Celeste Darken wrote:Body count would not be . . . could not be a deterrent. The cultists had sold their collective souls to the devil and were trying to add more. To me, they were nothing more than monsters and food.

Celeste, what have you become?

From this and other posts, I'm afraid your yin side has gotten too strong. Seek balance within yourself; can you even remember what you did when you were alive?

Celeste Darken wrote:
Body count would not be . . . could not be a deterrent. The cultists had sold their collective souls to the devil and were trying to add more. To me, they were nothing more than monsters and food.

That was basicly my sentiment too; except I probably carry it farther.

I don't fight, I kill. The faster and more efficiently I eliminate my enemies the safer I and the people I protect are. You read Ron's latest account. If you notice he didn't set out to fight a werewolf; he rammed it with his car. That it turned out to be a trap by a vampire doesn't change the fact that he didn't get out and challenge the creature to one on one combat.

These cultists were evil. They were guilty of human sacrifice even if they didn't drive the sacrifical blade home themselves; they're just as guilty as the man that did.

Back in the military, at least in what I was doing, we didn't get a lot of chances to accept surrenders or to give our enemies a chance to repent. How much truer is it on this battleground where that elderly man in the corner might suddenly transform into a creature three times your size made of pure muscle?

This cult was trying to summon an evil god. They were sacrificing innocent people to do it. If I had to kill a million of 'em to save one innocent person then that was fine by me; a million to stop what might have become armegeddon wouldn't trouble me at all.

All who walk the path of the Hunter are on a fine line and it is all to easy to cross that line. Be careful you don't cross to far is all.

Well, yeah, the "and food" isn't applicable.

Willie Long wrote:Celeste, what have you become?

Did you mean besides becoming a vampire?

Willie Long wrote:From this and other posts, I'm afraid your yin side has gotten too strong. Seek balance within yourself; can you even remember what you did when you were alive?

I always thought vampires didn't have yang sides. But as for balance . . . yes, it's something I strive for continually. And remembering my life as a human . . . it becomes harder and harder, for I cannot return to it. My memories are a double-edged sword . . . remembering my innocence as a human, and remembering my depravity under the thumb of my sire. These memories of light and dark are a constant reminder of what I can never be again and what I can become again if I take things too far.

Ron Caliburn wrote:I agree with Bert up until the last two words of Celeste's statement. Then I think Willie is being too soft on the girl.

I agree with you there, Mr. Caliburn. However, I think you are being too soft on me. Do you think I don't know my own damned state?

As for being too dark . . . it gets darker. These cultists were like weeds. To let them survive would be to let evil go free. And just like weeds, if they are not taken out completely, they only respawn to even greater numbers.

Church Assault: Part III

They weren’t far when I found them. I quickened my pace as I also smelled a woman approach them. I entered the room from a back door to the room just as I saw a woman in a lilac-colored dress steel herself and advance toward us. When I stood beside Dante, my presence caused her to shudder. Nevertheless, she bravely confronted us.

“Excuse me, I know we’re not supposed to interact with each other, but . . .” her pause allowed Bert to act in disguise.

“Then don’t,” he replied coldly. “We leave you to your business. Leave us to ours. It is dangerous here after dark to the uninitiated. Good night to you.”

“But you don’t understand,” she wailed, emotions suddenly bubbling to the surface. “I can’t find my son. I left him in the nursery, but now he’s gone. I was wondering if I could stay long enough to find him. Please, I won’t be any trouble.” She looked at us pleadingly.

“Your son . . .” I began slowly, experimenting on various rumors I had heard about vampires’ powers, “he is young? Four or five years old?”

“Jessie will be five next week,” she affirmed. We three exchanged dark looks; I knew she wasn’t lying.

“They have him,” I muttered in anger. “They took him.”

“Who took him?” she asked in rising fear. Instead of answering, I stepped forward and took her shoulder firmly in hand.

“Listen,” I ordered, pulling aside my hood and ignoring her gasp. “And listen to me carefully. We will rescue your son. But you must leave this building and wait just outside its gate. Do not call the police. Do not bring attention to yourself. But most importantly, you must speak with nobody. And you must not worry. Do you understand?”

She nodded numbly . . . dumbly. “Good,” I said, sniffing once to get her scent and that of her child’s. “Now go. We will bring your son to you.”

Again, she nodded without comment. Ina daze, she slowly walked away.

“Nice trick,” Dante mused, Bert agreeing with a motion of his head. “How’d ya do it?”

“I don’t know,” I shrugged. “First time.”

I wondered how effective my Hypnotic Suggestion was. Then I pulled up my hood back over my features, and we set out. Bert led us through the halls in the quickest route to the west corridor of the church; Dante and I could find the way from there without further assistance.

“Where . . . I thought you said the paintings here were grotesque,” Bert said, eyeing the ceiling in puzzlement, as did I. They appeared as perfectly legitimate Christian depictions.

“Wait for it,” Dante mumbled carelessly, his eyes forward to catch intruders. “It’ll come soon enough.”

And, like magic, the scenes suddenly shifted like a fadeout on a movie screen. Dante eyed our looks of horror and smiled like a magician.

“Sundown,” he stated simply. “They’re starting the summoning.”

And, quite as suddenly, we heard a slight droning of priests chanting. Also quite suddenly, side doors opened, and robed cultists filled the hall completely.

Bert_the_Turtle wrote:I don't fight, I kill. ...Back in the military, at least in what I was doing, we didn't get a lot of chances to accept surrenders or to give our enemies a chance to repent.

Well Jack, I ain't a soldier. I chase bail jumpers. My job is to bring 'em back alive to face the music. I've never had to kill.

Celeste Darken wrote:I always thought vampires didn't have yang sides. But as for balance . . . yes, it's something I strive for continually. And remembering my life as a human . . . it becomes harder and harder, for I cannot return to it.

There is black in white and white in black.


You seen a movie lately? Heard new songs? Went for a moonlight stroll? Do anything besides hunt and feed and kill and brood?

Open your eyes and awaken.

Just cause you're dead and drink blood don't mean you gotta be a monster.

Heh, Willie in this thread, and me in another... I'd be lying if I said I trusted you fully, but it doesn't change that so long as you're helping our cause, I still will support you.

Just don't let your negatives swallow you whole...

Ron Caliburn wrote:I am quite aware of your damned state Celeste, and I hope someday someone frees the soul of the innocent little girl frm the monster that has taken her.

Although I likely lost whatever respect you might have possessed for me by that remark about you being too soft, I am pleased to see you did not miss my meaning, Mr. Caliburn. There have been occasions where I wonder if I am indeed a monster beyond salvation; I was especially downcast when, in an attempt to rescue a priest from a mugging, he cursed me in the name of the Trinity before taking the unconscious mugger, staunching the flow of blood from his broken vein, and retreating with the instigator of the blood running down the priest’s left temple.

At times I wonder about your desire of “the bullet” if you are ever stricken with Lycanthropy or turned into a vampire, Mr. Caliburn. And if a modern seppuku might be an honorable way to go. However, I cannot overlook the aid I have brought to humanity with my vampiric powers. So in the meantime, I will do what I can for humanity. Oh, and . . . just out of curiosity, what would you do if it was you, not me, with a cult of this magnitude in your area of operation? Somehow I doubt you would offer them tea. Unless you first laced that tea with arsenic.

Willie and Konthaak . . . thank you. Even if some of your perspectives seem skewed, I appreciate the vote of confidence. I’m still thinking about the different layers applicable by the white in black/black in white allegory. It reminds me of a friend I once had. She was a white girl raised in Washington DC. Looked white, spoke black, she’d definitely have a literal take on what you were talking about.

Now I’ll have to work on seeing a movie or buying a CD. Of course, then I’d have to get a job. And while I’m at it, maybe I can build up a repertoire of friends among the gothic-type. They seem more willing to accept those that have fangs. Just as long as I don’t have to dress like them and they don't insist on becoming vampires themselves, we'll get along just fine. . . .

Church Assault: Part IV

Neither Dante nor Bert seemed all that surprised. For the sake of vampire pride, I was grateful I could hide my emotions better than any human. It was too late to offer any explanations; both Dante and Bert allowed themselves to be swept up in the crowd’s current. They were going the proper way, so I too, followed. We were quickly separated by the press of bodies, but I hid my worry and tried to hide among the humans, willing myself to blend in the same way I had willed the young mother into calmness and retreat.

It was a long shot, but what choice did I have in the matter?

The crowd marched down the corridor and through the door without preamble. I noted the upper portion of the long staircase near the bell tower had been mortared in with bricks and stone. The cultists broke ranks and went down the stairs one at a time, without any hint of pausing to organize it. There was no trouble going down the stairs; wherever Bert and Dante had ended up, they had folded in with the cultists smoothly. Thankfully, I was able to do so as well. I soon noticed peculiarities in between the cultists’ robes. Not all of them were chanting, and all those that were chanting had a different cut of robes with different symbols. The ones worn by my companions and me were cut for the silent ones.

Bert had thought of everything.

The basement had the same, disturbing feeling as it had when Dante and I had first entered. However, the altar had been moved to accommodate others, and on each side was placed a figure. The first was a shifty eyed man. To his right was the stocky cultist who had contended for the stone dagger. The little boy’s scent proclaimed him as Jessie; next to him was an empty place. All victims except the stocky cultist were tied down as the little girl beforehand.

The Standing One stood where had been previous upon our first meeting, presiding over the meeting and stoically watching the other cultists arrive. Along the pillar at each corner stood a large, black cauldron with symbols of blood etched in their sides, boiling the red light and putting for massive plumes of steam that swirled with the neatness of water poured from a pitcher.

I discovered my companions’ whereabouts by careful smelling. Then I directed my senses toward them to see how they were handling the strange situation. Bert was silent and far to my right, his head hooded and bowed like the cultists around him. Dante was near the front, his head likewise bowed. He was talking so low I almost missed it through the babble of the chanting.

“ . . . promise, Mary. We’ll avenge ya. Aye, we accept. When I give th’ word, you’ll do it, then? No, not before. Aye. I’ll give ya the signal. Coach me through this.”

He drew silent.

The Standing One waited until all the cultists had left the stairs and gathered around the dais he was perched on, the victims to our right and the pillar to our left. The Standing One drew up his hands, and just as quickly, the droning mantra was subdued entirely. I expected the little boy to be wailing or screaming. But his tiny head was bowed.

He was probably drugged, I decided, repressing my snarl.

“My people,” the Standing One heralded. “Tonight, we finish what has been our mission for more than fifty years!”

Not long, I thought in consternation. Something seemed terribly wrong with that number. But my suspicions would have to be dowsed for now. Only, things went downhill from there.

“Long have we sought for the Four,” he intoned darkly. “The Four that would create the Fifteen will be added tonight! We searched for the Traitor!”

There was a shout by the congregation after each sentence he spoke, as some churches were wont to do. He continued. “We found him,” he hollered, thrusting his hand toward the shifty-eyed man.

“We searched for the Crusader;” he pointed toward the stocky man. “He is among us! Long have we scoured the land for an Innocent;” his crooked finger turned to Jessie. “No longer!”

“All that is left unto is us is Heartless,” he was practically raving now, foam flecked the Standing One’s lips.

Rabid cheer.

He thrust his hands upward. “She is here!”

Deadly silence.

Celeste Darken wrote:

Ron Caliburn wrote:I am quite aware of your damned state Celeste, and I hope someday someone frees the soul of the innocent little girl frm the monster that has taken her.

Although I likely lost whatever respect you might have possessed for me by that remark about you being too soft, I am pleased to see you did not miss my meaning, Mr. Caliburn. There have been occasions where I wonder if I am indeed a monster beyond salvation; I was especially downcast when, in an attempt to rescue a priest from a mugging, he cursed me in the name of the Trinity before taking the unconscious mugger, staunching the flow of blood from his broken vein, and retreating with the instigator of the blood running down the priest’s left temple.

At times I wonder about your desire of “the bullet” if you are ever stricken with Lycanthropy or turned into a vampire, Mr. Caliburn. And if a modern seppuku might be an honorable way to go. However, I cannot overlook the aid I have brought to humanity with my vampiric powers. So in the meantime, I will do what I can for humanity. Oh, and . . . just out of curiosity, what would you do if it was you, not me, with a cult of this magnitude in your area of operation? Somehow I doubt you would offer them tea. Unless you first laced that tea with arsenic.

I would take care of the immediate business, but I wouldn't want to wait too long before puting an end to my condition, the thought of losing control and taking down an innocent is my greatest worry.

If you feel the need to put an end to your half existence and free that soul trapped when you were turned, I'll happily give you my assistance - I'll even let you watch the sunrise if you like, properly restrained of course.

Celeste Darken wrote:Now I’ll have to work on seeing a movie or buying a CD. Of course, then I’d have to get a job.

I'm sure Dante or Bert could find you a job workin' the graveyard shift.

I'd be willing to try to find her a job. She'dhave to move to NJ though.

I'm pretty sure I could find Celeste a job aswell, though it would be harder to find one American based it shouldn't be impossible.

Willie Long wrote:I'm sure Dante or Bert could find you a job workin' the graveyard shift.

Bad pun! Bad Willie! No Qi for you!

Ron Caliburn wrote:

Willie Long wrote:I'm sure Dante or Bert could find you a job workin' the graveyard shift.

Bad pun! Bad Willie! No Qi for you!

Considering I can only do graveyard shifts, I suppose someone had to say it. . . .

Part V

I was utterly dumbstruck. And whether everyone else was similarly surprised or versed in the theatricality of the ceremony, they were also mute. The Standing One lowered his hands and arms, suddenly relaxed.

“Prepare the Summoning!” he roared. Instantly, the four cultists at the corners of the congregation broke off, folding their hands within their robes. Like clockwork, they each took a position by a boiling cauldron. When the first withdrew his hands, he held aloft a strangely curled root, chained at the end with a twisted piece of iron.

“In place of the ceremonial stone dagger,” he said in a deep voice, “I place this Ginseng Cutting, cut from its Mother.” He dropped the root in the frothing liquid; straight away there was a scream of tremendous pain, coming, I was sure, by the root itself! The bubbling stopped the instant the root touched it, the instant the root screamed. The dark red turned a wicked purple.

The scream died. The root . . . died. Do not ask my why; but I feel as though a human child had just been murdered. This happened three other times. Again like clockwork, the cultists at the other cauldrons did the same. Thrice more the words were spoken; thrice more a Ginseng root trapped by an iron clasp was dropped into the heated water; thrice more they screamed; thrice more the frothing ceased; thrice more the deep red turned into a corrupted shade.

Thrice more the root . . . died.

The neatly trimmed steam suddenly curled around the pillar in a counterclockwise circle, before bending aside and stopping at the enlarged etching of the ‘tattoo’ carved into the floor.

“And now,” the Standing One proclaimed loudly, “The final ingredient! Malboa contra misstag . . .” his chant had the scent of magic upon them. He quickly came to a conclusion, clapped his hands before him, and then drove them apart as though sweeping away a fly.

Golden light immediately burst forth from his body and scattered all about us, negating the dark purple light. Everyone in its radius was blinded by the immense light. Burning pain seared my exposed hands and chin, and I quickly realized the golden hue . . . somehow . . . was sunlight. The instinct to survive forced me to make a superhuman leap backwards out of the spell’s radius.

“And thus, we expose the vampire,” the Standing One sneered. I had to avert my gaze from the blazing light streaking from his body. “All stand back from her; she is mine to take.”

The cultists quickly obeyed. I was all alone, the cultists ringing me directly. Bert and Dante likewise obeyed, else their own cover be broken.

The Standing One drew a long step forward; I retreated equally. Behind me, the cultists parted to reveal the wall. Again, the sorcerer strode forward, and I took another step of equal distance back. Then I raced up the wall. But, certain he was grinning, the Standing One leaped ahead. As the mystic sunlight enveloped me, the skin of my hands sizzled and hissed, and I dropped as my powers were neutralized. I tried to huddle underneath the folds of the robe, but the material was too thin to protect me completely. I tried to crawl away, but I was suddenly seized at both sides by an unseen force; I could sense the cultists surrounding me holding forth holy symbols. My tormentor enjoyed the complete control he had over me. I thought perhaps he would burn me to death, and I briefly wondered how long I could sustain an attack of this sort. After many minutes of listening to my flesh bake, he withdrew.

“Move . . . and you shall die,” he snarled. “Aidacoel will understand . . . nod if you do as well. Now!”

Bewildered by the pain, confused and disoriented by the blinding light, I nodded. The old man took a small step nearer, forcing me to stand with my back and cheek pressed to the wall, my arms outstretched like a martyr.

“Prepare the sacrifices,” the Standing One commanded, spinning on his heel. “Aidacoel shall come tonight!”

My flesh was slow in healing burns of the sun. But my senses returned quickly. Bert and Dante were quickly found. They were smart enough not to make a motion that might implicate me as an ally.

All seemed hopeless. I was uncertain if the power of the Standing One’s spell increased nearer to his direct presence. If so, I would likely die charging him. Only, if I died killing him, it would be worth it.

But then the voice came.

Part VI

FIRST THE TRAITOR SHALL DIE . . .

The immensity of the voice staggered us all. I just barely caught myself from falling to my knees in shock, though every last cult member instantly did so.

“My Lord . . .” the Standing One’s voice quivered. “You speak to us . . . after so many years of searching, you speak to us! You sent the dream detailing how the vampire and her allies had come . . . and you were right. . . .”

The old man fell to his knees and then his face; and I felt my flesh crawl and peel as the light rubbed against me. “Please . . . let me be the first to serve you! Let me lift the cup to send the traitor on his way.”

YES . . . YOU SHALL SERVE ME . . . the voice agreed.

I felt a sudden presence of evil . . . very great Evil.

AS THE TRAITOR! ABANDONER OF LEOCADIA!

The steam suddenly vibrated; I could sense the irony this evil deity enjoyed at the expense of mortals. Here this “Standing One,” though an utterly evil old man, had put complete trust in a being that had just betrayed him. The mist coalesced into a giant fist, which rushed out to grasp the Standing One. The brightness dimmed into that of moonlight, and then was extinguished altogether. The old man was lifted bodily off his feet by the hand of steam, screaming madly.

“No, Lord, mercy . . .!” The rest of the Standing One’s words were literally drowned out as the giant fist plunged the struggling figure into the first of the cauldrons. The Standing One disappeared as though sucked through a vortex; the mist grew darker and thicker, and a body followed the arm sculpted entirely of steam.

“Me next, Lord!” The brutish man voluntarily ran for the other cauldron like the maniacal fanatic he likely was, the other cultists began panicking as he jumped inside the second cauldron and vanished before their eyes.

With the sunlight gone, I somersaulted forward, out of reach of the crosses and rosaries at my flanks. Both Bert and Dante sprang into action as well, the former knocking the teeth out of the nearest cultist and the latter doubling another robed figure over with an elbow to the stomach. Bert had his 1911 SM suddenly in hand while Dante brought out his dagger and ankh. We met in between, Dante’s eyes going blank as he focused behind me.

“Any time now, Mary! Ya what?! Yer still gatherin’!? Well . . . gather FASTER! Aye, we’ll do wha’ we can!” His eyes came back into focus and he spoke quickly. “Listen, the spirits here’re on our side now. Nearly all of ‘em were killed in these sacrifices, but apparently oldie-moldy finally got th’ right combination of deadbeats! Without the ceremony bein’ completed an’ all, the spirits can force Aida back. So all ya gotta do is distract ol’ Aida from vampy an’ kid long enough, all righ’!?” With that said, he dove past us and raced in front of Jessie, holding out his ankh as the almost-corporeal fist came crashing down.

Aidacoel was repulsed! Moving frantically, Dante skillfully parried the godling’s hectic thrusts.

“Oh, all we gotta do is distract him . . .” Bert cursed, cracking a passing cultist over the head with the butt of his gun and shooting another. “Why couldn’t he ask us to do something hard—” A long rope of profanity was mainstreamed by his gunfire.

“Just do it,” I growled, grabbing a cultist and relieving him of consciousness. The smell of silver was thickening in the air as Bert fired his gun. He kept looking at the stairs as though expecting something.

Bert swiveled the barrel of his gun toward the strange entity, sending several bullets inside. With each bullet, the steamy mist flashed like a light rapidly being turned off and on. Once the featureless face was directed to Bert, Dante hacked at the boy’s cords with his dagger and moved him from the altar.

“Dante!” I screamed out in warning.

But the entity’s fist was too fast.

Part VII

There was no time to bring the ankh into position to save Jessie. So instead, Dante bodily hurled himself into Aidacoel’s path. Like an anvil shaped like nimbus cloud, the corporeal steam smashed into Dante’s side, sending him spinning. I heard the splinter of one or more of his bones, and I feared he would be out of this fight; if he was lucky, that is. If not, a cultist might slit his throat or brain him and be done with it.

Bert fought his way toward Jessie with savage skill. When a foe grabbed the barrel of his pistol, Bert didn’t resist. Instead, he tweaked it as if flicking on the safety, and then he pulled down on the handle. But instead of a clip of ammunition coming out, there was a switchblade in his hand, the snapping out with the press of a button. With a swift slice, his opponent went down. Mr. Turtle quickly retrieved his gun and raced for the boy. I would have followed, but the utter mayhem of screaming men and women cut us off. A fanatic member reached Jessie before Bert; screaming madly, he tugged the boy from the altar, quickly dodged past the rushing Mr. Turtle, and threw himself and the child toward a smoking cauldron from another side.

Bert leaped onto the cultist just as Jessie was tossed toward his doom. I watched in horror as the comatose boy left the hands of the man. Bert was only feet away, but it was not enough!

Then a miracle happened. There is no other word for it. Either the saint Leocadia or god was surely watching. Jessie rolled across the lip of the cauldron like a basketball along the winning basket; then the boy flipped into Bert’s waiting arms.

NO! The voice screamed as much in anger as in remonstration to the cultist, who had apparently made some sort of error. The force of the voice sent Bert, me, and all cultists flying back as surely as a hurricane wind. Bert rolled across the ground, breaking his fall and cushioning the boy. I leaped away from the scrabbling people and found a foothold apart from both allies and enemies. For one more brief moment, there was complete bedlam as sides were chosen. The terror started to die down, and those cultists that hadn’t fled in panic made their way to the side of the cauldrons. Bert and I were at one end; Bert had terrific gashes across his forearms and face, and because of his protective hug, Jessie remained unharmed. At the far wall, Dante lay unmoving.

We each took a minute to rest and gather wits, though we backed up as far to the wall and as near as we could to our ally, Bert nor I dared check on Dante just yet. I guardedly informed Bert I heard other cultists above us. He nodded somberly. The featureless form of the godling motioned to a cultist, and the skinny man immediately knelt at the being’s side.
BRING ME THE INNOCENT AND THE HEARTLESS TO ME ALIVE, the voice demanded of the cultist. THERE IS STILL TIME. KEEP THEM NEAR, AND I WILL GATHER MY POWER. THEY MUST EACH GO INTO THE CAULDRON ASSIGNED TO THEM.

Apparently, Aidaoel had limits while he had to come to Earth in full form. But those limits seemed to expand, as we felt the literal weight of his last sentence slap us like the tide. Bert cautiously edged to Dante while the cultists warily inched nearer, melee weapons of blunt and edged forms coming out from beneath folded robes. Still holding Jessie, Bert gently knelt to check Dante, and shook his head no. I sniffed the air and detected Dante’s breath; it was faint and shallow. Mr. Turtle slid his way back to me.

Bert and I would be hefting this alone.

Other cultists meandered down the stairs; how they would be forgiven for missing “the summoning” was beyond me.

Maybe they wouldn’t. And maybe they knew this, and hoped this tactical display of sandwiching us between them would buy a bit of clemency. Bert was too far to stop them, and I saw his discarded gun upon the floor, the barrel bent. He would have to release Jessie in order to get his backup gun, something he wouldn’t do when there were crossbows pointing at us. Each held a religious symbol poised at me; there were thirteen in all, one coming down in front, the others coming down two at a time, each with a hand upon the shoulder of the one before them. Then they all began chanting, and the wisp of magic fell into the air.

“Malboa contra misstag . . .” I flinched at the words; the dank air began to brighten.

But Bert had more up his sleeve than knives and ammunition clips. Tucking into the robe disguise, his free hand came out with a small remote. He pushed it one, and then there was a small snap. Yellow-colored smoke engulfed the mages, and they started coughing and choking. When the leader came down the stairs gagging, Dante lurched up with the speed of vengeance, his right arm hanging limply and his good hand coming up out of his robes bearing a leather sack.

The bag exploded as an entire satchel of pixie dust smashed into the lead spellcaster’s nose. He shuddered and dropped to the floor, his broken nose bleeding profusely. With the attention of the spellcasters entirely ruined with the gas, the spell fizzled, and the briefly lightened air darkened instantly.

I guess the “pixie dust” is only completely effective against the supernatural. However, it had served its purpose. And Bert had definitely saved some layers of my skin.

Maybe we stood a chance after all.

Well, I suppose I should finish this. But with the advent of our Halloween excursion, finishing it wasn’t too high on my priority list. Oh, and for those wondering, Dante is headed back to Britain, if he is not already there.

Part VIII

The twelve others stumbled out of the gas, which was dissipating as quickly as it had come into view. With their religious symbols unfocused in that moment of disarray, I attacked. First one mage, then another, and another fell under my onslaught; the rest scattered as I came nearer, lowering their symbols in the wake of the horror brought on by an enraged vampire. The cultists nearest their god charged, but their numbers stumbled as Bert had his backup gun in hand, silencer-ridden and ready.

Dante’s face was white with pain, but he stood tall and erect. “Get ready, Mary!” he hollered. “I want all of th’ bloody bas . . .” he jerked to the side as a crossbow bolt lunged after him, missing by inches. “Get ‘em ALL, Mary!” he roared.

And so the final battle began.

I leaped to the wall and started scaling it in a haphazard fashion to draw crossbow fire away from Bert, Jessie, and Dante. Stalking the wall in panther-like fashion, I was struck several times by the crossbows, as I didn’t yet have the skill to dodge too successfully while adhering to the wall or ceiling, but my actions kept the attention focused on me for several seconds. None of the cultists wanted to turn their gaze from a vampire on the prowl. As long as their eyes were on me, they felt safer. So I managed to gain several seconds of time, moving back and forth and staring hard at them, preparing to catapult myself at their throats if the opportunity presented itself.

But Bert was not one to stand idly by. With the unconscious Jessie draped over his forearm, he raced across the room and nearly stumbled once, grabbing something off the floor before straightening. He reached into his robes and pulled out small vials of some sort; he tossed these one at a time into the crowd. Flashes of flame and smoke billowed out as the vials shattered, small grenades that burned and ripped into flesh. Their attention was forced to divide between the two of us; even Dante, with a broken arm and as pale as a full moon, could be a threat to them.

I tensed my muscles in preparation for attack.

Bert and I exchanged glances; Dante’s fingers twitched as though calling for his ankh.

We attacked as one. I launched myself just as Bert brought more of the vials to bear. The figures Bert aimed the vials at screamed and retreated as the flames curved up. When the patches of smoke and fire faded, they were hesitant to go near the blackened area. I had my hands about a cultist’s throat, and he in turn twisted around before my grip had tightened and fired his crossbow into my chest from that pointblank range. The silver head of the quarrel seared dully through my severed heart and dropped me in my tracks.

The air all around grew stiff with the presence of gathering magic. The feeling exuded by the energy was filled with an intense hatred; it was impossible for me to discern whether it was the maddened Aidacoel or the vengeance driven spirit, Mary. Wisps of incandescent light floated about like strewn feathers. Even as I fought off cultists, the air thickened to gelatin.

A mournful howl crooned against the ossifying air. On some sort of unspoken signal, the cultists parted; Aidacoel raised transparent arms and gestured massively in a motion of beckoning. Nearly half the floating wisps darkened to the same deep, tainted hue of Aidacoel.

INNOCENT! HEARTLESS! YOU ARE MINE!

A telekinetic force latched onto Jessie and me, drawing us nearer the cauldrons. Bert hugged the boy to his chest and I fought against the inexorable power. But it was not a matter of strength. Both Bert and I were helpless to resist the energy that gathered us in.

Church Assault: Part IX

The pull was magnetic in its intensity, cumbersome in its speed. Jessie, hauling Bert along effortlessly, and I were being dragged toward the godling with the speed of a slow crawl. The cultists had taken to the sidelines, chanting in a monotone. I sensed no magic in their drawl. All was coming from Aidacoel.

“Bert, ya ain’t exactly helpin’ ta stop th’ flow,” Dante observed, watching the cultists warily. “Come quick an’ help me, ay? Ya can catch Junior when I get ma ankh back.”

Bert released Jessie grudgingly, and the boy slowly floated ahead. The cultists completely ignored all of us, their hands clasped together in prayer and their heads uplifted as though in some sort of spiritual ecstasy.

Mr. Turtle took this opportunity to reload his gun; Dante was scanning the floor frantically. “Where’s ma ankh?”

“Right here,” Bert rummaged in a robe pocket at his waist and tossed the article to the other man. “Got it right before the air started to turn to—” His sentence was broken off as he grimaced, waving away a cloud of purple wisp that wavered toward him.

“Come on, then,” Dante shuffled forward, his face beginning to sweat profusely with all the effort taken to remain effective with a broken arm. “Get ready ta catch th’ kid. On ma signal.”

Bert positioned himself below Jessie; Dante stood in front of the limp figure and, grimacing stoically, raised the ankh as though to intercept the magic.

Bert didn’t speak when Jessie dropped into his arms. Backing up, he kept the cultists at bay once more with the grenade-like flasks.

THE TIME IS AT HAND! Aidacoel roared as thunder.

“Too right, ya smokin’ bag of fart,” Dante challenged. “Mary, we’ve given ya all the time we could. It’s now or never! So start it now!”

The wisps of glowing smoke suddenly grew in size and took on a life of their own.

Or rather, they took on an afterlife of their own. Billowing about like a sail unfolding in an unseen wind, the ethereal light of the wisps shaped into the twisted, horrific visages of souls long tortured men and women. Gathering like an army, their attention was solely focused on Aidacoel. For a moment, I sensed the winds of magic change direction.

And instead of going forward, I was edging back as though the polar alignment of magnetism had changed sides.

Throughout the exchange, I was helpless; I couldn’t move and I couldn’t speak. All I could do was watch.

Without warning, I was flung across the room with the same velocity of a cannon discharging an iron ball. The wall behind me was rent with the stunning force of my collision, and I slumped to the ground, completely stunned.

“I’m . . .” I wanted to assure my allies I was all right as I struggled to upright myself. But the attack, instigated by the power of a godling, was not something even a vampire could easily shrug off.

Seething with rage at my continuance of survival, Aidacoel turned his attention instead toward the spirits altering his power. With an uplifted, translucent fist, the wisps took form.

Their shapes were that of twisted, crimson demons, malformed limbs edged with claws and spikes, gaping mouths stuffed with crooked teeth. They advanced upon us with the look of death in their insane eyes.

Conclusion

A roll of thunder slammed throughout the basement. The sound jerked all from their predisposition to kill their foe; demon, human, and vampire alike whirled at the sound. In the middle of the room, Aidacoel was surrounded by whitish-blue glowing spirits like the waves crashing upon the seashore. The shrieking entities swirled around him like so many mad moths, and the godling could only roar in rage. The insane deity was positively translucent now. Only the mist boiling forth had any semblance of solidity, and they were the chains that kept him bound.

The air stiffened with lightning; another wave of energy burst forth, the strongest yet. But instead of vanishing, the force turned in on itself, sucking like a vacuum even as it had when trying to appropriate Jessie and me.

But this time, it was the demons that were being drawn inward. Though they could struggle and did struggle, it was all in vain. Their claws leaving deep furrows into the stone floor, they were swallowed up by the power consuming them. A mighty wind was created as vortices ruptured at the cauldrons’ opening, slowly pulling the screaming god inside. The wind clawed at our clothes, but we were not affected by its powers. A pearl white figure broke off from the spirits and settled beside Dante; he turned and faced her without surprise. Though she spoke only to him, we all heard her.

Go, she ordered. There is a secret passage that will lead to the surface, created long ago. She indicated the wall ruptured when I had been struck. You must hurry. The vortex will take the church with it.

“And what about you, Mary?” Dante asked. “You and th’ other spirits will be at rest, then? You will be avenged?”

Yes, she said. As agreed. The murderers are gone. Now go.

He nodded, and we hurried to the passage, opened by the force of the spirits’ fury. The gale was just as furious in the tunnel as it was in the room, and we had to fight our way up the stairs and through the growing winds. The banister was thick and welded straight into the stone, offering good support. Bert reminded us to leave the remains of our ragged robes inside before leaving the church grounds. Outside, the moon and stars were absent, blanketed by thick clouds. The wind was ordinary out here, and the humans slightly shivered. Dante covered the young boy in his leather coat.

“Dante, ya mind if I have that mint painkiller thing ya used back there?” Bert asked suddenly. “I could sure use some after those fu—” he looked cautiously at Jessie and amended his language. “Uhh, freaking . . . umm, dogs.” Dante was happy to oblige, though I refused when he offered one to me. The moment he had finished chewing the small square, Bert reached into his vest pocket, checked a metallic cylinder for damage, and pushed a button on top of the device.

The church, rocking under the force of the otherworldly influence, erupted into tongues of flame. “Just giving Mary some help,” Bert shrugged, returning the cylinder into his pocket.

We watched the inferno turn inward, but they were not extinguished. The immense flames added their light to the neon glare of the casinos and night clubs. Whatever darkness the night might have possessed retreated under the harsh glare of the mingling lights. As a city known for odd attractions, I wondered how long it would be before someone noticed the fire was real.

The three of us parted ways; Dante, assuring us Jessie would wake soon and have no side effects of the drug administered to him by the cult, would find the mother through the aid of the spirits that always surrounded him and return the boy to her, as neither Bert nor I had the appearance of anybody ordinary. Bert looked like he had been flayed alive with cuts and lacerations, and I was badly burned and bleeding superfluous sparks. Bert would alert the police to the fire by way of his cellphone; I would make certain none of the cult had escaped the destruction of the church.

I haven’t seen either Bert or Dante since that Friday the thirteenth. Bert had said he’ll call a psychic healer he knows to help hasten his recovery. I hope Dante caught his long overdue flight back to Britain, and hopefully to a long rest.

All in all, it was a very . . . productive way to start a weekend.

Celeste Darken wrote:All in all, it was a very . . . productive way to start a weekend.

That's one way to put it.

***
Aidacoel some kinda psychic alien or something, right? How do we know this was it's only cult?

I found some papers while I was infiltrating the cult that were painfully ambiguous about that subject. There may be more or there may not be more. Really a damned pain in the ass.

Fuck.

You know I can hold my own in a fight, but if somebody pulls out a giant alien with his own army in the middle of it I'm goin' home, Jack, and I ain't comin' back 'till the Marines get there. With tanks.

Pistols are my bread and butter but if I have to go through that again I'm finding a way to sneak in my M16A1. You know I can field strip and reassemble the damn thing in about 45 seconds. If I have to bring it in piece by piece next time I will.

We could've certainly used all the help we could get in that battle; Marines and armor or not. Next time I have to deal with a cult of 100's and an evil extradimensional enemy I'm definitely bringing you along Willie; I just wanna see the look on your face when steam turns ugly, summons a horde of demons, and gets all grabby haha.

Check your P.M.

Hahaha, man that was great.

But in all seriousness if I have to do that again I'm bringing as many of you guys around here as I can lay my hands on.