile slides quickly from her face as she takes on a serious tone. “However, this gift puts you in much danger. There are those who would prefer you no longer exist.”
Lindora sighs and closes her eyes, rolling her head around as though trying to release the tension in her neck as she continues to speak in her melodious voice. “I see many trials and tribulations in your future, treacherous paths to follow and difficult choices to make. Many are seeking you out, trying to find you. The world of the Others is becoming aware of Jonah the Legionnaire and his human female companion.” Lindora opens her eyes. “Charlotte, you must be very careful, very cautious. She must be protected at all times,” Lindora looks to me then.
“I don’t need anyone to protect me,” Charlotte responds defiantly, looking up at me. “Jonah, let's get out of here.” She begins to rise from the ground.
“Ah, yes,” Lindora smiles. “This is true. You are a very strong and determined young woman, I know.” She reaches over, so quickly that I almost miss it, and grasps Charlotte on the forearm. Charlotte reacts quickly, grabbing a hold of Lindora’s arm and resting the machete at her wrist. Lindora does not flinch, simply continues speaking as though she did not notice. “Charlotte, do not let these qualities get the best of you. It is precisely this that I see bringing you harm in the future.”
Lindora releases Charlotte’s shoulder and begins to stand.
“That’s it? That is all you can tell us?” Charlotte cries out, scrambling to her feet. She replaces her machete in the holster and begins to walk toward Lindora, who has already begun to shine and wave with the start of her travel away from this time.
“No future is set in stone, Charlotte. I can only foresee what may happen. This knowledge you have been given has provided you with the ability to change your path. Be safe, Charlotte, until we meet again,” Lindora turns her head toward me, her voice sounding distant, as though she is already far away. “Jonah, please tell the Alliance that I am very sorry for the violation. I was sent here to put a stop to it. It will not happen again.” Then, in a bright burst of flame, she is gone.
CHAPTER FOUR:
DISCLOSURE
Charlotte raises her head from her pillow and rests it upon her hand. She looks over to where I sit in the corner of our hotel room, her blonde hair falling in a tangled mess over her shoulders. She peers at me through one sleepy eye. “Hey.”
“Good evening. How did you sleep?” I watch as she pulls herself up to a seated position on the bed and attempts to run her fingers through her curls, which proves unsuccessful. She gives up and instead rubs her eyes and face with her fingers.
“It was uneventful,” she replies, standing and walking toward the bathroom.
Uneventful sleep for Charlotte is good to hear because it means the Dead left her be. You see for Charlotte, the Dead—humans who have passed on but whose spirits remain as they are unwilling to let go—are a constant and inescapable companion and they can only communicate through the subconscious. Therefore they must invade her dreams but when they do their communications are often disjointed and threatening, very much like a nightmare. Obviously, this makes sleeping soundly quite a bit difficult for Charlotte. I have often returned home late in the night to find her awake and writing with a hot mug of coffee by her side, unwilling to close her eyes and face the Dead.
As she walks away from me, I recognize how truly beautiful Charlotte is in a completely unaware, or rather unconcerned, way. Dressed in a simple faded, black t-shirt and a pair of grey shorts, she is muscular but not overly so. She is not tall but her legs are long and she has a graceful walk that exudes a confidence that is not off-putting, just noticeable.
Charlotte’s most enticing feature is her eyes. A deep blue, just a touch darker than the ocean, they brighten and shine whenever she is delving into my World, particularly when she is in battle. I have never told her this. I like to pretend that it would make her uncomfortable to know but, really, I enjoy keeping it my little secret.
Charlotte emerges from the steam-filled bathroom a short time later dressed like a tourist. We must blend as much as possible, which for Charlotte means no “war pants” and for me, I need to change up my usual all-black attire. I am dressed in a brown sweater, khaki pants and, of course, a thick layer of sunblock. I pull on a pair of tennis shoes and make sure to grab my backpack and camera. The camera is for show, of course, to emphasize the image of being tourists. However, Charlotte has never been to San Francisco so I will not deny her the opportunity to remember it with a few photographs if she so desires.
For Charlotte, blending in means jeans and a cream-colored sweater. I had recommended she wear comfortable walking shoes to which she smirked. Charlotte has a pair of black work boots, well-worn and functional. These are the shoes she prefers to wear on jobs; they’re flexible, tough and can give an opponent a good, hard, dazing kick if necessary. I think that I will have to pry those boots from her cold, dead feet—if she ever comes to that kind of unfortunate end.
We emerge into the crisp, cool evening air and begin to walk toward Fisherman’s Wharf. On the way, we pass Charlotte’s new toy, the Harley Sportster. It glints in the waning sunlight as it parks next to my electric blue 1952 Jaguar convertible.
I could have a newer car, I can by all means afford it, but there is a certain quality to a car from the 1950s that I find lacking in newer models. My Jaguar—with its sleek, rounded bumper, tan leather interior and gleaming blue paint—is dependable and purrs like a kitten. Best design they ever had, in my opinion. I had it shipped over from Britain because I could not bear to have just any Jaguar. It had to be that exact model.
What can I say? Charlotte is not the only one who appreciates a nice vehicle.
We alight on one of San Francisco's infamous trolleys and ride it to Fisherman's Wharf. Charlotte smiles as she holds onto the outside of the car. When we near our destination, we disembark and cross the street. Charlotte stops at the corner by a woman holding a sign that reads, “Was abducted by aliens. Need to drink to forget.” Charlotte wiggles her eyebrows in amusement and drops some change into the proffered coffee can. The woman lifts her hand and says, “Bless you, child,” with a nearly toothless grin. We continue on.
Suddenly, the hair on the back of my neck stands up as I sense someone watching us. I lightly touch Charlotte’s arm and we pretend to look into the storefront window of a boutique. She points to a dress and I nod and smile, feigning interest as I scan the glass for the reflection of our companion.
I see no one. People walk and talk, laughing and oblivious. I listen, I wait. I hone in all of my advanced senses and attempt to detect anyone out of the ordinary. Nothing. Whoever was following us seems to have vanished into thin air. I shake my head slightly at Charlotte and shrug. Perhaps I am just a bit on edge after Lindora’s prophecy.
Perhaps. But I am not usually—or rather, never—wrong about these things.
We walk in silence for a little while. I take in the sights and the smells of one of my favorite cities and truly start to enjoy myself when suddenly, Charlotte stops and turns to face me on the sidewalk.
“Alright, so what are we doing here? I know this isn't just a sight-seeing tour,” she puts her hands on her hips. “Come clean. What's going on?”
I look around to ensure that no one is in earshot. Satisfied, I begin to speak. “I have made arrangements for us to visit Pergamente Antice.” Charlotte raises her eyebrows. “Translated, it means the Ancient Scrolls.” I pause and take a seat on a nearby bench. Charlotte sits next to me and looks at me intently.
“Okay, well, this sounds a bit intense.”
“Yes, I suppose you could say that,” I clear my throat and examine my hands which are twisting. I am actually a bit nervous to tell her all of this. “Since Lindora's prophecy, I have realized how little you actually know about my World. For example, I am actually a soldier, known as a Legionnaire. The jobs that we do are assigned to me.”
I look at her out of the corner of my eye and see her nodding, as though what I am saying is not unexpected. I have to admit, I am surprised. I thought there would be more shock at this revelation but she is taking it quite in stride.
“Alright. I guess that makes sense. Fine. What else?” Her blue eyes are positively electric as she turns them toward me.
“I believe it has become necessary that you learn about the Monsters and the Magic Ones—“
“Elves?” she cuts in excitedly.
“Ah, yes, well the Elves are an important part of the research, of course.” Charlotte smiles gleefully. She has always had a particular interest in Elven lore and beliefs for some reason. “The Ancient Scrolls are the most precious documents of our World. Anything you want to know, any history, legends or facts about a Being or Monster can be found there.”
“And the Scrolls are here in San Francisco?”
“Yes. Well, in a manner of speaking.”
“What does that mean? Where are they?”
I feel a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. “Under Alcatraz.”
Charlotte's mouth hangs open slightly in disbelief for a moment then she quickly snaps it shut, then “Alcatraz? Really? But—why there?”
“Well, it’s a place few would think to look and the rocky landscape of the island itself provides a strong, protective barrier,” I explain. “It is very important that the Dark Ones do not find the Scrolls and it is vital that they stay hidden from humans. Before they were moved, the Scrolls were kept in a fairly conspicuous location. As humans began to migrate further and further and spread around the world, it became apparent that the they would need to be moved.”
“Where were they before?”
I pause. “In the Tower of Pisa.”
“The leaning Tower of Pisa? Really?” Charlotte exclaims with a laugh.
“Yes. The unconfirmed rumor is that it was a wizard with more ego than intelligence who designed the faulty foundation that caused it to sink and lean. Our heavy books and what did not help the situation at all, I am sure.” I reply with a shake of my head. “When the Tower and its lean became quite the tourist attraction, it was time to find a new, more inconspicuous home for the Scrolls. Alcatraz was just being utilized as a fort by the United States and so we simply chose to utilize it for our similar purpose.”
A man sits down on the bench next to us and so I stand up and begin to walk again. Charlotte falls into step beside me and shortly we enter the hustle and bustle of the crowd of humans near Fisherman's Wharf.
We stop at one of the vendors so that Charlotte can get some of their famous fresh seafood. She watches in delight as the man breaks her crab apart and places it into a container for her to take along as we tour the city. It is nice to see her smile with genuine happiness. It is rare that she can just let go for awhile and enjoy. She comments on the boisterous calls and antics of the sea lions, she admires the boats slicing through the water, she gazes at the magnificence of the Golden Gate Bridge as it stretches over the bay; I find myself smiling along with her.
As the day begins to move into night, I begin to lead Charlotte away from the main hub of the city. We stop along the way so that Charlotte can purchase a bit of Ghirardelli chocolate in the square, then continue past the East Basin Marina or Gashouse Cove. As the sun slips down below the sea, I take a moment to gaze at the glorious colors of the sunset. For too long I was forced to stay in the shadows due to my transformation from human to vampire. Eighty-nine years without a sunset or a sunrise (until vampires finally developed sunscreen in the 1930s) was without a doubt the hardest thing to get accustomed to in this new life. Now, despite that I have been able to see them for years now, I never quite get enough of the beauty of sunsets and sunrises.
At long last, we arrive at the West Basin. Darkness has completely fallen and I walk with Charlotte past the boats sloshing by the docks onto what is known as Marina Green. Teeming with joggers and rollerbladers in the daylight, in the night the Green is almost startlingly quiet.
Fog has rolled in off of the bay and a pleasant, cool breeze sweeps over us as we come closer to the water. A dog barks and I hear a cacophony of howls in response. Werewolves, speaking through the darkness.
We stand at the edge of the water as it laps onto the shore. A fish jumps out of the water in the near distance. Charlotte hugs her arms around herself; I have seen her do this before. She is nervous.
“Jonah,” she hesitates a moment then continues. “I—I’m getting a very strange vibe from this place. Really, from this whole city. It's, well, it's a bit unnerving,” she shudders a bit.
“Yes, I suspected as much,” I reply. “Because the Scrolls are here, San Francisco is too important to be left unprotected. Therefore, various members of the Legion reside here as well as some of the most powerful of the Werewolves, Elves and Magic Ones. You are picking up on their power; the city literally pulses with Otherworldly energy.”
“No Vampires then? You only said Werewolves, Elves and the Magic Ones.”
“Ah, you picked up on that, eh? Yes, well, Werewolves like the temperature here and the laid-back style appeals to the Elves. Vampires, on the other hand, prefer to reside in New York or LA as they thrive on a faster-paced lifestyle,” I pause. “And a faster-paced meal.”
“Huh. I see. Nice. They like a bit of a challenge, I guess.” Charlotte replies. I see her shoulders relax slightly and she drops her hands to her sides. I can still sense her apprehension, but she trusts me.
I look out at the sea as the water rises and falls, the tide bringing it further into the shore in billows and foam. The water begins to bubble and roll away as a piece of land, a pier of earth, if you will, ascends to the top of the waves. “Do you see it?” I ask her.
“Yea,” Charlotte replies with a touch of awe in her voice. She has not seen anything yet.
I lead her down the earthen pier and stand at the edge, gazing out at the ocean. A large black shape is moving toward us.
Right on schedule.
CHAPTER FIVE:
ANCIENT SCROLLS