Rollerskater: Fight


I | II | III | SSI | IV | V | SSII | SSIII | VI | VII | SSIV
VIII | IX | X | XI | XII | SSV | XIII | SSVI | XIV | SSVII | XV | SSVIII | XVI | XVII


This instalment contains depictions of strong graphic violence.

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The sound of splintering wood and a smell of burning.

Two pale men turned to face the intruder, baring their red, needle-like teeth at him, as he stepped into the foyer, smiling. He was carrying an umbrella under his arm, and a duffle bag around his shoulders. His hands were shoved into the pockets of his long red coat.

“Awright, pals?” the intruder said. “Am here tae see the sights. D’ye hink ye can point me in the direction of the toor guides?”

The pale men hissed.

Crucefix,” one of them said, sounding more animal than human. “You made a mistake showing your face here.”

Callan smiled, raising the two hands inside the pockets.

“Hey,” he said. “Wis worth a try.”

Two tremendous bangs rang out as the guns concealed in his pockets went off, and the two vampires were struck by rubric bullets, their heads exploding on impact. Two headless bodies fell to the ground, shattering into piles of red crystal.

Callan took a few more steps into the vampire castle. He smelled smoke. Looked down. The lining of his coat was on fire.

He slipped his arms from out of the coat, stamped out the fire, then slipped the guns into two holsters at his side. He had really liked that coat.

Ah well.

Footsteps came pounding down the corridor like wardrums.

‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

There were three hallways, two to the right and left of him and one in front. He could hear footsteps coming down each hallway. Clearly they’d been alerted to his presence. Maybe they could smell him. He hoped they could.

Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!”

Slowly, carefully, he withdrew the umbrella from under his arm, felt its heft, took a couple of practice swings just to loosen up the muscles, which rippled now under the sleeve of his overshirt. He’d been doing this for more than fifty years. It had all been a practice run. He was ready, now. Ready for the real deal.

He took his vorpal sword in hand
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

CRUCEFIX!”

The roar came from his left, as he stood, hand planted on the end of the umbrella, his eyes closed, waiting.

He opened them to see seven vampires staring at him. His eyes soon met the gaze of one of the vampires who had escaped from The Lucky Devil. The vampire grinned smugly.

And as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

“So, you finally come to meet your end?” the vampire said. “To enter our domain?”

“There’s a wee lassie here,” Callan said. “Ave come here tae save her. An’ am gonnae go through all o’ ye tae get tae her.”

His interlocutor roared with laughter, and the others joined him.

“You are an old man,” the vampire said. “We are stronger, faster, better than you in every way. You will not leave here alive.”

Callan smiled.

“Maybe,” he said. “But it wilnae be yous what kills us.”

“We’ll see about that,” the vampire said, and baring his teeth, he leapt at the old man.

Callan moved swiftly.

Body parts that used to be a vampire shattered and went tinkling to the ground in a rain of red crystal. The others stared a few moments, and then, enraged, flung themselves upon him, berserk with hatred.

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

Five of them met their ends against his blade. Another caught the pommel to the face, and went reeling. Yet another took an opportunity to seize him, knocking the wind out of him. Sinking its claws into his shoulders, he felt it drawing blood.

Pushing its torso up, he wedged a flintlock under its belly and fired once, twice, stunning it enough to be pushed off and its head destroyed with the blade.

The last one standing found its bearings and charged at him, only to find the barrel pointed at its forehead.

“The lassie,” Crucefix said, softly, but with the fury of the Devil. “Where is she?”

The vampire growled at him fiercely, lunged for him.

He pulled the trigger.

And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!
He chortled in his joy.

He holstered the gun, then made his way down the corridor, slowly, carrying the sword in his hand. He coughed. The pain in his chest was back. Christ. The years were taking their toll.

Can’t stop now. Find the girl.

Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves
And the mome raths outgrabe.

He proceeded into the manor. It looked to be a very old country house. He wasn’t sure if it had been inherited from some mortal aristocrat, or constructed specifically by the Cult. The walls were painted forest green with wood panelling running along the lower half of the wall, and hung from the walls were various paintings: Placid landscapes in which putrid carcasses swelled and rotted. Portraits in which the eyes seemed to stare after him, smiling beatifically.

At last, he reached a column in the hallway, stretching from floor to ceiling. A support beam that held up the floors of the vast house.

He reached into the duffle bag and from it withdrew a small metal cylinder connected to an electronic device, with a long black nub sticking out of the top. There was a tiny black button set into the exposed circuit, which he clicked once. A red LED blinked on, and began flashing.

Finally, he peeled sticky backing from the back of the cylinder and affixed it to the pillar.

He continued on his way.

As he reached an atrium, he heard voices around the corner. Holding the blade steady, he stood with his back to the entryway, listening.

Something in his shoulder was burning. He reached up to his left shoulder and had the realisation that the vampire had made him bleed. He looked down at the ground and saw that he had left a trail of blood behind him on his way here. The house would be filling with his scent. Like leaving a leaky rubbish bag out where the foxes could get to it.

Footsteps came towards him, now.

Focus. He had to focus.

Something lunged out of the hallway. He swung the sword.

Missed.

The vampire skidded on its heels, facing him.

Mistake,” it hissed.

It roared, calling others to its aid.

He ran at it with the sword, cutting it down, only to feel a blow to his back. He crashed to the ground, and the sword went clattering out of his reach.

Now he was in a compromised position, stuck on his front with a creature faster and stronger than him at his back. He half expected to die right there. He had seconds, mere seconds.

The unseen assailant leapt for his back, and he rolled with his elbow out. Using the full weight of his body, he created enough momentum to clout the thing across the jaw with his bare arm.

It hurt like fuck.

The vampire doubled back, shrieking as it did. Then, whipped into a frenzy, it catapulted itself through the air, tackling him to the ground as it leapt upon him. It was heavy, so much heavier than a person.

With his other hand, he issued an open-palm strike to the vampire’s throat. The thing didn’t have lungs, much less a windpipe, so the intention was not to choke it. It was just to buy a few more of those seconds – those crucial seconds.

He rolled, reaching for the hilt of his sword, grasping it—

The vampire sank its teeth into his right arm.

He shouted in pain, then swung the sword, decapitating it.

He fell to the ground, panting with adrenaline, and looked down at his injured forearm. The teeth had gone straight through his sleeve, and most of the vampire’s crystalline jaw remained embedded in the flesh.

Without hesitation, he tore off his overshirt, and stepping on the chest piece, cut off the sleeves with the edge of his sword. He tied one around his wrist using his teeth, to stem the flow of blood. He removed the teeth from the wound, and yet more blood came oozing out. Bastard must have caught an artery.

One arm down. Fucking hell.

He struggled to his feet. He wheezed and coughed.

Couldn’t slow down. Had to find her.

Help me.

A quiet voice in the strings called out to him, down the hallway on his left. He abandoned the overshirt and proceeded down the hallway, his arm sparking with painful paresthesia. Might have tied it too tight. He could feel the arm swelling up.

Push through it. You’ve had worse, ye big Jessie!

Help me. Please help me.

The pain in his arm was vicious, but he wasn’t giving up that easily. It felt like someone had taken a blowtorch to it. Even with the tourniquet, blood was still dripping from the wound.

He dragged the sword behind him in his left hand, cutting a deep gulf into the mahogany flooring.

He found another support beam, steadied himself against it and took a quick rest. He was sweating and gasping. He coughed some more, clutched at his painful chest.

Stupit auld bastart. Why’d ye come here?

He thought again about Euan. About that look in his eyes as they’d set upon him. Torn him apart like he was just meat, like he didn’t have something to live for. A boy.

Two boyhoods had ended that day – one in blood, and one in spirit. He gritted his teeth, steeling himself.

Euan would want him to keep going.

No. Euan would demand that he keep going.

“Giving up noo, a few yards fae the post, ye wee coward?” Callan imagined he would say. “Mind whit a’ said, Callan – ye cannae go through live feart!”

Aye, Euan,” Callan panted. “Aye, ye’re right. Widnae be fair tae ye tae give in noo.”

He reached into his duffle bag and placed another device against the support beam, activating it.

Help me. Somebody help me.

The voice was louder now.

He moved further down the hallway. His arm still hurt, but at this point it was going numb from the compression.

Help me. Help me.

He stopped at a door, listening for any movement inside. With some difficulty, he crouched down, then pulled on the door handle. The door unlatched, opened—

WHUMPH!

A long, spiked object swung down, taking his hat off, missing his head by mere inches.

When the panic had passed, he noted that it was a log rigged with long metal spikes, and his opening the door had triggered a trap. Had he been standing, it would have killed him.

He doubted it had been set up in anticipation of him. Much more likely it had been set up in anticipation of anyone brought here who might be looking to escape.

He heard movement behind him, wheeled and felt his blade thud into the flank of a vampire. He turned and saw that it had the form of a young woman, black-haired with green eyes.

“Nice try, hen,” he said, withdrawing the sword. She staggered away from him, clutching her side. It was almost pitiable.

Yet he was horribly aware of how something in his left wrist felt like it had popped out of place. The sword. Shite, the sword was too heavy to be used one-handed.

He drew a flintlock, pointing it at her. His wrist was murder. Couldn’t let her see.

“Please, don’t,” the vampire said. “They…only turned me recently.”

Callan said nothing.

“I don’t want to be here,” the vampire said. “Please forgive me.”

He lowered the gun.

The vampire grinned.

Fool!” it shouted, and charged at him.

He fired the gun into its stomach, sending it crashing onto its side. He drew himself up to his full height as the vampire, clutching its belly, tried to right itself, to sit up.

It glared at him, hatefully.

“You can’t win,” it said. “You’re fighting a losing war.”

“Aye,” Callan said. “When ye get tae Hell, let the others know Callan Crucefix’ll be joinin’ ye soon.”

The vampire roared gutturally, and he fired the flintlock into its head, destroying it.

He holstered the gun and moved further down the hallway, dragging the sword with him. His arm had now gone completely numb. Nae bother. Just had to keep going.

Towards the end of the hallway, he found another support beam, and a foul smell hanging in the air, like metal and overflowing kitchen bins.

He reached into the duffle for another device, sticking it to the support beam, then approached a wooden door just beyond it. Positioning himself just to the side of the door, he unlatched and opened it, quickly pushing himself away from any traps that the vampires may have set.

The door simply creaked open. It was quiet.

Holding the sword in front of him, he carefully stepped into the room, wary of any ambushes.

It was empty. Empty and dark. All the windows had been blacked out with curtains and boards, and the room was cluttered with various heavy cabinets, so the windows could not be cleared. The room looked as if it hadn’t been cleaned in a long, long time.

There was a sound.

It was then that Callan realised that his initial impression had been false.

The room was not empty at all.

In a dark corner of the room, a pale figure stood, its head bowed, softly moaning.

It was the girl.

Her arms were streaked with blood, pockmarked with nasty wounds, and she was chained to two wooden posts. Her long hair was matted, hiding her face from view. She was quivering uncontrollably.

Christ,” was all Callan could say. His arm was bad. Her condition was truly barbaric.

Suddenly, she looked up at him, flinched, cringed, then burst into tears.

“Help me,” she sobbed. “Please. I need to get out of here.”

“Aye,” Callan said.

With difficulty, he pressed the sword’s hilt into his hands, and hefted the sword just high enough that he could bring the sword down on her chains, which were forged of rubric. Mercifully, the sword went through them like they were made of lard.

The girl fell to her knees, made a horrible noise, and vomited.

“They’ve…taken my blood,” she said, hoarsely. “I’m too weak…I need…I need

“Come oan, we’ll get ye oot o’ here,” Callan said, offering her his right hand.

“Your hand,” she said. He could see, even in the dark, it had started to go bone-white.

“Nae bother,” Callan said.

He helped her to her feet. She trembled with every step, like her muscles had wasted. Yet her grip was preternaturally firm.

She rubbed her head, winced at the pain issuing from the wounds in her arm, and ran her fingers through her hair. Tears dripped from her eyes, and thick, clear mucus dripped from her nose.

“I knew…” she whispered. “I knew they were cruel…knew they were inhuman…but I didn’t know…”

She paused a few moments, crying softly.

“I didn’t know how much they enjoyed it.”

Callan was left dumbstruck. How easy it was to forget that not everyone had seen the horrors he had seen.

He stopped her at the door, held the sword out and peered up and down the hallway. Empty.

“Coast is clear,” he said, though not without trepidation. This place was crawling with vampires. Where were they hiding?

He left the room, with the girl stumbling behind him.

“What’s your name, lassie?” he asked, if only to keep her awake.

“Liberty,” she said. “Liberty Parish. What about you?”

“Callan Crucefix,” he replied.

“Thank you,” she said.

They continued through the hallways, eerily silent, and came upon another supporting beam. He reached into the duffle and once again removed a device.

“What’s that?” Liberty asked, weakly.

Callan stuck it to the beam and activated it.

“Plan B,” he replied.

She continued to shudder. He was amazed she could even be conscious after blood loss of such a great extent, much less survive.

The smell that had permeated in the hallway near Liberty’s cell grew stronger as they walked along the hallway, and the light was dimmer. There were fewer and fewer paintings on the walls. Callan guessed that this was where the servants’ quarters would have been, back when this manor was in the ownership of mortal lords.

The smell grew overpowering at a wooden door, right at the end of the hallway. There was no other way to go but forward.

“I’m sorry, lassie,” Callan said, gently.

He opened the door.

Liberty covered her mouth.

It was beyond his worst fears.

“Oh no,” Liberty said, quietly. It sounded as though something inside her had broken permanently. “Oh no, oh no, no, no.

The room was filled with human corpses, strung up and hanging from the ceiling by their feet. The throats had been cut, and blood had drained from the opened arteries into receptacles on the floor. The eyes on the bloated faces were open in horror and pain, the tongues swollen and hanging from open mouths. Men and women, naked as they were born, slaughtered as cattle.

They had found the vampires’ larder.

The sweet-smell of decaying flesh and putrefying blood permeated the room. Callan stifled a retch, covering his mouth.

Never, in all these years, had he seen something so evil.

“Come on,” he said, feeling bile rise up his throat. “Let’s get out of here.”

They went through the room, trying to weave around the corpses as best they could. Callan tried to avert his gaze. There was something white, pale in the sink, covered in flies—

He didn’t even care about his numb arm at this point. He ran from the room, sickened and enraged.

“Callan!” Liberty cried. “Wait!”

He turned, gritting his teeth. She flinched from him.

He drew his gaze down in shame.

He who fights monsters.

“I’m gonnae find that bastart,” he said. “I’m gonnae kill him.”

“Callan, I can’t,” Liberty said. “I can’t face him. I can’t fight him. Not in the state I’m in.”

“Who said anythin’ aboot fightin’?” Callan said. “Leave it to me, lassie.”

“But…your arm.”

Callan looked down at his arm.

It had shifted, now, from pale white to purple. It would almost certainly require amputation within a few minutes.

He smiled, gently.

“Had worse,” he said, and beckoned her to come along with a movement of his head.

Through long hallways they went. Occasionally, Callan would stop at a supporting beam, stick one of the devices to it, then keep moving.

After some time, they found themselves in a grand hallway, wider and longer than the others, ornate and resplendent. The walls were painted a soft sky blue, and there was a chequerboard patterned tile on the flooring, atop which was a long red rug. The hallway was decorated every ten feet or so by busts. The hallway ended in two ebon wooden doors, above which was a final bust, hewn of a black stone, like obsidian.

Callan bent down and removed the tourniquets around his arm and shook it a few times to regain feeling in it. Immediately, blood began to ooze from the open wound again. Shit, it really was a deep wound. He tore strips of fabric from the sleeves and stuck them into the wounds, trying to at least pack them to stem the bleeding. He felt feeling rush back painfully to his arm, though not as much as he had expected. Hypoxia had likely already set in. His muscles and nerves were literally dying. He would struggle to hold his sword, which he still dragged behind him.

Slowly, the two of them proceeded down the grand hallway, both stumbling, both limping. They resembled survivors of a plane crash more than anything else. Callan’s wound dripped blood, even with the packing.

He was going to make these fuckers die screaming.

As they walked down the hallway, Liberty studied the busts. As they reached the end, she covered her mouth once again.

“I recognise him,” she said.

“Who is it?” Callan asked.

“Great Geb,” Liberty whispered. “The Corrupted One. Crawling Chaos. Formless-and-Empty. Devourer-of-All-Life.”

“The first vampire,” Callan surmised. “Aye. You and I, we’re fightin’ the same war.”

Liberty nodded wordlessly.

Callan looked up at the doors. Inscribed in gold paint above the doors was a phrase:

SANGVIS ENIM EORVM PRO ANIMA EST

For the blood is the life,” Callan murmured.

He opened the door.

Behind it was a vast room, its walls stacked with books, ancient books, books that dated back maybe hundreds of years.

The room was seemingly empty.

The floors were of the same ebony as the doors, and on the floor were fine rugs. At one end of the room was a fireplace, not lit, a small set of armchairs, and a large wooden globe.

Above the sitting area was a large skylight, through which the noon-day sun was shining.

Liberty saw the sun, and stumbled towards it.

There came an awful sound of creaking from the floor.

Up they came, like volcanoes erupting from the seabed during a tectonic calamity. Ten dark figures, all of them pale-skinned, staring down at their prisoner, their victim, silently jeering at her attempted escape, and then their gazes turning to the wounded man standing near the entrance, looking scarcely well enough to keep his sword upright.

“Stop right there,” Callan said, reaching into the duffle. He withdrew a small device from the duffle, holding it up in his shaking right hand. “If you harm a hair on that wee lassie’s heid, a’ll blow the place sky high. Don’t think a wilnae!”

The vampires looked at each other, then hissed at him as he walked further into the room, approaching Liberty.

“Go oan,” he said. “Get into that sunlight, lassie.”

She looked at him, then at the vampires, and hurriedly scampered into the sunlight, gasping as she felt its warmth against her wounded skin.

“How very impressive,” a voice said, across the room. Callan turned.

He met the gaze of Aloysius Mayer once again.

“So nice of ye to join us,” Callan said. He held up the device. “Dinnae come any closer. You stay right there, laddie.”

“Oh, come, come, now, Crucefix,” Aloysius replied. “You have come all this way. Surely this can’t be your master-stroke, sir? I expected better of you, the feared Callan Crucefix, Vampire Hunter.”

The other vampires hissed, shouting words in language Callan didn’t understand, but that he understood to be insults.

“I’ll fuckin’ dae it,” Callan said, his thumb passing on to the button.

Aloysius raised an eyebrow, smirking.

Can you do it?” he said. “Impress me.”

Callan stood a few moments, his eyes shifting to the girl sitting exhausted in the sunlight, to the vampires waiting for his next move, and then to Aloysius.

“As I thought,” Aloysius said. “You’re a coward, Crucefix. You can’t set off the bombs, because if you do, you might kill the girl. You old fool. Here I was expecting a real final battle, and you come here to play games. How very disappointing.”

Callan pondered this for a few seconds, then smiled.

“Aye,” he said. “Coward, maybe.”

With his injured right hand, he pointed at Aloysius. “But I’d rather that than be like you.”

Aloysius grinned and laughed. His teeth changed into those blood-red crystals Callan had seen so many times in his life of fighting the devil’s lackeys.

“Your hand is injured,” Aloysius growled, running his tongue along his carnivore teeth. “You cannot possibly wield that sword. And if your hand passes to your flintlock, I shall kill you where you stand. You can’t win, Crucefix! Surrender now, and I shall make it quick for you.”

Callan looked at Liberty, gasping on the chair in the light. The colour was returning to her cheeks, her wasted body was rejuvenating as a wildflower in a glass of water on the windowsill. She looked back at him.

He pocketed the device, and with his right hand, grabbed the hilt of the sword.

He charged towards Aloysius, raising it high above his head…

There was a flash of movement.

The sword clattered to the ground.

“No!” Liberty yelped.

Callan almost didn’t realise what had happened for a few moments, but he felt warmth in his throat, a sticky wetness that was moving its way down his torso. His hand went up to his throat, and he felt – ah yes – that his throat had been slit. Rubbery, gouged flesh between his fingers, like raw, tenderised meat.

He staggered backwards, clutching his throat. His larynx had been destroyed. He gurgled and choked. His voice had been taken from him.

He crashed against a bookshelf, and slid down on to his backside.

He already knew that Aloysius Mayer had killed him.

The vampire lord bent down, picking up the sword, and broke it across his knee, discarding it as thought it were made of cheap plastic.

Callan went to grab the device, removed it from his pocket, his fingers fumbling with the button, pressed it—

Nothing happened.

The vampire lord bent over him, his right hand transformed into a red crystal claw, which now dripped with blood.

Hissing, Aloysius took the device from him and placed it in his own pocket, well out of reach.

“Well,” Aloysius said. “That was rather easy.”

He turned to Liberty, who stared back at him with muted horror, then to the other vampires, pointing at her.

Seize her,” he ordered. “Perhaps we ought to lock her in the kitchen.”

“No…” Liberty whispered, defeated. “No, no, no…please…”

Aloysius crouched down, grinning wickedly.

“Callan Crucefix, the great and terrible vampire hunter,” he said. “Look at you now.”

Callan looked away from him, turned his head to look in Liberty’s direction.

Aloysius grabbed him by the chin, wrenching his gaze back.

“I’m going to enjoy watching you die, auld man.”

The warmth on his neck was changing now, becoming more of a soft burn, the crystallisation of his blood now making his chest feel sticky.

His eyes flicked over to Liberty, and as he met her gaze, he used his rapidly depleting energy to send a word, just one word, to her, through the strings.

Run.

Instantly, six wings manifested from Liberty’s back. The chair on which she was sitting was destroyed by the sheer force, as the space it had formerly occupied was suddenly filled with sparkling white crystal.

The vampires hissed at the sight of penumbric, retreating as she stood, arms outstretched.

The sunlight had restored her. Even the bloodstains and wounds on her arms were washed clean.

Her eyes glowed blue, and in a terrible voice, she roared:

Consider this your warning, children of Geb. Cease now, or be destroyed.

The vampires cowered in fear of her, and raising her arms, she threw up a thicket of wild thorns to protect her.

She leapt, beating her wings.

Aloysius watched her rise, growled in defeated rage, then turned back to Callan, determined to rip his head from his shoulders.

Callan was making a strange noise. A kind of choking noise.

At first, Aloysius assumed that Callan was gasping his last, and smiled – until he noticed that Callan was smiling, too.

Laughing.

The old man was laughing.

Even as blood came foaming up from his ruined throat, spilling out of his lips and down his chin.

Callan Crucefix was laughing!

Aloysius glanced away for a few moments.

“What have you done?” he whispered, seizing the vampire hunter by the collar. “Crucefix, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!

But of course, Callan could not answer. Only laugh.

Bleep. Bleep. Bleep.

Aloysius looked down at the old man’s bloodied shirt, and with his clawed hand, wrenched it open.

Strapped to the old man’s waist was a belt of cylinders connected up to circuits, all with red flashing lights. In the centre of these was a device with an LCD screen, joined up to a set of wires. These wires ran up to a set of pads that were affixed to Callan’s chest. The LCD screen displayed a set of numbers.

It didn’t take a genius to understand the nature of Callan Crucefix’s final revenge.

The old man looked at him, laughing, coughing, and laughing again. His teeth were stained red with blood.

What a vampire he could have made.

Finally, Callan ceased.

There was silence.

The old man’s head lolled, and he made choking, snorting noises.

The numbers on the screen began to decrease.

Bleep. BLEEP. BLEEP.

“No,” Aloysius said. “No, no, no!

Aloysius looked from the screen to Callan’s open, wide blue eyes.

The vampire lord heard a quiet, defiant voice in his head.

Gotcha.

Aloysius turned, leapt away, and in a final, desperate act, opened his mouth, trying to scream: “RUN!

He was halfway through pronouncement of the second letter when Callan Crucefix’s heart stopped.

*

Bang.

Aloysius Mayer bawled a warning that would go unheeded as the bomb in his pocket went off.

In the same instant, fire tore through the library, turning ancient books to ash in seconds, and ten vampires died.

True to his vow, Callan Crucefix ensured that the man who killed his brother died screaming.

The force of the explosion detonated the high explosives in the duffle bag, splintering the ebony wood floor, and sending cracks across the chequerboard tiling outside. The bust of Great Geb wobbled uneasily, then toppled, tumbling to the ground.

Seconds later, the dead man’s switch on the remote-controlled bombs went off in turn. A series of explosions ripped through the mansion. Pop, pop, pop, pop, like fireworks going off underground.

Structural supports suddenly buckled and gave way. The survivors found themselves ripped apart by explosions and crushed by rubble.

Liberty Parish watched silently as a tower crumbled inward, smashing through the centre of the mansion. Then another followed with it. Another fell the other way, destroying the main courtyard. A black horse whinnied and galloped away, snorting and shaking its head as a small vision of the apocalypse took place behind its back.

The building caved in on itself, gravity reducing it to ruin as its skeleton gave way.

All was smoke and dust.

She hovered a while, watching flames lick at what was left of the wooden beams that had held the building together for centuries.

Bowing her head, she held out a hand, and from the remains of the library, a field of red roses grew, burying the remains forever. The True Red had vanquished the pretender.

Red is not only the colour of blood, but love.

Liberty covered her eyes with her forearm.

Callan Crucefix was dead.

He was a stranger, and he gave his life for her.

A dark cloud passed overhead, bringing with it a sudden, heavy shower of rain.

Those wooden beams that were still burning now smouldered, leaving only blackened stumps.

The smoke rose up to meet her, even at this height, and stung her eyes. She turned her head away from it—

There was a figure.

A figure emerging through the smoke.


Another time, another place…


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Illustration created using elements of an image by Octavian Dan on Unsplash

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ARC FOUR: BLOOD MOON
I | II | III | SSI | IV | V | SSII | SSIII | VI | VII | SSIV
VIII | IX | X | XI | XII | SSV | XIII | SSVI | XIV | SSVII | XV | SSVIII | XVI | XVII