Continued From: Vampire Story - Part IX
Meanwhile, under the constricting power of the Lycan’s grip, Rell is forced to swallow his outcry. The razor sharp nails puncture his chest and back—fingers dug deep, nearly to the point of meeting on the inside. Trapped like cubed meat on a shish kabob. Captured, yes, but now within reach! By subjecting his body to extensive injury, Rell has just made himself a viable weapon. Pointing a flat hand against the massive wrist in front of him, Rell goes to work. That’s when Zune arrives. The werewolf elder responds with a stabbing, stiff-armed motion intent on impaling the Nordic Vampire with his own momentum. But Zune was ready, spinning around the attack and embedding the enamel blade into the beast’s tricep.
Rell watches as his hand begins to disappear into the lupine flesh, simultaneously slicing and tearing like a dull knife under pressure. The Lycanthrope leader roars sharply—a cry of pain and frustration and… something else; could it be the seeds of fear? Did we, somehow, get ahead of the curve? Didn’t he foresee these events? Right on cue, I sense the werewolf consulting the path. After which, he immediately responds by tossing Rell aside and focusing on Zune. Zune was in the midst of pivoting for the next strike—dislodging the lupine tooth and twisting toward the beast’s torso to sink it in again. But the blade only pierces air. Old Gray got back on track. Leaning to his right, the Lycan thrusts out a knee; striking Zune between the shoulder blades.
The Leader has regained control. Even with his apparent limited range, the path provides an advantage of foresight over my brethren. His use of the path is indicated by the distortion of the fringe echoes. Distortion = adjustments; changing plans. Whatever fear or doubt that derailed his power, allowing Zune and Rell to get close and inflict injury, is, for the moment at least, resolved. We need that back! I continue to step toward him while I try to analyze his prescient limitation; that’s where I’ll find the key to his downfall. Old Gray turns his eye to me, locking his hard gaze with mine. Without turning away, the werewolf steps back, placing a weighted foot on top of Zune and pinning him to the floor. Zune is trapped, Rell is hurt, and Kira and Raven may be dead. It’s down to the clairvoyants—seer versus seer.
Trails of probable action flow from everything, like flip-book movies playing silently, fading into the distant unknown. Vivid, yet completely transparent, echoes show the future—“a” future. With me and Old Gray, two battling clairvoyants, nothing is inevitable. Knowing is in itself an element of change. So, would the one who knows more come out on top even if what’s known is destined to change? My view of the paths seems to be larger, but why? Is it my increased clarity? No, that doesn’t feel right—it doesn’t seem to be the true reason. Then what? What else changed over the course of the… his eyes. The Lycan lost an eye to Zune’s attacks. The ability to see the paths must reside in the eyes, not the mind! That’s our key to survival; take out his other eye!
Victory is quite literally in the eye of the beholder, which at this moment is glaring its singular beam of playful malevolence into my own. I bring myself to a stop a few paces away. Drool oozes from between the layered teeth of his exaggerated grin. A gurgling chuckle vibrates in his throat, tossing heavy tones in the air that beat against my chest. But my calm is steady. I breathe big and smooth to ensure my voice rings clear over his thick laughter. “Aim for his other eye, boys!” It was obviously directed at the Lycan leader himself and its meaning was not lost. His laugh dies instantly in a guillotine strike of fear—play time chopped short. The ends of his grin fall away, leaving a rancid expression of hate and welling panic.
The next three minutes are an intense flurry of emotion, energy, and pain. Our battle begins with a lycanthropic howl and an ethereal tug-o-war. Tossing back his head, the werewolf elder releases the surging anger in a cataclysmic roar. He rises up, straightening as his lungs expel the audible power. The beast’s shifting posture places a crushing increase of weight onto Zune’s back. Muffled cracking sounds—like someone biting down on hard pretzels—frame the Nordic vampire’s screams of agony. Old Gray drops back down to all fours and we reach for the paths at the same time. Grasping for the same echo, we both adjust our plans instantly; decisions that send tangible shock waves, not only through the paths, but into our minds as well.
Sharp pain hits with a quick flash of bright light. I grimace, sucking air in the sensation of sizzling brain cells. The pain ebbs. Then, a heartbeat later, I lock onto the next path segment. It just settled into focus after accounting for our adjustments. The lupine eye follows suite. Our thoughts shift simultaneously and another shock wave lashes out, rippling unborn time and stabbing though our skulls like lightening. A few seconds later we meet on another solidifying echo, causing the next wave of change and pain. We continue to stretch our ethereal personae in hopes of getting “there” first—to get an advantage… a chance at seeing the killing stroke. All the while our corporeal bodies step closer and closer.
Wave after wave, we fight through the pain, clashing in the realm of possible realities. A small run of blood trickles from my nose. I seem to be reaching the echoes a littler faster each time, slowly building an advantage over my Lycan adversary. Swelling panic surfaces in his erratic breathing and fidgeting mannerisms. The next wave hits Old Gray harder. He staggers backward and clutches his head. Some blood seeps from under his palms, beginning to mat the fur below his ears. When the pain subsides, the paths’ segments begin to settle down and clarify again. My advantage offers me a second to prepare for his sudden change of plans. The panicky werewolf howls, crying out to his eager horde. The paths translate his orders visually. ‘Move in, now! Kill the vampires!’
Close to forty werewolves leap into action and churn toward us from all sides. Zune was just getting to his knees when the order rang out. Rell was still face down and unmoving. The Lycan horde—a mob of pent up hunting dogs forced to watch a couple foxes rip up their master—drives forward without restraint; relishing their freedom to move… and their freedom to kill. In a matter of seconds the swarm will hit and overpower us, shredding our vampire flesh with tooth and talon into nothing more than organic confetti. But, they don’t have that long. I draw in a deep breath and close my hands into fists. Energy flows to me in massive transparent waves of kinetic power.
Engulfed in a blaze of clear flame, I prepare to use their movement against them. So much activity—so much power for the taking. The werewolves were fast, making it more than halfway before I shift from draw to discharge. With a steady exhale, I raise my hands. The energy’s fire plumes around fingers as they unroll. Then, as if a match made contact with a large pool of petrol on the floor, my cold inferno is unleashed. The pulse of kinetic energy spreads like fallout; expanding and surging through the lupine army. It first hits with a breeze of resistance. Then a gale force that thrusts the werewolves back before locking down and trapping them in suspension. Once again, the horde will be forced to simply watch.
Old Gray weathers the energy storm with a crouched posture and an upraised arm protecting his face. When his silvery fur falls still, the Lycan leader drops his arm and looks around. His entire clan, only four yards away, are held motionless in what, at first glance, seems to be a wall of crystal clear water. The mass slowly churns around them, creating a dizzying distortion like a round aquarium with thick glass. His orange-fleck eye widens. He snaps his head back to me with a snarling expression that’s struggling between rage and shock. Grasping for help from his path, the beast steps back and looks to the instances of his own echo trail.
The eye quickly shifts back to me with no less desperation. A rumbling in his throat explodes to a roar marred by words. “The paths are not fixed!” I respond with a voice akin to the energy that empowers me; cool and fluid. “Sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself.” Fidgeting and breathing heavy, he still speaks in a guttural yell, “Take it as a warning not to trust in false mirrors, Bleeder!” I tweak an eyebrow at his floundering head-game. “Heed your own advice; it might serve you well, Lycan.” That turned the tide in the emotional battle for his facial expression—succumbing to utter rage. “I’m going to exterminate your kind with my bare hands!” Despite the chuckle that escaped in a quiet snort, there is no humor in my voice. “Get in line.”
Roaring his hatred in a spray of spittle and blood, the werewolf charges me. Before I can move, my instincts engage and locate the echo he’s tapping into. Our ethereal clash invokes waves of change and the prescient backlash hits us hard in a pulse of blinding light and agony. We both flinch and bleed a little more, but he maintains his pursuit. I search the paths again, trying to catch him looking, but he’s not. Fury has taken over and inflicted its tunnel vision. It’s clear I cannot stop his ballistic assault, so I shift from prevention to adaptation. The massive Lycan, rushing toward me with surprising speed, vaults into the air, arms outstretched and glinting talons thrust forward. I stand motionless, drawing energy from his momentum, till the last possible second.
MORE TO COME SOON..... v----v
Copyright © 2009-2010 Tyr Kieran.
Continued From: Vampire Story - Part VIII
I reopen my eyes to ordered chaos. Vibrant trails, echoing movements yet to come, litter the scene like walls of a complex maze. This time they are longer; my ascension into clarity has allowed for a deeper view into the future. A future where too many paths intersect—lives colliding in violence. It means that the werewolf horde will soon move in to assist their leader and end this battle. Quickly surveying the situation, I notice that Rell and Zune are back on their feet and staring from across the Lycan imposed battleground. Concern and confusion twist their expressions as they witness the lucid inferno of energy smoldering around me.
The horde is silent—they’re trying to figure out what’s happening; waiting to see how Old Gray responds. He stands between us, glaring at me… calculating. I speak past him to my brethren with a calm tone. “Time is short, brothers.” That was enough of an ‘I’m fine and ready to go.’ statement to shake the stunned concern from Zune’s bones. He gives a slight nod and turns to Rell, whom remains frozen. The Norse vampire sends a jest to wake him, “Yea, Líknskin, ready thy hands for sk’ta!” Knowing full well that its meaning would be lost on anyone but himself, Zune bursts out in hearty laughter. Rell reacts with a series of blinks and a smirk of annoyed humor. “It’s the 21st century you North bastard, speak like it!” That rebuttal only fueled Zune’s laughing. And on that note we charge the Lycan elder.
As I sprint toward the beast, I phase through the paths’ ethereal walls. Their colors are muted but the luminosity of the images flash harshly against my retinas, like randomly positioned street lights on a night drive. Yet, my pulse remains tranquil; no fear or rage to cloud my perspective. Am I now devoid of all emotion? Or is this composure simply an acknowledgement of my role as a pawn within Fate’s dominion? Have I accepted our deaths and I’m just running through the motions? Couldn’t be! The dull ache of purpose emanates from the fringe of my prescient visions. It’s like my subconscious is telling fate to “do your thing, while I do mine, and we’ll meet in the middle.” ‘Aye,’ I thought, ‘Meet in the middle. Zune, Rell, and I will do just that.’
The Lycanthrope leader huddles down at the center of the battleground and growls his annoyance at our persistent survival. He pivots to the right, to get a better view of all three vampires, and readies for the attack. I see him scanning the paths for a map of the battle’s events, trying to get the winning edge, but his eye movements are too quick, too brief to see the extent of echoes that flow around me. Am I able to see more? Rell reaches combat range first. The beast thrusts a backhanded swipe at his head. He leans forward briefly to duck under the slicing talons, but can’t avoid them on the swing back. The werewolf grabs Rell with his massive hand, sinking the claws deep and lifting him off the ground in a single motion.
Meanwhile, ravenous beasts scale the balcony and lope down the corridor. Kira flops backward against a wall and sighs loudly, more from frustration than fear. Kira always believed that if she had to perish for the good of the cause, she would… but will that really help the cause right now? “How do I solve this one?” A petite hand touches her shoulder. “You’re not alone, Kira. Whatever we decide, we’ll do it together.” Kira attempts to return that warmth, but her smile falls flat. “Thank you, Raven. The hunting party is on its way. We need a plan.” Raven kneels down, places her hands flat on the concrete floor, and closes her eyes. After a few shallow breaths, “There are five of them. We have less than two minutes.”
Raven pulls a tuft of Aconitum from her leather satchel while rising to her feet. She breaks off a few strands and hands them to Kira. “I know it’ll take a lot more than herbology to save our lives, but at least our touch won’t be forgotten easily.” Now it’s Raven that fails to display an encouraging smile. But Kira doesn’t see it; her tilted gaze seems hollow. Something Raven said sparked a new thought pattern. Kira absently stares at the wolfsbane’s purple flowers in her hand and thinks aloud. “Touch.” Her eyes lift to meet with Raven’s confused expression. “You can touch them… you can see and interact with the memories of things you touch, right?” Raven lifted an eyebrow. “Yes. Why?”
Kira’s eyes brighten with hope. “Could you manipulate the sequence of those memories?” Still not sure where Kira was headed, Raven answers hesitantly. “Yes, I can... I could even erase them if that helps. What are you concocting?” A playful smirk spread across Kira’s face, and with the bleakness of their situation, Raven thought it as welcoming as a fading sunset. “You want me to erase the Lycans’ memories?” Kira shakes her head slowly. “No, not yet. For now, I want you to reposition a memory; to confuse them into thinking they’re disobeying orders.” “So, how do I survive long enough to get close and touch all five?” Raven asks; the stress unearthing a hint of Russian heritage in her pronunciations. Kira replies quickly in a calm, but serious tone. “Leave that up to me.”
They finish discussing their plan and move into position just as the werewolves arrive. Even after hours of exposure to these beasts, their lupine stench still grinds on the women’s sinuses. Not unlike the rank odors, their panting precedes them; doubling as a cadence in raspy grunts. But their shortness of breath is not of fatigue—they breathe with excited determination. Their leader has entrusted them with an important task: kill the vampire minder… the scared female vamp and her little helper. The Lycan hunting party is riding on large doses of confidence. Kira can sense these primal emotions as she watches their approach. Her father’s voice—a memory from one of his many battle inspired lessons—speaks in a stern, yet warm manner. “Sureness in complete control only offers you ensured collapse.”
They come staggered and Kira sees the truth in her father’s words. ‘Their arrogance creates opportunity; attacking simultaneously would’ve been lethal. Now we have a chance!’ Raven stands a few paces in front of her, starring at the onslaught. She waits, despite her doubt, her fear, the visual torrent of talons and teeth bearing down on her with nothing between them but Lycan stench and panic’s perspiration. Raven’s life is seconds from agonizing extinction. But, she holds her position. Kira lowers her head, closes her eyes, and works fast. A gust of wind blows past Raven like an invisible metro car, swirling her long black hair in whimsical tangles. Then, suddenly, the first werewolf lurches forward and hits the ground.
The beast slides along the concrete floor with a wet scraping sound. Raven had felt the breeze, the signal, and started to run at them. She repeats Kira’s instructions in her head like a mantra, praying to her Mother Earth and Father Sun that she’ll be able to keep up. ‘Go fast and don’t stop. Go fast and don’t stop.’ Before the werewolf could get up, Raven runs by and touches its shoulder. Within that moment of contact she was subjected to the beast’s short-term memories, at which point she reordered them to indicate the Lycan leader’s most recent order as “Stand back and be still; these vampires are mine!” An instant later the second werewolf staggers and tastes concrete.
The Lycan hunting party falls like dominoes, one by one. All tripped up by the unseen force that is Kira’s momentary control. Then, in sequence, Raven swoops in to create their untouchable status. The plan was working and their execution was dead-on, that is until the trailing werewolf. He’s a bit slower in lope than his brethren and fell several paces behind. Being the last, seeing the others fall, this werewolf had a few seconds to react. He slows his pace just as Kira’s ethereal presence moves in. She tweaks his motor functions enough to make him stumble, before returning to her corporeal shell as planned, but he doesn’t go down. The Lycan works to gain his balance, and finds it in a locked grip on Raven’s forearm.
The sudden force wrenches Raven’s arm beyond the snapping point. The ulna bone fractures under the pressure and rips through the skin near the elbow. The surprise and surging pain blinds Raven from understanding anything but dread. Her chest tightens nearly to the point of suffocation, like her lungs were constricted under the cold steel of an industrial vice. The beast in front of her seethes with deep exaggerated grunts. He rises to his hind legs; towering over the petrified vampire. With a snarled twist in his lip, the Lycan swings an arm back above his head—preparing to strike hard with a bladed hand. Raven winces and turns her head. A breeze flows past her, surely, in announcement of the descending strike… of death’s arrival.
But nothing comes; no crushing force, no slashes of precise agony… no reaper. After a couple seconds, Raven releases her captive breath and opens her eyes. At first, the sight seems blurred, but she quickly realizes the illusion lies in confused depth. She forces her eyes to refocus with a series of blinks as she steps back. Raven detains another breath with a swift inhale. Her attacker stands motionless, as if the windup key on his back stopped turning while his striking hand was in motion. The immense werewolf paw had stopped within an inch of where her face had been. The Lycan may be paralyzed, but it’s certainly not dead. Frustrated growls mingling with fear induced whimpers escape its motionless mouth. “Raven! Do it; finish the plan!” Kira’s ethereal shout catches her by surprise.
Raven wakes from her shock with a physical jolt. She starts to realize what happened—Kira had come back for her, saving her from certain death. Disbelief and fear are quickly replaced with anger. Her stunned expression turns sour, tightening into a burning glare. The throbbing pain in her arm and her bruised will to live, fuels Raven’s retribution. “Kira, get ready to jump ship. I’m going in with a broad brush.” Raven steps past the outstretched arm and waltzes up to the Lycan’s quivering face. They lock eyes. Orange flecks swarm the lupine iris and the beast’s growls intensify in his unwavering throat. The petite vampire—a mere fraction of the werewolf’s size—stands content for a few moments, watching the bottled rage with a slightly cocked head.
Gently, she places her hand against the Lycan’s head just above his left temple. Without breaking their gaze, Raven rolls her head to the other side and leans toward his ear. Whispering, she speaks to the captive werewolf. “You got too close. Never again.” The Lycan’s growling ceases. Only faint whimpering sounds remain; a response from the Aconitum’s sting and his helplessness to react. Opening her mind and allowing the beast’s memories to flow before her, Raven begins. Vivid scenes of the battle play in reverse. As each memory surfaces she adds it to the others—weaving them into a complex nest like cotton candy—collecting them within her mind. Raven digs deep, her hand tightening against the werewolf’s fur while she reaches for the oldest memories. “Time to go, Kira.”
Kira’s presence floats past her in a gentle gust. Its warmth projects like the comfort of an embrace. Raven, now knowing that Kira wouldn’t be trapped within the beast’s mind, clamps down on the chosen memory. The others, in their interlaced bundle begin to rotate; spinning faster and faster as the visions contract. Everything this Lycan has ever known—with one exception—is imploding, compacting and disintegrating into flashes of brilliant light; light too strong to contain. Kira wasn’t watching Raven as she swam back to reconnect with her corporeal self, but she did notice a sudden brightness reflecting off the piles of glass fragments at the nearest lab. Looking over her ethereal shoulder, Kira gasps in silent awe. Raven's eyes were illuminated, ejecting light like tractor-trailer headlights on a choppy road.
The memory orb, shining like a miniature sun, shrinks to nothing and the light beaming from her eyes fades. The memories are gone forever; deleted and discarded at the vampire’s command. Raven returns the remaining memory to the werewolf shell. She watches for a few moments to ensure the vision plays over and over in an unending loop, before pulling her hand away. A litter of pups, hours old, lay nursing. One crawled in late, trying to reach the only available nipple, but was attacked by the closest brother—the past version of this current Lycan—whom had claimed two for himself. The struggle didn’t last long. The quivering pup had suffered too many wounds too quickly. The mother turned to investigate the yelps, but it was already dead. She nudged the silent child, with no response. A deep, vicious growl rolled from her throat. The winner had already turned to continue feeding, but she swiped him up and hurled him against the rugged cave wall. He hit hard and landed in a small alcove, where he laid alone, whimpering in pain and fear; emotions this Lycan will now relive perpetually.
Raven walks back to Kira, passing between the massive mounds of fur without even the slightest glance of concern. Four Lycans sit submissively like lost children who’ve given up hope of finding their parents. Twitching, they occasionally jerk their heads to look around. In whining misery, they await new orders and their inevitable punishment for disobedience. The moment Raven arrives she wraps her arm around Kira for a tight embrace. “Thank you!” Kira responds with a chuckle in that ‘you don’t need to thank me’ kind of way. After a moment she pulls away, saying “Hey, I had to keep you safe; I couldn’t break a deal with Zune. He’d probably sic Loki or some water serpent on me.”
Raven gives a meek smile. “Yeah, it’s cute the way he still hangs on to that mythos.” Almost before she finishes her statement, Raven’s expression drains away in a sudden wave of panic. She takes a quick breath and blurts out a hasty jumble of concern. “Zune! The others! Hope they’re ok. Need to go help them!” Kira, looking down at Raven’s exposed bone fracture, starts to rip fabric from the bottom edge of her gray tank top. “Agreed, but first we need to address that. Let’s wrap it till Rell can fix you up.” Kira reaches out to begin binding the wounded arm, but hesitates, then looks up with a raised eyebrow. “Ready?” Raven bites her lip as she nods. After a few restrained yelps, they tie off her make-shift bandage. Kira brushes a lock of hair from Raven’s flushed face. “You did great! Now let’s go end this.”
Continued: Vampire Story - Part X
Copyright © 2009-2010 Tyr Kieran.
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