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Chapter 2: Wake-up and Smell the Danger

Previously: Sunnydale’s ruins aren’t as abandoned as they seem to be. Margaret-Deborah Wolfson, native of Sunnydale, meets the last remaining survivor of The First.

***

LONDON, 2007:


Ally woke up and stretched luxuriously, loving the slippery feeling of her bare skin against the silk sheets. Her full lips parted as she yawned, and looked around the opulence of her room. Nothing but the best for me, she thought.

She turned to her side, and her lips hitched in a wicked smile, Yes, nothing but the best, indeed, she thought, watching her golden-haired lover sleep contentedly beside her. He slept on his back, one arm thrown up beside his head. The sheets had ridden low on his body, exposing his broad shoulders, his sculpted chest and the toned muscles of his abs.

She purred as she snuggled closer, rubbing a leg along the length of his muscled thigh beneath the sheets. She let her fingertips dance over his stomach. She propped her head up on her hand and watched his face closely for the first signs of wakefulness.

The starkly masculine beauty of his face disarmed her, as always. His features were too sharp, too angular, and there had been occasions, few as they were, when he can look very, very cruel. He was undeniably handsome, but she was still confused as to how she had decided that he was so. In a way, he didn’t measure up to the usual, conventional standards of physical beauty.

No, she thought impishly. He didn’t, because he set his own.

She let her hand drift lower. Still no signs of stirring from her sleeping prince. She sighed. She certainly didn’t expect the stab of regret she was feeling now.

She slid off the bed, a move so well-practiced that there was barely any discernable disturbance in the mattress. She padded to her underwear drawer, and there, beneath all the silk she wore closest to her skin, she retrieved a deadly dagger. It was of Oriental origin, lovely and delicate, but with an edge sharper than any blade she had ever used. It had taken more lives than she cared to count. She likened herself to her weapon.

She went back to her sleeping lover. Watching him, she almost hesitated. Almost.

“You sure you wanna do that, love?” his voice was deep, husky with sleep. Just the sound of it made her hot.

“You were faking,” she murmured.

Lashes she would kill for, lifted, revealing blue eyes as beautiful and as cold as sapphires. Then he smiled, a lazy, knowing smile that set her ablaze once more, “Don’t sell yourself short, pet,” he purred, eyes sweeping over her soft curves in the same manner that his hands had, just a few short hours ago, “No acting was required. At least not on my part.”

“Same here,” she admitted.

His smile widened, became more playful. His dimples appeared as if commanded, banishing all hints of cruelty from his entrancing face. She knew, too, that the same smile can make him look not just cruel, but positively evil. He sat up, one fluid movement, both suggestive and simple, and she wondered―rather jealously―if there was no part of his pretty body that he couldn’t control.

“Then what’s the problem?” he was touching her, barely, fingertips just skimming over her soft skin.

Her eyes fluttered closed of their own accord. The man was a sensual assault without even trying.

What a shame. A really, truly, painfully regrettable shame.

“The problem is,” Ally gasped as his thumb exerted just the slightest pressure in the center of her palm, “You’re … bad …”

“Mmhmm …”

“… for business …”

“Bad?”

“Yesss …”

“Let me make it worse.”

Ally’s eyes snapped open. There was nothing playful or sexy in his voice now. His eyes were suddenly the color of the frozen Atlantic. Then she realized her mistake.

Somehow, he’d managed to maneuver them back to the bed and had made her oh-so-comfortable on his lap. Within his reach. In his control.

Survival instincts kicked in and an expert combination of a twist and a leap got Ally her freedom and much important distance.

He sighed and left the bed. Even the sheets ( which belonged to her ) slid slowly down his body as if reluctant to let him go, “Ally, sweetheart,” he shook his head, “And I had such high hopes for us,” he said mockingly.

He was as naked as the day he was born; if he had been born at all. He was human, Ally reminded herself. She’d faced off with much worse. Demons and creatures culled from her most frightening nightmares.

And yet, as he approached, she had never felt more threatened, “Make no mistake, Tierre,” she warned, holding out the knife, “I am not without tricks of my own.”

He rolled his eyes, “Women,” he muttered. He turned away and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Ally grasped the chance. She leapt at him, dagger poised to cleave his heart in two. He raised a forearm for a quick block. It was a move she anticipated.

The dagger was in her right hand. With her left hand, she braced herself against his forearm for a brief second, and one simple hand flip later, she was behind him.

She swung the dagger in a clean line. He dropped out of the way, and swept his leg around, taking her by the ankles. She ended up on her back on the floor, with him standing above her. Well, she couldn’t really complain. She had a great view. She aimed a kick where she knew it would hurt.

He batted her heel away, “Hey, now,” he teased, “Don’t do that. That’s mean.”

Ally flipped onto her stomach and thrust both legs up and out, catching him in the stomach. He grunted and flew backwards, landing on the bed. She was on him, faster than he could blink. “Tierre, darling, don’t hold back,” she said, strong thighs gripping him on either side, “I can take it.” She plunged the dagger towards his chest.

He caught her wrist and gave it just a little … squeeze. Ally cried out in pain and the dagger dropped uselessly beside Tierre’s head, “No, precious,” he hissed, “You really can’t.” he let her wrist go, then pushed her off with one hand.

Ally went flying across the room. Her back hit the wall, the breath knocked out of her. She fell to the floor, shocked, unable to believe Tierre’s strength.

Unable to believe at first, but rapidly getting there.

“Oh, my God,” she breathed, “All those stories about you are true.”

He was putting on his pants, “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear.”

Ally rose, watching him now with more interest than fear, “You know, you even look like him, like they said.”

Tierre stiffened. There was no need to ask who ‘him’ was, “Have you ever met him?” he asked, careful to mask his true emotions.

“No, never even seen him. But his legends …”

Tierre snapped the buckle of his belt on, picked up the dagger and casually threw it.

The tip of the dagger made a clinking sound as it connected with a throwing dagger Ally had taken from her drawer while she’d been talking.

“Aah!” she yelped, waving her stinging fingers, “Damn it!”

And then she realized that her daggers were pinned on the wall behind her. The blade of her throwing dagger had been pierced through the middle by the Oriental one.

It was the most nonchalant and the most accurate aim she had ever seen.

“I really prefer not to kill my ex-lovers,” Tierre said suddenly.

Ally gasped. She hadn’t sensed that he had crept close to her, “Who are you?” she asked fearfully.

He gave a mischievous shrug, “I don’t know … yet.”

He tipped her chin up gently with two long fingers. He smiled at her, but his eyes remained cold.

“Pray that I never see you again,” he purred. Then he kissed her. Against her will, her eyes drifted shut.

When she opened them again, Tierre was gone.

~*~*~*~

Maggie woke up to the smell of coffee and bacon. The combination of those two aromas was the best alarm clock in the world. Her mouth watered and she hurried out of bed, had a quick shower and slipped on her favorite cut-off denim shorts and a vee-necked powder blue baby tee. She twisted her auburn hair into a loose bun and kept it in place with a clamp at the back of her head. As ready as she will ever be to face the world on a Saturday morning, Maggie a.k.a Meg padded into the kitchen, barefoot.

“Ah, so the sleeping monster awakes,” Tierre smirked, placing a plate with a short stack of blueberry pancakes on the table, “I knew your gluttonous stomach would betray you.”

She tapped her nose, “Able to detect bacon a mile away,” she smiled, “Good morning.”

“Morning? It’s noon!”

“It’s 9:00!”

“Exactly.”

“You English have a warped sense of time,” Maggie slid unto a chair in front of the pancakes, “You should follow the example we Americans have so generously set for you.”

“Oi, that’s my breakfast. This is a self-service type of establishment,” Tierre tried to shoo her out of his chair. When she didn’t budge, he tried to move the plate. Meg planted her paws on it and narrowed her eyes at him.

“Get your own plate, Meg, this is my food!” Tierre was indignant, calling her the shortened version of her nickname that he only used when trying to irritate her.

“Yeah, made from my ingredients!” Maggie pointed out.

“Your ingredients, which were in the process of crystallization in the back of your cupboard. You should be thankful I got to them before it was too late.”

“Ew!” Maggie wrinkled her nose, but didn’t let go of the pancakes.

Tierre rolled his eyes, “Here’s a tip, Meg: Clean out your cupboard and your fridge more than once a year.”

“Yes, mom.”

He scowled at her. She smiled back unrepentantly. Grumbling under his breath, Tierre set about getting the bacon and coffee. He had also made her favorite eggs: sunny side up.

Maggie watched him fondly, content to let him putter around. Tierre was so much better at housework than she was, a fact that he constantly rubbed her nose in. But the truth, Maggie knew, was that Tierre sometimes needed to do something as mundane as washing the dishes. The ordinary, routine tasks had a calming effect on him, sort of a break from the work that took up so much of his life. So much of her life with him. Like now. He’d been gone for almost a month.

“Hey, Buddy,” she said softly, “I missed you.”

He looked up at her from the rim of his coffee mug and grinned, his dimples bracketing either side of his lips, “Missed ya too, pet,” he said, “But I wasn’t gone that long, was I ?”

“Three weeks, dumbass,” she pouted, “See what I mean? Warped sense of time!”

He didn’t dignify that with a retort, just went back to eating. Taking a sip of her own coffee, Maggie watched him knock back a plateful of pancakes, thinking of a time, years ago, when Tierre had a need to be fed constantly. His appetite had known no bounds. Now, looking at him, she was filled with an overwhelming sense of continuity, like their time together had never been divided, like Tierre never left. It was always like that. No matter where their individual travels took them, no matter how long they’d be separated, when they came back, it was like the last time they saw each other was just the day before.

And Maggie knew the reason for that was simply this: When they were together, they were home.

“How was London?” she asked.

“Oh, you know, same old, same old …” he said casually, “Business, mostly, a li’l bit of fun after,”

“Fun? Now that’s interesting,” Maggie smiled slyly, “Is there something else I should know?”

“No.”

Maggie’s shoulders slumped in disappointment, “You work too hard, man.”

“It’s a living,”

She reached over and gave his hand a squeeze. Tierre glanced up at her, surprised, “Hey, Buddy,” she murmured, “It’s been two years, now. Time to move on.”

Anyone else, and he might have yanked his hand away and delivered a crippling verbal attack. Or changed the subject. Or simply tuned the message out and not respond at all.

But this was Maggie, and she knew him better than anyone. She was the one thing that kept him sane after the hell they’ve been through together these past 4 years. She was the only one he truly trusted.

Actually, she was the only one he had left, period.

“I am moving on,” he said quietly, suddenly fascinated by the bacon in his plate.

“No, you’re moving, that’s it.”

“It’s not as easy as it seems.”

“I know,” her gaze was pure sympathy, total understanding, “Been there, done that, remember?”

He nodded. Although their experiences differed, the end results were the same. Both had lost loved ones, and both had to suffer the almost unbearable pain afterwards, “Hey, gimme a break, will ya, ducks?” he teased, breaking the melancholic quiet with sudden cheer, “When the last two women I’ve been with try to kill me in my sleep for the not-so-mythical millions on my head, I tend to get a little disenchanted.”

“Oh, no, Tierre, not again,” Maggie groaned, “This ‘fun’ … she didn’t, did she?”

“Yes, she did,” Tierre said breezily. There had been a time when bounty hunters coming out of nowhere and trying to eliminate Tierre had been their greatest challenge.

Tierre had taken care of that. He’d set out a trap, a cunning, ingenious trap that succeeded in eliminating nearly all of the idiots who thought they had a chance against him. Those who survived spread the tale and the legend and notoriety of Tierre Wolfson was born.

He was brave to the point of being suicidal. Maggie knew where the morgues were in almost every major city in the world. If he wasn’t so capable of taking care of himself, she would’ve locked him up and threw away the key simply for his own safety.

“Was she a bounty hunter, or someone with a vendetta?” Maggie asked.

Tierre cocked his head to the side, thinking, “Hmmm … a bounty hunter. Didn’t seem mad at me or anything. Just wanted to kill me, is all.”

“Amazing. Some of them would still actually dare.”

“It’s that bounty. Once I find out who set it up and started this whole bleedin’ mess …” there was a gleam in Tierre’s summer sky eyes that told Maggie she really didn’t want to know what he’d do.

She decided to change the subject, “Who was she after: You or Spike?”

He shrugged, “Who cares?”

We do, Maggie thought, but she didn’t say it out loud.

The noise of a cell phone brought a scowl to Tierre’s face. It was his, of course. No one who knew Maggie was brave enough to call her before 10:00 on weekends. She sank back against her chair, dejectedly poking at the remains of her food. She only half-listened to Tierre’s curt, “Yes,”, “ No”, and “I’ll be there,”. He put the cellphone back and smiled apologetically at her, “I―”

“―have to go, I know,” Maggie finished for him. She tried to make it sound light, but her resentment and her ever-present fear for his safety came out in her voice, “When will I see you again?”

“Depends. Could be tonight, could be next month,” he gave her a kiss on the forehead, “Try not to get in trouble while I’m gone.”

She swatted him away, “Hey, be careful.”

“Always.”

“Love you, Buddy,”

“Love you, pet.”

~*~*~*~

It was a picturesque little village, quiet and idyllic, rich in history and legend. It was like the setting for one of those John Saul novels where deeply buried secrets long-forgotten resurface after a century or so to wreak evil in the form of innocent, young children.

Tierre smiled to himself at his analogy. In a way, this place was haunted, only not by the dead. And evil was afoot, but there were hardly any children around. The rich didn’t need a lot of kids.

Summer’s Cove was the most exclusive of hideaways. Only a select few had the right to stay here. That right was received from birth and the ‘summer homes’ were actually ancestral homes long left behind by the descendants of those who had built them, to be visited only when the cities relinquished their hold on the heirs and heiresses of the world. Summer’s Cove was a retreat, a place to get away from it all for the summer, at least.

Franco Scarletta had grown up here. He always arrived on the first day of summer and left only when the leaves started to fall. To him, this wasn’t just a retreat―this was his true home. He loved it here.

As he drove past the iron gates the shielded the private empire from the rest of the world, Tierre remembered that he loved it here, too. Once upon a very short eternity, this place had been almost like home to him, as well.

The large Georgian-style mansion stood in the heart of the vast estate, large and beautiful and cold. Tierre parked his battered DeSoto haphazardly in the circular driveway right in front of the house. He knew the car was an eyesore. Classic, but an eyesore. It’s a classic eyesore, the love of his life had once told him, I love it.

Franco Scarletta didn’t. Tierre loved his car all the more because of it.

A fairly-new butler, one of about 4, looked at his car wearily, “Not again,” Tierre heard him murmur.

“What was that, Lance?” Tierre’s voice didn’t rise; it remained in its usual soft, calm tone. Lance, on the other hand, reacted as though he’d been hit by a whip.

“Nothing, Master Tierre,” he said quickly, “I’ll have someone park it―”

“Leave it where it is.”

“But sir―”

Tierre cocked an eyebrow.

Lance visibly shrank back, “As you wish, sir.”

Tierre was no longer listening. He swept past the foyer and down a hall towards the rear of the house. The mansion was silent, although far from empty. There were people coming in and out of the formal and deceptively beautiful rooms. Tierre knew they tried to avoid him, but when they couldn’t, they simply greeted him with respect born out of fear. He nodded at those who did. Indifferent was as warm as he ever would become towards these people.

Tierre left the house and stepped out into the back lawn. Compared to the rest of the estate, it was pretty small, only a few acres or so of green, well-trimmed grass and beautiful landscaping surrounding an Olympic-sized swimming pool. A fountain stood near a stone structure to the left. The fountain was a statue of a bare-breasted woman pouring water from a jar.

The stone structure was designed to look like a gazebo, only it was bigger and it had no walls to speak of, just slender stone pillars arranged in a circle supporting a dome roof. The stone pillars were connected by a waist-high marble railing.

Beneath the dome, Franco Scarletta sat on a wrought-iron chair facing a table filled with what looked like a late lunch. As Tierre approached, he broke into a genial smile.

Franco Scarletta was 58 years old, looked 48, and was stronger and healthier than most men 23 years his junior. He was an imposing figure, tall, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested. His muscular, athletic figure hadn’t changed much over the years because he exercised and followed a strict, but nutritious diet. He had thick, curly, jet-black hair, with dashes of gray at his temples. They only added to his distinguished looks. His eyes were a deep brown, almost black, and they never missed anything. His nose was slightly crooked, broken at one point in his younger years and he’d never bothered to have it fixed. It was like a medal, plain evidence that he’d been through life’s rough roads and he’d fought his way to the top.

He was a handsome man, and when he smiled, his face looked positively saintly. He was highly intelligent, sympathetic and he projected an aura of the powerful, yet kindly uncle. A protector. A nurturer. It was easy to see why, despite all his wealth, he was still one of the world’s most beloved philanthropists.

“Ah, Tierre,” he greeted warmly, “So glad you came.”

Even though the older man waited expectantly, Tierre never readjusted his strides, just approached in that calm, lazy manner of his that was both arrogant and graceful, “I wasn’t aware that I had a choice,” he drawled.

Franco sighed inwardly. As usual, in his presence, Tierre’s North Londoner accent became more pronounced. Today he wore that pair of old black jeans he’d worn the very first day he came to Summer’s Cove, looking for Franco Scarletta, hell-bent on skinning him alive. There was a tear on the knee of the jeans’ left leg and the cuffs were frayed. He wore a blue shirt and a dark-brown leather jacket was hooked on one finger, thrown over his shoulder. A pair of midnight-blue sunglasses completed the ensemble.

Tierre was usually a smart dresser, but more times than Franco cared to remember, the Englishman’s naturally rebellious nature would goad him into dressing like a street punk, just for “kicks”.

Franco decided to ignore Tierre’s deliberate sartorial tragedy and said, “I’m just having lunch. Come join me.” It was an invitation that the private Franco Scarletta would never extend to anyone else.

Tierre dismissed the delicious meal with a brief glance, “No thanks. Not hungry.”

It was an invitation that only Tierre Wolfson would dare refuse.

Franco leaned back in his chair, “You’ve eaten already?”

“Truck-stop waffles.”

“Very well, then. At least sit down.”

Tierre leaned against the marble railing.

Franco sighed. There were times when he felt like a put-upon father dealing with a too-stubborn son, “So. How was London?”

“The same. British people still live there.”

“Did everything go smoothly?”

Tierre’s face bloomed into a cocky smile, “You’ve got to be kidding.”

Franco allowed himself to smile in return. There was a reason why he favored Tierre above all his people; why he chose to overlook the young man’s more unappealing idiosyncracies while he ruled the others with an iron fist. Why he didn’t mind so much when Tierre’s sarcasm and insolence bordered on outright disrespect.

And the reason was simply this: Tierre Wolfson was the best. There was no one in the world who could approach his level. Even those with rightfully earned reputations and formidable skills, treaded lightly around him. He was just that good. Tierre Wolfson had done for Franco Scarletta what all his wealth and connections couldn’t.

He had made him one of the most powerful men in the world.

And the most feared man in hell.

~*~*~*~

SCOTLAND, ON THE BORDERS OF REALITY:

It was over. Finally.

Selig D’Harken, lord and master of the strongest warrior clan of the Northern Vashkan people, walked the blood-soaked fields of his home and wept openly. It was not the pain in his battered body that he shed his tears for, but the pain in his heart, in his soul.

So many of his people had died. Men, women, children. They were a warrior people, proud and fierce. They bowed to no one and protected all that they held dear with everything they had. They had survived many a battle and defeated strong foes.

Vashkans were not to be trifled with.

And yet this particular enemy had come and gone, leaving behind the greatest heartache a ruler can endure. Not defeat, but the loss of his people; the very same people who had trusted him to lead them and to protect them.

He had failed. And they had paid the price.

Selig sank down on his knees in the field of heathers and corpses, beside the lifeless shell of a fearless child-warrior. He stared out into the horizon, wondering if they, by some cosmic accident that even he in his five hundred years of life, was unable to comprehend, had been transported into hell.

Footsteps approached him from behind. Or rather, a foot-step and a dragging sound. Selig turned around and saw Graden Wakrazna limping towards him, dragging his left leg behind him. Blood coated that leg and with each step, even the hardened Graden couldn’t suppress a grimace of pain.

“My lord,” Graden rasped, “My lord … are you all right? Are you gravely hurt?” The worry on his taut face was genuine. Even in his own physical agony, the loyal lieutenant still looked after his general.

Shame flooded Selig’s being. He went to his adjutant, “Here, Graden, lean on me,” he offered.

“No, my lord, I am fine. I’ll―”

“You’re not fine. And please, don’t neglect yourself, Graden. I’ve lost too many soldiers already.”

It was indicative of Graden’s true pain when he didn’t argue any further, just allowed his master to help him to sit down on the ground. The bleeding on Graden’s wound had already stopped and Selig felt a slight sense of relief. Together, the two warriors mourned in silence the loss of their friends and the rape of their home.

In a dull monotone, Selig said, “I have fought in battles and still bear the scars of the wars I’ve survived. I’ve been burdened with my own share of defeat. But never have I seen such … such …” he faltered and his words died on his lips.

Graden nodded, understanding what his master was trying to say, “Cruelty,” he murmured, “Why―why did they come here? What was their reason for attacking us? Was it a grudge, perhaps? Vengeance? Or was it that they wanted something from us … if so, did they get it? Would they return?” the younger Vashkan’s voice rose in fear, frustration, and helpless fury. He seemed to realize that he was nearly shouting and deliberately lowered his voice. Lord Selig did not need to see him tremble. In a voice so soft, it was barely audible, he whispered, “Why?”

Why. The one question on the Northern Vashkans’ minds that had no answer. Selig felt despair sink into his very bones. He felt old and tired and defeated, and how he wished he could have just joined his brothers-in-arms in their eternal rest.

But he couldn’t. It was unfair, but he survived and as long as he lived, he had a duty to his people. He must protect what remained of them.

He rose once more and asked in a stronger voice, “Is Mekyll still alive?”

Graden nodded, a little smile on his lips, “Yes, sir. He is not only a diligent scout and researcher, his skills with a sword are as sharp as mine.”

“How many of our men are still able-bodied?” Selig asked, “When I left the battle field, I saw an estimate of about―”

“About two hundred, sir,” Graden offered, “Less than a quarter of our original numbers.”

“That’s good enough,” Selig looked down at Graden, “I want you to rest and let yourself heal, Graden. This battle isn’t over yet.”

“What is it that you’re planning to do?”

“I’m going to send for help,” Selig’s face was grim but determined.

Graden frowned, “But … surely you do not mean from the other tribes? Would they even care what happened here?”

“Of course they will,” Selig said confidently, “We may be divided, but we are still Vashkans. All of us. Had we only seen this attack coming, we would have sent for help earlier and we could have saved so much more of us.” Selig fell silent. Then he took a deep breath, “Tomorrow at dawn we bury our dead. Then we rest.”

“And then?” Graden’s hopes lifted at the look on his lord and master’s eyes.

“And then …” Selig reached down and helped his comrade up, “And then we hunt down the beasts that did this to us.”

~*~*~*~

It took them three weeks to get things done. The wounded healed fast. They were, after all, built for battle. Their bodies were designed to sustain the strains of injury. They held the most solemn of Vashkan mourning ceremonies, and for a while, simply concentrated on getting through the day.

Two weeks after the battle, Selig rounded up a troop of his most able warriors and placed Mekyl, his scout and researcher, to lead them. They were to find the other Vashkan tribes, inform them of this tragedy, and ask for help. Mekyl had tried to protest; he did not like the idea of seeking help. As a rule, Vashkans are independent and proud. Which is the most probable reason why the different tribes didn’t get along so well.

Pride be damned. The Northern Vashkans needed help and they were going to get it. Selig’s command was absolute.

Mekyl and his team returned a scant three days later. With him were the last two people Selig expected to visit.

Rumus Grifinker and Yesha Kavrois. One was the ruler of the Southern tribe; the other was the Eastern tribe’s wisest council member. Selig’s stomach clenched. They could not be bringing good news.

After the formal introductions―which weren’t really all that necessary, but it were still the polite thing to do―Yesha surprised all who were present by hugging Selig. “We have fallen equally hard, but your wound is bigger,” she murmured in sympathy. She stepped back and straightened, once again calm and composed.

Selig felt as if the world had descended upon his shoulders. Her words only confirmed his fears, “You have been attacked, as well?” he asked wearily.

“Yes, not too long after the Eastern tribe,” Rumus said, “You and your people have suffered more, D’Harken, but those … attackers have nearly paralyzed my people, as well.”

“Neither one of our tribes have been able to send a word of warning to you. Our messengers were the first to die,” Yesha said. Her voice had no trace of anger in it, no fear either. The only emotion she’d shown had been the one of sympathy when she hugged Selig, “When they came, it was as though they had been searching for something. They have destroyed our shrines, ransacked our treasuries …” she shook her head.

“They’ve defiled Everale’s Lake. It is sacred to us, and they cared not,” Rumus added, “And yet they took nothing with them. None of our wealth. They took no hostages, either. Yesha is right. They had been searching for something.”

Selig processed this, his mind aflame with questions and confusion, “And the Western tribe? Was there no word―what is it?”

Yesha and Rumus had exchanged strange looks of apprehension and wariness.

“Now is not the time to keep secrets from each other,” Selig’s voice was commanding, reminding the two that though they held the mightiest of positions in their respective tribes, around here, he was still king.

“The Western tribe is gone,” Yesha finally said. Her eyes were clouded.

Selig’s warrior heart was wrenched all of a sudden. Gone? It couldn’t be. His voice was hoarse with fear as he asked, “Seyhan …?”

“Seyhan D’Harken is a fool,” Rumus spat contemptuously.

“Rumus!” Yesha warned.

“What? You know it to be true. He is rash and selfish and vindictive, sending what remains of his people to scatter and seek shelter on their own.”

Selig remained silent, filled with relief. Is, Rumus had said. Is a fool. Is rash and selfish and vindictive. Is, not was.

Seyhan was alive.

“Not for long.”

Selig started. He hadn’t realized he’d spoken it out loud. He looked at Rumus and saw that the other Vashkan leader was very angry. Selig kept in control. Now was not the time to lose his head.

“Seyhan had his reasons,” Yesha said, addressing Selig, “The Western tribe was the first to be attacked. They had sent a messenger to us, a young boy who needed to memorize no words from his king. He’d seen it all happen. He saw when the libraries were invaded, their ancient records―our ancient records were stolen. The rest were burned. Worse was that the scholars and every other learned man or woman, were tortured. They―wait.” Yesha smoothed back her hair, “The boy is with me, but he has been terribly weakened. I will go to our carriage and see if he is awake.”

The two men waited for Yesha’s return in cold silence. Selig was aware of Rumus’ vast dislike of Seyhan, while Rumus was aware that, despite the fact that Seyhan and Selig didn’t get along, Selig would still not like hearing insults being directed at the young Western king.

Yesha finally returned, a young boy in tow. He looked too weak to stand, but stand he did, erect and dignified. He was in the presence of royalty, and they were the very people Master Seyhan had told him to find. He waited patiently until he was spoken to.

“This is Yuan Gascogne. He tried to tell me what those monsters wanted from some of his teachers, but he needed to rest. He has traveled long and hard and needed to recuperate,” Yesha introduced the boy. So as not to embarrass him in front of the men, Yesha stopped herself from running her fingers through the boy’s hair. He was so brave and he had lost so much, “Go ahead, Yuan. Tell them so we may follow your Master Seyhan.”

Young Yuan took that as his cue, “Those ‘monsters’ … they tortured the scholars and tore apart our libraries for they were looking for something, something they thought we had. Even after Master Seyhan himself swore that he has never heard of it.”

Rumus, never a patient man on his good days, barked, “Out with it, boy, so we may have enough time to save your Master’s irresponsible hide.”

“Master Seyhan went after them, to make them pay! That is not irresponsible!” Yuan shot back. He didn’t care if he was being disrespectful. He turned and looked up at Yesha, eyes shining with unshed tears, “Isn’t it?”

Before she could comfort him, Selig said, “Just tell us what you know.”

But Yuan was now suspicious, “You must give me your word first that you will go after my Master.”

Selig smiled. The child was brave and loyal. Good work, Seyhan, he thought. Looking Yuan in the eye, he said, “Seyhan is my brother, master Gascogne. I will find him, I give you my word.”

Yuan was tough, but he was still a child, and he wanted to believe them; he so desperately needed to be comforted. And besides, his own Master had sent him to seek these people, so surely … “They were looking for something, all right. Something they called The Balancer,” he said in a calmer tone, “What is a Balancer?”

“A myth,” Rumus responded, “Just a myth.”

“A myth that originated from us Vashkans,” Selig added.

Yesha was frowning, “That’s why they stole those records and attacked shrines. They were looking for anything that might provide more information on this Balancer.”

“And Everale’s Lake. That lake has guarded many legends in its depths.” Rumus added.

“Well, now that we’ve established that … can we go look for my master?” Yuan asked.

Instead of berating the boy for his rudeness, Selig regarded him seriously and said, “Tell me where your master went.”

Yuan smiled in relief, “That’s easy sir,” he said, “He followed the murderers’ trail, all the way back to their side of the world.”

“And that is …?”

“The human side, Master Selig.”

~*~*~*~


LONDON:

Sarah Merriman walked from her nice, orderly home and into the silent jungle of the night. She had waved good-bye to her roommate, Abby, playfully teasing her about her boyfriend coming over. Abby had blushed and vehemently insisted that Steve was just a friend.

“And anyway, Sarah, you’re the one on a serious manhunt,” Abby had laughed, “You go out every night now! Ever since you came home from South Hampshire, it’s like you’re a changed woman!”

Sarah hadn’t touched that comment, just kissed her friend good-bye and then left. As soon as the door clicked shut, Sarah took a step back and let the warrior take over.

Abby had no idea how close she’d just come to the truth. Sarah had changed, almost completely. And she was on a hunt, but very rarely for a man. Women like her hunted an entirely different specie of predators.

Vampires. Demons.

Sarah Merriman, the Slayer assigned to guard London’s greater areas, walked faster. Things had been quiet lately; she’d only dusted two vampires over the last week. That wasn’t really all that unusual, with the number of Slayers around the world today, vampires weren’t exactly anxious to show their fangs. But it wasn’t just the bloodsuckers. Plenty of the demon hang-outs had been empty as of late.

That gave Sarah a funny feeling in her gut, the feeling that she had been taught never to ignore. Something was brewing and she intended to find out what. That meant she had to pay ol’ Gump a visit.

Gump was a demon, harmless because he was a coward. But he had his uses. For example, since the other demons treated him like he didn’t exist, he made an excellent snitch. That is, when he wasn’t holding out, like he’d been doing lately, which only added to Sarah’s feeling of badness.

Sarah turned to an alley that led to an abandoned warehouse-turned-dive that demons and Gump frequented. Its popularity among the regulars had taken a nose-dive when she had started coming around. Gump better be in there, she thought, annoyed. She’d had enough of playing hide and seek. She raised a hand to knock the secret sequence that was the password, but before her knuckles touched rusting metal, the door was pulled open.

And Gump stumbled outside.

At first, the Slayer thought he might be drunk, he was swaying so unsteadily and he didn’t even seem to notice her, “Gump!” Sarah snapped, even more annoyed for having been ignored.

He turned to her, and Sarah’s bad feeling became a bad certainty. “Sarah,” the demon rasped, right before he collapsed in her arms. Sarah caught him, and then let him drop. He fell on his face and didn’t move again. He was dead.

And I would be, too, Sarah thought, crouching beside the lifeless body of the demon, If I had a wound like this. Her fingers hovered just above the gaping slash wound that started just below the demon’s head, to just above his arse. Sarah raised her head to look at the door. It had swung shut behind Gump.

Filled with trepidation for what she might find, Sarah rose and went to the door. She changed her mind about pushing it open and instead raised her foot and kicked it so hard, the thin sheet of metal tore from its hinges and collapsed inward.

The Slayer gasped.

Almost all were on every flat surface available, the floor, the tables, and the bar … but some were on top of the others, and one was even right on the short steps that were below Sarah. They were covered in sticky fluid of differing colors.

Demons. Lying in a pool of their mixed blood.

And all were dead.

TBC...





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