The Dread Legacies: Book 2, Son of the Dragon.

CONTENT WARNING: This content contains mature situations, violence, and what some may consider gore and inappropriate for children. Discretion is advised.

Chapter 1

Son Of The Dragon

NEW YORK CITY 1971. Baying brutishly there is an animal on the loose stalking an aristocratic ceremony room. Green smoke that glows like storm clouds pours around veined and dappled green marble columns. The green smoke creeps like a fog as it conceals the gilded leaf garlands and scrolls that adorn the base of the pillars.It barrels across the floors and kisses the walls. The smoke is like a gas where the light of the ritualistic candles cannot penetrate its murky body.Lurking against the wall in the few shadows the candles make, a mountainous beast prowls. A baritone growl descends near the ceiling and vibrates the floor with it's bass.With a quake in every step coursing through the foundation, ittests the limitations of the fine hard wood floors that shine with a finish that enhances its opulence.The grand structure of the room steals its designs from classical Corinthian architecture epitomizing the grandeur reflecting the gilded age era. The presence of the monster is an aggressive contrast. The shape of its darkness appears preternatural like a demon of ancient legend inflicting prehistoric, tyrannical intimidation.

Robed figures with faces shrouded in hoods are close to huddled nearer to the rooms center. Their eyes grow black with a stuttering void as dark as their immorality is conveyed. A covenant that begins to disappear one by one in the green fog as it drowns the room. Their eerie stillness is an uncanny valley where certainly there should be no reason for their frozen state still they appear as though caught in Medusa's stare.

Slipping around in a watery bright red puddle of blood is a man who lie tied up and bleeding from the neck. He is without a hooded shroud but instead wears blue jeans, work boots and a bright blue oil stained shirt branded by a mechanic shop. The covenant is encircling himas the green fog like gas casts over them all.

In seconds the dense fog reduces visibility to green plumes from floor to ceiling. The man who was tied up, forcefully opens a door that leads to a hallway eluding the room that is drowned in green gas. Now his ties that bind him are broken and he moves free. He can feel the presence of something paralytic ravaging inside his body. With every breath of that green smoke his muscles coagulate. His brain is a cooking oven filled with rats pinballing off the walls to escape as he hopelessly looses control of his motor functions. Awareness never diminishes as he fights, opposing a kind of living-rigor-mortis. He knows his heart is in tact even as he hits the ground and his bones are restricted from moving even if he wants them too. With each breath of the hallways clean air he regains control of his body, getting back on his feet eager to flee.

His war torn face stretches in agony while dashing through corridors till he finds stairs. This somoan mans broad shoulders could take up the space of 2 or 3 men. With blood loss the flight of stairs are a perilous venture next to his lofty height that inconveniences him here. He fights to the bone to climb them expeditiously. At the top of the steps there is a hall as deep and as empty and as brisk as a graveyard. At its end a darkened door lie in wait. Even though his clothes are soaked in blood the alarming sight of his muscular build charging through the foyer could send anyone into a frightened hysteria. In reaching the door he is met with dismay to find that it is locked. Wasting no time he leaps at the door shoulder first. It is not enough in his weakened condition to slam into it repeatedly but by his conviction it is a matter of escaping or dying behind this door.

Changing his tactics he begins kicking where the door knob meets the wall, hacking with his heel again and again. It is as time consuming as actually chopping down a tree. Finally it starts to crack and splinter. Surely a few more kicks will break it open. With vigor he stresses more effort in this kick and it separates the latch from the rest of the door, blowingit open. He jumps the sandstone steps escaping this upper east side townhome. He crashes onto the side walk as he looses more of his strength and his blood. But there is somewhere he must be. He is fading. He knows it. His time is up. Only one thing is important now. He stands to his full elevated height and with a leap forward he runs.

He passes townhomes till he reaches storefronts and past that are grimy street where there are more chainlink fences than trees and the hot fumes from nearby manholes replace the air. "But I have to keep going" he keeps telling himself. "I cannot give up. There is only one glory for me."

The street lamps dress the morning mist to look like copper smoke. The man blinks in and out of darkness while passing under the street lamps.City block after city block, blood dripson those cold glistening sidewalk slabs that have known many diversities and still rest indifferent to his suffering.

It is August 7th and in the Earth's umbral shadow a blood moon fascinates the clear skies in a moment of celestial observation. Red numbers flash on an alarm clock in a darkened room. '5:00 A.M.' blinking in unison with a blaring beeping. There is a boy sleeping who stands up out of bed to turn off the alarm. An eleven year old who then plunges into a rigorous routine. 16 ounces of water, 30 pushups, 100 squats, 500 sit-ups and complex static stretches mixed in between. Whatever roots they sprouted from neglected to teach him what childhood is. The lights are on in his room and from the florescent lights in the ceiling to the UV lamps in each corner you would be pressed to find a shadow of darkness among the space. Painted on the wall in gold is a motivational motto: GLORY IS IN THE BLOOD. He mutters it from time to time, between reps, between sets, in moments of rest. A child burning red with determination. Their sweat is the grease on a well oiled machine. Still they are just a child, and for some it would seem they are one whose chosen to abandon the joys of youth. On the contrary, this boy quite enjoys every waking moment in their laborious pursuit. Preparing to drive every muscle to failure, to burn his energy to complete exhaustion, to starve for days on end, whatever necessary to someday achieve glory.

He runs down the stairwell of his apartment complex with a duffle bag slung over his shoulder. Hand wraps are fixed around his knuckles and wrists. White tube socks two sizes too big are folded over themselves while peeking out of beaten up green and yellow sneakers tattered in dirt and old sweat.

Behind this red bricked apartment complex there is a boxing ring with workout equipment, punching bags, speed bags and jump ropes scattered about. First the boy picks up, keeping things organized and putting equipment away. With a push broom he goes over the concrete and with a corn broom he sweeps the ring. He bags up what trash he gathered and tosses it in near by dumpsters. From out of his duffle bag he pulls a banner that when spread out reads:

Order of the dragon

There is a circular logo on it. The chain links fences that surround the back of the complex are locked closed. The boy takes the fabric banner to the fence nearest to the ring and ties up each corner to a link on the fence. As he loops old shoe strings through links there is movement from the alley on the other side of the fence that catches his eye. The shadows are formless and impossible to decipher. Finally he sees with clarity as a blood coated hand stretches out into the course yellow of the street lights. It is the man who not long ago was running through the night. Running for his life. For his glory. The alley's darkness is peeled back to reveal his face as the man collapses forward having come as far as his body could take him.

"Dad?" The boy says. "Dad!" The boy screams. Quickly he shoots a look to the bulking chains that wrap the gate; a closed iron padlock connects them. Turning back, the boy immediately jumps to scale the fence. At the top he screams for help multiple times before he jumps off of the fence. His right ankle takes all of the weight, twisting it. Its only when he stands to take one step forward does he realize he sprained it. The pain is unexpected and it explodes in a shock wave. He falls forward onto both elbows. Bludgeoning pain now shoots up through his arms into his neck. But he cant stop. He cant give up. This pain is unimportant. He presses forward with determination to get to his father. Standing once again he wastes no time to limp as fast as possible. Blood streams down his forearms from both open gashes. "Help! Somebody help!" He screams over and over. In reaching his father the boy kneels down to then catch himself with both hands. "Dad." He cries. He lifts his father's head and shifts around to eventually hold him in his lap.

"What happened?" He grabs on to his father's bicep continually pulling him closer. His hand slipping over his father's blood and covering up a circular tattoo of a dragon eating its own tail. "Dad, What do I do? I don't know what to do. You have to tell me." Squeals crack his voice as it fights to be clear with every word. "Dad please. Please."

Through drowsy hooded eyes He looks up at his son. First pulling his hand close to his chest he raises it to palm the side of his son's head. Every time feels like the first time he held him. He is so proud of his son. He has known since the day of his birth that the rest of his time in this life will only be the story he gets to share with this child. It was when he became a father that he saw a count down had begun and he knew he had to choose what is worth spending his time on. The decision was without difficulty for he saw that his son was the glory of his life. Words fly to the tongue and he would speak if he wasn't drunk with blood loss.

"Dad, I'm sorry. I don't know what to do." The man becomes noticeably weaker as his hand begins to drift. They stare at each other with the father taking a good look at the only thing he loves. "Son…" the man says choking on his blood.

The boy watches his father's lips stop moving. His eyes begin to still with absent life. His hand collapses and his blood soaked knuckles plop on the alley's concrete.

The boy's mouth is ajar in disbelief. The pause he takes while staring at his father lingers for quite a long moment. When he snaps out of it he screams, "Help! Someone! Please help me!" He struggles to breath through snot and tears distort his sight but as he looks over his father he sees the wound on his neck.

The two puncture wounds that overflow like bloody faucets stare back at him. Giant black holes filled with mystery that the boy cant comprehend. The pain that grips the back of his eyes in not enough to tear him away. "What do I do?" he whimpers to himself while holding his father. Covered in the wet of blood he smells its odor of faint rusted iron notes. There is an obsession brewing within the way he is staring. There is a darkness he feels is imbued on the wound with an evil unknown. He stares in torment, perplexed by the abyssal holes at the base of his fathers neck. A thought stirs, "The supernatural? His death is a children's story told as lore. A costume to wear on Halloween." But this child knows there was a time when people lived in fear. The legends told of infamy. The dead rising from their graves to drink the warm life of blood. Garlic hung over doorways and crosses were made in mass. He know the stories well so it's easy for him to remember. Remember there was a time when people were still afraid. Afraid of vampires.