Chapter 2:The Lord of Crime

A black pillar among a misty sea of rising towers and neon lights, The Obsidian Keep, home to the Ambrogio Caste, reigned over Twilight City's vast realm. A high order social class of vampyrials, the Ambrogio's hands were so rooted in society that a simple twitch of the finger hurled ripples of discord across the general population.

So it was no strange detail that Twilight City's noblest, albeit strongest, of vampyrials influenced the night-loving urban life, and for one to believe that humans ruled the world was the greatest lie ever told.

That was something Zamson realized every time he gazed upon Obsidian Keep, remembering the tales told to him as a child, how humanity was the progenitors of their existence. Stories of humankind's cruelty and prejudice, laying the seeds of a darkness beyond anything ever conceived by man made thought.

In that darkness they came, the first vampyrials, along with every other beast thought imaginable. Wars were met; truces ultimately made, coming upon the current era where humans were just another third-rate blip on the radar.

Until one fateful date in the history of man and beast changed the tides of power.

Zamson arrived before Obsidian Keep. He didn’t exit Pandemona to embrace destiny just yet. Instead, he contemplated what outcomes awaited him as he watched the tower's gate and its embroidered black suits—the keepers—guarding its entrance. They were tall as giants and black as coal, wearing shades as black as the skin on their inhuman bones.

To call them giants was a miscalculation by mortal standards. The keepers were not giants in physical nature but tall, masculine entities with dagger ears, sharp and pointed, like elves, and their nostrils somewhat akin to bats.

Zamson eyed them the most. They more than likely watched him back. No one knew what hid behind the keepers' fancy shades, but one could assume that they were nothing positive provided the intimidation of their well-sculpted appearance.

What bothered Zamson was not the men in black or the spiraling tower that scraped at the stars amongst dark heavens, but how Lord Noctavion Vldadimus, a vampyrial count of sin and corruption, required him to do his dirty work.

No time to ponder further, Zamson finally left his car to meet the keepers face to face. It was a short minute before seeing them up close. The path traveled gave the impression that the keepers were no less than Zamson until the keepers began to dwarf him with each step that brought him closer to the gates.

The keepers never budged. They stayed their place like the lifeless statues that they posed to be, even as Zamson passed through the gates and delved into a garden of cultivated plants and flowers so different from the Obsidian Keep's dark exterior. If the Garden of Eden existed, the tower's lobby was just that, a garden of color and intrigue.

Not that it interested Zamson the most, not even the dark and voluptuous receptionist sipping a cup of what Zamson knew from the jump was blood. The coppery, metallic scent grazed his nose like every other aroma meddling his senses.

Zamson palmed the receptionist's table and looked her straight in the eyes. Men without restraint would plunge their thirsty eyes between the receptionist's thick breasts just so that their souls sought the warmth that baked in her soft, snuggly cleavage.

Perhaps Zamson had no time to admire the vampyrial's curves, aware of the charms and possible dangers that lurked each arch and dip of her fine, f*ckable frame. And if she cared to notice, which she had done, she discovered Zamson's penetrating gaze filled with a sense of approaching inquiry, it didn’t need to leave Zamson's lips. The tower expected him.

"The Lord awaits you," said the receptionist gesturing her hand of perfectly shaped nails to the main elevator opening behind her.

Two hundred floors up, the elevator doors opened. A corridor of pillars and soft lights awaited Zamson. At the hall's end stood the undoing of two great doors, revealing the way the moment Zamson approached to only stroll into the expanse of some great luxurious suite that cost more than a fortune and a few souls of sacrifice.

Beyond the pricey furnishings and profound decorations towered two glass containers displaying a long sickle-shaped spear and a great bone sword. And beyond that was a table fit for a boss; along with the red folder on its surface, the table’s matching giant chair completed the dominating vibe, including the one who sat in it.

And the tall vampyrial batch of legs, hips, and breast that stood beside it.

"Not a minute late or a minute early." A voice emerged from behind the chair. The chair turned, revealing Noctavion Vladimus in all his dark and handsome vampyrial glory. "The Black Wolf pleases me even with his impeccable attendance."

"Correct me if I'm wrong," replied Zamson, "But you didn't request when or how."

"No correction needed," said Noctavion. Time was a different philosophy with him. "You showed up. In the fashion that you were destined to appear. Here and now. That is what matters most. That being said, I respect you. I expect to earn that same respect back."

"We'll see."

The tall woman, more vampyrial than a woman, as told by her eyes' piercing gold surrounding the darkness of her slit pupils, narrowed into an amused glare. "Such cunning ignorance," she said. "He plays as if he doesn't know who we are."

Zamson returned her glare with a frown. Two powerful vampyrials were in such closeness that the flesh on his offended werewolf bones crawled. There was no trust to be had for the vampyrials. "Oh, I know who you are, Lady Countessa. But I don't know who you are."

The Lady flashed a sterling smile. Her fangs were silver-capped and encrusted with tiny diamonds. "Let's hope that you don't."

"You were summoned to complete a sensitive task that none other can achieve. So I will get to the point, avoiding all the elegant words and superior speeches for the sake of time, which I have much of, except this venture is unfortunately time-sensitive, and I need it—her—returned to me with haste."

"You want me to pick up a bitch—?"

"A bitch would be something of your natural type to bend over and conquer," said Countessa. So quick and venomously precise in her reply that Zamson sent a curt and calming glance her way. Her wicked mouth didn’t surprise him.

It was the cool and collected one in the big chair that concerned Zamson. Noctavion was calm, exceptionally too relaxed, and that shouldn't surprise Zamson, and it didn't, for Noctavion was a count of everything that lurked in humanity's darkest and tainted shadows.

"She is being transported as we speak, but not as close as I want her to be just yet." Noctavion slid a red folder across the table. Zamson took the folder up to browse the papers and photos inside. "By the time you make contact, you will intercept her transport and return her without a scratch with your knack of speed. Do this, Mr. Lovell, and you will be fashionably rewarded."

Having enough information to bore him if he read any further, Zamson closed the folder as he assumed the most just from the first loose pages read alone. "A vampyrial contract is an oath bound by words or blood. You seek my word as a bond. Why not send your own to get her?"

Lady Countessa rolled her eyes. "Typical. The wolf has a few speckles of shit for brains to be asking that sort of question."

"But he’s smart. Oh, yes. Very smart. A contract has been presented, yes. Your word as bond will seal the contract and you, by oath, must fulfill it. As for your other concern, it would be blatantly evident if one of us were to appear." Noctavion smiled. "Her captors will not suspect the likes of a werewolf with a speed fix blazing their way, even when they can smell you coming for miles."

"And if I were to decline this venture of yours?"

The Lady dangerously tilted her head at him. It wasn't a tilt of intrigue, either.

"I gather that you grasp the answer to that," Noctavion answered, breathing words into Countessa's tilt and stare. He extended his hand forward. Zamson turned to see two men in black standing behind him.

None said no to the Ambrogio Caste. None dared to decline a contract. All who fulfilled the oath were greatly rewarded.

"To make sure that you see this venture through," Noctavion told him. The vampyrial lord relaxed in his big chair like a throne accepting of its night-born king. "You leave tonight. I expect nothing short of success from you."

Zamson's eyes were sharp as daggers against the smooth vampyrial lord and his feisty diva of a counterpart, then turned to take his leave. The black suits shadowed him. It was wise to hold his unsavory sentiments to himself if he hoped to live a fulfilling life.

The peaceful presence of Noctavion proved Zamson's life as a valuable asset, abruptly, for as long as Zamson followed The Hand of Ambrogio's wishes. According to Zamson’s memory, vampyrials of Noctavion's noble stature tend to get what they want when they want and stop at nothing to possess what they seek with absolute power. But did that not come with the title—and blood—of nobility?

Zamson gave no sh*ts about nobility. Instead, he struggled with his inner self to not turn around, shift out of his fleshy shell and wolf the whole suite to precious splinters and bloody shreds and ash down the vampyrials just as his ancestors once did.

No.

Zamson chose to live. He must survive this task so that he caved in Shane's skull in the end.

The contract was sealed. “So be it.”

But not before Lady Countessa spoke her last words to him. "Without that super suit you ride around in, you are nothing but a packless feral dog. High time you employ your gifts for something greater than street-cred and warm bodies to keep you company at night."

Zamson kept walking. The Lady figured her comment missed its mark.

"This might pose a problem." The Lady watched as Noctavion's herald escorted Zamson until they were out of sight but not out of mind. "Maybe he has a point. We can do without the aid of that underground street hound."

"Our kind especially have long held a strong force of servitude over the wulvyn."

"Until they rebelled."

"Archaic times for archaic creatures. We have since achieved better. When necessary. He will do what we ask without much hostility. If he doesn't,"—he turned his attention over to one of the pillars near the curtain windows and the silent vampyrial in the white bat-themed catsuit who leaned against it—"then we have options."

***

Pandemona, the black inferno. Its highway blaze an obsidian furnace forged from the bowels of the dreaded abyss. The core of her mechanical existence more than just a composition of nuts, bolts, pistons, and gears, but an angry union broiling hot within her starless chassis, charging down the highway as a spirited beast howling on wheels of fire would. Her fiery tire marks faded in seconds, leaving behind a trail that never was.

Indeed, Pandemona held the right to be a true hell of wheels. Yet, careful behind her steering wheel with each perfect turn, Zamson, with Logan and two of Noctavion’s keepers along for the ride, drove through what traffic inched in his path, coasting his way out of Twilight City as he and Logan raced into the desert wilds of The Badlands.

The radiant Twilight City shrunk behind them by the fleeting mile, shrinking its colorful brilliance as darkness consumed its light save for the faint glow of its presence hanging over the horizon.

Pandemona had one purpose: leaving her opponents in the ashes of burning embers as rapidly as inhumanly possible. There was something to be appreciated about Zamson's beast of havoc.

Pandemona's sole reservoir of light wasn't just the crimson beam of her menacing headlights or her tail lamps but the passionate inferno that lived in her very soul. The car's howling engines blistered hot, an untamed rage fused with the steady pressure of Zamson's foot on the gas and the violent switch of the clutch, shifting gears without much thought, working as if one with the dark mechanical beast, the secret to Zamson's title as The Black Wolf.

Logan felt every piece of the Pandemona's force. But then again, the unreal recognized the unreal as Logan, too, was a beast that appreciated the speed and power of Zamson's ride, just as he favored the angry beats of hardcore rap lashing out of the car speakers.

Intense melodies so dark and unapologetically sinister ripped into the pointed ears of the two vampyrial men in black sitting behind them like unmoved pieces of black art outfitted in the finest threads.

Then, the aggressive music lessened to nothing. Finally, the emergence of Zamson's console lit up, and Shane's face flashed on the screen. "Sup'? Are you there yet?"

Logan closed his eyes and shook his head in indifference. Shane had a sense of unique timing during tense events, mainly due to the heavy tunes being their only saving grace in the face of being accompanied by Noctavion's henchmen. A lifesaver before silence struck for that brief second other than Shane's attempt at comedy. "No, are you smart yet?"

"Last I've checked, my IQ was quite high. You need brains to make it through this day and age—"

Logan snickered. "You might want to retake that test."

Sarcasm filled Shane's face. Voice included. "Funny." He got to the point. It was best to stop now while he was sort of ahead. "I was checking in. Your target is on the move and changed route. Why? I do not know, but if you keep south and veer west off the next extension, you'll ride upon them for sure."

Zamson arched a suspicious brow. "And you know this how?"

Shane smiled, feeling triumphant over Zamson's confusion. "Did you think that I'd let my best of friends ride off into the moonlight without eyes on your back? Fuck, you think this is? I'm like the big brother you two never had. Never far, always around."

"We have enough eyes on us already," said Zamson, referring to the two vampires watching silently in the back seat. "And you're always around when you're looking to throw us into another predicament, runt."

"High risks equal high rewards," Shane replied. He did his best to sell his most confident smile. "Sometimes higher than anticipated."

Zamson's eye twitched. "We didn't ask for this."

"Nor did I, but as The Black Wolf, you tend to attract attention, unwanted or not."

Zamson sighed. "Flattering."

"Just stay on course until you see an armored truck that only the cover of night could bring suspect to," Shane said. "Expect difficulty. Not that I doubt the common sense between the two of you. That being said, this whole adventure will be over before you even realize it."

"Right." Zamson was totally sarcastic. "Hijacking an armored truck operated by PALADIN. It’ll be over before we even realize it, alright."

The video chat ended. The music never returned. Zamson had pushed a simple button on the central console to make that happen. Pandemona needed it on the inside, at least. A moment of pause to fill the air with grin-worthy select words and serious thought. "I'm going to miss him when he's dead."

Logan returned a joking smirk in agreement. "Not going to lie, he sure does know how to pick them."

They both did well not to say anything out of line while in the mute presence of their vampyrial escorts. Two keepers along for the ride. They were so quiet, so eerily quiet, that a fool unknown to their unfortunate misfortune would fall victim to their ghostly silence, hearing and seeing all in ways as if they were invisible to do so without discovery. That was a dangerous talent, to be there but not there, learning everything and all.

That sort of fact drove the two wolfmen sitting in the front seats secretly insane—two vampyrials from the crimelord himself, advocates of Noctavion, breathing down their figuratively exposed necks.

"Maybe you should have taken your car." Zamson thought aloud. "Share the load."

Logan pretended to think for a moment before shaking his head. "Nah, decided it best to accompany you in yours. The two of us jacking a vault hauled cross-country by some secret organization. The stuff of movies. That said, the good lord requested that you ferry your steed into the fires of whatever hell awaits us, not mine. And I will be damned if I scuff up her new paint job. What's wrong? One too many fangers on your back?"

Zamson gave Logan a few brief seconds of silence before reaching the console. "Let's just get this over with." The inner chassis of Pandemona became crowded with violent music and dark rap verses once again. But, of course, that was the problem, two vampyrials riding their backs like a bunch of custodian wolf keepers served as shackles to their necks, armored collars fit for obedient dogs.

Wulvyn—who the new world knew as werewolves—were not dogs destined to be collared, unlike the rest of their ancestors and the vampyrials—vampires—who were foolish enough to consider it—and were slaughtered because of it.