Rise of Atlantis

   Part One: The Ironic Bard

                                          By Ilara Adonia Bonaparte

 

                                                           

            The fluorescent lights had a tendency to make anyone look abnormally pale.  It was the curse of the institution: you may be privileged in America, but the fluorescence would still make you look ugly.  Not even modern technology could replace the stinginess of the Board of Education. 

            Even decades after the installation, the fluorescent lights were still used.  Even with the invention of cheaper, power-efficient light bulbs, schools still insisted upon the use of the outdated ones that have a tendency to cause splitting migraines.

            Aria hated school more than the fluorescent lights, more than spiders, rats, and dogs put together.  She was, needless to say, more of a cat person than a dog person.  She tapped her fingers on her desk, imitating a drumbeat.  Algebra was a total bore; she needed to be out, moving.  Possibly drinking or sleeping. 

            She glanced lazily at the wall clock, calculating how fast she could get out of the school before the crowd started in the parking lot.  Not that she had a car; she preferred her hoverboard.  But still, she hated maneuvering around those overly endowed lumps of metal.  It annoyed her, having to make sure they didn’t hit her.

            Aria was annoyed easily.

            She glared at the clock, and Ben Nimeru, one of her few close friends, grinned at her, knowing what she thought.  His neon pink hair had dimmed down a little, more of an orangish red, now.  His blond roots shown through, as well.  Ben’s dimples were a little fake; his mother had forced him to go through cosmetic surgery.  After that, Ben had abandoned all pretense and instantly started wearing the black and reddish plaid that made up the “punk” group.  He’d had a crush on Aria ever since she’d moved there a few months before. 

            Aria made a motion to the holo-teacher and rolled her eyes at Ben.  The hologram teacher was simultaneously teaching over a hundred classes, and wasn’t focused on theirs right now.  A student from the school a few miles south had been bombarding her with questions, as usual.  Aria knew her only because she always asked questions, distracting the teacher and allowing her to sleep.  But to her chagrin, she’d had too much caffeine and was wide-awake.  She sighed, head on her hand, and willed the clock to move faster.  Ben only shook his head, returning to his sketches.  He was used to her acting this odd, obsessing over the end of class.  It was an old habit of hers.

            She made a whimpering noise in the back of her throat and rubbed her temples.  It had been a long day.  As usual, her passing by cliques in the hallways was always accompanied by whispers.  The usual rumor swapping, of course, but she’d heard a few that discouraged her.  They all seemed to, these days; perhaps she was going soft. 

            She sighed, placed her head on her desk, forgetting that there were sensors in them that recognized body heat.  She hadn’t even hacked into the system and disabled her desk’s, like she did when she needed a nap; it was simple reaction to the stuffiness of a Friday on the last hour of school.  The holographic teacher finished her conversation with the student miles away, and whipped her head towards Aria.  “Ms. Scipio, head up, now.”

            Aria sighed, propping her head up with her hand again and looking at the hologram stupidly.  The teacher continued dismally, “Perhaps if you didn’t let your attention wander, you’d have better grades in this class.” She smiled evilly and Aria heard the chuckles off her classmates coupled with the chuckles of hundreds of other classes.  At this, her very short fuse snapped, and she sat upright.

            “Perhaps if there were anything in this class worth learning, I’d have better grades.  Or maybe if there was a better student to teacher ratio, or a simpler way to learn Algebra, without the unknowns.  What is the point of unknowns?  Everything these days is known, if we need the answer to a question, we could just go on the ‘net and plug the figures into an answer generator.  It’s too simple, this class is stupid, pointless, and inefficient.” With a malicious smile she added, “Perhaps it should be made into a class on the Internet, considering that most of the class simply surfs all period.” The boy in front of her jumped, turned, and glared, instantly closing a window on his laptop.  Aria didn’t want to know what he’d been looking at.

            The Internet comment hit the woman hard; it was widely known that every child beyond the age of three could access the internet with great proficiency.  It was a deep insult to her class.  However, she smiled, and Aria looked at her like she had sprouted a second head.  A look at her own laptop explained the smile; the teacher had just given her twice as much homework as the students were to complete.  She swore under her breath and sunk in her chair, content to glare.

            The bell rang and Aria shot out of her seat, barely having time to grab her notebook.  She was halfway down the hall when Ben caught up to her.  The crowd, as usual, was horrendous.  It smelled like any school; disinfectant mingled with sweat, tears, and the occasional blood drop.  Tile floors and tile walls, each an incomprehensible, odd color between yellow and green. 

Ben sidled up to Aria and was nearly swept away by a tittering girl in pink.  He dodged aside, and turned to smile brightly at Aria.  Even in the horde of sharks, he was sickeningly cheery.  It was shocking in its normalness, but also its obvious unsuitableness.  A smile, in a school?  It shouldn’t happen, but it did every day, much like the occasional grin of the convict. 

“Aria, my venus, my Aphrodite, my Guinivere,” he said, accenting every other syllable with a poet’s ability of iambic, “The party tonight.  Tell me you’ll show, or there will be no point in spiking the punch.”

            She shook her head, arriving at her locker.  She stopped, struggled to remember the combination; she’d had so many lockers in the past few years, it was easy to forget.  Remembering, she twisted it in the correct directions.  “Ben,” She said softly, “You know you don’t need to spike anything to get me to drink.” She added brusquely, “And there’s no point in calling me Venus and Aphrodite.  They’re the same person, different language.  And calling me Guinivere is…insulting.”

            He looked at her oddly.  “Insulting?” He asked stupidly.

            Aria sighed, threw her notebook and disks in her backpack.  Ignoring the protests of clinking plastic, she zipped up the bag and turned to him, stating huffily, “Guinivere betrayed Arthur with Lancelot.  She may be beautiful, but she was corrupt.  Just like the two evil sisters in King Lear, the two evil stepsisters in Cinderella, and, of course, Snow White’s stepmother.” She threw the backpack onto her shoulders.  “I used the Disney references because I doubt you’re familiar with Shakespeare.”

            Ben shrugged, obviously not comprehending a word of what she had said.  “Whatever.  See you.”  He began to walk away, then turned in the horde of students and yelled, “Who was King Lear?”

            Aria put her hand to her head, shaking her red curls.  Black eyeliner came away on her hand, and she sighed.  It simply wasn’t her day; the party at Ben’s was one she would have to go to, simply to unwind.

            Ben was known for his crazy parties; his house (properly called a mansion, one would argue) was outfitted with nothing less than a hot tub, pool, bar (manned by Ben’s lowlife brother) and more than ten bedrooms with simple outfitting, properly named the Shag rooms.  The name came in part from the carpet of most of them and what had been done in them. 

            The parties had been extended to every weekend his parents were away; this added up to about twice month, maybe more if the school body was lucky.  Aria made it a point to be at each party, to get trashed, and pass out in the exact same place every time.  It was tradition.  It always had been an odd sort of ritual that somehow alleviated Aria’s worries about life, love, and college.  It was a constant, Ben’s parties, and it was important to her in more ways than one.

            The walk home was quick and noneventful.  The December air in Florida was much better than the December air in New York, where she’d spent her last winter.  Aria enjoyed not even touching a light coat in wintertime.  It was somehow comforting, not having to carry around the extra baggage.

            The grass in front of her house was still struggling to grow, as if it hadn’t lived there for years.  The house was truly ugly, the ugliest she’d lived in, ever.  The paint had been white, once, but it was now gray with peeling sides.  The trim on the doors and windows had been a light blue, but melded into the gray of the former white.  The house was simply a ramshackle blob of wood and cheap paint.  The stepping-stones from the driveway to the door were overgrown with the only flourishing grass, and the screen door was matted and torn.

            Aria frowned, as she always did, on the sidewalk in front of the place.  It seemed odd that even in this day and age, there was still so little technology in some places.  Her frown deepened as she stepped across the dying grass onto the mini-porch and into the house.  She stood on the threshold, not wanting to deal with the monster within, but she knew it would happen eventually.  She stepped inside, closing the door behind her. 

            She crept through the living room, kitchen; she was at her door when, from her mother’s room, came, “Oh, honey, you’re home?  Come tell me about your day.”

            Aria rested her forehead against the door.  “I’m tired, mom, I think I’ll just go to sleep.”

            Lila stepped out of her room and regarded her daughter.  The house was unlit; electricity faded in and out, most times.  The brown color splashed on the walls was diminished to almost black by the darkness.  He mother held a book; some cheap romance novel she found at a garage sale, most likely.  Aria shifted the weight of her backpack from her left shoulder to her right.  She feigned a yawn.

            “Aria.  You’re a teenager, I know what it’s like, but just tell me something about you, for Christ’s sake.  I barely know you anymore.” Lila looked almost pathetic, leaning against the frame of her bedroom door in a white silk thigh-high robe and pink negligee.

            Aria shrugged, shifted her weight on her feet.  Thoughts caroused in her mind, one being, why is my mother wearing that?  Her dark eyes sought for an escape route; the only answer was her bedroom or the front door.  The back door was near her mother’s soft form.  Aria said smiling ironically, “I’m goin’ to Ben’s tonight.”

            Her mother’s face brightened, hoping for her daughter to become romantically involved.  “A boy?”  Her face fell again as she realized the implications.  “Will his parents be there?”

            Aria sighed, rubbed her temples.  Her mother was mildly insane, most of the time it was harmless, if not annoying.  Some days she’d ignore Aria altogether, then there were days like this, where questions galore seemed to be the daily special.  Aria was sick of it, but where could she go?  She didn’t know who her father was, and wasn’t aware of any relatives, except of an aunt named Kalika that was whispered about in the darkness of night by her mother.  “Yeah.” Aria lied, opening her door.

            Lila smiled cheerfully as Aria crept into her room, and Lila retreated to hers.  Aria longed to jump back into the hallway, shake her and scream, Stop!  Just stop being insane for a moment and be neutral!  But no, her mother had some kind of emotional disorder involving mood swings.  Aria didn’t know whom to blame; her mother’s therapist had said it was from a tragic event.  A form of amnesia, she called it.  Whatever, Aria wanted someone to blame, badly.  She enjoyed feeling anger towards another human being.  Even more, she enjoyed taking out that anger on another person, though she had a tendency to lose.   She still couldn’t help herself, sometimes.

            Aria laid on her bed, hugging a stuffed cat to her chest.  She fell asleep easily; one got good at dozing quickly when a burst of energy was required.  Ben’s party would require more than a burst; it would require a boom.

           

            The shrill ringing of the phone interrupted Aria’s sleep.  She kept her eyes closed when she heard her mother answer it.  Aria had begun to drift back asleep when she heard her mother gasp.  Aria groaned and turned over in her bed.  Just one of her friends, telling her gossip, she thought hopefully, casting away the nervous feeling in her stomach.  However, Aria distinctly heard her mother demand shrilly, “Are you sure?  Kalika?”

            Aria’s attention was piqued when she heard her Aunt’s name.  She had only seen Kalika once in her life, and the woman had appeared quite a bit younger than her mother at the time.  Aria had cast her aunt’s youth off as cosmetic surgery, nothing more.

            She sat up in bed, dimly making out the shape of her room in the utter darkness.  A glance at the clock revealed it was 8 o’clock. She’d slept five hours and was still tired.  She cursed and reached over to the lamp on her bedside table and flicked it on.  The light blinded the girl and she hissed, placing her arm over her eyes.  The slow removal of her arm revealed her dismal room decorated with miscellaneous posters to hide the abhorring pink paint beneath.  Her mother’s words were muffled and Aria slipped out of bed to her door, opening it an inch.

            Her mother was supporting herself on the kitchen counter, eyes closed as if pained.  She had changed into jeans and a T-Shirt that revealed her large stomach.  As the person on the other line talked, she slowly shrank to the floor.

            “But she’d sent me a postcard from Austria, saying she was on her way there only a week ago.  Are you sure Romulus-“ Her mother’s eyes opened and Aria stepped back from the door, opting instead to kneel down and listen with her ear to the crack.  Her mother suddenly gasped, as if the person on the other line had said something even more discouraging than at the beginning of the phone call.  “Miata,” she said softly, “He’s not- he’s not coming personally?”

            Sara must have given an affirmative, for Aria’s mother fingered her cross on her breast.  “I have to get Aria out-“

            Lila stood up, as if shocked.  “Miata, you’re supposed to tell me when they’ve found our location!” She listened a moment.  “Oh.  I guess that Valkyrie intelligence isn’t what it used to be, then…How close do you think he is?”

            The answer must have been very close, Aria deduced, for her mother swore.  “Tell Dahlia to send a battalion right away; and send someone after Kalika.  Aria and I will take a plane somewhere this evening with the emergency cash; we have to get out of the U.S.” Lila paced, muttered into the phone, “Greece.  I’ve got the licensing to home school Aria, it came last week.” Anger suddenly flashed across her face, and she hissed into the phone, “I don’t care what Harvey said, no magic for my daughter.”

            The anger slid off her face, and she suddenly looked all of her fifty years.  “If he’s close, Sara, maybe I should just stay and let him kill me, send Aria somewhere else.”

            Aria nearly jumped at the last sentence.  Someone was out to kill her mother?  She didn’t get along with the woman, but necessity had made them close.  Her mother was listening to Miata, again, however, and Aria diverted her attention there. 

Lila began calmly stuffing bread, peanut butter, and miscellaneous cans into a sports bag under the counter.  She said resolutely, “I can’t tell her the whole story.  She’s a teenager; she’ll hear the words, “your father” and she’ll insist upon staying to meet him.”

Aria’s blood ran cold when her mother said this.  Her father.  That was who they had been running from all these years.  Her mother must have had assistance from an Army; a battalion had been mentioned.  Perhaps “Valkyrie” was the codename for this army…Aria’s head spun.  How had her mother kept this secret, all these years?  Her hands clenched the blue carpet angrily.  How dare she?!

            Aria stood, not wanting to hear more.  She opened the window over her desk adjacent to her bed, and punched the screen out.  Clean air assaulted her nose, and the warm breeze brushed her skin and blew into her room.  She cleared the desk of the papers, disks, and sketches silently.  She climbed on the wood desk and out the window, landing gracefully on her feet.  Ben’s house was a long run, but Aria needed to run, to alleviate her anger.  The grass was soft under her feet, and the twilight magical.  She ran.

            It was unfortunate that Aria had stopped listening when she had.  For Lila, her mother, ended the conversation with the Valkyrie Miata with, “He’ll use her to get the book, if Kalika is dead.  He’ll kill me and use her, then kill her when he gets what he wants.  He won’t use her, ever, Miata.  I swear that I’ll die first.”

           

            Miata had been a general under Kalika for the last years of her sovereignty.  Kalika had instigated the revolution of Azur, the reinstallment of land to the Zulai, and she had even had ballads written for her.  She had been the most prominent figure in the land of Depla since the wizard Merdun, the creator of Atlantis. 

            Miata sat in her hero’s small home in the Valkyrie Islands just after her conversation with Lila.  The Valkyrie Islands were bound to the island just as much as the old dragon Viken was bound to protect the outer perimeters.  Miata sat on a wooden chair, cradling Kalika’s phone in her lap.  Kalika had resigned from the Valkyrie army a few years before to begin to enjoy her immortality; the Valkyries had made it clear that when she wished to return, she was welcome to.  However, King Romulus, the aging king of the State of Depla, had sent her on a last mission: to find the Morte De Dieu, a book that was rumored to have incantations of Satan within.  This, Miata had read from Kalika’s own diary, seated next to her on the wooden table.  The room was dark, dank, and smelled of vanilla, Kalika’s favorite scent.  The floors were wood, the walls wood, and the same of the tables and chairs.  A makeshift satellite was visible through one of the windows; Kalika had built it for the purpose of speaking with her only living sister.  Miata sighed, looked over to the diary.  Romulus must never find it; among other things, it revealed the immortal’s suspicion of the old king. 

            Miata picked it up and skimmed through the pages, moving the phone to the place the diary had been.  She found a particularly disturbing entry by Kalika, which read as follows:

           

“April Fourth, 2058-

Romulus is attracted to the Book of the necromancer like a moth to a flame; when he speaks to me of my army and my resignation, I can tell he yearns to hear about the Book and my findings of it.  He scares me more and more each passing day.  Harvey has insisted upon intensive drugs for the King.  He has been showing signs of madness, according to the wizard.  I hear it runs in the family.  Harvey and I are the only ones that see it, however; I already am hesitant on the matter of the Book.  Why does he want it?  I need to find out what is in it; I need to know why he is so obsessive on the matter.  Last night I heard him whispering to himself, clutching a painkiller potion.  When questioned, he merely answered that he was thinking aloud.  Does one speak aloud of murdering their wife?  I fear for my sister.  I commend her for her flight with Aria, but perhaps it would have been safer to stay in Depla…I honestly don’t know.  He wouldn’t have killed her when she first left him, but I don’t think he’ll hesitate to do so now.  I’ve already arranged for several homes to be rented as safe houses. 

            I remember when that man became king; I thought perhaps he would be a good one…better than Gareth or his father.  The slow deterioration over the years has been disturbing.  Much to Dahlia’s chagrin, I’ve silently ordered the reinstallation of the Dark Riders.  She was hesitant but I fear it is necessary.  Oddly enough, I fear the man for what he may do to his wife, daughter, and his people.  I hear that today is little Aria’s fourteenth birthday.  Ironic that today is also the day I officially retire from the head of my army.  I shall miss it, but I am very hesitant to execute Romulus’ last request of me: To find the Book.  But I can’t disobey him openly; It is my nature to go under the political machine.  I will find it, but he never specified that I bring it to him.  I intend to destroy it.”

           

Miata shook her head at the last sentence, closing the book.  She remembered her old general well; as well as the day she had resigned.  Miata sat back, the wood chair sounded its protest when she did.  She sighed, tapping her finger impatiently on the leather bound diary.  Where did Kalika go?  The last page of the diary was not long after the April fourth entry, revealing only a mention of Dracula’s castle as a possible location of the book as well as some of the incantations within the book.  Most of them caused death, the diary said.  She wished that there were more pages to the diary about the Book, but the diary was filled to brink anyway.  Miata put her head in her hands, bowing forward in her chair, elbows on her knees. 

Her valkyrie senses were in overdrive from the Lekka root she’d eaten earlier.  Vanilla ensnared her nostrils and engulfed her senses.  Her skin piqued with the humidity in the air.  The hairs on her arms were disturbed by a sudden gust of wind and Miata stood quickly, Kalika’s diary falling to the floor with a soft thump.  Miata drew the sword from the scabbard at her belt, eyes darting about the dark room.  A sudden noise in the bedroom alerted her to a presence there she hadn’t sensed before.  She put her back to the bare wood wall opposite the window, sword in front of her like a shield.  Her senses went wide: her nose indicated the intruder in the bedroom to be an overweight man with whiskey on his breath.  Another inhale and she detected two more men behind him, climbing in the bedroom window.  She shrunk low as the window opposite was broken and in climbed three more men.  Miata guessed from the sound of broken glass and the grunts of men that the same was occurring in the kitchen.  She shrunk lower, centering her weight on her crouched legs.  She waited, like a frog perched before a leap.  She may be able to handle nine, if they were as drunk as the man she had smelled.

She sniffed and was dismayed; the other men smelled nothing of whiskey.  Running was not an option, and fighting was damn near dangerous.  Miata hesitated on what to do; three very large men blocked her only escape route. 

One of the men bent over and picked up Kalika’s diary.  “Hey.” Said a gruff, deep voice, “I found it.”

The second man to his left looked over his shoulder.  “That was too easy.”

The third crossed his arms.  He smelled of a feminine perfume; he’d been with a woman in the last four hours.  In fact, so had the other two.  Fear curled into Miata’s stomach as she realized that it was possible the woman hadn’t been willing.

She maintained her position with sword in hand, crouching, only a few feet from the men.  The third went into the kitchen to tell the others of their discovery, leaving only two blocking the exit.  Her black armor was the only reason they hadn’t seen her yet; she thanked herself for going against the norm and wearing black armor instead of the standard gold of the Valkyrie.  The second man went into the bedroom, and began a heated debate with a drunk one.  The first was flipping through Kalika’s diary.

Miata slunk slowly in front of the man, stopping a foot away.  He was absorbed with a page near the end, and didn’t notice when the woman gracefully stood and stabbed him in the chest while simultaneously covering his mouth.  His cry was more of a gurgle as his lungs filled with fluid; and she slowly lowered him to the ground, sure to keep silent.  Intruders Two and Three were arguing with the other two groups about the diary, insisting it was in the living room.  The other troupes were having a hard time believing this, wanting the credit to themselves.  Miata stuffed the book into the gap between her breasts and the armor, and leapt out the window gracefully.  The grass made a soft squelching sound under her feet, and she sprinted toward the forest.  Nine horses were visible near the garden, and Miata picked up her speed, crashing through the forest, breaking twigs under her feet.  She ran and didn’t look back.

 

The party wasn’t up to Ben’s usual standard.  For one, a DJ machine wasn’t present; it seemed he had lent it out to his cousin.  The drinks at the bar weren’t as varied, but Ben’s gay brother Chris still maintained to attract the attention of the girls.  His bartending skills had flourished since the last party; he managed to somehow make a martini appealing to even Aria.  Aria had wanted Chris at one time (what female with sight didn’t?) but had thus resigned herself to the fact that he was gay, and would not date a girl.  It seemed like an obvious thing, but it was still hard for it to sink in.  Aria and boys were never a good combination. 

She sulked in a corner, nursing her screwdriver.  What can only be described as “pretty colors” by the inebriated danced in front of Aria’s drooping eyelids.  The music almost seemed visible- Whoa.

She wasn’t drunk, she was drugged; she realized with flourish.

She swore.  Ben had some low-life friends; it was likely they’d done something to her screwdriver when she hadn’t been looking.  She stood, then sunk back into the plastic swivel chair when she realized she had no feeling in them, more or less.

A boy near the bar was looking at her oddly, like he knew what was happening.  She made a point to glare at him.  She was tired, angry, and very, very drugged.  He seemed put off for the moment, turning to flirt with another girl, but she didn’t have long until he’d realize she really was drugged.  She had to get out, fast, or she would be very much screwed.  Literally, and most definitely not willingly.

She stood, supporting herself with her arm on the chair.  The stereo boomed into Aria’s sensitive ear, and she automatically put her hands to her head.  She moved out onto the wooden dance floor, wanting to be out of site of the boy who’d done this.  She intended to severely hurt him when she was in her right mind, or at least erase his existence from the social security database.  She’d done that to someone freshman year, and it had been sufficiently amusing.

The swarm of bodies brought Aria’s dormant claustrophobia to the surface.  She scrambled out of the crowd, pushing a drunkard out of the way.  Well, they were all drunkards, so it didn’t really matter.  Hell, she was a drunkard. 

Aria found Ben at the other side of the dancing mass, talking to the first girl he’d successfully hit on all night.  She almost felt sorry for interrupting, but then she remembered the lustful look of the boy at the bar.

She grabbed Ben’s collar, drawing her to him and hissed, “Home. Me. Now.”

He sputtered and motioned to the pretty blond.  She looked annoyed that Aria was taking away a boy that could possibly become a date.  She twirled red-polished fingers around pale blond hair and shifted her feet in her tight red dress.  Aria turned back to Ben and threatened him in more languages than one, all concerning his manhood.  When she arrived at the English translation he paled and bid the blond goodbye.

            Ben supported Aria with his right arm on her shoulder.  Aria leaned against him and allowed him to drag her along, eyes closed.  She knew when they’d reached the outside by the cool burst of air on her face and the quick fading of voices.  She opened her eyes and looked over to Ben, his eyes angry but worried.  They made their way past groups of smokers (Chris forbid that anyone smoke in the house) and through aisles of various makes and colors of cars.  Ben had parked safely in his three-stall garage about a hundred feet from the main entrance, and luckily no one had parked in front of his stall.  He hit a keypad on the right of his stall and muttered incoherently.  Aria busied herself for the moment by examining the slate pavement and unmowed grass behind the garage.  Its tin roof was a shiny silver that sparkled in the moonlight, and the white stall doors shone brightly in contrast to the gray paint of the main body of the building. 

            The door creaked open slowly and Aria had to lean more on Ben.  She could barely remember who she was, now, except that her name started with an “A”.  Or was it a “K”?  Suddenly, Ben whirled to look behind him, as if he’d heard a noise.  Aria looked drunkenly behind drooping lids, and saw the boy that had possibly drugged her, though no recognition shone in her eyes.

            He was angry; his white blond hair and cool blue eyes were ablaze with barely controlled rage.  His angelic face was contorted into a mix of a grimace, flinch, and sneer.  He hissed to Ben, brandishing a switchblade, “She’s mine.”

            Aria giggled and Ben looked at her oddly, sitting her on the cold stone floor next to the bumper of his car.  He motioned for her to be silent.  “I think if she was in her right mind at this moment, she’d insist she was no one’s property.” He said smoothly, barely glancing at the blade.  He seemed calm, collected; his pink hair looked brown in the darkness.  His pale complexion seemed almost transparent with the light of the moon.  If Aria hadn’t been so close to passing out, she wouldn’t have believed it was the same man. 

            The fair-haired boy smirked, said swiftly, “Ben, I don’t want to have to hurt you.  But I’ve been lusting over her for months and I will have her.”

            Ben seemed to lose his cool at that comment; a flash of anger flitted across his face before being replaced by the former neutrality.  His voice seemed to go deeper, to resonate in the quiet, “Perhaps if you’d spoken to her once, Derek,” He spat the name like it was a curse, “You’d have found that she would kill any man that would consider doing this to her.” He motioned to the very out-of-it Aria, who was currently humming “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star”.  Her arms lay limp at her sides, her head against the bumper of his black Ford sports car that somewhat resembled the Ferraris of the 1990’s.  Her eyes were glassy and her black pleather skirt was high on her thighs.  Derek’s eyes narrowed at the last sight and growled lustily.

            “Ben, please.  I can mind wipe her, or you can, but look at her; she’s a jungle beauty.” He stepped forward and Ben was there, blocking his view of Aria.  His black muscle tank top seemed to almost bulge with muscles that hadn’t been there a moment before.  Derek’s eyes widened. 

            “Get out,” Ben hissed through suddenly sharp teeth.  “Or you’ll find yourself beside your father’s grave.”

            Derek backed up, “B-B-But-“ He looked up at the nearly full moon.  Almost, but not quite; full moon was in three days.  He whimpered softly, “It’s not even full moon.”

            Ben growled, a guttural sound deep within his throat.  His eyes were slowly turning into the amber color of a wolf.  “Get out Derek, or I’ll cure you of your curse by ending your misery.”

            Derek seemed to hesitate, to wonder if he could shapeshift even if the moon wasn’t right, when Ben suddenly lurched at his inferior’s throat.  The boy’s clothes were nearly bursting at the seams with the new muscle beneath as Ben tried to maintain his half-human half-wolf form.  Derek screamed as Ben lost control over his anger and snapped at his victim’s throat, knocking him to the ground.  Ben struggled within his own mind to regain control over the situation and force himself back to human form while Derek, familiar with wolf pressure points, jabbed his right thumb into the gap between the upper and lower jaws, forcing Ben to roar in pain.  The pain made Ben hesitate, and he shifted back enough to human to allow him to speak normally.  He was still atop Derek, claws perched on his chest.  Derek was sufficiently terrified, nearly hyperventilating, but struggling to look calm.  However, there was still screaming, and Ben was confused about where it was coming from.  He decided to ignore it and make sure his victim wouldn’t attempt to harm Aria for a long while.

            “Never touch her.” He said, his half-wolf throat forcing it to sound more guttural and threatening.

            Derek seemed to have learned his place.  “Y-yes, s-sir.” Derek crawled away as Ben got up from him and easily shifted back to human.  The fear coming off Derek in waves was tempting, but he couldn’t afford to kill his rival now, not when he had played his ace. 

            Derek walked backwards, hands up and eyes on Ben.  “I didn’t know…I’m sorry…” With that, he turned and ran to the front of the house with superhuman speed.  People looked at him oddly, then to where Ben was standing.  It was dark enough that Ben didn’t worry that they had seen him change; but where was that screaming coming from?  Ben smoothed his shirt out; he was lucky he’d worn an oversize, stretchy black hooded sweatshirt, or he’d have had more problems than one.  His jeans were burst at the seams and tattered.  He sighed, turned to Aria, and suddenly, when he saw her open mouth and wide eyes, he knew where the screaming had come from. 

            Oh.

            He flinched, not knowing how to handle the situation.  How does one reveal to a girl that one was a werewolf?  Is it possible to show your crush a deep dark secret and maintain the hope of having a date?  Ben kept his face friendly, and went down on his knees.  “Aria,” He said softly, as if talking to an upset child.  “Aria.”

            She stopped screaming to breathe, and looked at him.  She didn’t resume screaming.  She was still in the same position behind the bumper, and Ben gracefully crawled on all fours over to her.  He sat next to her, breathing hard without knowing it.  Willfully changing took a lot out of him, and the worst part had been that it wasn’t all willing; his anger had gotten control and thus came his best solution to anger: his wolf.  He cooed softly to Aria, cheating a little by using the same power he used to change to calm her.  It was a werewolf trick; wolves needed a way to calm their screaming prey.  However, Aria wasn’t his prey; he recognized her as his responsibility.

            His calming power slowly lulled Aria into a troubled sleep.  He knew he should mind wipe her as well (a skill he and Derek had learned from a rogue vampire); but he was hesitant.  Now that she knew his secret, perhaps he should discover her reaction when she awoke.  He could always mind wipe her later.

            He nodded to himself and tossed pink hair out of his eyes.  He swore- the change had sped up the dye’s degeneration.  He’d have to re-dye it after the full moon for sure.  He picked up Aria easily and carried her unconscious body to the passenger door.  He set her down gently, and buckled her in.  Her legs stuck out in front of her, and she sank down into the leather seat.  He scooted her up and tightened the safety belt, placing her hands in her lap.  Her head was tilted to the left and partially covered by curly red hair.  Ben resisted the urge to gaze at her a moment, and instead opted to close the passenger door.  He walked around the front of the car, treading through oil puddles while dodging miscellaneous car parts on the floor.  He made it to his door without incident and climbed in, buckling himself in and turning the key in the ignition.  He deactivated the solar panels on the roof of the car; no point in using them when there was no sunlight. 

            Ben drove Aria home slowly, sure not to make any quick turns or stops that would scare her into awakening.  No matter how hard he tried, though, she still awoke when he was a block from her house.  He suddenly felt those blue eyes open, then stare at him.  He pretended she was still asleep, until she asked softly, “How?”

            Ben gulped.  “I was clawed by a werewolf when I was seven.”

            Aria’s eyes seemed to go blank, then confused.  “How-“ She seemed to have difficulty talking.  “How- boy ran?”

            Ben’s anger flared.  “He used Ketamine or something on you, that oaf.  I’ll kill him.” He calmed himself, resisted the urge to fantasize about taking Derek’s throat out. ”I demonstrated that my superior prowess.  He ran off with his tail between his legs.” He sniggered at the pun.  He looked over to Aria, hoping to see acceptance, but found only a sleeping girl.  It was just as well; he pulled into her driveway.  Leaving the car in park, he got out and crossed to her door.  After untangling her from the seat belt, he managed to pick her up again.  He crossed to the small porch and knocked on the door.

            Ben shifted on his feet as he waited; the princess was getting abominably heavy.  He rapped on the window this time, and then waited another thirty seconds or so.  Finally, he turned the knob, hoping against hope that Aria’s mother hadn’t locked it.  Fortune smiled upon him, and the door opened smoothly.  He dumped Aria on the nearest couch and looked about.

            It was dark, as it had been earlier the day, only more so.  Ben didn’t mind; his night vision was almost as good as his day’s.  He crept softly about, hoping to find Aria’s mother and explain what happened.  When he walked by the door to the kitchen to go down the hall to the bedrooms, he stepped in something.

            His sneaker (also ripped apart from the change) made a sucking noise to the carpet, like a sort of liquid was drenching it.  Brows furrowed, Ben dared to inhale, and gasped.  He smelled blood; blood was the liquid.  He dropped to his knees in the puddle, unable to resist the call of the wolf inside for blood.  He touched the carpet with his right hand and raised it to his lips-

            He turned his face away like he had been slapped.  No; if he tasted blood, he might be forced to shape shift, and he couldn’t afford the possibility of hurting Aria.  He would just have to resist the blood. 

            Ben nodded, gathering his willpower and rose to his knees.  He was on the threshold of the kitchen now, and whatever the blood source was, it was to his right, slouched against the refrigerator.  A slight concentration and Ben found that he and Aria were the only alive ones in the entire house.  He stepped forward three steps, and turned slightly over his shoulder to look at the body. 

            The dark hair and large frame revealed it to be Aria’s mother.  The eyes and mouth were open in shock.  The body was already cold; she had died not long after Aria had left for the party, Ben assumed.  He knelt, eyes still keen in the complete darkness.  Her stomach had been torn open, and using his werewolf senses he knew she was missing several vital organs. 

            Another werewolf had done this.

 

            The funeral was, as all funerals, especially dismal.  Ben recognized a few other teenagers, here for Aria’s sake, as well as dozens of adults, most of which were dressed in black hooded cloaks.  Ben gravitated toward Kalika.  He had thought it best to mind wipe her after finding her mother’s body.  When the coroner said the cause of death was a werewolf attack, Ben hadn’t wanted Aria to accuse him.  He had called an ambulance for both mother and daughter, and then disappeared.  The police had deduced Aria had called the number, then passed out.  Ben was grateful not to be involved in the whole matter, but still wouldn’t forget wanting to taste his friend’s mother’s blood. 

            Ben wrapped his arm awkwardly around Aria and she regarded him with blank eyes.  Tears had long been shed; she was empty from their fall.  She didn’t shrug his arm away, so he kept it there.  He assumed that it made her feel better, though she’d never admit it. 

            A middle-aged man accompanied by several brawny men gazed intently at Aria.  His eyes were cold, but Ben had the feeling they had once had warmth in them.  Ben glared at him, hair rising on the back of his neck.  His senses screamed that this man pulsed with evil deeds.

            A sixty-year old in a wheelchair gazed at the coffin solemnly.  Ben felt that this man’s power was greater than the other, but his was a good power; a warm power of spring.  Ben felt that if any of these people were Aria’s relatives, it would be a good idea to leave her in the charge of the sixty-year-old.

            The funeral ended and Ben stayed with Aria as the others filed silently out.  It seemed an odd day for a funeral; the sun was bright and the sky blue.  The wind from the Gulf of Mexico was warm.  It was not a day to spend in mourning, on the hill of a cemetery.        

            Only a few people were left when Aria finally shuddered a sigh and turned, heading for Ben’s car.  Ben followed like a good little puppy (he almost smiled at the pun).  However, they never got there; a brawny man blocked Aria’s way. 

            She seemed to look at him blankly for a moment, then asked in a soft voice, “What?” The bulked up man nodded to a space behind Ben, and both Ben and Aria turned.

            The middle-aged man stood there, his left hand on a sword hilt and his right fingering the silk of his pants.  He was nervous, Ben deduced; it rolled off him in waves.  Ben sensed something else about him; his evil aura had diminished.  Ben concentrated, and then realized the man was being cloaked from his werewolf senses.  Now who could do that?

            The old man sidled up next to Ben and grinned up at him.  Ben looked at him like he was a hydra and simply blinked.  The man extended his hand.  “Harvey.”

            Ben took the man’s offered hand. “Ben.”

            Ben tried to withdraw his hand but the other kept it a moment.  Harvey looked up at Ben, a little surprise as well as some amusement in his eyes.  “Walk with me.”                

            And just like that, Ben followed.

           

            The middle-aged man was named Romulus, and he and Aria simply stared at each other while Harvey led Ben away.  Aria looked tired; her eyes were bloodshot with lavender crescents beneath them, and her skin was abnormally pale, even for her. 

            Aria was surrounded by men: Two guarded her back, her only route to the car.  Another two adorned her right and left sides, and two stood behind Romulus.  Harvey and Ben were walking over the next hill calmly.  Aria’s mind was blank with the aftermath of mourning, the shock of the death of a loved one.

            Romulus took a sharp intake of breath, and said, “Aria.”

            Aria’s brow furrowed.  Anger swept from beneath the dark lids and she demanded, in a threatening lilt, “What?”  

            Romulus stepped closer to her, feet squelching in a new grave’s dirt.  “I knew your mother; intimately.  I am sorry for you.” 

            Aria seemed to deflate.  “Thanks.” She muttered.

            Romulus took another step closer, as if this red haired beauty was a tiger of the jungle.  “But I know a man willing to take you in; A man you’ve longed to meet your whole life.” He took a dramatic pause.  “That man is I.”

            Aria seemed to come back to reality.  Suddenly, the gears began to turn in her head, and she realized that this man- the man in front of her, standing unceremoniously on the graves of the new dead, was her biological father.  She took a step forward and demanded angrily, “Why were we running from you?  What are you to scare her so much?”

            Romulus was taken aback.  He honestly hadn’t expected Lila to have told Aria anything about why they were running.  “She- was unhappy in our marriage.”

            Aria narrowed her eyes.  He wasn’t lying, but he wasn’t telling the truth, either.  She asked a more direct question, one that had tormented her all her life.  “Why didn’t you try to find me?”

            Romulus smiled sadly.  “Aria, I did.  But every time we closed in on your location, your mother would move again.”  He stepped forward again, and now the distance between them was very minimal.  “She was an amazing woman.”

            Aria seemed to deflate again at the mention of her mother.  “Why are you here?”

            Romulus pretended to be shocked.  “Why, to take you in, of course!”

            Aria looked at him oddly and shook her head, looking at the immaculate grass.  Her black dress was simple and depressing against such a perfect backdrop.  “You’ve got to be kidding me.” She muttered.

            Romulus took her chin in his left hand.  “I kid you not.” He seemed to hesitate.  “But of course, if you’re not interested-“ He withdrew his hand and began to back away.

            Aria tried to keep her cool. Of course she wanted him to take her in- She wanted to know her father, like any bastard child. “Wait- I- I guess I could use a place to stay.”

            Romulus smiled, rubbed his hands together, then his face fell.  “Oh, dear.”

            “What?” Aria demanded, placing her hands on her hips. 

            “Well- it’s quite embarrassing- before you can move in with me, I need you to do me a favor of sorts.  A sort of proof that you really are my daughter- I mean, there is a possibility that you might not be.”

            Aria’s brain went into overdrive.  If he wasn’t her father…she needed a father!  She’d do anything to have that.  “I’ll do it.” She said simply.

            Romulus, prepared for a long argument, was taken aback.  “You’ll- you’ll do it?” He asked, amazed at how simple that had been.

            Aria shrugged like it was no big deal and willed her heart to stop beating so hard.  Romulus grinned and withdrew a stack of papers from within his breast pocket.  “This is all the information on the book I have.  We looked for your Aunt’s diary-she was the former seeker of it, but has thus disappeared- but we met some resistance from my enemies.  Beware of them, dear girl, they will kill you before they do any else.  The name of the book is Le Mort De Dieu.”  He smiled, kissed her quick on the cheek, stepped back, and snapped his fingers.  With that, he was gone, along with all his bodyguards.  Ben had also appeared suddenly, looking sullen and depressed.  He looked at Aria and sighed.  Before she could say anything, he said softly, “I know.”

            Ben walked past her, to his car.  He stopped when he was beside her.  “Now listen.” He whispered.  “They may be watching.  The good guy in this whole bit is not your dad; you understand?  He’s not the good guy.  You need Kalika’s diary, and Harvey told me that a Valkyrie named Miata will find you on the first plane you take to Austria.  Trust her; she’s one of the good guys, too.  I can’t go with you now, but I might follow later.  It all depends.”

            “On what?” She whispered back, cautious because of Ben’s sudden Secret Agent mode.

            “On if I get word of your death before everything’s arranged.” He left quietly, leaving Aria to her own devices as he readied himself to appeal to the High Council of Lyncanthropy.  Harvey had made it clear who was who in this battle, and Ben intended to be on the side of the Good Guys.  He left the keys on the hood of his car, trusting Aria would see them.  He shifted into his wolf shape when he was covered by the shadows of trees, and he headed north.  Atlanta, Georgia was a ways off, but it was difficult to tire in wolf form.   He would make it within 20 hours or so.

           

            The quick disappearance of Romulus and his brethren was mostly for show; they merely reappeared a few blocks south of the cemetery.  If Harvey squinted, he could see the form of Aria and Ben silently standing next to each other.  Good, Harvey thought, the wolf is obeying. 

            It was Harvey that quickly told Ben of the predicament Aria and the whole of Atlantis were in.  It was his duty, as a middle class wolf, to do the duty of his ancestors and obey the Atlantean populous.  Ben had felt the truth of the matter, and had accepted it all.  The boy now knew exactly what kind of predicament they were all in, and accepted it gracefully, immediately rushing to obey orders.  He was likely to become High Wolf someday, if he kept that demeanor. 

            Romulus brought Harvey out of his reverie when he demanded, “Well?”

            Harvey shrugged.  “No contact with the Valkyries, by him or Aria.  I felt it, Sire.” And even if there had been, Harvey still would have said this.  Though Romulus suspected his High Wizard of passing or withholding information, he dared not fire him.  The Queen Mother still lived, and would be tragically angry if her son did so.  The Queen and Harvey had conceived two children, passing them off as the royal heirs; one was dead, the other was the once good King that was before him.  Harvey looked at his son the way a disappointed parent has a tendency to as Harvey gauged the man’s response.

            Romulus smirked and looked pleased with himself.  He whirled and stalked down the sidewalk.  Harvey followed, thanking Merdun that he’d had enough intelligence to rent a motorized wheelchair.  The odds of any of Romulus’ guard helping an old man were slim to none. 

            Harvey smirked as he followed the procession: Four guards in front, four in back, and then Harvey, dawdling along in the rear.  He was going to win this; finally, after dealing with Romulus’ thirty years of rule, he was going to stop the man for good.  This Mort De Dieu business had all of Xarda in an uproar; the wizarding State demanded that their only ambassador to the King do something to stop him.  The Book of the Necromancer must not be taken from its resting place in Dracula’s castle.  That was the decree of the Wizard’s Council.  Harvey nearly sighed.  He was nearly seventy and he still had to obey those aging men like he was an apprentice.

            Harvey scooted along behind the makeshift parade and contemplated.  If all went according to plan, Romulus could be ousted for using dark power, but only so long as he got the book.  And he needed Aria to do that.

            Harvey absentmindedly wondered if Kalika was all right.  She was alive; she’d turned immortal nearly thirty years before in a freak accident involving an amulet, but the question was, was she still in one piece and virtually unhurt?  Odds were no.  She was immortal but not impervious to pain.  Chances were good that she was in complete agony.

            Harvey ran a hand through thinning gray hair.  Aria would go to Austria first, then work it all out from there.  He was sure Ben had told her that much, and little else.  Harvey spun along quickly, grumbling.  The air smelled of spring on the brink of summer; the houses they passed became fewer and farther in-between, and the sidewalk changed into simple dirt.  Here, the wheelchair had trouble, and Harvey used a quick incantation to make it hover along.  He giggled madly and the bodyguards muttered about the old man’s sanity.  Let them wonder, Harvey thought, I was turning chickens to mittens –or is it the other way around?- since before they were born.

            They finally reached the portal, set atop a stone pedestal and protected by spells.  Any non-Atlantean that passed this clearing suddenly had an urge to run away screaming. 

            Romulus entered the purplish blue portal first, and then followed the guards like the good sheep they were.  Harvey followed, head high, not even looking back to bid the mainland goodbye.  He wouldn’t miss the non-magical world one bit.

            The blue portal melted like liquid silk around him.  The millisecond before he rolled out the other side, there was a quick flash of sunlight; invisible to any without magical talent.  Harvey hovered into the stone platform that made up Xandretta, the capital city of the State of Depla, the wealthiest of all Atlantis. 

            After thirty years, the skyline had changed somewhat; due to Kalika’s insistence, metal had been brought in, bit by bit, to the Island and used on its normally limestone buidings.  The effect was odd; half-stone, half-metal hybrids that were neither traditional nor completely modern.  Mostly, they were made of limestone; the Holiest City in Atlantis was consistently traditional, with mere exoskeletons of metals.  A skyscraper in the distance was made of limestone, but inlaid with a silver and iron combination.  The effect was dazzling- no, blinding- when the sun hit it. 

            Harvey played follow the leader until he realized the King didn’t care whether he followed or not.  At this, Harvey disappeared from the train instantly, and slunk off to the nearest Valkyrie outpost.

            Kalika had insisted that Xandretta have a Valkyrie post, due to the fact that she needed news from the capital in order to keep up to date on Romulus’ condition.  She also needed regular communiqué from her spies and moles in the Romulus Administration.  The Valkyrie post was like an embassy, and was sanctuary. 

            Harvey stepped inside, assaulted by the warm perfumes of the Valkyrie Islands.  They perfumed their abodes when not in their homeland; it was a sort of Valkyrie eccentricity no one really understood.  They didn’t care how the outpost looked, just as long as it smelled like home.  They were an odd bunch, but no one had the guts to say it to their face.

            The walls of the Entry way were covered in red and orange drapery, adding an exotic look to the small room.  The carpet was blood red- appropriate- and the cherry wood receptionist desk was the only worthwhile furniture in the room.  Uncomfortable black chairs were placed against the walls, and two closed doors behind the receptionist led to the inner sanctum of the post. 

            Harvey dismounted his hovering electric wheelchair; such technologies were unneeded in a facility this friendly.  He sent it cart wheeling into a trash bin, forcing the pretty brunette receptionist to give him a dirty look before recognizing him.  She then smiled and returned to her work.  He immediately ordered a horse and carriage from the public messenger, and then sent him on his way.  He would return within the hour, buggy trailing him.

            In the meantime, Harvey busied himself by entering the door to the right and back of the receptionist.  This was a newsroom; various out-of-town Valkyries, and some political analysts sought this place out for its information obsession.  Rows of newspapers and magazines lined the walls, chairs, desks, and floor.  They were all those of the Valkyrie Islands, with information regarding them.  There were some a year or so old, but all those over that were sent to the special library on the coast of Depla, overlooking the ocean where the islands resided.

            The room had the musky, moldy smell associated with rotting paper as well as the fresh ink smell of a newly printed newspaper.  The floor was carpeted black; an effort to assist those with poor vision in finding the proper material.  Most of the room’s occupants were old historians or middle-aged political analysists.  The King’s own Foreign Policy advisor was having a staring contest with a copy of The Thor Gazette and looked much intrigued.  The chairs were comfortable and cushioned, assorted in color and design, and plopped wherever it was fancied a chair belonged.  Harvey stuck to the shelves opposite the door to the Entry way, and flipped through paper after paper, seeking relief to his mounting boredom.

In all, there was a mentioning of Kalika, or their current commander and friend to Kalika, Miata.  Miata was a fierce fighter, Harvey knew, he’d seen the Valkyrie in action just before Kalika had resigned two years before.  She was fierce and terrifying, but Harvey hadn’t pitied her opponents; the Azur revolution was much like the French, and the Valkyries had gone in to help the democratic side.  However, the democratic side was at that moment supporting the murders of nobility; much like its respective French counterpart.  Harvey had fought with Kalika, assisting her army by rising a magic fog, much to the chagrin of Romulus.  He hadn’t seen combat since then, when he’d used so much magic he’d nearly lost his extremities.  The headlines from the Islands mentioned the Revolution developments, and the Valkyrie presence there, but never mentioned that the “democratic” Azurans executed Valkyries under the table every day.  The Valkyries knew, but didn’t mention it for fear of losing face.  They had been mounting for a massive attack on the people they had once helped until Kalika had gone missing indefinitely, missing her assigned report-in time by approximately two weeks.  Miata had gone frantic and insisted all forces be pulled back in an attempt to gather information on their beloved Ex-General.  They had obeyed gladly; the Valkyrie respect of Kalika would not die easily.  Their concern for her went above all else.  The army was now back home in the Islands, sending Intelligence Agents to the Mainland Nations; the United States, Britain, France, Spain, Czechoslovakia, Austria, and Russia.  All these were possible resting places of Dracula’s castle, the sepulcher of the Book.

The message boy burst in, holding a stitch in his side from running.  His brown hair was matted and sweaty, his blue eyes oddly clean under a layer of dirt.  A small blade rested at his belt, and the insignia of messenger boy dotted the lapel of his scraggly clothes.  He motioned to Harvey for him to go out the door and leave his reading materials there.  Harvey obliged, and followed the boy into the road.  The cobbled streets smelled of lemon; the cleaners had just been by the Valkyrie post.  The limestone buildings shimmered with the dawn of twilight; it was nearly dark in Atlantis, and Harvey swore.  He loathed the time difference between the Mainland and the Island. 

He gave the driver directions to his home near the palace.  He climbed in easily, his feet only betraying him for a moment while he stepped on the polished wood floor of the buggy, and slipping minutely.  Harvey sat, and the messenger boy closed the door and bid the men off.  Harvey hoped the crowds weren’t too bad; he absolutely abhorred being late for dinner.

 

             Aria spent the next day reading the mess of papers she had been given.  They were not filled with information on how to find the Book, only on its contents.  It was one scary thing, and Aria wasn’t sure she wanted to find it. 

            Then she remembered the father she now had a chance to know; the man she now had a chance to joke with, talk with.  She knew she had to do this; if she didn’t at least try, she’d never forgive herself.

            She sighed, sifted through the papers again.  She had rented a hotel close to the airport after finding her mother’s bank account numbers, and used the money to her advantage.  She was in a middle-class room; not cheap but not expensive.  It had a king size bed, a balcony, a large bathroom, and a medium-size dining area.  She sat on a chair next to the small table, and looked at the yellowed paper in her hand, written on with black ink and in a messy script.  All she could make out from it was ramblings-on about powers of the book that were in no way associated with their location.  She skimmed through the papers easily, and found absolutely nothing to help with her quest.

            She didn’t care about the powers of the book; her naiveté allowed her to believe that, against the better judgment of her friend.  Who cared why he wanted the book, she wanted a father. Nothing else really mattered.

            Aria threw the papers aside.  She had an idea where to start; a postcard from Austria with the cheesy “Wish you were here” print had been mailed to her mother.  How Kalika had found an Austrian postcard with English…

            Wait.  Kalika concentrated, looking at the green hills, lush forest in the background.  The grass was incredibly, oddly green, and the forest off to the left of the picture was lush, fine.  A small hut in the center was made of stone, with a thatched roof and windows with wood frame.  She had a feeling this wasn’t Austria. 

            Aria flipped over and read the message from Kalika to her mother in a neat, perfect script.  It was simple, stating that she was in Austria, gathering clues, bidding her sister not to worry, and be wary of “R”.  Aria then found in small print at the bottom, that the picture was not Austira, but in England. 

            Aria’s heart skipped a few beats at the thought that her mother had held this postcard, read it, evaluated it before she died.  Grief- and guilt- were both strong in her mind.

            Would Kalika have gone to Great Britain and bought the postcard, then mailed it from Austria?  Perhaps. 

            But perhaps Kalika had known that someone would get ahold of the postcard; someone that the information could be dangerous in the hands of.  Aria’s gut told her to check England, then Austria.  The picture had been taken in the countryside of Wales; though the Welch land was amazingly popular for its beauty, and postcards of it were stationed in airports in England, Aria’s instincts whispered that the key was here; the search should begin in Wales.

            She absentmindedly wondered where Ben was.  He’d disappeared into the forest so quickly she had no idea what was going on with him. 

            Of course, Ben was miles away, in Georgia arguing his case to a disdainful High Council of Lyncanthropes.  As Aria slowly nodded off, papers in hand and head dipping onto her chest, Ben made gesticulations and insisted that they owed Atlantis its due, because of the heritage of the werewolf.

The Council chamber was a circular room with wood floors and stonewalls.  The walls were covered in paintings and tapestries of various important werewolves.  The paintings covered almost the entire expanse of the large room.  Rugs adorned the floor, accompanied by crimson satin pillows.  Ben had been sitting on one of these until he had lost his temper at the lack of response on the faces of the Council members.  He now stood in the center of the round room, with all eyes on him.  The fact that his father had once been a member of the Council gained him precedence over the other requests for audience with the Council.  As his temper flared, Ben reiterated the history of the first wolf in order to make his point.  Their faces were oddly blank, as to be expected.  The High wolf was one of the Nine, and they made it a point not to reveal who was the man truly in charge. 

            Ben knew the history lesson was unnecessary.  Any good wolf knew their heritage, knew who they were to their core.  They were the servants of Atlantis, whether they liked it or not.  Atlantis had been the home of the first werewolf, and thus there was a connection between the island and the werewolves.  They had spent the last hundred years estranged from their master, but recent treaties with Romulus made it all too clear who was master and who was subservient.  The wolves, most especially the Council, didn’t like to serve, and wanted to prove to their “masters” that they needed them as much as they needed the wolves.  It was like proving to an overseer that a slave was a worthwhile organism. 

            Aria dropped off into sleep, and Ben argued his case.  The case was thus: as they were servants to Atlantis, and they had suffered at Romulus’ hand, they needed to oust him.  The support of the people was with them, and the support of the Valkyries.  The Council didn’t care what kind of support they had; but as soon as Ben whispered the words, “We will prove we are equals,” there was a ruffle through the council.  Each man (or woman, there were two women of the nine) had a quick flash of something kin to anger mixed with need flash across their passive faces, then it was gone.  They needed, deep within the soul of the werewolf, to prove that they were equal.  A wolf serves no one; it is why they are wolves, not dogs.  There was a reason that dogs were man’s best friend, not wolves. 

            A wolf at the center of the table, with four to his left and four to his right, leaned forward towards the young soldat wolf, Ben.  The Council wolf had shaggy brown hair and sapphire eyes, with health club tanned skin.  His usual job was an upper crust executive in a software company, working only on the Government on his free time.  Most ‘wolves had that luxury, others just struggled to maintain their secret lives without entering the were-government.

            The man propped his head on his elbows, and looked down at Ben with those cold eyes.  He couldn’t have been more than forty, but his eyes were too dark to show anything by wisdom with the darkness of age.  “Soldat Nimeru, you suggest that the werewolves ally with the Valkyries to conquer the invincible army of Depla.  Romulus is insane, but not without allies.  Azur , Midreth, and possibly Qu’tan would war with us.  We gain nothing from a war.”

            Council members nodded their assent.  “Sire,” Ben said, pacing back and forth in front of the raised table, “We gain nothing from losing.  We will still be considered inferior, inadequate.  But if we win,” Ben paused here, smiled with a mouth full of pointed teeth, adding to the dramatic effect, “If we win, the Atlanteans will realize we aren’t merely animals, beings that simply sprung from their bosom; we will be soldiers with equal power.”

            The brown-haired wolf shifted, looked to his comrades.  Their faces were passive, revealing nothing, but somehow, by looking right, then left, he sensed their answer.  “The vampires may use it as a reason to attack, when we are weak.”

Ben cleared his throat, faced the man with arms at his side, spread the fingers and lifted them slightly, in a demonstration of respect.  “M’ lord, the vampires lost their spies years ago, and they’re too sparse to fight us now.”

The man smiled at Ben like he was a child with a correct answer.  “Oh?”

Ben nodded, gaining confidence.  “The massacre of 2003 left them without the council and most of their older vampires.  Only the ones hiding in their dungeons escaped it.”

The High Council member shifted in his chair and smiled.  “Some of my colleagues are unfamiliar with that event and aren’t as familiar with history as I.  Explain the massacre to them, please.”  The “please” was added after a slight pause, a sign that the man almost regarded Ben as an equal. 

Ben wondered what was going on; the Council member considered him an equal now, but hadn’t when he walked in.  Something had come to the attention of the man that Ben wasn’t a true subordinate, but a man rising through the ranks, though young.  Ben slowly nodded, and recounted the event.  Very few knew of it, and Ben only did because he had once met a fledging vampire and interviewed him out of his sense of fun.  All vampires knew about the massacre, somehow. Ben recited from memory, “The vampire hunter, Ilara Fox, lost all her loved ones to the whims of a Council vampire.  She discovered his daytime resting place, and from then on the other Council members’ resting place.  She killed all thirteen of them, and continued on down their bloodlines, killing their progeny.” He took a breath.  This was his least favorite part.  “The remaining vampires hunted her down, but not after she had destroyed half their population.  It took another year to hunt down all her followers.  Ilara was condemned to vampirism, and fed on her former friends until all her followers were dead.” Ben looked away.  It was a terrible price to pay for the destruction of so many vampires; killing the ones you loved because you had no choice, you were mad with bloodlust.  Ben could relate.

The center man arched his eyebrow.  “No more?”

Ben sighed.  “There is, Sir, but it’s inconsequential.  The vampires are nothing to us now; it takes time and energy to make new vampires, and too many of them were new when the massacre occurred that they still aren’t powerful to make more.  Only one has striven to do this, and he’s regaining his power somewhere near New York before he makes any more.”

“So the vampires are not a threat.” A woman on the far right said.  Her blond hair was streaked with red, and her eyes an unnerving tinge of blue-green.  She wore a deep red dress with a matching coat over it.  She was young for the Council, about late thirties or so.  She looked at the brown haired man in the center of the table.  “I would be interested to hear the rest of the story, but dear Reynauld had not cleared up some of my questions.” At this, Reynauld simply frowned slightly, and Ben knew there was fighting amongst the Council.  Reynauld was telepathic, and most of them were threatened by his power.  Fear rolled off the blond woman in waves.  She was terrified of him, but why?

Ben retained his submissive position in front of the row of the Council, but his mind whirred.  If the Council was having problems, then who was the Head Wolf, and why was he not doing anything?  Who controlled them?  Ben snapped his attention back to the blond woman.  “Who gave you this information?” She demanded.

“Harvey, Madam, a wizard of Atlantis and spy for the Valkyries against Romulus.” At this, the woman laughed.  Ben frowned, and so did the rest of the Council.  Her laugh was dark, with promises of evil within.  She was not a very good woman. “Madam?”

She smirked at him. “Harvey.  He is Romulus’ father.  We would be walking into a trap.” She shook her head.  “Get out of here, soldat, and never use your father’s former position on this Council to your advantage again.  You naïve wolf, you nearly killed all of our army.”

Ben’s eyes widened and he looked at the rest of the Council.  They were as shocked as he, and Ben realized with a start that without this revelation, they would have gone to the Valkyrie’s aid and proved to their former masters that they were no longer subservient.  He covered it quickly, “Even if it is a trap, walking into it and winning would be-“

The woman interrupted the subordinate.  “We walk into a trap and they will think us fools for sure.”

Ben glared at her, abandoning the subordinate position and looking her straight in the eye, back straight and hands behind him.  He realized he was being insulting to the others, but he didn’t care, he needed his point made. “We walk into a trap, and win, and they’ll fear us, not the other way around.  My men are good enough, and they don’t even have full training!  If we band all the regiments together, a werewolf army would be as powerful as the Valkyries’!” His voice rose over the blond woman’s sudden yelling of, “Guards!  Guards!” He continued and yelled, as he was dragged out, flanked by Guards in leather, “We can’t let them walk all over us forever!  We have to prove ourselves sometimes, and WHO CARES IF IT’S A TRAP?  WHO CARES?!”

 

Ben was dumped outside the werehouse that served as the Council hall with a thump.  The grass was hard, and he landed partially on cement.  The bodyguard almost yelled “And stay out!” for dramatic purposes, but resisted it and shut the door behind him. 

Ben sighed and lay there quietly.  The building was masked as a plastic depository, but any wolf would see the logo- a wolf framed by a white orb- and know it was the Council Headquarters.  Barbed wire surrounded the perimeter, and a wooded area was barely visible behind the building.  There was a single driveway which turned into a cul-de-sac in front of the main door.  It was half on this that Ben had landed, and half on grass.  The Guard had been stronger than the average member of the Werewolf army, but that was probably why he was Council Guard.

Ben sat there, half on pavement, half on grass, eyes shut to the large, bright sun.  A sniff of the air revealed another werewolf coming around from the door at the side of the werehouse, walking brusquely.  It was a he- there was aftershave and cologne on him- and he suddenly slowed as he saw Ben on the pavement.

“Young soldat, that was not prudent.”

Ben opened his eyes and looked over at Reynauld.  Ben’s eyes still hadn’t adjusted to the sudden light of the sun so Reynauld was nothing but a blur of shadow.  Ben coughed, slowly sat up.  “Not many things are prudent.  Nothing right ever is.”

Reynauld smiled and sat on the pavement, eyeing the grass uneasily.  “I know you spoke truth.  Kelly is not so easily swayed.  She is…newer than the others.  More outspoken.” He looked into the distance.  “And also ambitious.”

Ben sat up slowly.  “She took my father’s seat on the Council, didn’t she?”

Reynauld slowly nodded, eyes on Ben’s the whole while.  “That, she did.” He said softly.

Ben’s eyes narrowed, then widened slightly.  His voice wavered.  “You suspect foul play?”

“We can prove nothing.  But we may have if…” Ben heard the unspoken words in the suddenly heavy air.  If your mother hadn’t insisted on no autopsy.  His father had died, in his sleep, a year before, at the age of forty.  No one understood why his heart suddenly gave out, and his mother had insisted there be no autopsy.  She didn’t want anyone to find any “odd” cells; such as the ones that forced a werewolf to change once a month.  She wanted to keep her son safe from government experiments(the curse traversed bloodlines), but now Ben hated her for it.  His father was murdered, and the culprit still lived.

Ben looked away, and found his eyes moist.  His father was not yet a distant memory.  He looked at Reynauld.  “I suppose that we’re never going up against the Atlanteans, thanks to her.”

Reynauld laughed slightly.  “I wouldn’t say that, soldat.  Your exit was quite…moving.  Some of the members have their doubts, especially about the truth of Kelly’s words.” He lost his smile.  “Even if they are true.”

Ben’s eyes widened.  “So I was played for a fool?”

Again, Reynauld got that sparkle back in his eyes.  “Hardly.  Harvey is a great wizard, and I even met him once, two years ago.  I was trying to get some of my werewolves out of Azur before the new “democracy” killed them, and Harvey assisted me, along with the Valkyrie leader Kalika.”  Reynauld got a faraway look in his eyes, remembering something not pleasant, but not completely horrendous.  “Even then, his most trusted advisors were beginning to fear Romulus’ slow loss of sanity.”

Ben looked at Reynauld steadily.  “So, you trust them?”

Reynauld nodded.  “It will be a terrible time to try and convince the others, but I wanted to let you know there was still hope, after all.” He stood, and offered Ben a hand up.  Ben took it, and was soon standing next to Reynauld.  He was a few inches taller than Ben, most likely putting him somewhere around six foot three or so.  “So,” Continued the man, “I suggest you go elsewhere for a few days, but do not leave the area completely.”

Ben shook his head.  “Full moon tonight, anyway.  I’ll use the public lock-in chambers in Atlanta, and rent a hotel.”

Reynauld nodded.  “Good…good.  I will send a message to you before the full moon wanes completely.  Three days hence, you will know whether or not you can go after Aria, or stay with us and plan.”

Ben took his knowledge of Aria in stride.  If he knew about Atlantean politics, of course he’d know about Aria.  Ben bowed, submissive style, and backed away respectively, until out of the seven-foot range, then turned.  Atlanta was only a few miles or so away, so Ben would simply order a cab or jump a bus.  He felt Reynauld’s eyes on his back long after he left the compound’s perimeters.  Ben didn’t bother wondering why; when the man had helped him up, Ben’s power had seeped into the Council member.  Reynauld knew Ben was powerful, and would probably be on the Council within a few years.  Reynauld’s eyes on his back were a reminder of his own extreme, rare power.  Few Lyncanthropes can do what Ben could, be it change at will or use psychic blasts.  Either way, the man had sensed Ben’s power, and Ben tried not to worry about it.  In the werewolf world, showing power is an intimate, rare thing.  Secrets live within the Underground.

Ben had found a bus stop, and he waited there, mind pleasantly blank.  The ride to Atlanta wouldn’t be too long, but finding the public chamber for the lycanthropes would be harder.  He could use his sense of smell, but he didn’t trust himself that well.  He did have limits.  He’d have to find an Underground bar and avoid the faeries and vampires. 

Ben knew how to find an Underground bar.  He wasn’t a soldat for nothing; he knew where to find what.  It was a trait necessary in a captain of a regiment. 

 

The streets in Atlanta were crusty with graffiti, and here, in a side alley between a brothel and a dingy liquor store where two gangs were currently quarreling (aka, shooting), Ben faced the insignia of a black pixie.  A small painted sign revealed the lead door to the right of the graphic led to the Underground bar called Faerie Fangs.  It was a true melding of Faerie and Vampiric culture, though by the power humming in the air, more faeries were inside than vampires.  But it was daylight, after all.  Cloudy, but still day.  Enough to keep the good little vampires tucked in.

Faeries.  Ben couldn’t help but sigh in exasperation.

He knocked on the lead door, and a small square shifted to the left.  The nose on the other end sniffed, then grinned, and opened the door.  It opened to reveal a man with crew cut blond hair, with gray eyes and tanned skin.  His smile was lopsided, and chest bare.  His jeans were torn at each knee, and he saluted Ben respectively with large hands.  A smell of magic rolled outward; a smell of vampire shadow magic, faintly smelling of mold and flowers.  Blood, too, was in there.  Another sniff by Ben revealed the familiarity of the Doorman; he was a werewolf. The other man’s nose was crooked, and Ben even remembered when it had broken; he had been there.  The glee of reminiscence was obvious in his eyes and he said in a deep bass, “Captain.”

Ben and he embraced, Ben withdrawing and giving him a large grin.  He smelled of fur, dirt, and the minute odor of humanity.  He had been with a woman the night before, as well, which was obvious by the undercurrent of vanilla perfume. “Ricky.” He said, looking the old friend in the eye. “Long time since training.  When’d you hear about my promotion?”

Ricky laughed, a heartwarming sound.  “I heard last year your regiment got jumped by a mob, and you sent them to a penitentiary for murder.”

Ben shrugged, smile faltering.  “Old tricks are the best tricks.  Couldn’t have them get away with messing with the Pack.”

Ricky nodded slowly, his smile drifting away as well, then returning full force with a dark gleam in his eye.  “Heard you got a few interesting scars from it, too.”

Ben blushed, looked away, and changed the subject.  “Let me in.  There’s a gang war going on.” He nodded his head towards the rain of bullets next to the alley opening.  Luckily, a small tin garage took up some of the alley, connecting to the brothel, and no stray bullets were close.  

Ricky looked over to the gunshots and shrugged.  “It happens.  If it’s not silver, it won’t hurt you.”

Ben rolled his eyes and stepped into the doorway, pushing Ricky aside.  The darkness here was thick and smelled of mold. “Whatever, I don’t like bullets.”

He turned back, and Ricky’s face was covered in darkness, his expression unreadable.  His head was silhouetted in the pale light of a gray sky.  The darkness inside was oddly magical, created to make the inside of the building forever night.

The lead door shut and Ben left Ricky to his own devices.  He waved back to his friend, knowing he would see, and heard Ricky stretch pointed teeth into a smile, then sit at a chair behind the door.

Footsteps resounded forebodingly on the stone floor, but Ben was unafraid.  This was simply for the normal humans that visited the Underground establishments.  It was, quite simply, grandeur that wasn’t needed.  Silence was thick, but Ben knew that close was a booming night club.  That was what the Faerie Fangs was, according to the humans.  For the vampires and faeries, it was a lure for victims.  Ben was annoyed that they had to do this, but understood.  It was a matter of food.

He sensed an opening ahead, and sped up.  One moment all was silent, and darkness was thick, then suddenly he was surrounded by light, noise, and people.  It was the shock effect for the humans, as well. 

The place wasn’t very crowded; night wouldn’t fall for a while yet.  The floor was all black tile, with rustic designs inlaid.  The bar was to Ben’s left; old-fashioned, all wood, western mixed with a touch of Victorian.  The dance floor was empty, and tables were set up on part of it.  Faeries of various species lounged in them languidly, their ethereal beauty and elegance setting Ben on edge.  Few vampires were in attendance; those that were awake had sleepiness about them.  A few humans -mostly teenagers- sat as far from the Faeries as possible, whispering.  A girl saw Ben and raised her eyebrow; he was willing to bet that very few ‘wolves came here on the day of the full moon.  However, a small congregation of werewolves were playing pool.  Ben frowned.  He could have asked Ricky where the public lock-in rooms were; he sure wasn’t going to ask those tattoo-wearing twits.

Ben decided he might as well get a drink, then ask Ricky about it when he left.  No use leaving now.

Ben went to the bar, walking by the girl that had risen her eyebrow at him before.  Up close, she was young; 14 at the most.  He shook his head and sighed, and sat on a stool.  Fourteen was too young to be in a place like this, but Ben understood the rebellion standpoint. 

He ordered an orange juice from the bartender and a vampire on his right raised her glass of blood in mock toast, a smile on her pale face.  Her fangs were small, almost delicate, visible in the dim light only with her smile.  She wasn’t sixty years dead yet, but she had a power within her, as well as a muscular tone.  She had been something athletic before she died at around- oh, twenty-eight was his guess. Her skirt was black and short, thigh boots leather and tight, covering lithe, muscular legs.  Her tank top was white inlaid with sparkles.  She was most noticeable because she wore a small gold cross on her neck, which was slowly burning her skin.  Ben’s eyebrow raised, searched her face.  She was an odd one, alright; beautiful, true- forest eyes and long brown hair, dots of freckles on a fair, slender nose over a delicate peach mouth-but possibly mad.  The fact that she could even wear a cross without screaming proved her powerful; the fact that the redness beneath it only looked like a slight sunburn or rash was unnerving.

Ben nursed his orange juice after receiving an odd look from the bartender.  He felt the eyes of the other werewolves on him, wondering why he wasn’t joining them.  How would he explain it?  He smiled softly as he imagined it.  “Sorry, I can’t affiliate with you, you’re just wolf-trash.”  How can you explain to some sadomasochist biker guy that being a werewolf wasn’t all about blood and death?  That was the problem with those that were cursed outside bloodlines; they were so numerous and inexperienced.  All they knew were these places, plus the strip clubs and bondage brothels.  The werewolf government wasn’t what it used to be; now there were practically two of them, the one Ben was part of, and the one that those other men were involved with.  Ben knew for a fact that their government wasn’t one at all.

  He heard whispers across the room.  Trouble; they had figured out what he was.  They seemed to have a lot of hatred for soldats, as apparent from their approach.  Ben heard three and listened via their footsteps.  Two had at least two bottles of beer each on their breath.  The sober one was thin and unmuscled, as apparent from his footsteps.  The other two clutched their pool sticks tightly; Ben heard fingernails digging in the polished wood.  Ben felt their skin emit waves of hate mixed with anticipation.  Ben guessed that the last time a soldat had come in, he’d ran before they could get to him.  It was smart; these types were jealous of the government that excluded them.  Ben was a Captian Soldat; he knew for a fact that these three wouldn’t be able to take him, no matter his age.  He was a born-wolf, not a bitten one like these three.  It gave him a lot of quirks.

A drunk sat on his left, holding the stick in his right hand.  The sober on sat on his right, smiling.  He continued to nurse his drink as the third stood behind him.  He closed his scent from them, and they exchanged glances, puzzled as to why their prey had suddenly lost his odor, but was still very much present.

The sober one was the leader, and said gruffly, “How’d you do that, soldat?” The last word was spoken like a curse; not unlike how a vampire would speak of holy artifacts.

Ben sipped his orange juice, smiled at the bartender.  He was staying away purposefully, chatting with the female vampire on Ben’s far right.  He couldn’t see her, but felt the power of her stare on the back of the sober man’s head.  She was helping; Ben felt the man’s heartbeat spike, and felt his fear.  Ben merely set down his glass and looked at the sober ‘wolf blankly.

He frowned, the vampire’s power affecting him more.  He was both afraid now and annoyed by Ben’s nonchalance.  A single glance at the man behind him revealed their plan.

Ben whipped his hands above his head, catching the pool stick as it came down onto his head.  Time slowed, and Ben slid off the stool gracefully.  The drunk man was devoid of his weapon, and Ben was still moving.  The sober man was already turning as Ben slammed the thick end of the stick into the standing one’s face.  He was the thin one, and a well placed hit to the nose broke it.  His blue eyes flew wide and he clutched his face.  Ben ducked as the sober man swung his fist; he felt the air move above his head.  He kicked upward just as the sober ‘wolf finished his ill-fated punch, landing him in the chin.  He put enough power in the kick to knock him back but not take his head off. 

Ben rolled, clutching the stick to him.  He finished his roll and stood gracefully, holding the stick in front of him with his right hand, his left ready to block anything sent his way.  The sober man was getting off the ground, angry, the standing ‘wolf was nursing his nose, almost weeping, and the other drunk one was sitting where he had started out moments ago; on the left of the seat Ben had resided in.  He was frozen, a terrified look on his face.

The sober man howled and withdrew a silver knife from a spine sheath covered by shaggy hair.  Ben’s heart fluttered at the sight of that blade; Ben, as a born werewolf, could barely touch silver without it burning.  A bitten wolf wasn’t as vulnerable to it.  Ben could feel the heat of the silver even from ten feet away and closing. 

The sitting man stood slowly, looking at his comrade.  He looked back and forth, from Ben to his friend, and began to back off to the left.  The sober man saw what he was doing and growled deep in his throat, “Don’t, Jace.” That voice held promises of death, pain, and the torture of innocent animals.  Needless to say, Jace halted, but did not move as the sober man requested assistance.  Ben drew in his characteristics as the sober man argued with his inferior.  He was about six foot five, with shoulder length black hair that was uncombed.  He was all brawn and hatred, which rolled off him in more waves than the fear.  Ben felt the undercurrent of a born-wolf in him, and was shocked; he wasn’t full-born, or even half, but he had it in him somewhere.  Ben suddenly understood, and looked past the scraggly beard and tattoos; past the torn jeans and terrible smell of sweat.  He was from the Luna family, evident from the slightly bitter smell of his blood under his skin, and not too far in relation from Ben.  He remembered the man, finally, as Inca; he had been ousted from the Academy ten years before; Ben remembered seeing photos of it.  He had been caught raping one of his teachers- a male teacher, in fact, who had killed himself not long after the fact.

Inca had escaped punishment for being underage, but the Lycanthrope population hated him due to his actions.  He represented the dark underbelly of the Underground.

“I remember you.” Ben said softly, hissing.  He felt his control over his own odor collapse, and knew that Inca was feeling the same hate, if not more, than Ben did.  Inca had left the legal Lycanthrope world a long time before.  It had always been assumed that he’d been caught and killed.  Now, as Ben looked at the man, he understood why he hadn’t been found.  No one had been looking in the Underground clubs in the Council’s own city.  It had been brilliant, arrogant and idiotic, respectively.  It was Ben’s responsibility to kill him or arrest him, and Ben wouldn’t hesitate to do the former or the latter.  He’d prefer the latter, but he knew no questions would be asked if Ben killed him.  It was his responsibility to protect, and Inca had proved himself very dangerous before. It didn’t matter that Ben had yet to kill a man; his experience was limited, but he was the best soldat east of the Mississippi. 

Inca stretched slightly, and his power aura tripled in size.  Ben was suddenly overcome with pure, unabashed hatred.  Inca was trying to instill fear in Ben, and Ben was simply getting annoyed.  He lashed out with a psychic blast and crippled Inca’s use of his right arm, but not without repercussions; he stumbled on his feet from the outpour of power, dropping the pool stick.  Inca growled deep in his throat and lashed out at Ben, targeting his spinal cord.  His attack was inexperienced, weak; Ben deflected it back on his attacker and smirked as Inca fell to the floor with a yelp.

Jace was regarding Inca with terrified eyes, and he grabbed his other friend around the waist, leading him out, without a glance back at his leader.  The other friend moaned and whined as they passed the faeries, who were looking at Inca and Ben’s exchange amusingly. 

Inca stood slowly, brandishing the knife he had unsheathed earlier.  He circled Ben slowly, and Ben caught the vampire’s gaze.  Her face was amused, and when she caught Ben’s eye, she grinned.  She sent another burst of fear into Inca’s mind, and he shivered.  She was enjoying herself, causing terrible psychic damage, and not even breaking a sweat.  He turned his attention to Inca, now looking at Ben with terrified eyes.  Inca hissed through gritted teeth and threw the blade below his waist, aiming for just beneath the ribcage. 

Ben stepped aside, but not in time; he had misjudged the speed of the blade and not moved as fast as he could have.  The knife swiped his right side and kept going.  He heard a faerie yelp behind him but didn’t turn.  Ben growled deep in his throat, power building.  He would kill Inca; the bloodlust was on.  Ben screamed wordlessly and sent a steady stream of psychic power at his opponent.  Inca stumbled, eyes wide and suddenly filled with blood.  Ben lowered his head slightly, gazing at Inca through pinkish orange bangs.  The hair didn’t cloud Inca’s demise however, and Ben watched his enemy as he sank to the floor, eyes wide.  Inca’s right hand raised to his head, bloodshot eyes on Ben, terrified.  Realization dawned in those doomed eyes, and Inca tried to gather enough strength to defend himself, to no avail.

Ben sank with hims enemy, losing control over his legs, and sat.  With a final burst of power, Inca’s head rocked back, eyes rolling in his head.  Fluid drained from his burst ears, his heart hammered wildly in his chest.  Finally, the heartbeat stopped, and Inca died without a word.

Ben heard frantic, hyperventilated breathing, and tried to look around.  With a realization, he opened his eyes; he hadn’t remembered closing them.

Inca lay dead in front of him, hand still on his head, eyes wide.  Blood dripped from the eyes like tears, and his eardrum fluid coalesced on his shirt.  The vampire’s mouth was wide, delicate fangs glinting in the low light.  She looked at Ben with a mixture of respect and terror.  The bartender was behind the bar, pouring himself a shot.  A faerie was to his right with the pool stick, getting ready to poke Inca. 

Ben took a deep breath and curled up much like his dog cousin would, clutching his knees.  He concentrated, willed himself to calm, to breathe normally or he would pass out.  Slowly, he found his breath returning to its normal pace.

A cool touch to his forehead returned Ben to reality.  The vampire was kneeling in front of him.  She withdrew her hand from his forehead and turned Ben onto his back, reaching her hand to his chest.  She kept it there for a heartbeat then removed it, looking at Ben with respect.  “No brain damage or burst vessels.” Her voice was soft and unthreatening, mild.  Ben had the notion she was forcing herself to be calm.  Her heart beat faster than the normal pace for a vampire; she was either afraid or excited.  Ben had no idea how to tell which.

Ben slowly nodded.  He would know if there had been, he knew his body well enough.  He kept his mouth shut, however, as the vampire looked him over.  “Can you stand?” She asked, forest green eyes carefully passive.

Ben nodded, then flinched, clutching his head.  With the vampire’s aid, he stood, and glanced down at her.  She was about five inches shorter than he, putting her at a solid five foot seven.

The vampire held onto Ben’s arm and looked at Inca, muttering a curse.  She returned her attention to her werewolf companion, who had dark crescents under his eyes that hadn’t been there before.  He lolled his head at her and nodded his head toward the door.  She caught the gist of it and navigated Ben to the dark hallway.  The bartender and the faerie were arguing about what to do when the vampire cleared her throat and left a twenty on one of the tables.  The two men, human and faerie, looked at her and quieted.  She smiled brightly, careful not to flash fangs too much, always sensitive to the humans.  She held Ben easily, arm around his waist and navigated him through the noiseless, darkness-filled hall. 

Ben was groggily following the vampire’s lead, leaning on her.  If he had been somewhat more aware, he would have enjoyed her body against his, but instead blinked like an idiot. 

A voice came out of the darkness, close.  “Ilara, I see you’ve hooked up with dear Ben.”

Ilara’s brow furrowed and looked at Ricky.  Her night vision was impeccable, and his expression was easily seen; somewhere between amusement and anger.  She shook her head slowly and shifted Ben’s weight.  “He killed my target, did my job.  Least I can do is take him to the ‘wolf jail.”

Ricky frowned.  “We don’t call it a jail, Ilara.”

She shrugged.  “Do I look like I care?  There’s bars, it’s a jail.”

Ricky shifted on his feet, looking her in the eyes.  She sent a tinge of her power through her eyes; enough to scare him but not send him screaming.  He looked away and didn’t catch her fleeting smile at his reaction.  “He’s a soldat, Ice Queen.” He said this in a way someone would say, “Don’t hurt him, or it’s your head the government will take.”

“Oh?” She said softly, making it sound like the way a teenager would say “Duh.” 

Ben cleared his throat with difficulty and said groggily, “Sleep.”

Ricky opened the door for his friend and enemy, giving a glare to Ilara.  “I might not let you in next time.”

“Oh, and that would simply ruin my life, Fur Boy.”

The door slammed shut behind them, air casting Ilara’s hair about.  She helped Ben across the street and into a motel, eyes on the sky all the while.  The sun, even behind clouds, drained her power and weakened her.  If it peeked behind the clouds, she would have a few minutes before she got sunburned.  She could be out in the sun for an hour or so before she burst into flames; incredible for a vampire.  Most couldn’t stand thirty seconds before becoming ash.

The motel was flashing bright with promises of vacancy.  Ilara led Ben past the desk with a scrawny blue-haired woman and to her room.  She opened it with a key from her leather purse, and instantly Ben rushed the bed, dropping on it stomach first.  Ilara closed the wood door behind her and turned to the room.

It was, of course, the usual cheap motel-type.  Orange shag carpet, green bedspread, and a 70’s TV gave the feeling of a time warp.  The walls were a dark brown, the bathroom opposite the entrance the same.  The bathroom was dark, so the water-stained ceiling and rotting shower weren’t visible.  Ilara sat on the bedspread next to the already-sleeping Ben, and withdrew a cell phone from her purse.  She dialed the appointed number, resisting the urge to sigh.

“Reynauld.” Was the answer, a gruff voice.

“Menace down.” She said, adopting the cold killer voice that she so easily employed.  She looked at her nails, frowned.  How had that one broken?  She withdrew a file from her purse.

A sigh on the line.  “Good.  Transaction will be done today.”

Ilara filed like mad, annoyed.  Now she’d have to file down her others to match; how aggravating.  “There was a surprise, but was handled.  Job was carried out in part by alternate vendor.”

Surprise on the other line.  Ilara continued, filing her right hand, then moving to the left as she said, “Vendor in custody.”

Reynald frowned on the other line, Ilara head the clogs in his head turning.  “Terminate vendor for full price.”

Ilara frowned, finished with her now-short nails, and threw the used file back into her purse.  “Copy.”  She hung up the phone, closed it, and pocketed it, shaking her head.  The Council of Lycanthropes were conceited and vastly annoying.  She was the only hit woman they hired; she was the best, it really was that simple.  However, she refused to kill Ben; she had a feeling that his alliance would come in handy later.  Moonrise wasn’t for a while; she had a few hours.  She wrote a quick message on a paper by the phone and left, purse in hand, brow furrowed.  She’d go and kill some Ben look-alike; anything to save such a powerful ‘wolf; and allow the council to think she was on their leash.

 

Ben woke slowly and not without dizziness.  He found himself groggy and drained as he woke with a green comforter around him, snuggled in the fetal position nearest to the window.  He sat up and found he was still in his clothes.  A glance around revealed a small leather suitcase at the foot of the bed.  A bottle of water and a deli sandwich wrapped in white tissue paper on the nightstand.  A note beside it said, “Taking care of some things.  Be back after you finish eating this.”

Ben’s brow furrowed and wondered how long ago his mystery vampire had left.  He swung into a sitting position, legs over the side of the bed, facing the peeling dark brown paint.  He began to eat the sandwich, slowly, his mouth opening and closing rhythmically.  He was barely conscious and enjoying it; he didn’t want to think too hard about what had happened.  No normal lycanthrope could do what he’d done; not even a member of the council could have.  It scared Ben to the bone. 

He was on the other half of his sandwich when he realized that Ilara had given him his favorite: ham and cheese on white.  He was quite simple when it came to food. 

Ilara…Ilara…Ben knew that there weren’t many vampires out there since Ilara Fox had killed half of them before becoming one.  He’d heard rumors of her life after death (no, not afterlife; literally life after death) but had cast them aside.  Personally, he’d have figured she’d killed herself long ago simply to stop being a vampire.  It was what her father had done; he’d walked directly into sunlight at noon.  No wonder she had anger problems when it came to vamps.

But was this the same Ilara?  Ilara wasn’t a common name; not at all.  Ben took a gulp of his water and thought.  If it was, what was she doing in Atlanta?  He shook his head and set his water down, taking the last bite of the sandwich. 

Keys jingled outside the door and Ilara stepped through, blood on half her face and neck.  She was breathing hard, eyes bright.  Ben stood respectfully, then looked over to her note.

“Weird,” He said.  “I just finished my sandwich.”

She seemed to know this, and she simply gave him a slow, mysterious smile, and his curiosity piqued.  “You’re bleeding.” He said, stepping around the bed to reach her.

She shut the door and turned back to him, eyes blank.  “It’s not mine.”

Ben stopped, unwilling to help if she had killed someone.  If she was a murderer, she had every right to clean up her own mess. 

She smiled at his reaction and set down a sports bag next to the red leather suitcase, crossing to the bathroom.  She hit the light, and there was practically no change to the wall color; it was a dark brown.  Motel owners must have brown fetishes, She thought, amused.

Ben stood in place, watching as she used towel after towel to wipe off the blood.  She frowned and scratched her head, blood coming off in flakes.  She made a noise deep in her throat and wet her hair in the sink, using the mini shampoo bottle to clean the blood out.  Ben watched all this with morbid fascination, wondering.  Now that he looked at her, she did look familiar, and Ben had a feeling that if his Occult: The History was around, she’d be on the page titled, “Dangerous and Deadly- but only to Vampires”.  He remembered the title, and the picture, somewhat; the brown hair was all that had stood out about her as a human.  Vampirism, ironically, agreed with her.  It sharpened her features and let her green eyes stand out more.

Ben wanted to ask her, bluntly, if she was who he thought she was.  However, he tried for blunt.  As she rinsed her hair, he asked, “So…Where you from?”

Ben heard her chuckle under the sound of the water.  “Why do you want to know where a murderer is from?”

Ben flinched, then calmed himself.  She must have guessed his thought as she had walked through the door bloodstained.  He recomposed himself.  “I’m curious.”

A pause.  The sound of running water filled the small area, then stopped.  Ben looked over to see her wrapping her head in a towel.  She crossed to her suitcase, retrieved a slender knife, pointed it at him, then smiled sadistically.  She inserted the knife into an empty thigh sheath.  “I’m from everywhere.”
            Annoyance drove away Ben’s fear.  “Never been there before.”

Amusement pulled at her red-tinted lips, but didn’t go close to her eyes.  The green eyes were cold, dark, and a little on the “I’m a killer don’t mess with me” side, but they were still pretty.  She seemed to hesitate a moment, to falter slightly before answering softly, “You don’t really care where I’m from.”

Ben looked at his hands folded neatly in his lap.  Somewhere along the way, he had sat down, but didn’t remember it.  He suspected he had done it when she had wrapped her hair in the towel.  He realized when he was caught.  “Not really.”  He looked up at her again.  “Are you who I think you are?”

She let out a small breath of air.  “No one’s recognized me before.  Those that did either died or employed me.” She let out a bark of harsh, bitter laughter.  “I am Ilara Fox.”

Ben shook his head, looking at her, amazed. “How did you last this long without…” he faltered and trailed off.

She laughed softly, bitterness gone and replaced by genuine amusement.  “Without killing myself?”

Ben nodded and her expression sobered.  “I would never simply do it myself.  I did everything I could, risked myself at every turn, but no one was good enough to beat me.  I even hired assassins to kill me, but they were never good enough, either.  After a decade or so I just gave up.”  She fingered the cross at her neck, and the cross-shaped irritated skin beneath it.  “This is to remind me of who I used to be.” A shadow of anger crept across her face, and she let go of the cross.  “Of who I should have been.”

Ben looked at her squarely.  “How can you wear it?”

Ilara merely smiled mysteriously at him and toweled her hair, then threw the dirty laundry on the floor next to the bed.  “For nearly the same reason you can kill with a psychic blast.” She grinned wider and nearly laughed.  “You should have seen the faerie’s faces.  Priceless.”

Ben smiled slowly, then glanced out the singular window above the bed, and swore.  Sunset.  Ilara slipped a crumpled paper into his hand and escorted him out before he knew what was happening.  “You have about an hour.  It’s not too far, don’t sweat it.” She almost slammed the door behind him, then hesitated.  “Tell no one of my existence.  They don’t still call me the Assassin for nothing.” Then she slammed the door into his face, only an inch from his nose.

Ben glared at the door and flipped it off, anger waning at the gesture.  He had noticed her use of words: They don’t still call me the Assassin for nothing.  Still.  She had been called the Assassin as a human, but for entirely different reasons.  Then, she’d been the scourge of vampirism, and now she was the scourge of everything.

Funny how becoming a monster affects your kill ratio. 

 

Aria hated planes to the deepest core of her being.  It was something about being suspended a few miles high and having nothing to keep you from plummeting into the void.

Aria had boded well on takeoff, seated next to a doped up claustrophobic with too much makeup and bright orange hair.  She had the aisle seat, and she enjoyed it.  The jet used some kind of juiced-up engine different than the 747 engines of the 1900s.  She’d learned about it in school, and how it had sped up transportation threefold, but of course, she hadn’t been paying attention.  In fact, she’d hacked into the computer system and disengaged the censors in the top of her desk, allowing her to sleep for the period.  Either way, she had no idea how it worked, and due to the mounting fear that the drumming engine put in her gut, she didn’t particularly care. 

The plane was nearly silent, and a short blond woman was yawning into her hand across from Aria.  She had the look of ages on her, somehow; of having seen it all and been annoyed with it all.  She wore fishnet stockings and a red faux leather skirt with a black halter top that showed more cleavage than natural.  Black combat boots went to her mid-calf, and her crossed legs revealed her impatience.  Aria liked the outfit; it would have been something she’d worn at a club or the like.  Aria caught her eye and the woman nodded shortly, not smiling, but not frowning either.  Aria had an instant fondness for her.

The plane rocked and Aria’s attention withdrew into her own world.  Turbulence, she told herself.  But as the plane slipped to the left, then went on track again, her fear mounted.  There was something going on with the pilot.  Aria dug her nails into the plastic armrests and the lady next to her snored on.  She considered pilfering some of the woman’s tranquilizers for a moment before she remembered the party and how she’d been given Ketamine or the like.  She didn’t remember anything after when she and Ben left his house, which was due to the mind-wipe Ben had utilized.  No drugs, she decided.

However, another dip in altitude and Aria looked around.  Other passengers looked anywhere between annoyed and terrified.  A little girl a few rows back was holding on to her father’s arm, whimpering.

Aria and the blond girl traded a glance, saying the same thing with their eyes: Whatever’s happening, it can’t be good.  After their moment of understanding, Aria spotted a man coming through the curtain that separated the first class and second class passenger cabins. 

He was tall, around six three, with black hair pulled into a ponytail.  He was Asian, with black, beady eyes and a weak chin.  His body was thin and unmuscled, and a small pin showed he was from the Korean Liberation movement.

Aria’s heartbeat faster in her chest, her palms began to sweat.  She recalled from history class (yes, she’d actually paid attention) that since the Korean War in the 1950’s, American troops had spent their time in South Korea, policing the place.  After a hundred years, South Korea had asked to be left alone, but President Kox had deemed it unnecessary.  When the South Koreans insisted, Kox gave them the same reason Eisenhower had given them a hundred years before: they needed to stop communism.  North Korea was Communist and there needed to be an outpost to stop the Domino effect, even though the Domino effect had been long since forgotten.  Truth was, South Korea was a launching point for intelligence operations into North Korea.

Kox had lost the election the year later, and the next president had held Kox’s position.  The Korean Liberation movement had formed, with Chinese, North and South Korean, and miscellaneous nations in attendance.  The war on terrorism that had started years before in 2001, was still in play in 2060, and, even with the Homeland Security Department and terrorist warning levels, it was inefficient.  If Aria remembered correctly, the terrorist level was “very low” at that point in time.  She couldn’t help but snort derisively as she looked at the man with a machine gun.  Proves how good people were at predicting terrorism.

Another man carrying a shock gun went down the other aisle.  Aria sighed and wondered what the woman next to her would do if she woke up to see a terrorist with a gun bearing down on her.  Her imagination consoled her in a depraving position.