Summary: Willow has now spent a month in England, and is loving every minute of it. Marcus is still facing the quandary of what to do with her. Larcinda’s forces have grown considerably, and she is baying for blood ...

August

“I’m immortal?”

Larcinda strode around her latest creation, and smiled saliently.

“Indeed you are,” she said. “You will, if you serve me satisfactorily, have a life beyond your wildest imagines.”

“Bloody marvellous,” he gasped. “Absolutely bloody marvellous.”

“Indeed.” Larcinda brushed her hand against his strong chest. “And it’ll get more wonderful, inordinately so, with every passing day. Of course,” she breathed coldly, “it can be ended in an instant.” The stake was embedded in the neophyte’s heart before he could draw his next “breath”.

The newborn vampire burst into a cloud of ashes, his still vaporising skeleton falling at Larcinda’s feet. She brushed the remnants of the stake from her hands, and turned to face the other twelve novices that were a result of her previous night’s work.

“As you can see, I give nothing about your lives,” she stated lethargically. “He died because I wished it, plain and simple. If any of you cross me, displease me, in any way, your existence will be terminated just as swiftly.”

Her routine introduction made, she told the incumbents to mix with the more experienced members of her newly formed clan. They now numbered in excess of a thousand, the greatest concentration of the undead to appear in the British Isles for decades. Her previous clan had been preparing for the task for months, and had intended to start upon it on the fateful day when Marcus had brought complete and unexpected decimation upon them.

“Grant,” Larcinda called across the abandoned military base. “Grant, kindly move your obsequious hide over here.”

Grant Harrington, one of the three vampires who had escaped from the maelstrom of death along with her, strolled casually across to join his mistress.

“I am, as ever, at your demand,” he said sarcastically. “Perhaps you are requiring me to find an attendant to clean your esteemed posterior.”

“I hope you catch yourself a pox,” she returned. “A real beauty of a pox that’ll have you scratching your mangled crotch for all eternity.”

“Considering I’ve had every man, woman and thing to be had, and remained clean, you’re doomed to disappointment.”

“And you’re doomed to my poker collection entering your guts unless I like the answer you are about to give me.” She arched her slender eyebrows. “Have you found the whoreson bastard?”

“Language, language,” Grant reproved mockingly. “As it happens, I have.” He reached into his jacket, and produced a tattered photograph. It showed a tall black man reclining on a park’s bench, a young redhead by his side. “Problem is, the guy’s departed quite acrimoniously from the location of this picture 3 weeks ago.”

“What?” Larcinda screamed, incredulous with rage. “I told you to kill the fucker!”

Grant backed a few paces clear of her. He had lived for over three hundred years, and had no intention of surrendering his eternal existence. “I sent five of our finest men after him,” he stated bluntly, “but ‘the fucker’ saw them reacquainted with their creator in a record time. Twenty-three seconds, to be precise.”

“Shit, shit, shit!” Larcinda’s face was torn into its demonic guise by the news, her piercing brown eyes changing to soul-destroying yellow daggers. Not that either actually possessed a soul to destroy. “And you waited three goddamn weeks to bother to impart this fact to me?”

Grant shrugged. “Had other things to do. Would have given you a call, but, well, couldn’t be arsed.”

Larcinda would have loved nothing more than to dispatch her acerbic lieutenant where he stood, but knew the effort would be futile. Grant was skilled in a deadly litany of martial arts, thus rendering virtually untouchable. He also had a vast array of contacts that would be less than enamoured with his passing; these were the kind of contacts that even Larcinda feared.

“Piss off Grant,” she snapped. “Just piss off this instant before I put your woefully underused combatant prowess to the test.”

“Your every wish,” he mouthed, and moved away, whistling casually to himself.

She utilised the foulest profanity in her extensive vocabulary, and reached for her cell phone. The Order of Turaca was not cheap, but if you wanted a job done, she ruminated testily, and her minions were incompetent, you would have to pay for it.

Marcus would die.

* * *

Fishborn was not a name widely know. In fact, most people would have given a look of utter incomprehension upon hearing it spoken. This suited Marcus’s needs perfectly.

He had been staying in a small hillside cottage provided by his sect, the dew dancing silver in the sun every morning as he trained. He went through his vast array of kantas to the sound of the gentle current of the small, sinuous river that threaded its way past the Victorian building. Most people would have found it idyllic.

Marcus, however, was not most people.

What a friggin’ dump, he thought desultorily. No vampires, no demons, no nothing. Biggest threat I have to face is some pissed-up sheep.

His body was in full flow, moving methodically from one fighting poise to another. He flicked his legs forward, spun over in mid air, and landed on the balls of his feet, his Samurai’s katana sweeping through the air in a smooth arc.

Satisfied with the morning’s training, he packed away the sword in its silken wrappings, and returned to the cottage to change out of the sweat-stained robes. A shower and breakfast later, and the warrior emerged to begin his daily schedule.
It had all been the British Museum’s idea. The Watchers’ Council had been contacted by his sect and informed of his predicament, and had in turn arranged through the museum for “Giles’s assistant” to be given a placement on the yearly Roman excavations at Fishborn. Marcus managed to avoid a large amount of the work he was supposed to be undertaking, but to maintain the pretence, he was forced to attend the dig for several hours a day.

He climbed into the battered jeep he had been allocated, and began the drive to the archaeologists’ Nevada.

* * *

Azrael watched, and liked what it saw. The excavations were nearing it, coming steadily closer by the day. Soon, he knew, it would be uncovered, and then it would begin.

Mortal hands were the only ones that could uncover it, a safeguard built into its construction in the distant eons past. But Azrael knew this would only expedite the reckoning, for humanity was such a fallible thing.

Whoever found it would not be able to resist its power. They would have to do what was required voluntarily, but Azrael was certain that they would. Its mistress would then be able to fulfil her role, and begin the reckoning.

It would damage her as much as those she despised, but she was oblivious to that fact. Azrael, had it been corporeal, would have smiled. But it was not.

Until that time, it was required to fulfil her every desire. Such was required of it for the fall to be achieved.

It stood to loose the most from what was to come, but had decided that this was the correct path. They were all unworthy, and all would pay the price.

Soon, it would begin.

* * *

Willow moved the trowel carefully along the earth, dextrously chipping away at the soil surrounding the artefact.

Two millennia before, it had been a Tribune’s talisman, a gift from his lover before he embarked for the strange land. When he had been killed on the battlefield, it had fallen unnoticed from his body, and had been trodden into the glutinous mud.

There it had remained until this day, when a shy girl from America brought it forth again into the world.

“Over here,” Willow shouted. “I’ve got something.”

The archaeologist turned from the days previous prized find, a corroded pilum blade, and moved over to join her.

“What is it Wil?” he asked, removing a small brush from his pocket.

“I d-don’t know exactly,” she stuttered, her voice punctuated by the excitement. “But it’s definitely all Romaney.”

“Romaney … you mean Roman?”

Her head bobbed in acknowledgement.

He crouched down, and began to gently brush the last grains of soil from its surface. The Fishborn excavations revealed a plentiful supply of artefacts, but as the last of the dirt fell away, he knew the girl had stumbled upon something special.

“Jesus,” he breathed.

It was incredibly plain, but the object before them held an esoteric, mesmerising power over all those who looked upon it. It was a small, silver torque, which had slipped from the soldier’s wrist all those years before. Yet its size did not diminish its splendour. Small, glistening jewels glittered as, after eighty generations, the sunlight again caught their surface. The beautiful Celtic weave only added to the effect.

“Hey, Dave,” the archaeologist called ebulliently, “get over here.”

His companion came over, and muttered a similar imprecation. Willow just grinned, suddenly acutely nervous of all the attention being lavished upon her. The next few minutes were a blur. The torque was gently removed from the soil, and brought over to the table where the other unearthed items were placed for study. A steadily growing crowd were staring at the treasure, and Willow struggled to answer the barrage of questions. Then someone from the local paper was by her side, and her picture was soon bound for the next day’s edition.

Marcus walked straight into this maelstrom of activity, and reacted to it in his usual blunt manner.

“Got some serious shit going down here eh?” he asked a passing woman.

“You can say that again,” she smiled. “The American kid’s just made the find of the year.”

“Cool,” Marcus grinned.

He knew, although it meant little to him, that Willow would be ecstatic at her discovery. She had accompanied Marcus for the simple reason that she had had nowhere else to go. Her father had proved to be completely incommunicado, and not a trace had been found of her mother.

Marcus had told her to consider this to be an extended holiday, but knew that the pretence would not last. Bereft of the extensive legal knowledge needed to help her, he had done the best he could. His greatest fear would be his sect discovering his actions, which would result in him receiving a harsh reprove, and Willow being left to the mercy of the United States’ Juvenile services. Marcus’s brief experience of their care gave him an iron determination that the same would not happen to Willow.

However, the summer was wearing on, and soon, Marcus thought ruefully, the dream would end. He looked over to the clique of archaeologists, and saw his young charge making a discrete exit. She saw Marcus, and ran over to him. She was begrimed with mud, a result of working on the dig and sleeping in a small tent at its outer edge.

But she still looks a thousand time better than when I met the kid, he ruminated happily. Willow had genuinely seemed to come alive during the span of the past few weeks, much of her reticence and self-depreciation leaving her.

“Marcus,” she smiled. “Come look what I’ve found.”

He returned the grin, and followed her. He knew, suddenly, that he would soon have to destroy her happiness. But that could wait; right now, he went to see the achievement she was so proud of.

* * *

Azrael knew the time was almost at hand. The fact that a blood relation of one of the vessels had discovered the key was a wonderful coincidence even this omnipotent being could barely comprehend. It would only help what was required to take place all the more smoothly.

She too would have to be sacrificed, it knew, but the ends more than justified the means.

And soon, the means would facilitate something both the Firsts dreaded with equal vehemence.

Azrael had not been there for the beginning, and knew he would soon witness the end.

© Byron, 2000