Chapter 8

Batzuga, Rinno, and Waofin had entered the hallway that lead to Father Saul’s chamber when they heard footsteps and low ragged breaths coming from further down the hall. The three exchanged glances, then hurried towards the sound. Batzuga shrugged, almost telling the others to continue to the Prophet’s chambers, since they were so near. He decided that he preferred their support. His ability allowed him to go up against any sort of physical combat they were faced with, but it didn’t make him invincible. He’d rather get hurt as little as possible. Having Rinno and Waofin around made dispatching an attacker easy. Besides, it was most likely one of the acolytes escaping the vampire. The big crash they heard after all the gunshots was probably them carelessly pushing down the breakaway-wall and putting on some distance. Batzuga shrugged again as they neared the corner.

Rinno was the faster of the three and so reached the end of the hall first. “Number-Nine!” he said. “You ok, guy? You look like shi…”

The last words were lost in a surprised inhalation. The acolyte buried a pair of glass-shards into Rinno’s chest. Rinno screamed as best and as loud as he could. He struck at the ghoul weakly. The ghoul struggled to pull its weapons free of his flesh.

Batzuga cursed, whipped a dagger out of his vest pocket and rushed the creature. The Acolyte's eyes were unarguably dead, seeming to stare at something beyond material bounds. It got one shard free by the time Batzuga neared. Batzuga ducked the ghoul’s wide arcing strike, then dug his dagger ito the ghoul's stomach as he rose. The creature stabbed a shard into Batzuga’s collar bone, then grasped him by the neck to pull it free. Waofin circled behind the brawl and pulled a crudely hewn cudgel from a modified pocket of his jeans.

The two locked brawlers struggled and fought, Batzuga tried desperately to stab the ghoul in its skull, but each time the thing wriggled away. It had been sliced a dozen times in its chest and neck but showed no signs of slowing or stopping. Batzuga, in comparison, had a patchwork of new scars on his cheeks and shoulders. The thing grasped him by the neck or arms every time it struck so it could pull its weapon free, knocking him off balance or and causing him to black out from air loss.

Suddenly there came a thick crack from behind the Ghoul. Its dead eyes rolled back into its head. It buckled with a death grip on Batzuga’s neck, pulling him down. Batzuga fell to his knees before he found the right tendons to cut from the ghoul’s wrist.

“Aich, sorry Bahtz, didn’t wanna give ya the sparkles, ya know? Movin so much,” apologized Waofin, his dog like ears drooping sadly. He knelt beside Rinno’s shivering form. “You fought well, real well. I’m gonna getcha to the Padre, he’ll have you up and jumpin in no time.”

Rinno sobbed once, unable to control himself. Tears flooded from his eyes. Small bubbles of blood rose to his lips with each shallow breath. Waofin lifted Rinno up gently in both arms and nodded to Batzuga. “You get that bastard, get ‘im till there ain’t left ta be got, ya hear?”

Batzuga grimaced and stiffly pulled himself up. His whole body ached. His face felt like a raw mesh. He would get that bastard all-right, mother-fucking, shit-sucking, vampire. He rolled the aches out of his neck and started off toward Zourdan.

Before he reached the trap room he heard a stamping of boot-steps. Zourdan ran through the corridor at break-neck speed, his long braided hair whipping and curling behind him. Batzuga paused, ready for trouble; his grip tight and yellow-knuckled on his dagger. He cursed the Vampire again, mentally, for the misplacing of his blessed dagger. He could see in clear detail the creature’s hand slapping against his, the dagger flying off to nowhere.

Zourdan didn't notice Batzuga until he had to shoulder the greenish-man out of his way. The vampire was surely formidable, past even his ability. Zourdan suddenly became aware that Batzuga was following him, but did not slow to accommodate him. If the vampire caught up with them, Batzuga could better handle the pain put forth by the creature’s prowess. Zourdan smiled slightly, knowing himself safe.

Batzuga just barely made it through the door to the Prophet's room before Zourdan slammed it closed. He hastily checked to see if everything was ready for the vampire's arrival. In the center of the room stretched an expanse of candles organized into the shape of a Crucifix; the crossbar 6 candles long and 12 deep, the main-length 12 long and six deep. The center had been swept clean except for a drop of blood taken from the vampire's victim. Its purpose was clear, to trap the unholy.

To the left of the Crux-crucible, as the candle formation was called, Waofin was kneeling in front of a two-foot tall, gilded statue, his lips moving to the tune of soft prayers. A small host of weapons and tools lay on the ground around him.

The Statue sat in a golden throne upon a wooden dais. It depicted a road-weary man heaped with ragged linens. His radiant face wore a smile, which scrunched the carved skin beneath his eyes. An inscription at his feet read: "The Nameless One. The Scion. The father of all Hunters. The savior of all humans. Freer of the Lopers."

Rinno lay on the dais at the Nameless One's feet. His status was known only to the Prophet. Father Saul, the Prophet, stood frowning above the still, bleeding, rat-like body. His attire was of black tuxedo and white dress-shirt. Both the shirt and his black dress-pants were stained with Rinno’s blood.

“There is little I can do for him, child…” he started just as Batzuga and Zourdan burst into the room. He shot a glance to his masked counterpart, a gray-haired woman who stood beside the dais, near Rinno’s head. The wound on Rinno’s chest had closed, but the blood-loss was unarguable. Father Saul decided to break the news of the dying Hunter after all had been resolved.

He pointed to Zourdan, who still held his jaw closed. “Come and receive,” he said, more a command than an offer. Zourdan closed his eyes as he approached. Saul gripped him none-too-gently by the jaw.

Pain flared like a firework. There was a feeling of something reconnecting under his cheek. Zourdan moved his jaw experimentally and found that though the pain was excruciating he could at least open and close his mouth.

“What is the Word?” asked the woman, the harshness of her voice muffled behind her mask.

“M’lady,” began Batzuga. He paused, then, and passed glances over Waofin, then Rinno,then Saul. “The vampire is truly strong and of great contest.”

“You snivel and drawl as a weakling,” stated Father Saul plainly. He turned from Rinno’s dying body to Batzuga, staring him down with a flaring sneer. “Will you go to him, and beg his forgiveness? Will he gift it to you then or drain you of your life like he’s done to so many of the weak?” Saul waved an open hand at the figure chained and quiet in the far corner. As the Hunters turned their gaze upon the helpless female, she screwed her eyes closed and turned her head.

Batzuga started to mention that though the woman was clearly the victim of the soulless drinker, she was yet alive. He decided he was already in the midst of Saul’s ire and wished to get no deeper. Saul had a way with making his anger last long and troublesome. The girl opened her eyes and managed to appear both relieved and worried at once as she looked about the room. She angled her eyes upward and sucked in a lungful of air.

“Mark?” She cried out.

“Yamone! Veil!” responded Saul. Excitement spread through his face until it split into his seldom seen and most disturbing smile. He gestured to the weapons lying in front of the Scion Statue, then went to the center of the Crux-Crucible to offer prayer. The Masked woman, Yamone, crossed her wrists low then brought her hands up in a wide sweep. Waofin handed his net to Zourdan, then he and Batzuga took up their tools. Waofin crossed himself and muttered a prayer, hoping that even the Prophet’s powers were enough to withstand this terrible creature.

----

Col looked down upon the two, whom he'd deemed physically capable, but outmatched. Humans, Hunters or no, could not hope to stand against him. Fifty years of blood and shadow were his boon, to call upon at will. And though he did not account himself a horrible creature of the night, he could not deny the years and the feedings, his mouth tight against the neck of women- or in strict need, men. Blood, fresh and warm, mettalically aromatic, pouring and spurting through his fangs. The exhilaration of energy. Each time he felt like a starving man gifted a meal of exquisite finery, both gracious of the promise of days to come and emboldened by the quality of his latest meal. Each time he wondered if his victims noticed the loss.

Col grinned and followed their hasty retreat until both disappeared into what seemed from a corridor’s distance to be a wide, bright room. He restrained himself from a hasty action. But as he glimpsed the night-gowned form of Kandais chained to a corner his face crushed into anger. He leaped the room’s wall. Using his wings, he glided over the glinting tile and dropped in front of her.

She stared at him, dumb-founded. Her mind was left in a past where ‘Mark’ was simply a night-janitor in some dingy grade-school. Here he stood like some damned angel, or perhaps canonized demon; the bright lights like an aura upon his tousled hair, over his broad shoulders, yet down an impossible pair of black wings.

“I… I…" She started. "Mark?”

“Later, love,” he said, after scanning the empty room. He was puzzled, true, but he didn’t have time to question it; He had to get the girl out and then… well... he didn’t want to think that far now. “You’re gonna be ok, Ok? Just trust me, I’mma get you outta here, I just gotta bust these...”

“He’s coming, Mark!”

Col turned quickly and faced the empty room behind him. There was a fuzzy feeling in his brain, like hair had sprouted inward. Then a man appeared to rush from a spot to the forth-and-left. The speed was unnatural, as if time itself bent to compensate for what had already occurred. The man slowed and stopped in the center of the room.

“Leave the Woman be, Damned-Soul!” The man bellowed, then pulled his wide brimmed hat low over his eyes “Unless you are so great a coward that you would rather face the lass than face me.”

Col was done with the Hunters and their games. He released the bonesword and pulled out his pistol. His body was alight with energy, notably dwindling, but enough to last him until the defeat of the loud-mouthed fool. He crossed the distance in two blinks, his last step combined with bringing the sword against the Hunter’s waist-coat. The blade skittered against a flash of white light and sent a uncomfortable shock through Col’s wrist to his elbow.

Col shivered, then withdrew from a wide swung fist. He swung the blade up, catching the man dead-center-chin with sword-tip, receiving the same shock as before. The man appeared unharmed. Col let fly a shot from his pistol, which ricocheted off of the man’s glimmering shield, leaving only a slight reddish mark where it had touched his throat.

Saul frowned at the Vampire’s attempts. Was this the same that had survived Batzuga? The Crux-Ambient of the acolytes? Zourdan? If the thing was strong enough to break Saul's barrier it would have done so by this point. Blows landed and slid off of Saul’s protecting light. He had to admit, for all the Vampire’s weakness, it was undeniably quick.

Col felt his energy fall to the dregs, and decided to save the last sips of it for an emergency. It occurred to him that this fight was not going so well, but a plan was forming between instinctive thoughts to dodge out of harm’s way. The man was beginning to tire somewhat. Tell-tale stains of sweat began to show in the collar of his dress-shirt. Col had meantime noticed that the barrier seemed to be a reaction to danger, and not quite an enclosure. His sword left slight scratches, and the bullets red welts on the man’s skin. There was some way to harm him, Col assumed, he simply had to figure out how.

Col struck out with his sword, attempting to lance the man with the tip. The man seemed quicker now that Col was conserving his energy. Saul slapped the sword aside.

For a second both of the man’s hands glowed bright, and then one thudded into Col’s solar plexus. The blow stung deep and sent a thick spasm whipping through his spine. For a second the world turned to static, all white and black squiggles skirmishing for space. Then reality slipped in, like the changing of a channel, giving Col a quick glimpse of the room as it really stood; but only a flash of candles, Hunters spread out, a cross, and a censor issuing heavy fog. Then there was the flash of static and the jitter-bug jolt and it was gone again. Col groggily dodgged another of the Holy man’s strikes.

Kandais screamed something sounding like, “Look!” to Col, and he hardly had time to follow. He thought it was a warning of the strike until Zourdan and Batzuga appeared on his flanks with the same strange warping of time and space.

He watched the Claw-Man cast out a net of fine nylon mesh. The Holy-Man stepped out of the way. Col was too late to avoid the net, so fell to his knees beneath it. The only thing he could do was flatten his palms on the linoleum. The mouth of the net drew taught against his wrists, entrapping him. Batzuga lifted a large silver cross etched with myriad golden symbols then thrust it toward Col.

The Vampire lifted his head as much as the mesh would allow, seeing the unnatural shift warp his vision of the room, and suddenly there was a cross made of candles to his right as well as a wooden dais and a golden statue. A Dog-Man stood behind the Holy-Man, holding a censor whose gilded plate exuded a sweet-smelling fume. A woman appeared as well, her face hidden behind a smooth porcelain mask. She passed a black book to the Holy-Man, who flipped to a marked page and began to read:

“And after the great flood, the time of man cleansed, the mourning star once again coerced men to join his sinister ranks.These seduced deemed themselves the Order of Life, tempted by increasing promises of power.” As the words were spoken, the cross began to glow bright. The myriad golden symbols chased into its surface shined like star-script. The incense of the censor began to reach deep into Col, burning him within as the light of the cross burned him without.

“The Fallen Angel taught men the Ritual of Life, a cursed rite performed under a waning moon in the autumn night over a cauldron bubbling with the blood and flesh of thirteen new-births. The Fallen One pressed into the ritual his damned intent, to turn this new thing a demon born of flesh, giving it the strength of darkness and shadow. The Mages of the Order had their own design for their creation, and poured into it the powers of the flesh, to warp theirs and their own. Under a gibbous moon the pot began to froth, the froth taking form...”

Col gritted his teeth. The pain was like that of the Crux-ambient but deeper, reverberating through his entire being. His body felt stretched to its limits. He vomited once, then again, while Zourdan dragged him toward the Crux-Crucible. It was all Col could do to maintain his grip on the bunched mouth of the net.

“…But The Great Maker is not without Eyes,” continued Saul, “and seeing this greatest of blasphemies, he endeavored to save men from their own folly; for to bring a demon into flesh would have been equal to bearing the very child of destruction. He reached down a great finger and cursed the creation, that it should depend solely on the welfare of Men to survive, thus it would not be able to destroy them completely. It would be bound to the night, and to its place of resting, for it would be eternally dead. It would be forever in the shadow to HIM, shunned from forgiveness.

"And for the folly of men to presume to create life unto himself, He deemed that such creatures would be forever a thorn in their sides, and HE would not destroy it.”

Kandais was torn by disbelief that what she was seeing had to be real. She had been in the grasp of these freakish humans for long enough to dispel the notion that what was happening was a dream. Which would mean that they were truly hunting Mark, and that the marks on her neck were not from some ladder but from Mark’s thirst for blood. What did that mean, then? Mark had been nothing but kind to her all the time she had known him, contrast to the kidnapping and molesting of the Hunters. Should she be happy that the Hunters might win, that they would kill a horrible creature, if it was such a thing? Could she count on them to release her safe and sound, or would they just as well leave no witness?

She could be sure of only one thing- Mark had come to her rescue. He was here because of her. What was more, was that in stories the vampire always killed the pure virgin in their bloodlust, but she was still alive. And now he was going to die. Vampire or no, she had to do something.

“GET UP MARK!” screamed a pure voice from somewhere, allowing Col a moment of clarity. Col gathered what was left of his strength and burst from the net. He could hardly see or stand but he brandished his weapons and decided that he would prefer to die on his feet. There was a sound of chains rattling behind him and Col suddenly remembered his quest. Kandais’s face loomed bright in his eyes, abolishing the blur just as Zourdan charged him from the right. The Hunter was quick to put a clawed fist between his face and the incoming sword, so Col jerked the weapon’s path downward and drew the blade across shoulder and forearm. Blood welled and sputtered as the man grasped his arm in surprise, his steps now a stumble

A hefty blow struck Col in his back, sending him to his knees. Batzuga lorded over him, his face knotted with anger. Col guessed correct with a backward stab. He drew his blade out of Batzuga's chest. Greenish blood issued forth. Col leaped to his feet, bringing his sword across the man’s middle, sneering at the sickening issuances that flopped and squiggled from the unwelcome opening. He turned at the sound of bootsteps, his sword tucked tight against him, then whipping across Zourdan’s grimace. The man ssnarled once and threw up his arms.

Waofin watched, hoping, praying within himself that one of the two would stop the devilish creature’s struggling. He watched as Batzuga fell into a fetal position then rushed to his aide. Saul was screaming at Yamone, but no one could tell what he was saying.

Saul tore the mask from Yamone and slapped her hard against her cheek. She woke with a start, staring about the room bewildered, then bit hard onto her lip. She nodded to his reprimands, and tried to work her magic over the tragic scene.

Col watched the Holy man strip the woman of her mask and slap her. The face beneath the mask was nothing short of shocking. Her flesh was divided by innumerable slices as if it had been shattered and hasily reassymboled. When she made a motion with her hands and arms, he felt the funny, brain-fur feeling again. Everything disappeared, then reappeared just as quickly. The Dog-Man loomed close, so Col shot him down and continued forward, anxious to confront the Holy-man and finish him.

Waofin’s shoulder jerked backward. Pain exploded through his arm and for moment, he forgot how to stand. He was writhing on his back when, Saul’s black boot appeared over his head and stepped over him.

Saul tried to control his fury, but couldn’t. This was all going wrong; but the Vampire was too close now for contemplation. The wicked sword came down, its blade stained a greenish-brown of mixed bloods. There was a small explosion white light as Saul caught it between his hands. The Vampire leaned all his strength into the sword. The tip of it slowly descended, despite Saul’s resistance, until it rested against a glittering disk of white on his forehead. The vile creature sneered, his eyes black with a depthless hate. Saul stared back with his own colorless orbs.

A gunshot sounded, close, too close; Pain screamed from Saul's midsection. Saul pushed sideways and slipped aside the sword in just enough time to stop a bullet from piercing an organ. The vampire snarled. Before Saul could take action, Col plunged his long fangs into the prophet’s shoulder.

Hot, acrid blood spilled down Col’s throat. He let it fall out of his mouth instead of drinking. He tried not to cough and sputter, though it burned his tongue and lips just as much as his throat. He jerked his head to open the vein as wide as he could. His vision went white with the sting of Sauls fist striking him under his chin. The blow lifted Col clear off of the Holy-Man's neck and the next knocked him off his feet.

There was a quick flurry of receding footsteps. Then there was only quiet and the sound of soft sobbing.

“Mark... get up... please get up…” said the sweet voice. It called him from the darkness, gave him the strength he sorely needed to sit upright. His whole body echoed pain, and his stomach lurched as he righted, then vomited. The sweet smell was gone, the Holy man and his proselytes were gone; all that remained was the maiden. His maiden. He shuddered from fangs to knee-caps, then stood.

As he crossed to Kandais’s corner an annoying voice said something like, “I’m sorry,” aloud. It sounded like his voice, weak from hunger and travail. Weak like prey.

“What? I don’t understand,” whimpered the sweet voice along with the sound of chains rattling. It seemed to be happening all very slowly to Col. He honed in on the warmth near him. When he found it, he grasped it about the waist and buried his numb lips into the soft flesh of her neck.

“I’m so sorry,” whined the annoying weak voice. Then came the warmth of essence, a comforting, droning, moan of pleasure, and then the blackness of the rapture as it took him.