::The War of Revelations::

Chapter 1: The Shadow Rising.

Location: Cavalleria Manner
Date: Janurary 12th, 2013.
The storm is chaos.

Israel stands on a second floor balcony of an old plantation style mansion house on the southern exposure of the house, staring into the oncoming storm. The wind carried with it the salty twinge given to it as it caresses against the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico, carrying its salty sweetness across the bayou city. For hours now, the storm had been lingering on the horizon, nestled against the landmasses of Louisiana and Texas, as though deciding upon which land mass to fall as is common with storms in the seas. Whispers of nature’s fury, born in a form lesser than hurricane or tropical depression whispers against his skin as he turns, damp droplets falling against the exposed flesh of his forearms and his face. The rest of his slender form wrapped in cool, black silk. A step towards the house, away from the balcony, and he stops, turning his head just slightly to cast a glance from the corner of his eye to the woman sharing his balcony.

She was young, slender. Honey blonde hair cascading down shoulders caressed by simple, white cotton. His dress shirt hung around him heavily, buttoned down the front, formed over large ample bosom, against slender hips, and stopped to reveal the slender, sleek smoothness of smooth, alabaster skin. Israel held a hand out towards the woman, a silent beckoning for her to accompany him inside. His fingers were long, stretching out towards her in opening gesture. In the darkness of the clouded night, the pale flesh of his fingers didn’t seem to out of place, as silvery moon light danced upon newly formed droplets of water against his flesh. She didn’t look his way, simply stared out towards the distant gulf as though ensnared by siren’s song.

“You had better come inside,” Israel whispered, as he stepped up behind her, his voice a deep calm. Strong arms snaked around her upper torso, his left just beneath her breasts while his right, angled down across her stomach, and for a moment, she simply slumped back against him. She was starting to wear, the night, his presence, growing to much for her, and thus his interest in her, slipping as well. She spoke, words that he hadn’t heard, whispering on the same wind that carried to his nostrils the smell of sweet, spiced blood. The night was one perfect for this…. The contentment, the soft atmosphere, the caress of cool wind against skin heated by the passing day, while the damp humidity reigns. She is beautiful, as he whispering against her ear, a poem:

Love is not love
Which alters when it alternation finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.

Slowly, he gathers the locks of blonde spun hair, cascading them over the right shoulder, to reveal her slender neck. Gentle, his lips kiss upon the skin, lingering against the slender muscle. This arouses his ladies’ attention, who with gentle laugh and coy innocence, turns amongst his clinging hands, pulling tight the thin gown of cotton, pulling it further up slender thigh. Her fingers to his head, to lift up his face, to gaze into his cold, deep blue eyes. As he stares back into hers, he wonders what it is she finds in them….a mistaken hunger, or a desire for that which she’s never known. Regardless, she smiles, speechless as he lowers his head back, this time towards her throat, her eyes closing slowly in anticipation of the blissful touch of his lips against her throat.

Her green eyes fly open, confusion and fear flooding into them, mixed with sharp pain. Her muscles tighten against him, as she tries in vain to push him away, to separate herself, only to find that his arms coil is too strong for her to break. Her sweetness, like spun sugar from the wine flooding her system, spikes with the fear, as realization settles in that nightmares and monsters do exist, and she is meant to die in one’s arms this night. Then, as though through weakness or acceptance that she is powerless to resist, she slumps against him, forcing him to tangle his fingers in her hair, to pull back her head, while slowly lowering her to the floor.

Lightening flashes, thunder sounding the freedom of the soul, and it begins to rain…

Ten minutes passes, and Israel steps into the mansion’s downstairs parlor. A crimson robe covering his black, silk clad body. His lips stained red from the force of his exhilarations, bruised from the struggle, alive with fresh blood. Cold eyes stare towards the fireless hearth, as the sounds of rain falling against one of several large windows in the room is enough to draw his attention away from the chill, but just for a moment. He listens in private as he does in public, as though expecting attack… especially after a feeding. The soul is angry, recently wronged… the demon could be very newly made, and blinded by rage to attack, even in a private setting where death would be permanent, meaningless… In public, death was never permanent. There was always another sinner in which to hide.. Another host in which to dwell; given the state of the human population these days. So attacks usually came with an audience… another blemish on society… where demons fell to rise again, and his brothers to their eternal sleep… for them, in private or in public, there was no rising after death…

Yet around him the silence was so still, the cold seemed to just sit against his dampened skin. The robe did little to warm against the wet fabric, yet as he moved to toss a log in the hearth, to join the already half burned logs of the old, brick pit, he felt the presence of eyes crawling across his back, a familiar caress, weighing, stoic. A presence has swept over him, one familiar and yet unfelt for a long time.

“I did not know you had awakened…”

Location: Beijing
Date: January 12th, 2013.
Time is of the Essence


Resilience to existence slipped from her grasp, a laugh on the wind pressing against her dulled nerve endings as the acquiesce of remembrance. The air stilled around her, her long chestnuts locks continuing to dance without propellant, her skin almost electric with life, much to her displeasure. She balanced precariously high above the earth, the top floor of the penthouse looking out onto Beijing while the city lived a life she never wanted. Her long fingers wrapped around the sharped claws of a bird-like gargoyle, her body molded to mimic him in a squat, feet pressed to his billowing wings that were frozen forever in time.

Long black strands of silk floated about her, alabaster skin showing from all angles from her waist down, a strip covering each breast in a V shape as it wrapped around her back and moved in tandem with the skirt. Her shoes were lost to her, never a fan of human comfort, her hair clashing against the colors of night sky. The thick brown waves framed her petite features and rolling down her bare back. Gold hues circled tightly around the burnt orange of her iris, her head bowed, eyes closed.

“I know you’re watching.” She whispered to no one and yet the only one she wanted to receive the pain that laced her voice.

“More than six millennia and nothing.” Bitterness bled through her very pores and poisoned the ether.

Her head slowly tilted back, strands of hair spreading and sliding along her cheekbones. The slopping line of her throat to her breasts exposed to the Gods that had forgotten their creation just beyond its commencement. Her eyes opened as the moon spread its pseudo warmth across the planes of her body, her leg muscles clenching as she released her grasp on the statue and slowly rose to her full height. The wind pressed against her, pulling at her to find release in the nothingness below.

Memories of a time when she held emotion played across her brow, her long shapely arms moving so very slowly, so practiced to wrap around her torso. Fingers curved over her defined shoulders, skin so very soft and yet she felt nothing. Her lips parted again, the trace of emotion lost in time.

“Nothing, my love? Did I mean so little to you?” She pressed her cheek against her hand, rubbing softly as if to give, or was it receive, comfort that never existed for those of her kind. She stared deep into the sky, her vision allowing her to press against the edge of the atmosphere, but not deep enough to see them, to see him.

She heard the door behind her open, the sound of his head moving back and forth as he walked to the balcony, disapproval staining the somber moment she held so dear.

“Lillian… please come inside. I hate it when you dangle from the edge, mistress.” Strain wrapped his command and she bothered not in giving him acknowledgement, only releasing herself to push him with the flick of her wrist, his body sliding back into the open door.

His breath escaped his lungs as he fell, the screeching of leather shoes against the tile giving a shiver to the night sky, his anger boiling out to reach for anything human that remained in her. But she’d never been amongst the living so how could she… “I found one like you asked… He’s waiting in your bedroom. Come down from th..”

She flicked her wrist and the door slammed in front of him, cutting him off and plunging her back into the darkness where she felt most alive. She pressed her hand against her shoulder, the other reaching for the sky as if he might reach down and touch her one more time. Only once more… Once would be enough.

“If I ever see you again…” she paused as a red tear slid down her face, her tongue coming out languidly to catch it as her sadness melted into hunger that ripped through her small frame, a wicked smile painting her full red mouth. “… I will find joy for the first time in my existence in the moment that I remove your life from you and drink all of you deep into my body. I will find you and when I do, I’m going to kill you and keep you with me forever. Forever, Michael.”

She retracted her hand and let the other fall, turning and walking without effort along the extension of the building, dropping to the balcony and moving to stand outside her bedroom door. She could smell him long before her eyes laid upon him, an effortless growl pressing against her razor sharp canines. The doors opened before her and she moved in as he stood near the fire, his back to her, strong hands clasped just behind his back.

Jeffery had promised that he would find someone that reminded her of him and from the looks of it, he’d succeeded. Deep groves set along his back and disappeared below his slacks, his shirt and shoes removed. He turned at the sound of her and she stopped just in front of him, moving before he realized she was beside the door one moment and looking up to him the next, her hand on his chest, the other playing with the waistband of his pants, fingers dipping in to touch the tight skin of his hip.

He jolted and laughed nervously, his sea-green eyes wide with fear and then awe. “Y-you scared me.”

He breathed out as she pressed herself in tight, her dress leaving little to the imagination, her cold skin a frightening reality to his fiery hot. She reached up and brought his face to hers, forehead to forehead – licking her lips, the back of her tongue swiping across his own mouth as he shivered.

“Good God you’re beautiful…” He mumbled as he wrapped his strong arms around her and pulled her as tightly as he could, molding her softness to the hardness he provided. She kissed him, her fingers pressing along his hairline, the smell of his blood beating against her desire to lick him off the floor.

He looked so much like Michael and yet his smell was different, his cheeks to angular, his angst was off. She moved back as he protested. She touched his full lips, her fingers rubbing softly back and forth as she bit as her own lip.

“Shhhhhh don’t speak unless I tell you to.”

He nodded and let his arms drop as she moved around him slowly, stopping just behind him and pulling the small strings at the top of her shoulders, the dark silk falling, leaving her bare. Lillian stepped up and slid her arms around his waist, pressing her full breasts to his taunt back, kissing the top of his spine and slowly dragging her lips down to where his pants started, leaving her naked – and on her knees.

“Turn around slowly and lift your hands to the heavens. If you pray… you need to begin now, my love. Time is of the essence.”

Date: January 12 th, 2013
Location: Interstate 20 to Dallas, Texas
Some Creative Title

There was a pothole in the road. When the bus ran over it, it jarred and woke Lette. She snapped her eyes open and stared, attentive, while her groggy mind caught up with her. Carefully, she arched her back and stretched, her shoulders pressed against the side of the bus. Her arms wrapped around the head of the sleeping woman nestled against her chest so as not to wake her while Lette moved. She lay sideways across the seat of the bus, her back to the window, with Rae sleeping between her legs, their arms curled around each other. Their bags were on the floor before them, Rae's legs curled on top of them to keep her legs out of the aisle. With a soft groan, Lette nestled back against the window, lifting her arm to pull the curtain aside a smidgen to look outside. The sun was not even over the horizon yet, the dark sky hemmed pink with morning. She glanced at the watch on her wrist before she put her arm around her girl again, yawing as she closed her eyes to try to get back to sleep.

She was woken again by lips nibbling at her neck. Her dark blue eyes opened to find Rae's light grey ones looking at her, a mischievous grin spread over her thin lips. Lette smiled back. “Morning.” she said softly as she went into another stretch. Rae's smile brightened and she put her lips back to Lette's neck, earning a moan. Lette buried her fingers in Rae's softly curled brown hair and pulled, forcing her head back. “You are so damn obnoxious in the mornings.”

Rae's cheeks colored, her smile set on her face. “You never complained before.”

“Hmm.” Lette smirked back and pressed her lips lightly to Rae's. Rae licked her lips. “We're on a bus.” She pointed out. “Not enough privacy.”

Rae nibbled and pulled at Lette's bottom lip hard enough to get a shiver out of her. “Hm, we're at the back of the bus. Plenty of privacy...”
She raised herself and pressed her body against Lette, her thin fingers crawl under Lette's shirt, caressing her sides as her hands roamed upward. Chills flew over Lette's skin and she overtook Rae's lips with her own, her eyes narrowing a bit in her arousal. She could never control her own desires, especially against Rae. Especially against Rae in the mornings, when the woman was all want. Lette pulled up the blanket that covered them both as she hooked her leg around Rae's hip.

An hour later, the girls stepped off the bus. Lette tugged her oversized hood over her face until it reached down to her chin. Rae took her hand and led her down the street, Lette staring down at what ground she could see from under her hood. Lette was glad she'd found Rae. They'd met in Wyoming, when Lette had decided to look for a meal among the cowboys in La Barge. Instead she'd found Rae. The petite, wild eyed girl holding the massively chocolatey iced espresso drink in her thin hands. She'd walked up to Lette and poked her ass with a long nailed finger, a grin on her face. “Got a hard ass. Ride?”
Lette had, of course, mistaken her meaning. But Rae hadn't objected when Lette took her hand and pulled her into a quiet corner of the barn. She still remembered the bitter chocolate taste of her tongue.

That was over a month ago. Rae had insisted on following Lette when she announced she was leaving.
She accepted Lette. Knew what she was, who she was, and didn't care. Loved her for it, even. Not even the mess of scars along Lette's pale wrist from her attempted suicides had bothered her. She'd only smiled, her head tilted up in a cocky manner, and told Lette “I'll give you a reason to be happy.”

Lette couldn't say no to that. The only other person in the world she felt connected to was somewhere in New Orleans. That, Lette suspected, was why Rae insisted on heading southeast.

Rae twitched her fingers, bringing Lette back to the present. “Did I lose you?” She grinned over her shoulder.

Lette smiled back. “A little.”

Rae squeezed her fingers. “Well, come in here, we'll get a room.” The shorter girl opened the door and pulled Lette in, talking to the clerk behind the counter for the purchase of a room. Then she threw her bag back over her shoulder and waved the key toward Lette. “Let's go, babe!”

Lette grabbed her own bag and followed, pinching Rae's shirt as she walked down the sidewalk, looking for the door that matched the key.

Location: Aspern-Essling battlefield
Date: 1/12/2013
Memories.....

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Memories........ What a great thing they could be.....or not be..... They can remind you of happy times in your life, glorious times or perhaps more sinister times in your life..... Glorious moments in battles or evil ones......

Walking though a battlefield that he did not directly take part in, but was witness to..... he could remember everything in detail. The screams, the charges, the glorious moments of when young men, thinking of their wives back home, their girlfriend, their families, might make them proud by taking the French positions, or the Austrians, depending on which side you were on! Fighting against "Little Bony!" for the fatherland..... fighting against a "evil" dynastic family..... Does it matter in the end to these young men who would later die in the charges? They never got to be buried properly, to win their medals, maybe even a Military Order of Maria Theresa by rare chance or be spoken to by Napoleon or Archduke Charles, no.....struck down by enemy fire and here they lie, dead and forgotten expect by historians, a few descendants..... and Heinrich.


Oh Heinrich knows the feeling.....He was killed in battle at Margiano when he was 15....He was fighting in a Swiss regiment, killed fighting the French. Had his head removed from his body but came back in the 1800's oh yes..... to witness a new bloody type of war, led by a Small Corsican who was now in charge of France.

The wind is blowing though his undead,tored up body. An storm is coming. "I miss the days when I was still alive..... So very nice" he remarked quietly to himself. One day he always hope he could shred this life but he always knew better. "Once a demon, always a demons I suppose he remarks." The storm is getting closer but he stays.... he waits for it's arrival.... with a sick and twisted smile.

A low chanting filled the cells. It was quiet, filled with fear, dread, and relief. He was being released today. He was being removed from this hell, and they could have it to themselves again. Once more, they could be the most evil things that ghosted these walls, that walked in this cursed place. Each and every man in this prison was a criminal, deserving to be here. Hell, deserving to be killed slowly, painfully. Each man had tortured, raped, killed in every way imaginable, committed every crime that they had a law for, plus a half-dozen others, and, worst of all, knew it. If they were let out, they would continue to do the exact same thing. And yet this one person, a gringo, no less, had them reaching for their Bibles, crucifixes, and muttering the 'Our Father' and 'Hail Mary' like mad. Each man in here was a fervent Catholic, giving to God of their blood-money to at least ensure a smaller passage through hell. And each was superstitious. As children, they had all heard of the dark things that prowled during the night seasons, creatures that never should ave existed. Creatures that, during their teenage years had their existence disbelieved, shunned, despite their madre's warning against such action. The creatures did not exist, and were now the subject of sickeningly sweet love stories, romanticized beyond belief, and turned into little choirboys that were afraid of seeing a woman's naked flesh. It was disgusting, really. The old women would only shake their heads, and speak no more on the subject.

But here, in this washed out place, an embassy of hell on earth, where the dregs of humanity, the housing of the worst of the worst, old tales told by old women suddenly came vividly to life. Dark memories of terror at nights, listening to their mama's recounting tales that were not meant for children's ears, only told when they thought the children were fast asleep, suddenly came far removed from dreams and memories, away from the realm of a child's fear of the dark, and took on a whole new meaning. A far more terrifying one.

The man that was whispered to be a vampiro.

Nothing could be proved, of course. He had been a suspect in a group of killings, but had only been convicted with circumstantial evidence, which was why he was leaving sooner than the rest of them. But no bodies had been found. Only blood, and the fact that loved ones had disappeared. He never stepped out into the sunlight, refusing to, and being confined to solitary, more often then not. None of the men would have him in the general population. This was a prison in Caracas, filthy, understaffed, and meant to be a place in which horrid men could rot their lives away. Hot, humid, stuffy, with warm rain coming down every afternoon in the illusion of refreshing, but only to add to the humidity. That was how it was every day. And these men had gotten used to it, living here their entire lives, and thus could stand the pressure. But when the person arrived in their personal little Hades, it became unbearable.

In the beginning, he was allowed out at night with the others. Fights picked rarely had any other end than death. The warden and his men were too few to stop them, and so remained at a safe distance, watching. Many fights were picked with him because of the nature of his crimes. They always ended with shattered bones, skulls caved in, spines smashed to shards, neck snapped like twigs, and always, always, this one man standing in the middle of the dead bodies of his opponents, breathing hard, controlling himself. There was never any blood spilled.

Then the disappearances started. It was like men that had been in this prison for decades just disappeared into thin air. No bodies, not even blood. Just, disappeared. With the legends going around, the inmates begged to have him removed from their jail. The warden told them to stop being a bunch of babies. This was a secular time, after all, and vampiros did not exist. But even he and his men began to feel that cold chill in their bones when they looked into his eyes, his horribly enticing glare more than most of them could take. Hard men were these, reduced to nothing by his stare.

Every man in the prison was glad when his sentence was over.

He was chained, and paraded in front of the entire prison before he left. Unlike when other inmates were released, when there was a large amount of clamor, men yelling at him to keep promises, or that when they got out they would slit his throat or something to that effect, now the entire place was silent, except for the low chant. The man himself was calm, icy. They were releasing him at night, at his request. Prayers were said, and none dared to speak to him, or look him in the eye.

He was outside, fifty miles out of Caracas, when his chains were undone. He had had no belongings, except for some clothes, before he arrived, and so he was given those, and with the guards crossing themselves vigorously, they left him on the side of the abandoned road. He rubbed his wrists for a bit, looking around. He had just left prison. For him, he was leaving one, and entering another. The mayor of the city had come to him, and handed him a plane ticket to Houston, Texas, the day before his release," Please," The fat man had begged," Leave. And do not return."

He had the ticket in his hands. He decided to use it. He began the long, long trek to Caracas International Airport.

Date: January 12th, 2013 11:57 PM
Location: Rue Bourbon, New Orleans, Lousiana
A Meeting

Blayz grabbed his gasmask from its resting place atop his head and hooked it to his hip. The local brood, he couldn’t bring himself to call these vampires a Family, like comparing a street gang to the Mob in movies, had set the time and place of this meeting. Well he was here, and they were supposed to be too, more than ten minutes ago…

Out in the street proper, people still walked the streets enjoying the “nightlife” of the city. Most however, took a look at his clothing and the rifle strapped to his back and hurried past. Most, not all. A couple of young women stumbled up the streets towards him laughing as they came. Obviously drunk out of their minds, Blayz rolled his eyes and looked away, brushing his silver hair from his eyes. He was in no mood to entertain, nor for a snack. He gritted his teeth when one ran her hand along his arm.

“Hey Muscles, my friend and me are lookin fer a new friend to play wit,” she slurred while the other giggled behind her, “Ya look like ya can handles a coupla drunk horny bitches!” The woman cackled and pressed against him, leaning for a kiss.
Blayz’s temper snapped. He glared into both of their eyes and his own seemed to flash. Both went silent, staring back. They began to squirm, rubbing their legs together and lips parting in soft moans. Then their bodies began to shake, and the moans turned to tears, yet they still could not look away. Blayz raised a hand and snapped his fingers and the two collapsed to their knees and wet themselves all over the ground. The vampire bared his fangs and they rushed to their feet, fleeing down the road.

He turned away as a bell nearby sounded midnight. In his youth, he’d have found a city like this fascinating, as well as an excellent stalking ground. But that was many hundreds of years before, when he was a different man. Before the demon Razmith stole everything from him. Before he failed his Lady, his Family, and his brother.

He growled in rage and slammed a fist into the nearby wall, taking a certain satisfaction in the spiderweb of cracks that appeared around his hand. “That was interesting, to say the least. I guess that it’s true what the rumors say about you. You are an old one aren’t you?” said a man indolently from behind him. Blayz glared at the speaker, a slim pale vampire in baggy clothing, and grimaced when he fliched. Pathetic.
“You are late,” Blayz growled.

At least he had the grace to look abashed. “Yes, well… um… I’m here now. And we need to be somewhere else. Please follow me.” He turned slightly and gestured the older vampire on. Blayz adjusted his sword at his hip and pulled up his hood. The two stepped out into the street, towards their next destination.

“A dream…”

The word was a whisper, a quiet wisp of wind across dead, dried leaves, and yet with it a haunting, halting quality as though the scream of thousands of voices in unison. To dream is normal to all, except those who slumber through the ages as the ancients tend to do. Ishmael Cavalleria looked no more than a withered, ancient old man, half wasted away from his long slumber. His gait is slow, his steps tentative as he walks the marble tiled floors of the old mansion, stepping slowly into the study, reaching a thin, pale hand out towards the youth. Israel rushed forward, closing the distance with the same earnest haste one does when moving to support an honored elder, seeking assistance with walking. The touch of the man’s hand upon his shoulder was pain, even through the robe and the dampened silk that covered his body. Icy fingertips belonged to the grave, or the other side of it. Long fingernails dug sharply into his skin, finding purchase around bone itself as the old man hung on.

“A dream…” the old man whispered again, as eyes half mad with weariness, half wasted away from recent awakening, bear into Israel’s. Ishmael’s soul overwhelms, and for a moment all Israel could feel was the man’s confusion, his grief… tears… he felt as though the soul itself would shed tears, and anger… through perhaps Ishmael himself wasn’t aware of it yet, the ancient was angry… perhaps he simply didn’t have strength enough yet.

“A dream,” Ishmael whispered, in unison with Israel, as though both bodies react to the same thoughts. Israel’s pupils dilate, a sightless stare loses itself somewhere between him and the revered ancient within whose grasp he writhes, helpless, as the dream settles over a lesser mind. Dreams of the sleepers, as they were called, only occurred when an ancient sleeps through the ages… messages from heaven.. the reason that at any time, somewhere, sometimes, an ancient one sleeps. Prophetic visions… Had one of these awoken Ishmael from his sleep?

Hands gripped his wrists. Two sets of them, spreading wide his arms, hosting him up between them. Israel’s muscles stretched taunt, his bare chest bulging with the effort to free himself, to pull his arms back around him in an almost protective manner. Hatred burns in the vampire’s eyes, like razor edged daggers turned towards the man before him. His body was shadow, solid darkness, that swirled within itself as he moved with a haunting, liquid quality. Beside him, the two men who held him were clearly visible. A dark skinned, bald man with a scar crawling down the left side of his face, a demonic stain causing a rupture in the host from exposure. The other was a slender woman, with an almost regal appearance about her features and an haunting superiority marring her beautiful face. They both dressed normally, and neither seemed any different from any other denizen of New Orleans… except they could hold him captive, which meant either they were fellows… or…

“Have I been waiting for this,” the shadow spoke in a voice distorted by the barriers of the dream. It seemed to hold tone and pitch, but nothing natural of voice or flow. The words seemed slowed, as though pulled through the walls of reality into the dream, stretched, like a whisper across magnetic tape. Israel gave another pull on his arms, tightening muscles further in an attempt to free himself, as the shadow drew closer. He lashed out with his legs, at his captors, only to find another pair of individuals held him fast. The dream then supplied the brick behind him, filling in the relevant parts to the dream as needed. Crimson red, falling up as quickly as they could towards the darkened heavens above. Its night, and this… an alleyway?

“Three fold, I told you, it’ll come back with laughter…”

Bodies lie on the ground… broken, torn. Michael Cavalleria… Julianna, his consort, both children of the same master, the same master he served…. Both lifeless upon the floor. A wooden floor… not an alleyway.. Israel’s lips suddenly went dry as a name floated across his mind… a story Ishmael had told him years ago, the war between heaven and hell… the formation of the covens, to..what? to supply protection.. to protect something…

His shoulders began to register the pain, his ears ringing with laughter, as the tendons that held his arms in place were ripped, flesh rending at the extreme pressure being placed upon it. There were more of them, he couldn’t count how many had hold.. the pain was too great… as tendons broke free, wrenching from his teeth a scream….

“shhh.. shh…” the old leathery voice was back, and Israel’s body trembled. His shoulders ached as though they really had been pulled off his body, and as the ancient’s hand dug into his skin, Israel found himself resting heavily upon the unsteady figure, shivering.

“Just a dream, my child…” the voice whispered…

“One of what will be,” Israel clarified… who is it? Do you know…

“Yes,” but he offered no names. He simply stood, staring into the darkness as though further into the dream… as though ancient eyes could see more of the future than his own had managed. A dream, not the future…. A prophecy… a possibility..

“He will kill Michael… Julianna….”

“He already has,” the old voice repeated, sorrowful… Israel would stop to ask, but need not. Ishmael had sired the both of them… he would know the moment a child of his was destroyed. ‘I must feed…’ the elder spoke, Israel drawing him towards a chair.

“I will bring it to you,” Israel spoke in reply… ‘ just rest until I return..’

He complied, the rush of his breath expelling into the air around him only pulling her attention from the rushing of his heart as it pressed blood deep into life veins that cried for her penetration. She licked her lips as he finished the slow presentation of sorts for her, her hands reaching up above her bent body, as if worshiping him as a God. Palms pressed to his pectorals, nails pressing into his skin a little, she began a show descent, allowing her fingers to trace the contours of his muscular form, a soft kiss pressed to the outlined bulge in his pants.

She reached the top of his slacks and bent her fingers, sliding them into his pants, the back of her digits languidly rubbing, her smile widening a little as he started to hyperventilate. She tilted her head to the right, her long chestnut hair draping across her right shoulder, the only coverage she had against her nakedness. Lillian leaned forward and clamped her teeth carefully around him, tugging a little while she growled, her fingers still moving in a manner that had the poor man shivering.

“Oh fuck… oh God yes, please, baby…” He growled and reached down to fumble with the button and zipper on his slacks as Lillian moved back, her bare rear resting on her heels. She laughed softly at him, his need so great, but nothing compared to hers. He finished and reached for himself as he looked down at her, the ignorance of his humanity not allowing him to remember that they were strangers but a moment ago.

She nodded at him, her hands sliding around her ribs and down her hips, taunting him. Rarely did she play with her food, but the occasion was seemingly arousing and her demeanor needed bolstering if only for this moment in time. He reached forward and grabbed her hair in an effort to pull her toward him – but she moved not an inch. His brow furrowed a bit in confusion as he took a step back, her petite albeit feminine figure should’ve jerked forward with his efforts and yet… nothing.

She lifted her hand to lock all doors in the room and ran her tongue down one of her canines, blood welling on the pink tip. She painted her lips in it, dipping her fingers into her mouth and coating them with the colors of life, dragging her fingers down to paint a line just between her breast, down her taunt stomach and stopping above her womanhood, watching him.

He was beyond words, his sense of self-preservation telling him to run fast and never look back, but the naked vixen on the floor that he’d give his life to touch again, to taste – to fuck beckoned him stay. He took a few steps back, his movements uncoordinated and less than attractive, eyes wide, sweat collecting on his brow and upper lip. He reached up and wiped his mouth, his other hand covering his heart.

“Tell me to do it, lover…” she whispered, a demonic smile on her lips, eyes hooded, evil pouring from her very being.

“Do it. I need you to.” He nodded and slipped his fingers in his mouth, sucking them hard as she nodded and complied. His eyes missed nothing as he began to follow her movements, a tentative step forward the resounding effect. The smell of fear and arousal was almost overwhelming.

“Can you taste me?” She breathed and the air carried her words as he nodded, eating at his fingers, biting and tearing at the flesh where softness once existed. The pungent flavor of his blood filled the room and she growled, moving to her hands and knees, locks of milk chocolate hair streaming around her as fangs extended. She crawled slowly toward him as he removed his fingers from his mouth, tears streaming down his face, unable to move or scream as his end beckoned him.

She laughed and the sound of it surrounded him, tugging at his heart to beat faster, to end this torture in any way possible. She moved from the ground to standing before him before he could take another breath, her wet fingers touching his beautiful mouth.

“Do you want to die?” She asked as he murmured yes, the horror in his gaze screaming in a resistance that didn’t belong in their midst, in this scenario and yet resided perfectly. She leaned it, pressing a kiss to his light pink nipple before sinking her teeth in deep and pulling, the warmth of him seeping into her belly. He moaned, the sound like echoes from the grave of a life well lived.

Small bites down his chest and torso left him quivering, covered in sweat. Her eyes were fully dilated, teeth extended as his strong hands swept through her hair, blood coating each strand as he whimpered in pain.

“What are you?” He whispered as he looked down at her.

“Deliverance.” She pressed her lips to the inside of his thigh, before opening her jaw, long teeth extended further and sinking into the meat of his leg so deeply. The beautiful creature above her moaned over and over until his weight became too much and he crumpled to the ground. She moved with him, her hands locked around his hips, fingers digging into the soft meat of his rear, drinking deeply.

She finished as he exhaled for the last time, her movements strong and without compassion as she slung him across the room, his dead weight hitting the door to let Jeffery know she was done with him. She laughed, her body stained with blood, movements purposefully slow as she twirled in place, head tilted to the ceiling, eyes closed, tongue licking at her mouth and the tainted air around her.

Once his particles merged with her own, she moved toward the balcony, walking through the glass as it tore and cut her skin, adding to the carnage and making a mark on her alabaster skin. The breath-taking palate that wore her resemblance only scarred for a moment. She pushed off and ascended to the heavens, joy in that moment like she hadn’t in the span of forevers.

Sin coated her skin like a new coat, wrapping her tightly in the desire for a real fight, for finding that thing or person that could push her to the brinks of reality and hang her over the edge – precariously dangling. Someone with carnality and power, with strength and hate. To feel fear and desire wrapped so tightly together would be ecstasy. She needed him or perhaps he needed her.

Lillian descended to her home, Jeffery meeting her with worry on his face. “What is it?”

“Something is wrong with Ishmael.” She moved past him to start collecting a few things to take with her.

“How do you know? This isn’t safe, Mistress… traveling takes time.” He murmured, cut off only by her hand clamped around his throat.

“I don’t have time. I will be at the Cavalleria manner by tomorrow night, won’t I?” She growled and let him go, a soft kiss to his lips to calm him.

“Yes, Lillian… of course you will. Anything you wish. Anything.”

Traveling......what a wonderful thing..... especially to a far away place to look for something you not even sure you are looking for...... Family....friends....love? Maybe something more sinister..... There is a reason why people travel.....

There is a reason why Hendrich is traveling however...... He is heading to the Great New Orleans for reasons unknown to him and others. He is on a private jet flying from New York City to down south. He returned from Europe on the same jet.... he can not be bother to be seen in his current condition on a regular jet, people would have scared to hell at back. "It's bad enough to try to hide but cover up.....meh" he told a undead person on his private jet.

"To much trying to hide my friend" he replies.

"Might be true my friend" replies the undead Hussar warrior, pulling his sabre closer to his decayed leg, "But it is what it is. We are what we are because of our past. No more, no less"

He turns to look out the window..... the pretty blue sky.....the nice white clouds...... What he would only do for peace once again in his life, but no!Just more pain, hell, shit, nothing great. As they approach New Orleans, he thinks and he thinks hard - On his next plan of action!

“Hey!” Laelette flinched when the pillow hit her in the back of the head. “Come back, spacey.” Rae snickered. Lette blew the hair back out of her face and looked over her shoulder as Rae dressed. “Get dressed!” the small girl ordered with a smile. “I'm hungry, we need to go find something to eat. Or, someone, in your case.” She added when Lette raised an eyebrow at her. Lette stood to riffle through her bag for clothes. “How do you want to look? Wanna hunt on your own? Or can I help?”

Lette lifted a black shirt from her bag and heard Rae object, so she put it back. “You can help.” She replied, pulling out a cheerful, more girly looking shirt to hold up for approval. Then she pulled if over her head.

“You know,” Rae folded her arms and leaned against the dresser. “If I'm going to help, you're going to need to smile. No one wants to hook up with a girl who is looking daggers at them. Even if she is as pretty as you are.”

“I can argue against that.” Lette retorted. She heard Rae exhale impatiently and turned to look at her again.

“Smile for me.” Rae demanded. Lette pursed her lips and thought for a moment before her mouth spread in a wicked grin, her eyes crinkling. Rae smirked back. “Are you ever going to tell me what makes you smile like that?”

Lette shook her head and bent for her jeans, still grinning. “Maybe in a few millenniums.”

“Said the universe to the bird.”

Lette's smile fell and she glared at Rae. “Don't. We've had that discussion.”

Rae's thin lips smirked as she skipped over to Lette. “I know, I just love to mess with you.” She took Lette's head in her hands for a quick, teasing kiss before sitting on the bed. “Braid my hair?”

Wordlessly, Lette sat behind her and ran her fingers through Rae's soft brown curls. “My offer still stands.”

Rae grinned, her back to her girlfriend. “I know.”

An hour later, Lette stood in the corner of a bar. It was still early in the evening, so it wasn't too packed. Enough for her to get a feel for her options. Rae had gone off for some drinks while Lette's eyes flickered from face to face. There was the man with the mohawk, trying to ignore the goth chick with the inch-thick eyeliner. There was a jock, seemingly from upper east coast, judging by the orange of his skin. A group of college kids, wearing funny hats and hooting about some teacher. And more kept showing up. Lette watched, intrigued and hungry.

“Drink.” Rae said, handing her some odd blue concoction.

“I don't drink.”

“Pretend.” Rae settled beside her and took a nice swig. “Mmm. Its good. Besides, you need help to pull this off.”

“Why am I sleeping with you again?”

Rae chuckled. “Fine, which one.”

Lette's eyes landed on the mohawk. “That one.”

Rae followed her gaze. “Aww, you just want to piss off the girl who wont leave him alone.” Lette only smiled. Rae sighed and set down her drink and walked off, pushing past eyeliner with ease to whisper something into mohawk's ear. He lifted his brown eyes to Lette and nodded, grinning. Rae took his hand and dragged him over, leaving little miss eyeliner looking quite put out. “Lette, meet Justin. Justin, my girlfriend Lette.”

Lette took his hand and gave him a flirty smile. “Nice to meet you, Justin.”

His grin grew. “I like your accent. Where are you from?”

“Europe. I'm here because my grandmother died, and I'm in the mood for … a distraction.” she let her eyes run him over.

Justin straightened and looked her over again. “What did you have in mind.”

“Tell you what.” Rae said, turning to lean her chest against him, her hands grasping his. “You buy us dinner, and we'll repay you together.”

Justin's eyes widened and his jaw dropped. “That sounds like something I can do.”

Rae downed her drink and took his hand. “Then follow us.”