could have won against an opponent like me.
Within minutes there was only one left. He was dead, and he knew it.
“So,” I said to him. “You have a choice. You can try to fight me, and you can die like your friends. Or you can take a message back to your boss for me.”
He looked around, surveying the destruction for a moment before his eyes came back to me. “What’s the message?” he asked.
I grinned, and my eyes began to glow as I tapped into the power dwelling within me.
He was thrown off his feet as I set off a small telekinetic explosion behind him. His forward momentum brought him directly towards me and the tip of my sword as I held it out towards him.
His eyes registered shock and surprise as the tip plunged into his chest, just beneath the sternum. It severed his spine as it tore through his back and he stopped with his face inches from mine.
“Die,” I hissed as the light in his eyes slowly faded and he went limp.
9
Carlsbad, California: February 5, 2005
I wandered back into the shop. “We’ve got a mess outside,” I said to Beady as I carefully cleaned off the blade of his sword and handed the weapon back to him, hilt first. He accepted it and returned the sword to its sheathe.
“I’ll get it cleaned up,” he said, no traces of the high he must still be feeling showing in his voice or his actions.
I walked over to the couch and collapsed back down onto it. The room was a little tossed, the mess from the fight actually wasn’t too bad though. The worst thing would be the blood stains on his carpet but I know Beady had an installer on speed dial.
Rachel didn’t appear to have moved the entire time. She was still sitting on the couch where I last saw her before I jumped outside the window. She was, at that moment, staring at me.
“Something wrong?” I asked.
“Not really.”
“Not really? That means maybe?”
“Well no, not really… I mean…” She sighed. “Hang on a second let me get my thoughts straight.” I nodded and picked up the pipe, taking another long hit while she sat and stared at me. I could almost see the gears turning inside her head. I choked back a laugh as the thought occurred to me that I could almost see the smoke escaping from her ears as the wires melted.
“How do you do it?”
“Do what?” I asked as I exhaled a huge plume of smoke.
“Everything. Where does it come from? The drinking blood, the speed, the strength, all your powers. Where does it all stem from? How, do you do it?”
“That’s a difficult question,” I said, thinking back to the day I’d first asked almost the same question.
* * * * * *
Ireland: September 24, 1697
I was a year old. A year in vampire terms. To the rest of the world I was born nineteen years ago to the day. It was daytime, out on the moors, and I was looking into the eyes of my mentor. He was tall, topping out at six foot four inches and roughly three hundred pounds of muscle and bone, lanky brown hair flowing behind him in the wind and a big red beard jutting out of his face.
Grim was a wolf. He was created nearly two hundred years before the alliance between the vampires and werewolves that ended the war and today he was one of the most highly skilled fighters in the Brotherhood. He had been chosen, by Threntü, to mentor me. To teach me. I loved him, respected him, and at times, I hated him.
“Again,” he said.
Today, I hated him.
I screamed and rushed him, bringing up the massive sword in my hands, trying with all the strength in my wiry frame to remove his smug head from his shoulders. It was not to be.
He, apparently effortlessly, blocked and redirected the blow sending me stumbling past him to land on my face in the dirt. I felt the tip of his sword pressing none too gently against the back of my neck, blood beginning to well up from the pressure.
“How many times do I have to tell you, Gabriel,” he sighed, sounding deeply disappointed in me, in my failure. “If you over
Within minutes there was only one left. He was dead, and he knew it.
“So,” I said to him. “You have a choice. You can try to fight me, and you can die like your friends. Or you can take a message back to your boss for me.”
He looked around, surveying the destruction for a moment before his eyes came back to me. “What’s the message?” he asked.
I grinned, and my eyes began to glow as I tapped into the power dwelling within me.
He was thrown off his feet as I set off a small telekinetic explosion behind him. His forward momentum brought him directly towards me and the tip of my sword as I held it out towards him.
His eyes registered shock and surprise as the tip plunged into his chest, just beneath the sternum. It severed his spine as it tore through his back and he stopped with his face inches from mine.
“Die,” I hissed as the light in his eyes slowly faded and he went limp.
9
Carlsbad, California: February 5, 2005
I wandered back into the shop. “We’ve got a mess outside,” I said to Beady as I carefully cleaned off the blade of his sword and handed the weapon back to him, hilt first. He accepted it and returned the sword to its sheathe.
“I’ll get it cleaned up,” he said, no traces of the high he must still be feeling showing in his voice or his actions.
I walked over to the couch and collapsed back down onto it. The room was a little tossed, the mess from the fight actually wasn’t too bad though. The worst thing would be the blood stains on his carpet but I know Beady had an installer on speed dial.
Rachel didn’t appear to have moved the entire time. She was still sitting on the couch where I last saw her before I jumped outside the window. She was, at that moment, staring at me.
“Something wrong?” I asked.
“Not really.”
“Not really? That means maybe?”
“Well no, not really… I mean…” She sighed. “Hang on a second let me get my thoughts straight.” I nodded and picked up the pipe, taking another long hit while she sat and stared at me. I could almost see the gears turning inside her head. I choked back a laugh as the thought occurred to me that I could almost see the smoke escaping from her ears as the wires melted.
“How do you do it?”
“Do what?” I asked as I exhaled a huge plume of smoke.
“Everything. Where does it come from? The drinking blood, the speed, the strength, all your powers. Where does it all stem from? How, do you do it?”
“That’s a difficult question,” I said, thinking back to the day I’d first asked almost the same question.
* * * * * *
Ireland: September 24, 1697
I was a year old. A year in vampire terms. To the rest of the world I was born nineteen years ago to the day. It was daytime, out on the moors, and I was looking into the eyes of my mentor. He was tall, topping out at six foot four inches and roughly three hundred pounds of muscle and bone, lanky brown hair flowing behind him in the wind and a big red beard jutting out of his face.
Grim was a wolf. He was created nearly two hundred years before the alliance between the vampires and werewolves that ended the war and today he was one of the most highly skilled fighters in the Brotherhood. He had been chosen, by Threntü, to mentor me. To teach me. I loved him, respected him, and at times, I hated him.
“Again,” he said.
Today, I hated him.
I screamed and rushed him, bringing up the massive sword in my hands, trying with all the strength in my wiry frame to remove his smug head from his shoulders. It was not to be.
He, apparently effortlessly, blocked and redirected the blow sending me stumbling past him to land on my face in the dirt. I felt the tip of his sword pressing none too gently against the back of my neck, blood beginning to well up from the pressure.
“How many times do I have to tell you, Gabriel,” he sighed, sounding deeply disappointed in me, in my failure. “If you over
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