Underworld Fan Fiction ❯ Blood Legacies ❯ Chapter Two ( Chapter 2 )
[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]
By: Mykal Lakim 
Non Anime: Underworld Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Horror / Occult / Supernatural | Type: Other | Uploaded On: 08.04.2010 | Pages: 1 | Words: 2.1K | Visits: 281 | Status: Completed
Non Anime: Underworld Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Horror / Occult / Supernatural | Type: Other | Uploaded On: 08.04.2010 | Pages: 1 | Words: 2.1K | Visits: 281 | Status: Completed
As the sun creeps up on the waking world, beams of golden rays strike the shadows, chasing away the last remnants of night. The sun creeps higher into the sky, climbing the buildings and filling the alleyways of the bustling city, eventually beaming across the reflective glass windows of the mightiest structures known to man, enveloping a blonde-haired, blue-eyed man, basking in the morning, arms outstretched as if held in a trance.
Each morning is the same for lone soldiers like him. After all, the morning is when the realms are closest -The Heavens and the Earth.
The sun, a symbol of God’s ever vigilant eye on the Earth is a direct link to his children. After fully rising it’ll be hard to hear the beautiful music the choirs sing to the master and maker of the universe. This is his only chance at feeling any kind of connection with his master. In a few moments the darkness of this world will cover the sounds and the realms will pull away leaving him to the cold reality of life on Earth.
Although he’d only actually been here just a few short years, the things he has seen caused him to abandon his training and take a new approach. One of survival. The years of watching horror after horror, hearing the screams and cries of the just, witnessing those who serve dark masters rise to power, spreading their influence were enough to wear anyone down. After all, this is war.
For right now, none of that matters. Right now, he’s home, listening to the beautiful music. And it happens.
His cell phone rings, breaking his concentration, the sound of Linkin Park’s “Somewhere I Belong” almost drown out by his pocket. The phone plays the song again, this time vibrating, catching his attention.
“Hello?” He strains as if trying to concentrate as he answers the phone.
“John, this is Aurin,” the voice begins with urgency, “we got another one.”
“I know,” John begins, “I was listening to the Heralds and the Lampstands when I felt its’ Presence. Do we know who it is yet?”
“Still working on it. We meeting at the usual?”
“Yup, see you in five.”
As John returns his phone to his pocket, the steps off the roof, falling toward the ground with incredible velocity, only to burn with incredible energy, an arid aura of light haloing his body, slowing his descent, landing as smoothly as if he fell a few feet.
____________________________________________________________ ________
An upbeat tempo rings through the halls of the newly remodeled New York estate carrying the elegant sound, in perfect technological harmony, playing Mozart.
Slowly emerging from a seventeenth century, four poster bed, each of the posts covered with angelic cherubs and detailed vines, the angelic children seemingly playing on the posts, a woman emerges lethargically, pressing an intercom device, slowly changing the room’s lighting. Sitting up groggily, she fumbles for her cell phone and answers.
“Hello?”
The voice on the other side is panicked and rushed. She’d know it anywhere. It’s the voice if Jason, her Thrall and eyes in the world, her way of connecting to it. Before Jason there had been a slew of Thralls, perhaps one every twenty to fifty years. She’d learned early on that the drawback to her “condition” was that time moved and changed the world around her. She, herself, stayed a constant, stagnant in the respective time she was Turned. It is only the adoption of a Thrall that allows her to understand each time.
The blood memories of a Thrall gives her a firsthand experience. As she drinks in their lifeblood, the memories move through her conscious self giving her a view as if it were her living the life. This rush of energies, sounds and feelings give her the connection she needs to relate to each passing time period. Without it, she’d drift away and lose touch with everything.
Before Jason there was J. Thomas Livingston who showed her plantation life through his eyes and before him, Vance Timberbrook revealed the West as the Gold Rush boomed in California, David Washington helped forge the trails and roads as they blazed the new frontier and Elizabeth McIntosh joined her at Royal Balls and banquettes in honor of the English Royals.
Though that was all ages ago, it all remains as fresh as yesterday, echoing through her blood. Then, just as quickly as she reminisced, she hears the voice again, pulling her back to her estate.
“Rachel, there was another murder. Not a Huntru, but all evidence points to Perdition. Either that or I don’t know. Too kind for Bucoli and nothing like something the Cherche would do.”
She could tell by the sound of his voice and the way he said ‘kind’ he really didn’t care for the Bucoli.
“What do you mean?” she starts, pulling the covers back revealing a silk nightgown, barely covering her lithe, athletic figure with her breasts barely contained. She stretches as she climbs from the bed and walks into her bathroom, flicking the light on with a single finger.
“Old. I guess our guy really got into it. He left a cigarillo behind burned into a pool table and crushed the victim’s throat. We’re talking some real force.” Jason struggles to sound as professional as he can but Rachel just rolls her eyes as she notices.
“But Rachel there’s more,” he continues, “Inside the victim’s pocket was a piece of parchment with an inscription. Hebrew we think.
“THEY MADE HIM ANGRY BY WORSHIPPING STATUES OF GODS, HE HATED THOSE GODS. THE PEOPLE SACRAFICED TO DEMONS, NOT TO GOD. THE DEMONS WERE GODS THEY HADN’T KNOWN ANYTHING ABOUT.”
“That’s in Deuteronomy,” her voice picks up. “I wonder…. Who all have you told about this?”
“No one. Just you.”
“Let’s keep it that way. I’m going to make a call…” her voice trails off, “never mind. I’m going to get something to eat and I’ll call you around midnight.”
Before he can say anything else, she hangs up.
______________________________________________________________ ______
Music assaults the ears as sirens kick over the metal-rock beat of a former song as Disturbed’s Indestructible blares through the club making conversation nearly impossible. As the sirens blare and the drumming increase, the intoxicating rhythm holds an almost hypnotic sway over the crowd as they move to the beat, nearly all of the partygoers in pairs or groups of three, all of them prove to be small orgies of bodies on the dance floor.
Although the building was previously a turn of the century bank, its’ rustic look, great marble pillars and Grecian architecture made its’ conversion into a haven of youth, alcohol and immorality that much better.
The DJ signals from his tower-stage and yells something barely distinguishable as the crowd roars, his hand in the air rocking “devil horns” to the beat as the songs merge.
From the back of the nightclub, in the darkness of the VIP seating overlooking the club, a man sits, enveloped by the darkness, the various strobe lights and colorful beams barely missing him. He sits motionless, quiet and reserved, stone-faced and statuesque. As he peers around the club taking in the scene, his concentration is torn, sliced as he winces in pain.
To any onlooker it appears as though he has been suddenly struck with a terrible migraine, but what no one else knows is that his mind is under attack, assaulted by bluish-white scenes and a terrible pressure, reality melting away revealing kaleidoscope of intrusions, one of which reveals the Presence of John, a ‘man’ who, as of now is identified as a Herald.
In the realm to which demons exist there are also, their opposite and counterpart, Angels. Although mythology has shown Angels as heavenly beings, clad in gold armor trumpeting something glorious from Heaven, John is anything but. He is a lone warrior, a Celestine in the Holy position of Angel, the lowest choir, or rank. Angels, called Heralds, are often sent to Earth to fight against demons and try to bring a balance to a world that has slipped into darkness for the better part of a thousand years.
As the man sitting in the VIP lounge realizes John is a Celestine warrior and the reason for the intrusion on his mind, he remembers the Mandate and looks for an exit.
“Later,” the man says under his breath as the Herald moves through the crowd. Only their mortal forms are visible, however, at a close inspection, the Herald’s eyes glow with a faint light illuminating the blue in them. Nothing too noticeable but enough for a trained eye to detect.
Seeing the validation of his suspicions, the man invokes a power within himself and leans back into the shadows, darkness enveloping him, disappearing. At nearly the same instant, John’s eyes dart over to the VIP lounge missing the man.
Gazing into the area, John runs his eyes over each partygoer looking for anything out of place. Each of the guests are all too eager to ignore him, grinding bodies against one another to the sound of the music.
John’s eyes stop as an almost human feeling runs over him, a mesmerizing beautiful red head standing a mere five-foot-five with shoulder length red hair and emerald-green eyes, like two precious stones set in the face of an angel, moves toward him.
“John,” she mouths to him as she nears through the crowd.
He nods assuring her that he is who she is looking for. Then he feels it.
A powerfully dark force lashes out at him. This sense of emotion is so intense, so feral, so primal that he almost mistakes it as a warning of an enemy.
Normally on Earth, honing one’s intuition is a Herald’s only and best offensive. This intuition is perhaps the only thing that warns of the enemy. Funny thing is, the enemy has the same warning device.
The Shapeshifters have their Instincts, the Huntru have the Empathy and Demons and Angels have Intuition. When it all comes down to it, it’s all the same. It all comes down to timing and suppression.
As a supernatural creature, as you sense another creature, you must concentrate on suppressing your own Presence, pushing everything as far from you as you can. Not suppressing your Presence in time can lead to being caught. Most creatures cannot identify one Presence from another but occasionally an older, more experienced creature comes along who can interpret the various feelings, sensations and emotions in a Presence to identify its’ senders race.
It is among these feelings and knowledges that John notices the athletically beautiful woman, a mere one-hundred-thirty pounds, lengthened supernaturally sharp nails, gazing through blood-soaked eyes with fangs barely peeking from behind plump, tender, otherwise inviting lips. Searching his mind, John can think of only one thing this creature of animated, unearthly beauty can be: vampire.
“So…” he starts, “you’re a….” his words trail as he searches for composure.
“Rachel. And yes, I’m a vampire. But we prefer the name Huntru if you don’t mind.” Her words are smooth and relaxing. Her nature melts away into the guise of her humanity as grace and beauty return. “You aren’t the only one in this room that can detect things. Don’t worry, I don’t bite… much.” Her words could melt the most stalwart of people.
John forces himself to remember the agenda and, of course, that he is a messenger. The fruits of this world are off-limits. No exceptions.
Clearing his throat he begins, “So… you’re Jason’s contact? He didn’t tell us you were a vampire.”
“And with good reason,” she begins, “He is my charge and connection. Are there any more questions or can we discuss the demon?”
Each morning is the same for lone soldiers like him. After all, the morning is when the realms are closest -The Heavens and the Earth.
The sun, a symbol of God’s ever vigilant eye on the Earth is a direct link to his children. After fully rising it’ll be hard to hear the beautiful music the choirs sing to the master and maker of the universe. This is his only chance at feeling any kind of connection with his master. In a few moments the darkness of this world will cover the sounds and the realms will pull away leaving him to the cold reality of life on Earth.
Although he’d only actually been here just a few short years, the things he has seen caused him to abandon his training and take a new approach. One of survival. The years of watching horror after horror, hearing the screams and cries of the just, witnessing those who serve dark masters rise to power, spreading their influence were enough to wear anyone down. After all, this is war.
For right now, none of that matters. Right now, he’s home, listening to the beautiful music. And it happens.
His cell phone rings, breaking his concentration, the sound of Linkin Park’s “Somewhere I Belong” almost drown out by his pocket. The phone plays the song again, this time vibrating, catching his attention.
“Hello?” He strains as if trying to concentrate as he answers the phone.
“John, this is Aurin,” the voice begins with urgency, “we got another one.”
“I know,” John begins, “I was listening to the Heralds and the Lampstands when I felt its’ Presence. Do we know who it is yet?”
“Still working on it. We meeting at the usual?”
“Yup, see you in five.”
As John returns his phone to his pocket, the steps off the roof, falling toward the ground with incredible velocity, only to burn with incredible energy, an arid aura of light haloing his body, slowing his descent, landing as smoothly as if he fell a few feet.
____________________________________________________________ ________
An upbeat tempo rings through the halls of the newly remodeled New York estate carrying the elegant sound, in perfect technological harmony, playing Mozart.
Slowly emerging from a seventeenth century, four poster bed, each of the posts covered with angelic cherubs and detailed vines, the angelic children seemingly playing on the posts, a woman emerges lethargically, pressing an intercom device, slowly changing the room’s lighting. Sitting up groggily, she fumbles for her cell phone and answers.
“Hello?”
The voice on the other side is panicked and rushed. She’d know it anywhere. It’s the voice if Jason, her Thrall and eyes in the world, her way of connecting to it. Before Jason there had been a slew of Thralls, perhaps one every twenty to fifty years. She’d learned early on that the drawback to her “condition” was that time moved and changed the world around her. She, herself, stayed a constant, stagnant in the respective time she was Turned. It is only the adoption of a Thrall that allows her to understand each time.
The blood memories of a Thrall gives her a firsthand experience. As she drinks in their lifeblood, the memories move through her conscious self giving her a view as if it were her living the life. This rush of energies, sounds and feelings give her the connection she needs to relate to each passing time period. Without it, she’d drift away and lose touch with everything.
Before Jason there was J. Thomas Livingston who showed her plantation life through his eyes and before him, Vance Timberbrook revealed the West as the Gold Rush boomed in California, David Washington helped forge the trails and roads as they blazed the new frontier and Elizabeth McIntosh joined her at Royal Balls and banquettes in honor of the English Royals.
Though that was all ages ago, it all remains as fresh as yesterday, echoing through her blood. Then, just as quickly as she reminisced, she hears the voice again, pulling her back to her estate.
“Rachel, there was another murder. Not a Huntru, but all evidence points to Perdition. Either that or I don’t know. Too kind for Bucoli and nothing like something the Cherche would do.”
She could tell by the sound of his voice and the way he said ‘kind’ he really didn’t care for the Bucoli.
“What do you mean?” she starts, pulling the covers back revealing a silk nightgown, barely covering her lithe, athletic figure with her breasts barely contained. She stretches as she climbs from the bed and walks into her bathroom, flicking the light on with a single finger.
“Old. I guess our guy really got into it. He left a cigarillo behind burned into a pool table and crushed the victim’s throat. We’re talking some real force.” Jason struggles to sound as professional as he can but Rachel just rolls her eyes as she notices.
“But Rachel there’s more,” he continues, “Inside the victim’s pocket was a piece of parchment with an inscription. Hebrew we think.
“THEY MADE HIM ANGRY BY WORSHIPPING STATUES OF GODS, HE HATED THOSE GODS. THE PEOPLE SACRAFICED TO DEMONS, NOT TO GOD. THE DEMONS WERE GODS THEY HADN’T KNOWN ANYTHING ABOUT.”
“That’s in Deuteronomy,” her voice picks up. “I wonder…. Who all have you told about this?”
“No one. Just you.”
“Let’s keep it that way. I’m going to make a call…” her voice trails off, “never mind. I’m going to get something to eat and I’ll call you around midnight.”
Before he can say anything else, she hangs up.
______________________________________________________________ ______
Music assaults the ears as sirens kick over the metal-rock beat of a former song as Disturbed’s Indestructible blares through the club making conversation nearly impossible. As the sirens blare and the drumming increase, the intoxicating rhythm holds an almost hypnotic sway over the crowd as they move to the beat, nearly all of the partygoers in pairs or groups of three, all of them prove to be small orgies of bodies on the dance floor.
Although the building was previously a turn of the century bank, its’ rustic look, great marble pillars and Grecian architecture made its’ conversion into a haven of youth, alcohol and immorality that much better.
The DJ signals from his tower-stage and yells something barely distinguishable as the crowd roars, his hand in the air rocking “devil horns” to the beat as the songs merge.
From the back of the nightclub, in the darkness of the VIP seating overlooking the club, a man sits, enveloped by the darkness, the various strobe lights and colorful beams barely missing him. He sits motionless, quiet and reserved, stone-faced and statuesque. As he peers around the club taking in the scene, his concentration is torn, sliced as he winces in pain.
To any onlooker it appears as though he has been suddenly struck with a terrible migraine, but what no one else knows is that his mind is under attack, assaulted by bluish-white scenes and a terrible pressure, reality melting away revealing kaleidoscope of intrusions, one of which reveals the Presence of John, a ‘man’ who, as of now is identified as a Herald.
In the realm to which demons exist there are also, their opposite and counterpart, Angels. Although mythology has shown Angels as heavenly beings, clad in gold armor trumpeting something glorious from Heaven, John is anything but. He is a lone warrior, a Celestine in the Holy position of Angel, the lowest choir, or rank. Angels, called Heralds, are often sent to Earth to fight against demons and try to bring a balance to a world that has slipped into darkness for the better part of a thousand years.
As the man sitting in the VIP lounge realizes John is a Celestine warrior and the reason for the intrusion on his mind, he remembers the Mandate and looks for an exit.
“Later,” the man says under his breath as the Herald moves through the crowd. Only their mortal forms are visible, however, at a close inspection, the Herald’s eyes glow with a faint light illuminating the blue in them. Nothing too noticeable but enough for a trained eye to detect.
Seeing the validation of his suspicions, the man invokes a power within himself and leans back into the shadows, darkness enveloping him, disappearing. At nearly the same instant, John’s eyes dart over to the VIP lounge missing the man.
Gazing into the area, John runs his eyes over each partygoer looking for anything out of place. Each of the guests are all too eager to ignore him, grinding bodies against one another to the sound of the music.
John’s eyes stop as an almost human feeling runs over him, a mesmerizing beautiful red head standing a mere five-foot-five with shoulder length red hair and emerald-green eyes, like two precious stones set in the face of an angel, moves toward him.
“John,” she mouths to him as she nears through the crowd.
He nods assuring her that he is who she is looking for. Then he feels it.
A powerfully dark force lashes out at him. This sense of emotion is so intense, so feral, so primal that he almost mistakes it as a warning of an enemy.
Normally on Earth, honing one’s intuition is a Herald’s only and best offensive. This intuition is perhaps the only thing that warns of the enemy. Funny thing is, the enemy has the same warning device.
The Shapeshifters have their Instincts, the Huntru have the Empathy and Demons and Angels have Intuition. When it all comes down to it, it’s all the same. It all comes down to timing and suppression.
As a supernatural creature, as you sense another creature, you must concentrate on suppressing your own Presence, pushing everything as far from you as you can. Not suppressing your Presence in time can lead to being caught. Most creatures cannot identify one Presence from another but occasionally an older, more experienced creature comes along who can interpret the various feelings, sensations and emotions in a Presence to identify its’ senders race.
It is among these feelings and knowledges that John notices the athletically beautiful woman, a mere one-hundred-thirty pounds, lengthened supernaturally sharp nails, gazing through blood-soaked eyes with fangs barely peeking from behind plump, tender, otherwise inviting lips. Searching his mind, John can think of only one thing this creature of animated, unearthly beauty can be: vampire.
“So…” he starts, “you’re a….” his words trail as he searches for composure.
“Rachel. And yes, I’m a vampire. But we prefer the name Huntru if you don’t mind.” Her words are smooth and relaxing. Her nature melts away into the guise of her humanity as grace and beauty return. “You aren’t the only one in this room that can detect things. Don’t worry, I don’t bite… much.” Her words could melt the most stalwart of people.
John forces himself to remember the agenda and, of course, that he is a messenger. The fruits of this world are off-limits. No exceptions.
Clearing his throat he begins, “So… you’re Jason’s contact? He didn’t tell us you were a vampire.”
“And with good reason,” she begins, “He is my charge and connection. Are there any more questions or can we discuss the demon?”