Doctor Basil Wroethisbane — and dammit, the title of “Doctor” still meant something, even if the fools outside of his own Great Family, the Vampyrica Simulacra, paid it no honor — sat in the elegantly furnished back room of the dance club known as Sept’s Ankh, and tried to control the beating of his heart as he waited for the others to arrive. Basil sat in one of the leather-upholstered, golden-riveted office chairs situated around the enormous, round, meticulously-polished wooden conference table in the center of the room that Dr. Haller Furious, his Familial Elder and their host for tonight, had provided for the occasion. He had his laptop computer open in front of him, and he toyed with the schematics for the machinery that sat in the corner of the room, waiting to be used. He hoped he had gotten everything right. If not, they would fail in their mission tonight. Messing with the schematics was simply a way to distract himself from the fact that there was now a price on his head, and that the Tribulators were out in force looking for him — and the others — at this very minute. That fact stubbornly remained stuck in his head nonetheless, looming over everything he did like a grey stormcloud of foreboding. The muffled roar, rumble, and thud of the techno-industrial rock-rhtyhm of the music playing in the club thundered behind the walls of the room, like a throaty scream held back behind a stifling hand. Fuck all if that was helping his nerves.
He sighed, and adjusted his weatherbeaten golf cap on his head, and patted the bulge in his grey sport coat. Yep, still there. His “Ray Gun.” Or more precisely, his Phase-Pulse Wave-Amplification Blaster. Heh. Whatever. “Ray Gun” sounded better. When you were of the Great Family and Coven known as “the Vampyrica Simulacra,” you learned how to build things like that. And things like the device in the corner . . .
There, set aside from everything else in the room, sat another of his inventions. Well, okay, co-inventions. He and Haller had created it together. It was a strange conglomeration of parts: A wheelchair, next to a table full of various parts and contraptions: An electroconvulsive therapy machine, a heart monitor, an electroencephalograph, and two large, old-fashioned ham radio receivers, full of vacuum tubes and capacitors . . . each half-disassembled, their circuitry exposed and all rewired, and also wired into a series of six high-powered Tesla coils that stuck up into the air like the antennae of electromechanical insects, their copper wire gleaming in the light. A laptop computer, its USB ports all wired into the circuitry of the radios, the therapy machine, and the heart monitor. The alternator from a semi truck, attached to a pulley and an electric motor, and jumper cables leading from that to the coils and radio receivers. And running all over it, segmented metal hoses, leading to the pump from a refrigerator and two coolant tanks, both labeled “NO2.” The presence of the machine soothed Basil’s nerves, for whatever reason . . . Maybe it was a reminder that he — and his Great Family — had not lost their flair for creative invention. Maybe it was because the machine was their only hope for the future.
Well, whatever; it helped. Thank the Universe for that. He’d long since ceased believing in any gods. Better to just thank “the Universe.” Yeah, at least the Universe was present and accounted for . . . though there was one god he couldn’t help but believe in, for he had seen Him with his own eyes: Orogrü-Nathräk, the god of “the Legion Of” the same, the Vampire Coven that worshipped and served Him, the behemoth who slumbered in a tank of special liquids and who dreamt of who-knew-what, his followers interpreting his dreams through psionic interfaces Basil’s Coven had constructed for them. His Great Family and Coven — though their very status as a “Great Family” was debated by some others, and that fact angered him to no end — had made the Legion’s religion possible. But did they get any thanks for it? Very little. They had also made the Coven known as the Na Siúlóirí Intinne and their psionic mischief possible. But again — did they receive any accolades? No, none from the Intinne. In fact, the Na Siúlóirí Intinne had now turned against them in this needless, hateful, awful, bloody Civil War. May whatever gods there might be damn them, them and the rest of the “Protectorate,” as they called themselves. Bastards. Right bastards, all of them! Turning on their own kind! It was truly a blasphemy, if there was such a thing for the Damned.
Were he were discovered here, tonight, by the wrong people, it would mean his Final Death. Yes. But he had to take the risk, dammit. This meeting had to take place. Because they needed a strategy, if they were going to form a resistance. If they were going to organize against Krycek. If they were going to end this terrible Civil War . . . this horrible, tragic rift that had torn the Vampire Kingdom asunder. If the Chosen One was to come forth and lead them into a New Age, they couldn’t let the wrong side win. He had erased all the backups of his data, had magnetically zeroed every flash drive; the only copy in existence now rested on this laptop’s hard drive, and he kept that with him at all times. Hell, if he could’ve, he would’ve have handcuffed it to himself. And so now he and it waited for the only other Vampires that he knew he could trust, Vampires he would’ve trusted with his un-life if he’d had to . . . and damned if he just might have to.
If, that was, they themselves had not already been killed . . . for there were bounties on each of their heads, as well. Fucking Protectorate . . . because they wanted to supposedly “Protect” the Vampire Kingdom from being transformed by the Chosen One. Well, fuck them. Change was a part of life. Even the lives of the Damned. (But, he wondered — Damned by whom? The natural answer came to him soon enough: Ourselves, that’s who.)
Basil looked over at the security camera feeds . . . specifically, the ones that kept an eye on the back door. This room was usually where Haller came to oversee the club from all angles through a series of ninety-six different video feeds. Dr. Haller Furious (who also insisted on his title, despite Vampires’ general lack of respect for education in the Human world) was reclusive, odd, and considered, within Vampire circles, to be a bit of a lunatic; what sort of “scientist” also owned an industrial-music dance club where Humans came to indulge in the ecstasy of being fed upon in small doses? But Basil knew Haller well, and he was a true friend — and of course, the Eldest in his Family. He had powerful connections within the Human world, too. One such connection, a Dr. Walter Weatherspark, could provide them with weapons that might prove useful in the fight against Krycek and the Protectorate.
Just then — just as he started to look away — he caught a glimpse of movement on the monitors. He looked back. Ah, finally. A welcome sight for sore eyes! Haller himself had arrived. (And about damn time, too.) The door-buzzer sounded. Basil got up, walked over to the computer on the desk near the wall. Hmm. Well now, this was an interesting piece of klunky-as-shit software. Which key combo or command opened the door? He moved the mouse over the various menus at the top of the screen. No, not that one. Not that one. Ah! That one! He clicked the mouse . . . and the door in the back behind him buzzed opened, and in stepped Dr. Haller Furious, the oldest living member of the Great Family of Vampires known as Vampyrica Simulacra. Basil gave him a short bow.
“Elder,” he said.
“Now, now, Basil. None of that formal piffle.” Haller was tall, lanky, and wore an all-white suit and tie with white sneakers. His pale skin gleamed even in the room’s dim fluorescent lighting. He put down his umbrella and shook the rain off of it, and ran a hand though his short-cropped, bleach-blonde hair, a look of perpetual concern on his gaunt, angular face. His deep-set blue eyes held worry and fear in them. He walked with an obsidian-black, jewel-topped cane, and had a slight limp.
“You know I only do it to annoy you,” said Basil, and he smiled as he straightened back up.
“Yes, indeed, and it works,” said Haller. “But enough of that. Basil. It’s so good to see you. I’m glad you made it. Glad you made it alive. So, what do you make of my club, eh? This is the first time you’ve ever actually been here since I finished it, isn’t it?”
“It’s . . . an interesting place,” said Basil, nodding. “Personally I’ve never understood why these Humans would offer themselves up so willingly. To be fed upon, I mean, even if it isn’t to the point of death. It goes against the survival instinct, doesn’t it? Flies right in the face of fight-or-flight. If you ask me, there’s something deeply wrong with them.”
Haller shrugged. “Well, the feeding process is an ecstatic high for them. The sharing of memories . . . it’s as intimate a thing as many of them will ever know. At least for those who take part in it. Not that any members of our Family ever do, mind you. By the way . . . Did you know that some of them — the Humans, I mean — even claim to have seen God whilst being fed upon? Who are you or I to argue with holy visions and the transcendence of the entheogenic experience?”
“But aren’t the Vampires who feed on them — and then let them go — concerned about the memory exchange? What about the safety — not to mention the sanctity — of the Façade?”
Haller waved away the concern. “Every Human who comes here already knows that Vampires exist. And more come all the time. And the Vampires who come here know that they’re breaking the Façade by doing so. And the Elden knows they’re doing it, too. Has known for years. Truth be told, the Façade is crumbling. Decaying. Becoming impossible to maintain. You know that as well as I do, Basil.”
Basil sighed. Yes, he knew. It appeared that the good old days were, in fact, nearing their end.
“So what can we do?” he asked.
“Win this damned war,” said Haller, with a decisive thump of his cane. “And put an end to the Façade once and for all!”
“Well, when you put it that way . . .” said Basil. He shook his head, smiled, and then eyed Haller keenly. “But, for the time being . . . it’s interesting to note that while our Family doesn’t take partake in the rituals that go on here, it’s one of us — you, our Eldest; the one who’s supposed to be our standard bearer — who runs this place, where members of all the other Great Families are free to do what it is that we ourselves have sworn not to do. Not that I’m questioning my Elder’s morality, mind you. I don’t care to meet my Final Death.”
Haller merely smiled at him. “I would never condemn you to that. Not for doing what it is we do best, which is to question, probe, seek. Remember the three vows of our Family: ‘To Know,’ ‘To Dare,’ and ‘To Go Beyond.’ Besides. We pride ourselves on being more civilized than the other Great Families, remember? It’s one of the reasons they don’t like us much, and debate whether we even ought to be counted among them! Now, then. I see no conflict of interest or morals here, Basil. The others . . . the other Families . . . they have chosen to walk a different path than we of the Vampyrica Simulacra have, that’s all. I provide a place where they can snack and freely associate, and that is that. And a place where Humans can freely mingle and come to get their rocks off as well. So we choose to feed upon animals only . . . that is our choice. And the others choose to feed upon Humans . . . that is their choice. We don’t do what we do because we think that feeding upon Humans is ‘wrong,’ Basil. We do what we do because we are afraid that if we feed upon Humans, we will lose what remains of our own Humanity, and that is precious to us. The others . . . well, many of them lost their Humanity long, long ago. I don’t hate them, scorn them, or judge them for it. Instead, I feel sorry for them. As should you.”
Basil sighed, and nodded. “I suppose I do. Especially now. It’s just that . . . pity can easily turn into hatred. Because just when you think some of them can’t sink any lower, along comes someone like Krycek to prove you wrong. We’re lucky that the Covens who have allied with us have chosen to do so. Given how some of the other Great Families and Noble Houses feel about us. And Krycek is there, shouting her hate through a bullhorn, whipping the chaos into a frenzy. You never know who will turn on us next, with someone like her stirring the pot.”
Haller nodded in return. “Yes. Krycek. We must deal with Krycek. But if the Chosen One is brought forth — if we can find the one destined to bring them into existence — then we may have the key to defeating her, and ending this damned Civil War once and for all.”
“I hope you’re — ”
The door buzzer sounded again. Basil and Haller both turned to look at the monitors. His heart skipped a beat when he saw who was there: Two of the Vampires they were expecting tonight, the first of which was the ravishing Taliavanova Miskandriskovovich — a beautiful Tsarevna with stunning green eyes and coiffed auburn hair, wearing a gorgeous red-sequined evening gown and high-heels. God, how he had always loved her. She couldn’t know, though. And now wasn’t the time. Dammit all. He had waited too long to tell her, and now, there was no time. She had been Created as a Vampire while at a convent in Russia in 1759, by a member of the Great Krovavfeyri Family. But more importantly, she was a member of the Coven known as the Na Siúlóirí Intinne, the psionic warriors who had allied themselves with the Protectorate. By coming here tonight — by joining forces with the Rebellion — she had betrayed her Coven for her friendship with him, and put herself in colossally grave danger. He would protect her, though. With Orogrü-Nathräk as his witness, he would protect her.
Next to her stood Jean-Luc Davros, a sturdy, muscular Frenchman who had piercing brown eyes and jet-black hair. He wore the dress-uniform he had worn in his former life as a Sergeant in the French Army during World War I. His Creator had been a member of the Great Family who called themselves Démons de la Malédiction du Sang, and thus, so too was he. But Great Families mattered little in the Civil War; no . . . what mattered there was Coven; which “society within the Great Society of the Vampire Kingdom” to which one belonged. Jean-Luc was the current Leader of the Coven Basil had been thinking of earlier, the Legion of Orogrü-Nathräk, who worshipped the alien god who had fallen to Earth in Tunguska in 1908, and who — most importantly — had allied themselves with the Rebellion. It had been Orogrü-Nathräk who had made the Prophecy regarding the Chosen One in the first place, over a hundred years ago, its words screamed out and burned into the brains of a thousand Vampires the world over when he had crashed into the Earth in Tunguska. And now the Leader of those who worshipped Him had come here, tonight, to ensure that those who had died when the Prophecy had struck had not been Taken in vain.
Haller buzzed in Taliavanova and Jean-Luc. The door opened, and Jean-Luc held the door for Taliavanova as she stepped into the room, her high-heels clicking on the tiles of the floor. She bobbed her head to the thunderous beat of the music bleeding through the walls.
“Excellent music, comrade Haller Furious!” she declared with a smirking smile, her Russian accent thick, and sounding odd when blended with her snarky Western attitude. “But forgive me. Doctor Haller Furious. I think I like it here already. Not quite as svwanky as the accommodations at the Na Siúlóirí Intinne Chapterhouse, but, it will do for a meeting place, I think. Oh and Basil!” Her smile broke into a grin when their eyes met. She came over to him, and hugged him. He felt her breasts press up against his chest and inhaled her perfume, and for a moment, was lost in bliss. Her wild talent — telepathic influence — washed over him, unbidden. Desire filled him. Ah, if only their lives weren’t at stake . . . perhaps . . .
“Good to see you too, Taliavanova,” he said, inhaling one more lung-full of her as he pulled her tight. Memorizing the sensation of holding her in his arms. He let go, somewhat reluctantly. Focus! he told himself. We have work to get on with!
“I’m so glad you approve of tonight’s DJ’s tastes in records, Taliavanova,” said Haller, from where he stood. “Jean-Luc, it’s good to see you again.” He extended a hand, and Jean-Luc took it and they shook. “Hell, good to see you still alive. How fairs the Living God?”
“Eh, he fairs,” said Jean-Luc, with a shrug, walking forward and shaking Haller’s hand. “He dreams on, and we transcribe. The question is, how are you fairing, Dr. Furious? I see the club is doing well. This is all very posh for a back room.”
“What can I say? I do my best to treat my guests well,” said Haller, clapping him on the shoulder. “So. How goes the war out there?”
Jean-Luc sighed, and shook his head. “Not well. The Tribulators are out in force. Along with the Na Siúlóirí Intinne.” He cast a wary eye toward Taliavanova. “They scan anyone they come across. And if they think you’re with the Rebellion, they behead you or burn you on the spot. Those of my Coven who’ve survived have done so by tricking the Siúlóiri’s scans . . . or by simply running. We run numbers in our heads, sing songs in them, and of course we use Sho Ren Ka . . . we do whatever we have to in order to confuse their mind-probes , or to block them altogether. Or, like I said — we run. I admit, I’ve cursed your Family and Coven a hundred times over for designing those infernal contraptions for them. But it is of little consequence now, I suppose. What they have, they have . . . and they can’t get anymore, which is good. So these past two weeks, we’ve focused our efforts on destroying the Intinne’s psionic equipment. Knocking out their ability to probe our minds and thoughts. That will put a serious kink in the Protectorate’s offensive.”
“That’s good to hear,” said Haller. He squeezed Jean-Luc’s shoulder. “Have faith, my friend. And yes, I’m so sorry we — my Family, my Coven — ever designed those weapons and tools for the Na Siúlóirí Intinne. It was a mistake. I see that now.”
“Who else are we expecting?” asked Taliavanova.
“Three more,” said Haller. “One from each of the other three Covens who’ve joined the Rebellion.”
‘It’s a damned shame,” said Jean-Luc, making a face, “that more of them haven’t come around. Too many willing to sit on the sidelines while this thing devours the whole Kingdom and drowns all the Night Brethren in their own fucking blood.”
“They will come around,” said Basil, “when we can show them that the Chosen One is real, and that we’ve found the one who will Create him.”
“Or her,” corrected Taliavanova, and she smiled her dazzling smile. Damn but she was cute. Basil felt his heart melt a little.
The door buzzed again. Basil once more looked to the monitors. It looked like Haller’s other three guests had shown up. Haller limped over to the computer on the desk and buzzed open the door. Jack Burton, Buckaroo Tokusatsu, and Taurial Lily sauntered in from the rain.
They made for quite the threesome. Jack Burton was tall and chiseled, and built like a weightlifter. He wore ragged blue jeans, a leather jacket, a t-shirt, and a pair of mirrored sunglasses. His long brown hair fell across his shoulders in permed waves. His tan, East-Islander skin, dark for a Vampire, gave little clue that he was in fact one of the undead. He held a beer can in one hand. He had originally been a college professor — English Literature — from Berkley in 1889 when a Vampire from the Great Family Skadegamutak got hold of him and Created him as one of them, and inducted him into the Coven known as Ta Paidiá Tou Diónysou, “The Children of Dionysus.” Since their Coven’s Leader had been killed in the fighting — Coven leadership, unlike that of the Great Families or Noble Houses, was not arranged hierarchically according to one’s age or status as Elder — Jack was now in charge of the Children. Basil had always found him to be a terrible boor, but dammit, they needed all the help they could get. So what if he hit on every female Vampire he saw? He was an asset. And so what if he tended to quote poetry apropos of nothing? Well, he was necessary. And, so what if he drank like a fish? He was loyal to the cause. Those things were all that mattered now. At least, Basil guessed they were all that mattered. Perhaps.
Jack walked forward and grabbed Taliavanova’s hand and lifted it to to his lips and kissed it and grinned. Son of a bitch, he’d been here one minute, and he’d already pissed him off. Basil restrained himself from grabbing the asshole’s arm and ripping it off.
“Taliavanova! So good to see you! You look ravishing, as ever!” Jack said, and then intoned: “’To me, fair friend, you never can be old; For as you were when first your eye I eyed, Such seems your beauty still. Three Winters cold . . . Have from the forests shook three Summers' pride; Three beauteous springs to yellow Autumn turn’d, In process of the seasons have I seen, Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd, Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green. Ah! yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand, Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived; So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand, Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived: For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred: Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead.’”
“Sonnet fifteen,” said Taliavanova, inclining her head and smiling at him. “I remember it, Jack. How’ve you been?”
“Well right now,” he said, “better than ever. Lately, could be better. Have had the Tribulators on my tail now since Ohio. Been ducking them and the Na Siúlóirí Intinne like crazy.”
“The Tribulators?” said Jean-Luc, stepping toward him. “You too? Did they follow you here?”
“Yes. The Tribulators,” said Buckaroo Tokusatsu, his Japanese accent still detectable despite his many years in America. “And no. They didn’t. They are murdering any of the Rebellion they encounter, and are burning Chapterhouses to the ground. They razed ours earlier tonight. Only a handful of us escaped.” Unlike Jack, Buckaroo was as alabaster pale as a bedsheet, and the sallowness of his skin only served to highlight his Asian features. His jet black hair, short-cropped, stood out like porcupine needles all over his head, and in every direction, too. For his attire, he had chosen combat boots, tight black leather pants, a black leather shirt, and long black leather trench coat that flowed around him like a gothic cape. He wore heavy amounts of eyeshadow, lipgloss, and blush to accentuate his otherwise exsanguinate complexion . . . and on his back, he wore twin katanas, their blades sheathed in hard leather, there are ornate hilts decorated with silver serpents, their bodies intertwined and interlocked, forming twin symbols for infinity, their eyes twinkling rubies. He had once been a palace guard for Emperor Go-Daigo in the Muromachi era of Feudal Japan in 1564 before being Created.
“They’re after me too,” said Taurial. “I’ve used Sho Ren Ka to hide my thoughts from them, but I don’t really have the talent for it, so it’s harder for me. Plus it fails whenever I fall asleep. So I have to hide as best I can. I’ve been using fake IDs. Thank the gods for the Vampyrica Simulacra, Basil. Your Family’s hackers have been a godsend to me.” A petite woman who had been Created in her mid-twenties — but don’t let her size fool you, thought Basil; she’s deadly with those daggers of hers — Taurial Lily was a lithe, catlike Indian woman with Jade eyes and fulsome lips, the amethyst jewel in her forehead gleaming brightly in the room’s fluorescent lights. She wore a tan, weathered trench-coat that flared out in a bell-shaped curve around her legs, loose brown slacks, a loose white poet’s shirt beneath a brown leather vest replete with a pocket watch, and leather driving gloves. On her hips, she wore a set of six daggers; three on the left, three on the right, and also on each hip, a revolver in a holster. She wore an expression that said she was done taking any shit from anyone. Before being Created as a Vampire, she had been an Indian Princess in 1852.
“Well Haller,” said Jack, nodding his approval as he looked around, “looks like you’ve spruced the place up a bit. I remember when it was all just an empty space in here. What’s that music track they’ve got going on the dance floor in there — is that DJ Atomsplicer I hear? He’s come a long way since his mom’s basement.”
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“As a matter of fact, yes,” said Haller, smiling. He turned several deadbolt locks on the door. “It is him. You have a good ear, Jack. And yes, he has come a long way.”
“It’s good to see you again, Basil, Haller,” said Taurial. “You too, Jean-Luc. And pleased to meet you, Taliavanova. But if we’re through with the pleasantries,” she said, going to the window and peeking out the blinds, “if you guys haven’t noticed, there’s a war on out there. We need to get on with the business of finding this ‘Chosen One. That is what we’re here for isn’t it? To find her? Or him?”
“Yes, yes, it is indeed,” said Haller. “And now that we’re all here, please, everyone. Sit. It’s such a pity there are so few of us . . .” He gestured toward the meeting table, and the seven chairs arranged around it. “If you like, there are some chilled rats and bags of blood in the refrigerator.”
“Heh. You sure know how to entertain, Haller,” said Jack, as he sat down, smiling. “I sure wouldn't mind a taste of some hot twenty-two-year-old from out there on that dance floor . . .”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t,” said Haller, giving him a tight smile as they all finished sitting down. “Yes. Now that we’re all gathered here, we can begin. But first, a review of history. Your Coven, Jean-Luc, began its journey in 1910, in Moscow, just after the Tunguska event of 1908 in Eastern Siberia. ‘The Genesis Event’ — as I believe your Coven refers to it — was not the crash of a meteorite, as the Russian government disclosed to the rest of the world, but the Earth’s actual ‘First Contact’ with alien life: It was the impact of a large, meteor-encrusted sack of living flesh, twenty-six meters in length, and eleven meters wide; that was what actually caused the blast and the resulting electromagnetic pulse. The Russian government still denies this. The sack of flesh was taken to an underground laboratory at Kapustin Yar, where it was cut open to reveal a ‘monster,’ curled up in a fetal position: Humanoid; fifty-one meters in length, eleven meters at the shoulders; thickly-muscled arms, legs, and chest; greyish-blue, armadillo-like skin; large, folded, bat-like wings sprouting from its back; webbed, five-fingered hands and feet; a bald, ovoid head with an enormous mass of tentacles where its mouth should have been; huge, orb-like eyes. It appeared to be sleeping.
“Though it was difficult, members of the now-defunct Coven known as The Acolytes of Rasputin pulled a large number of political strings. Through their machinations, the secret project known as ‘Blue Powder’ was hidden away so well away from the eyes of the rest of Russia’s government that it practically vanished from sight. Soon the Acolytes became obsessed with unraveling the secrets of the alien being. With the help of my Coven and Family, the Vampyrica Simulacra — who lent the aid of our science — ”
“And the Na Siúlóirí Intinne,” interjected Taliavanova. “Don’t forget us.”
“Indeed,” said Haller, “the Na Siúlóirí Intinne, who, with their skill at the psionic arts, could tap into the being’s thoughts and dreams . . . With their help, the Acolytes set about to discover the answers to the mysteries the alien god presented.”
“And still to this day, our quest to understand it continues, having renamed ourselves the Legion of Orogrü-Nathräk,” said Jean-Luc, no small amount of pride in his voice. “With the help of the Vampyrica Simulacra’s technology and the psionic mastery taught to us by the Na Siúlóirí Intinne, we continue to delve into the dreaming mind of the still-slumbering Orogrü-Nathräk. We also learned he name of His race. He is one of something called ‘the Eidolon.’ Our Coven worships Him, and seeks to serve Him and do His ‘bidding’ — whatever of that His dreams reveal.
“Shortly after Orogrü-Nathräk arrived on the planet,” said Haller, “His coming caused a psionic shockwave throughout the minds of the Na Siúlóirí Intinne. And with it, a precognitive burst . . . And out of that came a Prophecy, transcribed into words by a member of the Intinne shortly before the psionic overload literally melted her brain, and the brains of thousands of others. Just so we’re perfectly clear, one more time, here’s what it says.”
He dug out a piece of old paper from a folder, cleared his throat, and read it aloud:
“‘And there shall come a Chosen One. And they will be Born unto the Brethren of the Blood and the Darkness in the two thousandth and twenty-seventh year of the Man who Bleeds, in the Western Land of the Eagles and of the Libertine Woman of the Torch in Stone Robes. They will be Created by one who has never known the Touch, one Created by Human Sorcery and not by any Blood of the Heart. They will be Born not of the Magic of the Eternal Night, but of the Magic of Man. They will come on the after-eve of a storm, and they will cause a great storm. For their Coming will herald the day when all Children of the Night will know the Night no more, and will Fear the Light of the Sun no more, and will know the Thirst no more, and will again walk Hand-in-Hand with Man, along the Pathway of Peace, in the Garden, as it once was, in the Long, Long Ago, and is to be again, forever and ever. But before all this can come to pass, the Chosen One must do battle with the Evil One, and the outcome of their struggle will decide their fate; to either perish in the fire of their own making or be reborn anew, with all the brethren of the blood-kin of the sun.’”
He sat the paper down, and let the weight of the moment fully sink in: They had all read the Prophecy themselves of course; and they all believed that helping it come true was the best way to end this crime of a Civil War and to thwart Krycek . . . but right now, this moment, they were about to take their first concrete steps toward doing just that. What that was, only Haller and Basil knew. But he explained now.
“The solution is simple,” continued Haller. “We’re going to find him. Or her. Or the Human who will become them, by finding the Vampire who will Create them. And since the Na Siúlóirí Intinne have sided with the Protectorate, we can’t ask them for help. So it’s up to just us. Thus to do this, to find him or her, we’re going to steal a trick or two from the Na Siúlóirí Intinne themselves. By adapting and modifying the technology that the Vampyrica Simulacra developed for them, and for the Legion of Orogrü-Nathräk. Technology that my protégé Basil and I have created especially for this task. Taliavanova. Your particular psionic talent lies in the projection of thought, yes?”
“Er, yes,” she said, and smiled a small smile. “I can project images . . . thoughts, words . . . ideas. Concepts, constructs. Put them into others’ heads. I can even force others to do my will, but it takes extreme concentration. Oh, and I have to have line-of-sight for most of my Dark Gifts to work properly. Why?”
Basil smiled. “Well for what we’re planning, you won’t need line-of-anything.”
“Indeed,” said Haller. “Basil?”
Basil leaned forward and cleared his throat, and spoke. Okay. This was it. His turn to shine. Don’t freeze up, he told himself. He got up from the table and walked over the conglomeration of machinery in the corner, as did Haller. Together they unwound a large bundle of wires sitting on top of what had been the electroconvulsive therapy device — they looked like electrodes that belonged on a person’s head. They were, in fact; they had attached them to a series of extension cables. As they unwound the cables together, Basil spoke.
“Our plan,” he said, “is to strap you into this chair, Taliavanova, and hook you up to this machine, and then turn it on. And then to give you an injection of drugs. LSD, DMT, psilocybin, ketamine, and methamphetamine. A chemical cocktail designed to rip open your consciousness. The machine will amplify your psionic Talent — your ability to project thoughts outward and into others’ minds — allowing you to cast sort of a psionic ‘net’ out across the city . . . out across several states, in fact. You’ll project your thoughts outward, searching for the Chosen One. Or the Chosen One’s creator. When you find her — and I feel confident that you will find her — the system will relay the data from your brain to the satellite global positioning system attached to this machine. It will pinpoint her exact location for us on the map. All we have to do then is go and get her. I got this idea from the X-Men comics and from the movie, X-Men: First Class. You know, the part where Professor X helps the CIA track down other mutants — ?”
“Oh, I get it,” said Taliavanova. “You’re both insane.”
“Insane enough that it just might work,” remarked Jean-Luc, nodding thoughtfully.
“Yes,” said Buckaroo. “I agree. It could work. I have seen the technology of the Vampyrica Simulacra achieve many wondrous things . . . and I have faith in Basil and Haller. I say we should try it.”
“Yes,” said Taliavanova, “but you’re not the ones who’ll have ten thousand volts or whatever coursing through your brain!”
“Oh come on,” said Basil. He couldn’t help himself. “It’ll only be eight thousand volts, tops.” Haller smiled. Taliavanova didn’t.
“Come on, Taliavanova,” said Haller. “Remember, we’re doing this for the Cause. If we don’t find the Chosen One, or his or her creator, all is lost. We can’t let everything we’ve fought for go down in flames . . . If Krycek and the Protectorate prevail — if they win this Civil War — then you know what happens. If they win, then may the gods help all the Vampire Kingdom. Gods alone know what will become of us if they win. Most likely little more than big piles of dust. So come on. Take one for team.”
“This is such a . . . what would the kids today call it . . .” said Taliavanova, raising an eyebrow. “A ‘Leroy Jenkins’ move? What if the Na Siúlóirí Intinne are psychically watching us?”
“Then we had best be damned quick about our business,” said Haller. “And that’s all I have to say about that.”
Taliavanova sucked in a deep breath. “Ah well,” she said. “Who wants to live forever?”
“The ironies,” said Jack, leaning over toward Buckaroo. “They multiply.”
“Yes, they do,” replied Buckaroo.
Taliavanova got up from the table, crossed the room, and sat down in the wheelchair next to the conglomeration of machinery, looking nervous. Basil didn’t blame her. He’d have been nervous, too. He just hoped the machine didn’t fry her brain and leave them with zero hope of finding the Chosen One’s Creator. Yeah, maybe his priorities were a bit screwed up, but still, this was war, and in war, there were casualties. He tried to remind himself of that as he fastened the restraints around her legs and wrists.
“What are those for?” she asked.
“Those,” said Haller, “are so that when we give you the drugs and you trip-out, you don’t go into a Vampiric killing frenzy and murder all of us.”
“Oh, comforting,” she said.
“I thought so,” said Haller.
“Don’t worry, Taliavanova,” said Basil, trying to assuage the guilt he felt just in case she did bite the dust in a few minutes, “we’ll take good care of you.” He reached up and caressed her face. Remarkably, she didn’t seem taken aback; instead, she smiled at him sweetly. “I’ll take good care of you,” he said.
“I know,” she said softly, seeming to understand. His heart skipped a beat.
“Once you’re in the dream state,” said Haller, “concentrate on the Prophecy. Not so much on the words, but their meaning. Their truth. Reach out with your mind. Project. Not onto any specific person here . . . but reach out to every Vampire you can find, every Vampire you can touch. And then reach beyond that. Go further. All the while thinking on the Prophecy. Can you do that?”
“I can try,” said Taliavanova. “Does it help that I’ve seen X-Men: First Class? And that I know the mutant-finding scene?”
Basil smiled. “Yeah, that does help.”
Basil looked to the others, who all watched from the table expectantly. They were all waiting to see if this worked. Well, okay. This was it. Time to see if his and Haller’s ideas were nothing but trumped-up crap, or something truly miraculous. Haller retrieved one of two syringes from the table with the machinery on it, and gave it a test squirt.
“Okay,” he said. “You’ll feel a little pinprick. Now, I have another syringe, as well; that’s the wake-up dose that will totally neutralize the drugs I’m about to give you and immediately pull you out of the trip and bring you back to reality with the rest of us.”
“Now that is comforting,” said Taliavanova. “You’re getting better at this.”
“If you want to back out of this,” said Basil, putting his hand on hers, “now is the time, Taliavanova.”
“No,” she said, and gave him a tight smile. “No, I want to do this. For the cause.”
“Basil,” said Haller, “position the headphones on her, would you?”
“Oh right,” said Basil. He grabbed a small set of headphones from the table and placed them around Taliavanova’s ears. “These are so you can listen to us, while you’re in the dream-state. Haller will guide you.”
“Yes,” said Haller. He picked up a small headset with a microphone on it and placed it around his own head. “I’ll be there for you every step of the way. Just listen to the sound of my voice, and . . . try not to get lost.”
“Sounds simple enough,” said Taliavanova. “Now let’s get on with it, shall we? Come on, before I change my mind and chicken out.”
“Alright then,” said Haller. “Here we go.” He lowered the syringe to her arm and stuck the needle into her, and depressed the plunger. The liquid went all the way in.
A moment later, Taliavanova’s pupils dilated and she jerked backward in the chair. Her eyes went wide, and her face slackened. Her mouth opened, and moved into a contorted grimace something like a wide smile.
“Whoa . . .” she whispered. “WHOA. Whoooaaaa . . . Whooooaaaa . . . I think it’s WOOOOORKING . . . ! WHOA!”
“Basil,” said Haller, gesturing toward the large, double-bladed power switch next to the generator attached to the conglomeration of machinery. “If you would care to do the honors?”
“Uh,” said Basil, suddenly very nervous, “I, uh . . .” All those thoughts of accidentally frying Taliavanova’s brain came rushing back. “Well, that is . . .”
“Come on,” said Haller. “This was your idea, Basil. Your invention. It should be you.”
The others were all still watching, waiting. Bloody tendrils of sweat beaded on his forehead. Oh well. Why the hell not. Live dangerously. He walked around the wheelchair and grasped the handle of the power switch, and threw it. The blades made contact with the terminals, and sparks flew. Blue-white electric arcs whirled up the wires connected to the generator as it rattled into life, and more electric arcs coursed up through the cables and into the medical equipment, which suddenly spun into life. Numerical tables flowed down the screen of the laptop computer connected to it all. A low buzzing, whining sound came from the electroconvulsive therapy machine. Whirring noises, and high-pitched whines came from the other equipment, and the electrodes connected to Taliavanova’s head began to glow a flickering, soft blue-white color. She swayed in the chair, her eyes fluttering closed as she continued to softly moan and groan, her mouth a slackened smile.
Basil let out a long, slow sigh of relief. They hadn’t lead her to her Final Death after all. Thank the gods! He didn’t really believe in any gods, but thank them anyway!
Haller clapped him on the shoulder. “Well done, Basil,” he said. Apparently, he had been thinking the same thing. “Now we just have to see if it truly works.” He reached up to the headset he wore and touched a button. “Taliavanova, can you hear me? This is Haller. Can you hear my voice? Listen. Listen to the sound of my voice . . . and if you can hear me . . . just say yes or no.”
. . . “Taliavanova, can you hear me? This is Haller. Can you hear my voice? Listen. Listen to the sound of my voice . . . and if you can hear me . . . just say yes or no.”
The voice echoed all around her. It filled the space around her, echoing in the unseen corners of infinity . . .
She was floating in space . . . Not outer space . . . but . . . well, wait a minute. Maybe this was outer space. She was surrounded by stars and nebulae and constellations . . . they glimmered and shined all around her, a million points of brilliant incandescence, and iridescent shapes of rainbow luminescence . . . and here she was, floating amidst it all, free of her body . . . Or was she? She couldn’t see herself. She tried lifting her hand in front of her face, but couldn’t feel it, or sense it . . . it wasn’t there anymore. She was in fact free of her flesh . . . Only her mind existed here, in this place.
But she still had her voice. She could feel it, somehow, in her “throat,” because she still had that, somehow.
“Yes,” she said, slowly, feeling the words on her “tongue” — her mind’s tongue; how odd — “Yes, I . . . I can . . . hear you.” The words took shape in her mind as she said them. They filled the space around her, echoing just like the other voice.
How strange to have a voice but no breath. But not as strange as what lay beneath her, a hundred miles below. For the concepts of “space” and “direction” still existed here, even if her physical body did not . . .
Below her lay the Planet Earth . . . its curvature extending out either way a long ways and curving out and around, away from her field of vision . . . and criss-crossing it, all over its surface, a million curved rays of yellow light with billions of tiny moving dots of purple light all over them, coursing up and down their curvature . . . and between those, a billion more tiny dots of purple light, all different shades of the color, all twinkling and glimmering as they moved around, all going in different directions . . . No, more than a billion. Several billion. And not just purple, but all the colors of the rainbow were present; yellow, green, blue, red . . . all the varying shades of every color known to man . . . and the lights danced together, weaving into, around, and through one another, along with the curved rays of light.
And then in dawned on her what she was seeing.
She was seeing the Human race. And the Vampire race. And every other creature on the planet . . . seeing their life-force, their psionic signatures. For a moment, she marveled. The sight would’ve taken her breath away, had she had any . . . it was humbling, and terrifying. Yet wondrous. And she had the feeling that she was being watched . . . by some unknown, yet benevolent force . . . something — no, someone, multiple someones — greater than herself, some race of beings terrifyingly enormous, just beyond the rim of her awareness. THEY were there. Watching. The Alethiaeon in the Woods. Waiting to see what she would do.
“Alright Taliavanova,” said the other voice. “I want you to concentrate on the Prophecy.”
Glyphs and symbols flickered before her eyes . . . alien in origin, not English nor any other language spoke on Earth . . . and then, they slowly resolved themselves into words she understood . . . somehow . . .
“And there shall come a Chosen One. And they will be Born unto the Brethren of the Blood and the Darkness in the two thousandth and twenty-seventh year of the Man who Bleeds, in the Western Land of the Eagles and of the Libertine Woman of the Torch in Stone Robes . . .”
“Born unto the Brethren of the Blood and the Darkness.” That meant Vampires. Suddenly, all the glowing dots on the planet below representing Humans — or that she thought represented Humans — winked out of existence. Hmm. Interesting. She turned her eyes back to the words.
“. . . in the Western Land of the Eagles and of the Libertine Woman of the Torch in Stone Robes . . .”
That had to mean America. It simply had to. Beneath her, the planet stopped rotating once America came around into view again, and all the other continents — with their criss-crossing lines of light and their multitude of tiny stars representing people and Vampires — dimmed in accordance, until only the continent of North America remained bright and burning. And then, Canada dimmed, until only the United States remained aglow. Good, narrowing it down.
“They will be Born from the Touch of one who has never known the Touch, from the Blood of one made by Alchemy and not by any Blood of the Heart. They will be Born not of the Magic of the Eternal Night, but of the Magic of Man.”
Curious, she reached forward — she suddenly had “arms” now, willing it to be so; she had grown more confident now — and reached into the word “Alchemy,” and pulled out a complex molecular model . . . miles long, the hideously complicated, tinker-toy-like contraption of globes and geometries and interconnecting lines floated before her, a chemical enigma, and now, orbiting it, mathematical equations came into view. She was no scientist, and she didn’t fully grasp what she was seeing . . . but she surmised that this was how the Chosen One’s Creator had herself been Created . . . Not through the Touch of a Vampire, as the Great Families Created their members . . . Nor through an inheritance of the Blood, as members of the Vampyrica Simulacra were Created . . . No . . . But through biochemistry, and the application of biotechnological principles . . . A Vampire, Created by a Human, for some unknown purpose! That was what the “Magic of Man” part meant . . .
An image began to form in front of her, conjured out of the criss-crossing lines on the surface of the American continent below . . . glowing and translucent, it became a portrait of the Chosen One’s Creator. And a name floated through her consciousness. Rojetta. Jetta. Jetta Arkenvalen.
She was indeed a beautiful girl. Bright blue gem-like eyes, raven black hair that coruscated down her back in a waterfall of curls; the usual pale skin that all Vampires shared, but very smooth and silky-seeming. . . viciously red, bee-stung lips; a slender, perfectly-sculpted nose and high cheekbones; voluptuous but not overweight, and slender at her center; long, toned legs and equally-toned arms. The glasses she wore perched on her nose only seemed to focus the beauty of her face, not detract from it. Taliavanova stared into and through the portrait, memorizing every pore of skin, every hair, every glimmering detail.
She was suddenly flying. She flew through the portrait, whisking and zooming through Jetta’s left eye and past it, then hurtling downward toward the planet below. Had she a body, she might’ve gotten motion-sickness. The planet whirled into focus as she plummeted toward it, the rays and dots of light growing nearer and nearer as she plunged downward. As she spiraled in closer, descending in a whirling arc, the dots resolved themselves into distinct shapes . . . tiny human figures made of glistening, rainbow-colored light. They walked, ran, played, drove cars . . . worked at desks, chopped food, argued, fought, made out, read newspapers, worked on cars, talked on cell-phones, rode buses . . . it was dizzying . . . And as she zoomed in closer and closer still, whizzing through streets, turning corners, flying through the city of Cambridge, then out across the highway, blazing over the streets like a comet, she zeroed in on one large set of buildings in particular . . . the Renaissance Regency Hotel And Convention Center. Thousands of people, thousands of glowing, rainbow-hued figures moving into and out of and around the building. FantazmagoriCon XVIII was here this year; a sci-fi and fantasy convention?
Taliavanova suddenly felt a tingling sensation all over . . . all over what? Her body? It was tingling, vibrating . . . like a tuning fork struck with a hammer. This must be it then. This must’ve been where the Chosen One would be. This place, this hotel and convention center. This “FantazmagoriCon” event. This was where they would find them. And then, a name came to her.
“Mystikite,” the winds of the stars whispered. “Mystikite.”
What an odd name.
With great effort, she summoned words to her mind, and spoke. “I . . . I’ve found him! I think . . . yes! Yes I’ve found the Chosen One! I know where he — she — whoever — is! It’s a thing called FantazmagoriCon! What a mouthful . . . and his — her — whatever — their name is Mystikite.”
“Good,” said the other voice. “Yes, yes, I can see that here. We have the coordinates. Good work, Taliavanova. Now . . .”
There was a long pause. Then she heard:
“Oh god, no, not now! Fuck! They’ve found us! Basil, you pull Taliavanova out! I’ll try to buy us some time! Just grab her and get out! You and the others — just go! Now!”
Basil heard the sound of squealing tires outside first, and the sound of multiple car doors slamming. Vampiric super-senses had their advantages. He saw that Haller had noticed, too. They exchanged a look.
“Oh god, no, not now!” seethed Haller, slamming his fist on the table. “Fuck! They’ve found us! Basil, you pull Taliavanova out! I’ll try to buy us some time! Just grab her and get out! You and the others — just go! Now!” Haller took off the headset, and went to the desk, whereupon he took out a gun from one of the drawers.
“No can do, Haller,” said Jack, getting up from the table and pulling out a Magnum .357 from inside his leather jacket. No doubt loaded with silver bullets, thought Basil. “We’re with you . . . to the end of the line.”
“Indeed.” Buckaroo Tokusatsu got up and unsheathed his katanas from his back. There came a loud BANG! on the door. It didn’t give at first. A tear-gas grenade smashed through the window and rattled to a stop on the floor, and began spewing out its noxious contents.
Taurial stood and grabbed hold of a dagger from her belt, and held it in one hand, and assumed a fighting stance. She and Buckaroo stood facing the door. Haller, his gun at the ready, walked over, and secured the door further by lowering a metal bar in front of it and fastening it in place with a padlock. Jean-Luc removed a .38 caliber pistol from his coat pocket and turned around to face the door. Everyone started coughing from the tear gas.
“Just go! All of you!” yelled Haller through his coughing fit.
The others started backing toward the door that led out of the office and into the actual dance club. Taurial opened it, and a loud techno beat and synthesizer riff flooded the room. The door banged again, harder and louder this time. Haller backed away from it.
Basil, his heart pounding in his chest, blood rushing to his head, his fingers fumbling nervously, hurriedly undid the restraints on Taliavanova, and grabbed the second syringe — the “wake up” potion. He stumbled a bit — focus, dammit! Don’t panic! Don’t panic! Don’t . . . — but he managed to get the needle into her arm. Depressed the plunger. The liquid went all the way in. A few seconds later, Taliavanova’s eyes cleared, and she blinked them a few times.
“Where . . . where the hell . . .” she breathed, looking around.
The door banged again, even harder and louder. It popped off one of its hinges this time and the metal buckled in the center, a huge dent appearing in it; the metal bar warping, the padlock shattering. Haller backed away even further, doubling over, coughing. The others fled into the dance club. Taliavanova jumped in her chair as the door banged one last time.
“C — C’mon,” said Basil, tears streaming down his face, coughing. “We — we’ve got to get you out of here!”
He took a look at the coordinates on the readout of the laptop, and was briskly walking toward the exit to the dance club when the explosion hit. He and Taliavanova were thrown through the door as the metal door leading to the exit was finally blown off its hinges. Basil heard Haller cry out as he hit the ground hard. He scrambled to his feet — Taliavanova did the same — and chanced a look back. Haller had shrapnel from the metal door buried in his head. He was dead. So was Jack Burton; the same fate had befallen him, as he had stayed by Haller’s side and had not left with the others. Gods damn Krycek and his goons. They would pay for this. Basil swore it.
“Come on,” said Taliavanova, grabbing him by the arm. “Basil, we have to go!”
He saw shapes moving in the smoke billowing through the door in the office. Probably Krycek’s goons, invading the place. He clenched his fists. He halfway wanted to go back in there, run straight into them, firing his ray gun and decimate them all. But he knew that was a stupid idea. They had the same technology he did . . . because once upon a time, he had fucking given it to them. Hell, the entire Vampire Kingdom had his Family’s technology, for the same damn reason. He grit his teeth, and bared his fangs. One day. One day, they would pay for slaughtering his Elder, his friend. One day the bastards would pay. And soon. Gods damn them. Gods damn them all . . . but Krycek. Gods damn him especially.
Basil turned, and — reluctantly — followed Taliavanova out into the roaring dance club filled with Humans and other Vampires, and together, they lost themselves in the crowd.
The coordinates he had seen on the readout. That was where they were headed. That was where the Chosen One’s would-be creator would be. Plus that word that Taliavanova had uttered while under the drugs. FantazmagoriCon. He knew that word, alright. And he knew right where that was. He would call the others back . . . and they would meet up there. And together they would go to FantazmagoriCon, and find her. And once they had, she and they would reshape the destinies of both the Vampire Kingdom and the Mortal Realm, forever.