Demon Vampire (The Redgold Series) (42 page)

“Don't worry, you won't fall while I'm here.” Zack heard the dark voice in his head. It was softer somehow, less of a growling rumble. Zack could hear it clearly now. “To thank you for your gift in blood, I will restore you. All I ask in return is that you drink and train. Learn and defeat this child that will stand before us. This Malio Signante. I will keep your body alive long enough to lull him. To deliver him the confidence he desires in his slaughter of you. In my domain, he will understand that a nightmare is to be revered, respected. Not to poke and slash at the physical. Zack Giver, play your part well as my puppet. When he is at his most proud, let him feed from your wounded neck. I will entertain the half-whelp then. Remember our contract. Live a long life and craft for me the vehicle I desire.”

Zack's chest convulsed while he lay on his back, rearranging itself in a freakish manner. His bones shifted, moved into different configurations. His strength returned, instantly. The fatigue was gone, the wind in his breath had come back. The pain that had been overtaking him was quickly abolished. Zack ripped open his shirt. There was no injury. He felt good, and hated it. The demon had circumvented him and sidestepped Zack's concerns. The demon had taken action on its own behalf. It ignored Zack as a person. The demon treated him as a tool, a method of transit to take him through the world. It took away Zack's free will in the choice of his own body. In time, he would have regenerated and easily repaired the damage. The demon had changed that from happening. Zack now owed a debt to this
thing
.

“No!! You can't! I didn't agree to that! Take it back, I won't drink any more blood than I need to in order to stay alive. You can't force me to do anything. You can't do this to me!” Zack screamed out aloud, shouting into thin air, while he was in the living room. This had terrified Zack. He hated what the demon was giving him and forcing on him.

Kyli ran back in to see Zack now standing alone in front of the broken coffee table, shouting at the room. “What's wrong?” Kyli saw the ripped shirt and the healed wound. She understood what had happened. The demon had excerpted itself over Zack. It healed him to heal itself regardless of what it might have told Zack. “Zack, it's okay. All that matters is that you're healed. Whatever it said doesn't matter.” Kyli sat Zack down and handed him an open bottle of blood. “Here, it's A+ human. The flavorful blood. Try it.” Kyli's kind gesture was taken for granted as she physically placed the bottle in Zack's emotionally numb hand. Zack drank, but only after being prompted again from Kyli. “It'll help you.”

“I don't want to hear that right now. Not those words.” Zack's mind was fixed on the rage he had from being violated. He still considered this an intrusion from the demon. It had interfered directly in his life.

“Then just sit and think about the training.” Kyli's voice was calm. In an effort to settle Zack down, she apologized. “I don't really care if you've seen me naked. All that matters is that I got you back for it.” She said while staring out into the distance with a single eyebrow raised and a half smirk on her face. Kyli's tone was normal, she was saying it nonchalantly. “We will need to train a lot. This is going to take a few gallons of blood and one more important factor.” Kyli stood up and walked to the kitchen. She was in search of something.

“What?” Zack asked as Kyli was ruffling through some papers on top of her refrigerator.

Kyli found a long, folded piece of laminated paper. “This.” She walked into the living room again, behind Zack and set down a menu for Min's gourmet buffet on the couch next to him. “Chinese food and blood, it's the best.”

“Chinese food? Seriously?” Zack was not convinced.

“I got your mind off of it didn't I?” Zack was silent and partially leered at Kyli.

“Then let's eat. You'll need food right along with your blood. That's the other half of the coin here Zack. You may be half vampire, but you're also half human. Even if you do have a demon inside of you. I like you as you are.” Kyli picked up the phone and began to order.

“You do?” Zack said as Kyli was already on the phone, making the order. Zack realized she was being sincere again. Kyli had genuine feelings for him even though she expressed herself differently than most other women. Their moment in the dream world was a testament to that.

Zack relaxed into the couch. There was a headache pounding on the right side of his brain. Zack needed to get a grip on things as he set down the bottle of blood. The room quickly darkened as shadows fell over the light once illuminating the sky in the ceiling. Zack blacked out.

Standing in front of Zack on the shoreline of his dream world, lauded in mixed dark robes of Victorian silk, satin, and cotton, was a man. His hair was medium length down to his shoulders, dark brown, and curled. His face was distinguished and defined. His eyes were small and keen with wit. His face handsome and worn. He was thin and fit. His stature was lean and fit to run but not to build. He appeared to be nimble, light on his feet, and able to handle himself well in a crowd. He was a man in his mid forties with his chin masculine and his eyes separated by a straight round-tipped nose. His eyes were bluish green and sultry. His cheeks well proportioned to his jaw line with his brow large and demanding of respect. He was a few days shy of having even leveled stubble across his chin. There was a mark on the web of his left hand that resembled a seagull at a distance. This man of five foot eleven adorned shades of black, brown, and white. His over coat was thick black cotton, long and pleated vertically. His pants were brown slacks, sun-faded, with hues of summer patching the thighs and calves. His shirt was a frilled silk white, slightly puffed with a black satin sixteenth century styled neck tie. He had several small trinkets attached to his coat. There were so many in number, Zack didn't really think to pay attention to them all.

Zack lay at this man's feet, looking up. The clouds were red and fresh in the sky. The sea in the distance was stirring with crashing tossing blood. Zack had been forced back into the dream world. Pulled in by this unknown figure. The man was staring at Zack. His face smiled fiendishly. His gaze narrowed to exact it's presence upon Zack. They had business that needed to be settled.

“Your body is my vessel Zack. You cannot run away from me.” The man spoke with a dark, smooth voice. It stimulated the auditory functions of the mind as his words formed, seamlessly, beautifully, to Zack's understanding. “I am the shadow at your every step. I am within you, I will always be, I have been. I've watched you grow, seen the world through your small eyes. You have done well to remain healthy these years and to build a suitable supple body. All that is needed now is your cooperation. With every ounce of blood you consume, I will heal you. As each drop pours down into your stomach, I will empower you. And as your eyes turn to black, I will walk in your flesh.” The man turned away from Zack and looked up upon the storm. His words were instilling fear in Zack. Words both familiar and terrifying to him. “Rip, tear, rend, and swallow the blood like milk. And as the sun shines on your newly demonic skin I
will
force you into anything I wish.”

An Alliance of Convenience

It was during the winter of 1554, on the island of Damascus in the Mediterranean Sea. Four Ottoman soldiers stood in a clearing, outside of a recently stationed guard post. The sun had fallen two hours earlier. The pitch of black shades on the ground were only highlighted by the dim moon that shown from the edge of the tree line over the horizon. Snow had fallen that morning and collected on the ground. Displaying that no one had walked the area since that time the ground remained pristine. The green trees had lost most of their color, appearing barren in the night. The cold seemed to eat into the bones of anyone not within the safety of a warm fire. A lone wolf cried out, calling in pain to all those animals that would listen, this was not a place to be. This was a place to die.

Dressed in battle garb, strips of leather layered to provide minimum protection against the average sword swing and none but the weakest thrust. Pelts of every nature covered their bodies with wolf, bear, dog, and more to provide a measure of warmth. Their standard issue of weapon was a single short sword of no more than two to three feet, single handled, with a small wooden shield in the other hand for defense. Their helmets were nothing but whatever makeshift cloth they had gathered up and placed on their heads. The military had made them strong. The conditions of life had hardened them into living steel. Three of the men were near the age of thirty. All well sculpted men of battle nature rather than calm nurture. All the men had the yearning of blood in their eyes and the desire to harm something that didn't agree with them. Each man's hair was cut a short black with their faces broad and clean shaven. Their muscles were well proportioned to the hard working men of their region.

The forth man was younger and far more naive looking than stood behind the others, facing the hut. This youth was lean, and tall, with fewer pelts atop him than the rest. His equipment seemed older, though it gleamed in the light with a hint of his care. A level only found on the sharpening wheel of a skilled blacksmith. He was olive skinned, as they all were from living in the heart of the Mediterranean. Though his was smooth and unblemished by comparison. Untarnished by years of field work or battle. The young man's eyes were small and his body was shaking slightly, anticipating the conflict to come.

The guard post had not checked in that day. The small group of men had been sent to find any evidence of wrong doing by their enemy the Turkish soldiers. As they approached, they noticed something was off. There was a fire still burning in the hut. The light shown out from under the door, casting thin shadows. There was no laughter and no evening celebration for a hard day's work. The usual commotion that would be taking place at that time in every guard post in the empire. The men standing before this desolate hut knew something had gone wrong that day.

One of the larger, more strapping men called out. “Who's in there!? We know you're not one of our men, show yourself! Now!”

No answer came from the straw thatched, mud bricked hut.

The second of the bold men called out. “There are four well armed men outside, ready to take back this post by force. Will you come out peacefully?”

The wind blew and what sounded like a laugh was rustled up with it. Someone was clearly inside. They seemed to be amused at the situation. No formal answer came from the lone hut.

The third, more brazen than the rest, shouted. “There are four of us and one of you by the sound of that crazed laugh. We outnumber you and we have the advantage! Come out or die!”

The air around them fell silent, deathly, as the slow breeze came to an abrupt end. A sudden packing sound struck the floor of the hut, it was audible by all four men. The three men in front stepped back. The forth, younger man, did not. He was too intrigued about what was about to happen to move. His eyes traced the ground, collecting clues for what they might be facing soon. Streaks of blood, foot prints, and animal tracks flurried the dirt before the door of the hut. The young man's heart began to race, he remained without voice. He was unable to let loose a taunt to the stranger in the hut.

“You outnumber me?” A dark, powerful voice boomed out from the swaying window. The flames of the fire inside danced to the tone. The words had a Slavic origin to them, though he spoke the native language well.

The largest of the bold men leaped into action, charging at the door. He kicked it in, letting it swing inside, before charging in. The others watched as his feet led him in. The door quickly shut behind him. There was no clash, no apparent signs of struggle occurring as the soldier entered. The man had just as swiftly vanished, as he did run in through the door.

The younger man listened intently and found only a small trickle in which to identify. The smell confirmed his fears, as fresh, ample blood was being spilled inside. He told the others quietly, under his breath. “It's the sound of blood falling.”

Again, the voice boomed out. “Clever.”

The two men were easily provoked and turned to anger. They ran screaming towards the voice in the hut. As they reached within ten feet of the door, it shattered outward with a dramatic burst. Standing in the archway at six foot five inches, was a robust and lean man with dirty blond hair. His face was long with a broad jaw line, his nose thick and stunted with several deep scars scattered over the length of his face. He wore three large red and white fox pelts over his chest, back, and shoulders. His shirt was a dirty white made of woven sheep's wool. It parted down his chest stained with fresh blood, running down his chin, neck, and chest. His pants were tanned hide, stitched together down the outer and inner legs. In his left hand, dangling a few inches above the ground was the large Ottoman soldier that had rushed in. His throat had been sheared down the right side of the neck, his chest cut open, and his heart removed. There had been no sound from the gruesome action. No indication it happened in the short time he was inside. The two stronger men charged with all their might, then stopped ten feet from the tall foreign stranger.

The tall man's eyes were a light purple that spread across his entire pupil, to the edge of the eyes themselves. They were illuminated by the pale moonlight. There was an iris, but it was a far darker purple, near black. He stood with a smile, unfretted by the advance of the two soldiers. He put forth a proposition. “Do you know why your friend had to die shamefully? If you can tell me, you might live through this night.” The flickering shadows of the fire behind the tall man danced on the walls of the hut. It gave his words a terrifying appearance. A visual echo that mirrored his strength.