Don't deny me...
The War of Revelations (J/K)
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…”
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.”
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.”
A silent curse stalking on lets of dominant shadow. Darkness seemed to cling to him as young children to an aged brother, seeming to hang as though a fabric of garment, something tangible as silk. The club was filled with darkness, in the hearts of patrons, enthralled in the gifts given humanity by the master, gifts designed to darken souls, and in turn forever bolster the ranks of war. Existence was nothing more than a cog in the war machine at this point, the world churning out darkened souls, tormented by a toil filled, sinful life. Few escaped. To fall was inevitable.
A woman clung to him, dancing against him in a hypnotic show of carnal expectancy, and Yahto simply gazed beyond, to a pair of women, one with the stink of Vampirism upon her, the other an unwitting accomplice, and a foolish man-child onto whom Yahto had no doubt their eyes had settled. Their ambitions were so very clear, the way the one woman hung upon the man, throwing into context the other woman, as though barely a concern, igniting the man’s curiosity, whispering poison into his ear to draw the mind to glimpse the nirvana they offered: the three of them writing together amongst sheets and a thick cloud of sweat dampened heat. Yahto watched in eager anticipation, lingering his gaze on the woman, this Rae... a pawn in game, as sure as the fool they’ve ensnared into their trap.
As they started to leave, Yahto made a move, stepping away from the woman, pressing through the crowd of the busy club, sliding through a mass of convulsive, pulsating bodies like a flame through a pile of wax. Around him, as though inexplicably forced apart, the waters of sin parted, bodies moving aside to allow him to pass through, only to converge behind him, a self healing wound to the organism of sin from which he emerged. From behind, his steps were silent, quick. A steady, firm right hand reached out grabbing the wrist of the woman, Rae. Finger close tightly around her wrist, his arm pulling her to a sudden and very firm stop, undoubtedly invoking a response, and as she turned around to face him, Yahto smirked as his left hand suddenly found itself warmed by the thick, sticky trickle of the woman’s life blood.
His fingers had made short work of passing through her skin. The nails on his hand, long, sharp spires extending no more than an inch from each fingertip, tore through flesh and bone with the stiff, ridged thrust delievered. The force, inhuman in its skill and power, in its speed, could not be defended as he shoved his hand through the chest and rib cage, to grab and crush the beating heart in the woman’s chest. As her eyes widened, as the shock settled over those beautiful, still orbs, Yahto’s lips curled in a pleased smile, the woman’s own backward stumble bringing his head from the confines of her flesh as she falters and collapses in the very next second. Blood dripping from Yahto’s clenched fist.
In the instant before the crowd noticed, and alarm and fear gave rise to panicked screaming, Yahto’s eyes bear into Laelette, to feast on the anger that he knew must reside within. A smile, perfectly pleased, stands bold upon his face, tuning the curve of his lips to his ‘Sunday’ best, as he, with open palms, holds up the twitching, crushed organ between his hands before them, in silent offering.
“I’m coming for you,” He whispers, and as though to punctuate his statement, the first scream of an onlooker is given to voice, followed by another, and in the next moment, the club is wild. Bodies rush to the door, sweeping past them as quickly as they could, while others seek out the safety of the darkness, hoping to go unnoticed, hoping to simply disappear and avoid whatever was going on here. Hundreds streak towards the door, a mass of pulsating, quivering fear, pushing over itself to pour from the small exist of the club, to spill onto the streets. A moment Yahto stood before her, holding the dying heart, in the next, the organ falls lifeless and still to the floor, Yahto’s body melding into the crowd as it sweeps by: a message delivered. Nothing more.