Black Rain, page 29
“You been keeping stuff from us?” Reggie said, popping an unlit joint between his thin lips.
“Don’t light that,” I said. “You’re getting us out of here, Reggie.”
Just then, another vampire burst into the room carrying a severed head in its clawed hand. It took one look at us, then at the pile of dust that used to be its kin, before it threw the severed head in my direction, forcing me to duck.
Before I could intervene, the Hellbastards stormed the vampire, descending on it with a viciousness that was near unthinkable, as though each one of them carried eons of unquenched wrath within their sinewy forms. The fledgling vampire was struck dumb, taken by surprise, as they set upon it in a relentless, carnivorous frenzy.
The demons fastened themselves onto the undead creature, forming a swarm of snarling entities. Their claws and fangs gnashed, tearing and ripping into the vampire's flesh with a brutal, savage hunger. The chorus of their guttural growls filled the air, harmonizing with the desperate screeches of the vampire, creating a symphony of horror and savagery. Hunks of gore, torn from the vampire's body, flew in every direction, while an unholy rain of its dark blood showered the scene.
This violent maelstrom continued unabated, a visceral dance of death playing out in real-time. Cracka, in a display of agility, clambered up the back of the vampire, his razor-like talons sinking into its flesh. With a swift, powerful slash, he opened a deep gash across the vampire's throat. The vampire retched out a piteous, gurgling sound as it sprayed the stone walls with a crimson geyser of its lifeblood.
Just as Snot Skull's fist punched through the vampire's chest, burrowing toward its undead heart, Cracka flexed his telekinetic prowess. With a sound like wet fabric being torn apart, he wrenched the vampire's head off its shoulders. Moments later, the vampire's body, now an empty, violated shell, collapsed into a heap of dust.
Exhausted yet triumphant, the Hellbastards stood around the grisly aftermath, their bodies drenched in the carnage they had wrought. Exchanging grinning, blood-spattered high-fives, they reveled in the gruesomeness of their victory.
“Nice job, boys,” I said. “Now get us the fuck out of here, Reggie.”
With the blood-soaked joint still somehow hanging from his mouth, Reggie ran over and grabbed my hand. Then he held out his other hand for Kendra to take. “Grab your sister’s hand as well,” he said. “We’re going for a ride now.”
“What?” Luna said, not understanding.
With a grin on his bloody face, Reggie teleported us out of Giordano’s sanctum. Reggie's bloody grin became the focal point of reality, as the space around us contorted. The sensation of teleportation is one that doesn't get any easier with repetition. It feels as if every molecule in your body is being unspooled, yanked out from under you, and then flung through the fabric of the universe at a speed your brain can't even comprehend. All the while, the gut-wrenching disorientation leaves you gasping for breath you can't seem to find, each heartbeat a drumroll in your ears.
A split second later, I was forced back into existence with a harsh landing on rough asphalt. The sensation was like a rubber band snapping back to its original shape—sudden and disconcertingly abrupt. I felt the solid, comforting touch of the earth beneath my feet again. It was like waking up from a dream, the world reasserting itself in sharp, painful relief.
We were outside the pyramid, in the midst of the chaotic streets. The entrance to the casino loomed in the distance, framed by garish neon lights that sputtered sporadically. Bodies were strewn everywhere like discarded dolls, torn apart by violence that didn't care to discriminate. The stench of blood, fear, and death permeated the air, while the ominous stillness of the scene silently bore witness to the carnage that had unfolded. Through the haze of devastation, the casino doors stood ominously, an invitation to step further into this hellish panorama.
“Jesus Christ,” I said as I took in the extent of the carnage.
As Reggie disappeared to get the rest of the Hellbastards out of the pyramid, I stood with Kendra and Luna. Then Hannah came flying down, landing beside us. Her earlier angel visage had been replaced by her purely human form now, her wings magically folding into her back.
“This is bad,” Hannah said.
“Yeah, no shit,” I retorted.
“No,” she said. “Look up.”
All of us looked up into the dark sky, our gazes going toward the very tip of the pyramid. Perched atop the colossal pyramid was a figure that seemed to dwarf the chaos below. Theron, the vampire overlord, stood there, his monstrous silhouette set against the rapidly darkening sky. He appeared more titan than vampire, his malevolent form stretching heavenward as though he himself was a steeple of the unholy.
Violent tendrils of red lightning seared across the sky, branching out in a wild dance of eldritch energy around him, illuminating his monstrous figure in horrifying detail. Every crack of thunder that followed reverberated through the air, pulsating through the very fabric of the city. The celestial maelstrom mirrored his sinister energy, the sky turning a deep, angry crimson, reflecting the bloodshed below.
Theron's arms stretched out wide as if he were welcoming the apocalypse himself. His form seemed to fuse with the tempest around him, an epicenter of malevolence. His posture radiated an unspoken challenge to the heavens and earth alike, an open rebellion against the natural order.
Then, a sound erupted from him—a roar so ferocious it rippled across the city, echoing off every stone and steel structure around us. It was a sound that could tear the courage from the bravest souls. The roar was like a shockwave, vibrating through the very atoms of the air, silencing the chaos below.
And then, as if the heavens responded to his defiance, it began to rain. But it was not a normal rain. It was a shower of blood, the droplets falling thick and heavy, painting the city in an even deeper shade of crimson.
“What the fuck?” Kendra said in shock, gripping her sister’s hand as if for dear life. The blood rain seemed to seep into every crevice, staining the world in its horrifying hue. We stood there, under the falling drops, the cold touch of the unholy rain a reminder of the battle yet to be fought. The coppery scent of blood filled the air, making it thick and nauseating.
Gazing up at the bellowing leviathan, the blood rain slicking down my face, an icy realization struck me—Theron had just summoned the Red God, Valkanak.
The Blood God.
"Has the world just been thrust into the jaws of apocalypse?" My voice cut through the eerie silence that held us hostage.
“We’re already in an apocalypse,” Hannah said, her tone bitter.
“You know what I mean, for Christ’s sake. Did Theron just summon the Blood God?”
“I’m don’t think he did. Though he may have just got a power boost from the Blood God instead.”
"Hardly a consolation, is it?" I retorted, my gaze still transfixed on the bloodied sight in front of us.
“Either way,” Hannah said. “He’s king of the criminal underworld now.”
“And the occult underground. I wonder how the Dark God will respond to this.”
Hannah shook her head. “Who knows?”
As we watched, Theron unfolded wings of blood-soaked crimson and circled the pyramid's apex before slicing through the broken windows and disappearing into Giordano’s now usurped sanctum.
Theron's sanctum now.
In the distance, a discordant symphony of sirens wailed, drawing closer with each passing second. As they neared, the pyramid's main gates slammed shut, sealed by two of Theron's vampire minions. Soon after, the casino's doors followed suit, bolting shut as Theron's followers barricaded the pyramid.
Law enforcement would be here soon, but to what end? Anyone daring to breach that pyramid would be signing their own death warrant. I had a sinking feeling that Theron would swiftly manipulate the city's authorities to stay out of his affairs, emulating Giordano’s tactics.
"Let's go," I said, wrenching my gaze away from the blood-soaked vista. "There's nothing we can do here, at least not now. We need to regroup, rethink. We need to go home."
Turning our backs on the pyramid, we walked away from it, the blood rain still splashing around us, as if the world was weeping its own gory tears. It splattered against the cracked asphalt beneath our feet, filling the air with a sickly sweet, metallic scent.
Theron's hellish laughter seemed to linger in the air, echoing in the now crimson-streaked streets. The sensation was akin to the final strains of a haunting requiem, a reminder of the apocalyptic threat we now faced.
Above us, the once bright city skyline was obscured by heavy, blood-filled clouds, casting long ominous shadows that seemed to consume everything in their path. The splattering rain was the only sound in the unnerving quiet. Neon signs flickered erratically, casting a surreal glow over the blood-soaked cityscape. Each step we took seemed to echo into the abyss of silent streets.
As we moved further away, the pyramid, now Theron's sanctum, loomed menacingly in the rearview of our reality. Its dark silhouette a grim reminder of the battle we had lost, and the war we were yet to fight.
The echoes of the approaching sirens gradually faded into a distant hum, swallowed by the eerie quiet. The city was under Theron's rule now, and the true horror of that reality was only just starting to sink in.
“Home,” I repeated under my breath, a bitter sense of irony lacing the word. Our world had changed, and home, as we knew it, was nowhere in sight. But it was all we had left to hold on to. And so we walked on, beneath the weeping sky, toward what little semblance of 'home' we had left.
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TEASER: INFERNAL LIAISONS (DEADSON CONFIDENTIAL BOOK 1)
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The men who kidnapped me smelled like blood. The rusted iron scent found its way through the material of the hood that had been forced over my head after they grabbed me. Although the smell could just as easily have been my own blood, for one bastard punched me in the mouth before I was thrown into the back of the van I found myself being transported in.
Transported to where, I didn’t know, though I was sure it was no place good. Ten minutes before, I had been walking down the street minding my own business, having just finished a meeting with a contact around the back of some seedy BDSM club. After paying my contact for the information he gave me, I stopped at a liquor store to get a bottle of Scotch so I could drink while I worked the rest of the night at home. The Scotch bottle was now lying broken on the side of the road a ways back, its contents running into the gutter no doubt. Bastards. That was expensive whiskey. The good stuff, aged fifteen years. I’d be lucky to find the money for another bottle any time soon, and that’s if I even survived the little mystery tour I was now on.
I had counted three guys during my abduction. They burst out of the side of the van that screeched up alongside me, two of them immediately grabbing me before I knew what was happening, the other punching me in the face before putting the hood over my head. Despite my muffled protests and panicked questions, none of the men said a word. They were clearly professionals, and had done this kind of thing—snatching people off the street—many times before. They didn’t mess about, and they knew not to speak to me. Their ominous silence only added to my fear and confusion.
As soon as I got dumped face-first into the van—an older model black Dodge, that’s all I remember—I felt what must have been a knee in my back that forced the wind out of my lungs as I cried out in shock, and then my arms got yanked behind me and zip tied. Once they had me secured, they patted me down for weapons, finding the Glock 19 in my shoulder holster, the double-edged knife strapped to my right ankle, and the pocket full of sigil cards I had on me. That put paid to me using any of those things to save myself. Now all I had was my wits.
For the next ten minutes—I think anyway, it was hard to tell—I lay on the cold floor of the van and tried to calm my racing thoughts, which wasn’t easy, given that fear and uncertainty had me tight in their respective grips. When the van started moving, I had this notion that I could somehow figure out where the van was going if I concentrated hard enough, feeling for the turns and the stops, counting how long it took to get from one place to another. But after a few frantic minutes, it quickly became clear that I wasn’t Liam Neeson, and that I did not know where I was going. My mind could only focus on the fact that something horrible was about to happen to me, and that I was probably about to die. Maybe from a bullet to the head, or worse, by being weighted and dumped into the river, my bloated corpse eventually finding its way to shore somewhere to be discovered by some guy out walking his dog, and that’s if the creatures in the river didn’t eat me first.
All right, I thought as I tried to breathe through the thick material of the hood over my head. Stay calm and focus. Who would’ve done this? Who would’ve sent a bunch of thugs out to kidnap me?
The questions made my mind race and my heart to thump harder in my chest. I’d pissed off so many people because of my work—so many bad people—that any of them could have been responsible for my current predicament. Christ, it was my job to piss people off and make enemies. That was the business I was in. I’d been at it so long, I hardly gave it any thought anymore.
Unless things like this happened.
The van stopped moving, but the engine was still running. I held my breath as I waited to see what would happen. The men around me didn’t appear to be moving. Outside, I could hear traffic—horns blaring, engines running.
We must be at a stoplight.
The silence. The horrible anticipation. It was killing me.
Someone coughed, and I flinched.
The van lurched forward again.
Christ, I can’t take this shit…
I was torn between wanting the journey to end—to see what fate had in store for me—and being glad that we still hadn’t arrived wherever they were taking me. As long as the van kept moving, I was safe.
Safe as a lamb in a den of wolves.
FML.
I desperately wanted to speak, to plead with my kidnappers, but I knew there would be no point. The second I opened my mouth, I’d get a dose of pain in return, and I’d still be none the wiser about what was going on.
We seemed to be on a long straight now. No stops for the last few minutes. No turns.
Fuck, this silence is killing me. Goddamn professionals.
Maybe if I’d been kidnapped by amateurs, they would’ve run their mouths off and then maybe I could’ve gotten information out of them. I could’ve prepared myself for my eventual destination. But not these guys. These guys were stone cold.
So what did that say about them? What did that say about who they worked for? Could they work for one of the vampire clans? The clans often used humans to do their dirty work. And I published that story last week about the Furer Clan’s involvement with the adrenochrome trade, a story that caused quite a stink, drawing attention to their warehouse operation in the Industrial Zone. Not by the cops—who mostly took no notice of what I wrote—but by a werewolf gang who apparently tried to muscle in on the operation. I heard there was quite a battle between the two gangs before the Furers drove the lycans off. If this was the Furer clan, I was fucked, for I was about to be strung from a street light and gutted.
But then I also ousted that hellot cult a while a back for stealing kids off the street and using them as human sacrifices. That story drew a lot of attention on the website. Even the cops got involved after it emerged that one of the street kids was actually a rich kid from the Hills, slumming it in Old Town. Not that the cops got very far in their investigation, mind. Hellots are good at covering up their messes, and the FPD is full of corruption and deep-seated apathy anyway. The leader of the cult, a man named Dorian Silvers—a high-priced lawyer—called me a few days after the story broke and told me I would get what’s coming to me sooner rather than later. I normally didn’t pay any attention to such threats. I got them all the time. In my line of work, threats to your life are par for the course.
Godammit. Why did I have to make my living by being a shit-stirrer?
I could’ve just kept the silver spoon in my mouth and lived off the trust fund my father had set up for me. It would’ve been a hell of a lot easier, I’ll tell you that. But I’d rather swing from a street light than accept anything off my father. That should tell you all you need to know about my relationship with the man.
The van stopped again, and I fell back into my state of hypervigilance, holding my breath as I waited to see if the vehicle would move again.
But it didn’t.
The engine stopped running and the three men in the back with me started to move, heavy boots stomping the metal floor around my head. I heard the back doors creak open and then I got lifted out of the van and plonked unsteadily on my feet, the sudden coldness outside cooling the sweat coating my skin.
