Sabbat. The Begining of the End.
The house was dark. She liked it best that way. The television was buzzing in the background, tallying the votes from the mortal election. She had it on in the hopes of seeing Seneca. He was one of the few of them that were worthy. He was clearly in the wrong sect. If any boy deserved to be shoveled, it was him.
But he appeared to be gone. Just like so many others. Gone. The rumor was the ascended. She laughed at that, smiling slightly as her tongue hit the flavorful green paint on her lips. Ascended. Niggar, please.
Her fingers tapped on the keyboard thoughtlessly. There was no doubt in her mind that if this ascension crap was true it would pass her over endlessly. She had a place, she had her cycle, and no Christian God could get in the way of that. Her tongue flicked out and licked her lips, savoring the sour and discordant taste of the paint. A place. A cycle. Her eyes landed on the pulsing green lights in her skin. Tainted.
The gloved hand kept taping on the keyboard, her mind flittering to other topics. Gone. So many old friends. Allies. Packmates. She didn’t even know where some of them were. Loves, cares, hopes. All gone. It was the downside to being unkillable. Those that were tied to the mortal cycle found reason to return to the ash from which they came. A place. A cycle.
She looked up at the broken clock on the wall. Its hands hung straight down, limply proclaiming it was 6:30. The fingers tapped on the keyboard rhythmically. The commentators droned on the television. Reaching down into a leather jacket by her feet she pulled out a pack of Marlboro reds and slowly lit one. The jacket was thrown over a pair of motorcycle bags, the leather old, worn and cracked. They looked out of place in the black and green room.
She Alt-Tabed back into her e-mail window. It was quiet. They were gone. Those that were left were either screaming like frightened rabbits or just quietly ducking down to hope the chaos passed them by. Cowards. It didn’t matter though. The cycle would come from them. Back to which they came. Tainted. She rubbed her hands up and down her arms, willing the goosebumps away, pushing the green glow further from her body. A place. A cycle.
Cigarette between her lips she pounded down on the keyboard of the unix box, the small black window composing her e-mail. They can hold the center. Two trailer park girls go ‘round the outside… They were elected by their peers and they were given a Regent. A good one. Gone. So many.
Prisci:
You know how to reach me.
Annazekia
There. Any moron that couldn’t use her cellphone or e-mail doesn’t deserve to contact her. She tapped the cigarette, letting the ash fall to the floor. It was a mess of green paint and ichor. She sighed in disgust and crumpled the whole thing in her hand. A place. A cycle. Movement flickered over her shoulder. It slowly came into view, each detail cementing a personality. The Dioceses of Long Beach stretched out behind her. Figures came into view and then faded away. Miguel De Portola. Corby. Faith. Paganino. Ricky Swauves. Crow. Estobal. De Portola. Papa Dark. Noel. Amerilas. Bambi. Dhakiyah. All the images faded away but that one. The woman in the dark veil. Dhakiyah. The image took its veil off and smiled a tolerant amused smile before shaking out its long hair. The vampire watching lowered its head, her dark green mass of tangled snarls falling to cover her face. The images silent laughter faded from her expression before she spoke. “Perhaps it is best if you leave.”
She turned her chair back around to her computer, gesturing the painful images away with one gloved hand. A place. A cycle. She looked around the plain black room once more. Other then the quiet green glow of electronics it was barren. Her eyes fell on the leather packs once more. The green wrapped around her like a blanket as she opened a new e-mail window.
To my brothers and sisters of the sword:
Shit. This is going to be hard to write.
Most of you are gone. Either this ascended bullshit or dead or hiding under a rock, hoping that Jesus’s Mexican Nation won’t come kick your ass for the shit you’ve whispered about him, or that the humans won’t come burn you at the stake for being a vampire, or that the new Regent won’t conscript you into a war against Jesus, or that you won’t have to hear that the rites we cling to are infernal, or you’ve bought into the end of the world and are just trying to live it out with your toys.
That is likely not the right tone. Oh, fuck it. They’ve never liked me anyway.
To those of you that are left, I don’t know what to say. I’ve done all I could here. We got a full Prisci Council back. It was finally proved the Regent was infernal and we elevated Choceta to rule. That’s what I did. I took that asshole down and put someone that really could help the Sword in his place.
My wounds are healed. I am no longer contrite. Any harm I have done the Sword, I have paid back three-fold. Twice, I have been to Hell. Soon, I think, the third time comes. The cycle is almost complete. Perhaps it’s sentimental to want to say good bye before that happens but, hell, that’s what this is. Not that I won’t still answer e-mail or my cell phone, but I’m done here, I’ve done my duty. Removed the infernal from the Seat of Caine, put in someone who doesn’t suck. You have a strong Regent now. It’s time for the Prisci Council to go back to being advice, rather then a stand-in Regent. And I have some things to do, some places to go, before this is all over.
I’m unkillable. I’ll be here until it ends. Then I’ll wander Hell until it ends. Fighting stupid every step of the way.
Tainted.
But now, now I’m going home. I hope I never see any of you again.
Because, if I do, it’s going to be in Hell.
Annazekia
Prisci
She sat for a long moment staring at the text in front of her. Finally she stood up and took of her long black cloak. It pooled in a black mass by her feet, the green lines shifting to wrap around her body. The black body suit peeled off next taking flesh with it in places. Her look was one of disgust as she pulled the metal electrodes out of her body and threw them on top of the cloak. She pulled a broken shard of a long silver sword blade out of the motorcycle packs with a gesture that bespoke of long familiarity. She scalped herself with it, throwing the matted mess into the rest of the pile. Naked except for the long green tendrils which hung to her she read the e-mail again. Gone. Her hands moved towards the keyboard but she abruptly turned and walked away.
She almost screamed when the hot water came crashing onto her bare scalp. Standing in the shower she slowly started peeling the flesh off of her skin. It was a fight between how very strong she was verses the incredible resilience of her flesh. Finally she stood skinless in the shower. Her mind raced with choices and paths before her. A place. A cycle.
She walked back into the room, dripping wet, and stared at the e-mail message again. She reached for the pack and pulled on a pair of well worn black jeans and a long sleeve black shirt. The green tendrils wrapped tight around her, vanishing underneath the jeans. In a well practiced motion, she tied a red sash around her waist and laced up a beaten up pair of Doc Martins. A pair of guns clattered out of the jacket as she picked it up. With a small smile she scooped them up and sat back in the chair. Her eyes on the e-mail she took a long time oiling and polishing the black revolvers. When she was done she wiped the gunblack off on the back of her eyes and her mouth. It left a messy stain, like badly applied eyeshadow or lipstick. The flesh on her hands was already mostly regrown as she tied the black bandanna around her head.
Putting on the jacket she looked into the mirror and smiled slightly. Almost. A place. A cycle. She shut her eyes and breathed out, relaxing, releasing a tension that she had been holding for so very long. Hair grew on the back of the palms, the jeans shifted around the form, and the loose jacket suddenly fit well over broad shoulders as changes swept over the body. Strong hands pulled a sword from a hidden part of the wall, De Portola’s signet blazoned into the pommel, the whole weapon a masterpiece of art and death. The black painted eyes looked over the room once more as the sword was buckled to hip, guns placed under the jacket. A place. A cycle.
The cell phone illuminated the dark room as the text message was typed in and sent:
De Portola
I’m coming home.
Mat
He flipped the top shut and looked around the room one last time. Turning on his heel, he hit a switch on his way out the door. The fuel started to pour into the room as he walked out. Down the stairs and into the garage he walked with a slow measured step. He ignored the black sports car and walked instead to a dusty brown bike cover. Lovingly he uncovered the black motorcycle underneath, running his hands over it like an old lover. A place. A cycle. He walked the motorcycle calmly passed the smoking building. Reaching the street he mounted it and watched the flames start to flicker towards the sky.
“Good bye Annazekia. It was nice meeting you. And killing you. And being you.”
Once he was satisfied with the fire in front of him, he started his bike and rumbled down the street. He did not head off into the sunset, but rather to the only home he had ever truly known. The only place he had every truly belonged. The only cycle he ever really intended to finish.
A place. A cycle. A home.