India: May, 2006
The jungle is alive, it’s more than a metaphor, everything one sees moves, crawls, throbs with an energy. It’s not sentient, it’s chaotic, but chaos has its own rules, eat or be eaten, struggle or die. Above this, there was something odd in the air that night, mixed with the ever-present damp of the jungle was another wet scent, metallic and tangy, that fed the raw hunger of life for life. The wilderness vibrated with the tenseness of Rudyard Kipling’s Tiger prowling its darkness. The tension was shattered by the sound of gunfire. The jungle went silent, expectation echoing in the quiet.
“Righ’ I've jus’ abou’ ‘ad it wiff ‘is nutter.”
The giant turned as the battered Land Rover sped over the dirt path towards him. He felt his strength surge into his weary muscles, awakening them, filling the space of aches and exhaustion with fibers of steel. In the tangled morass of life, the dead man felt more alive than the beasts he imagined in the shadows.
It had been such a lovely trip. The cooperation of the locals had been assured through Asira’s contacts. It wasn’t often Sykes felt like an honored guest, but the locals had gone out of their way to entertain the massive visitor. He had been helpful and friendly enough to work through the harsh memories of their occupation by his countrymen; after all it had been decades since the Empire withdrew from these lands. The country’s recent rise to prominence through the technology sector had gone a long way to improve their moods.
He reached out, choosing a stout limb from a low hanging tree. It splintered away from the trunk with an audible crack. The driver accelerated as his target was thrown into glaring relief against the darkness of the jungle.
It was this vestige of the bad old days that was a problem. Lord Reginald Blithe, the self-styled Huntsman. Too many years in isolation had twisted the kindred’s mind. Blithe had been his Invictus contact; however the man had been unwelcoming to say the least. He’d played the class card early and often. His stories vacillated between epics of fighting the local kindred (vastly exaggerated as it turned out) and the extolment of the traditional class system’s virtues, both in India and back in England. Blithe had two praises for India, the quality of the hunting and the harshness of its social customs. He was clearly of the opinion that the Empire would have persisted had it adopted a similar caste system instead of letting ‘commoners’ run amok.
In the last moment the giant made his choice, moving with impossible speed, slipping to the side and turning. Few understood his size was not a drawback to his mobility. Years of physical training had made him an almost unnatural paragon of power and grace as a man. His embrace had nearly doubled that training’s effectiveness.
One night, over a case of gin, Blithe had become drunk and belligerent. It was apparently a common problem with the man. He had terrorized a number of the local kindred when these moods were on him. Victimizing the younger locals had become his favorite sport. Safe by day, behind an army of Gurka military retainers, he’d rampage at night, hunting the ‘lesser’ kindred for sport. Sykes’ size had made him an interesting target, in his drunkenness Blithe had chosen to forget that as an Invictus himself, Sykes was not to be the subject of such a game. That was weeks ago, now a sober Blithe needed to stop the giant before this story reached Kindred of quality he knew.
Spinning, the giant crouched, discarding the makeshift wooden club, for now. His fingers managed to catch the speeding Land Rover’s frame, just beneath the passenger’s door. The rough steel cut deep, tearing skin and scraping bone. Fluidly, Sykes lifted and turned, feeling his muscles scream under the weight of the vehicle.
The strain on the frame caused the expensive machine to twist. Cubes of glass exploded, glittering by moonlight as they passed through the protective brush cages, ricocheting off at odd angles. The truck had not been stopped, merely redirected slightly; forward momentum was augmented by the spin leant by Sykes’ efforts. The Land Rover listed impossibly, wheels leaving the packed dirt and clinging mud, rolling now as it moved through the air. The scene went to slow motion for the giant as he leaned down to grasp the Club in his bloody hands. He stood before it had completed its final rotation, sliding off the muddy road to rest upside-down against the trunk of a tree half its girth.
Closing the distance cautiously Sykes brandished the cudgel. The occupant was almost certainly alive. Kindred were too sturdy to be killed by this kind of crude battery; with luck the elder would be stunned. It was an unlucky night for the giant; a single shot rang out catching his shoulder solidly. The club slipped from his blood slick grasp.
A hand clawed desperately from beneath the inverted Land Rover’s hood. Blithe had not escaped harm, the truth was more grizzly than Sykes had imagined. He retched as the horrific scene unfolded.
Blithe had been thrown forward through the windscreen when the vehicle struck the ground. As he came into view the shattered remnants of his legs and lower torso became obvious. Withered viscera trailed behind the nightmarish thing as it writhed, reforming as the young Invictus watched in horror.
The elder dragged himself slowly, painfully fighting for each inch of ground. He moved forward with one clawed arm grasping at mud and brush, the other trying to train the old service revolver on his prey. The elder had been thrown from the driver’s seat to land against the tree a split second before the car came to rest on it, bisecting him.
The jungle had gone deathly silent. Even the chitter of frogs and insects died as six points of baleful light reflected back the Land Rover’s flood lights. The Giant stared a moment, automatically diving for his cudgel as the single roar echoed in the quiet. Tigers, three of the massive brutes moved in sinewy unison.
He knew this was impossible. Tigers wee lone hunters, weren’t they? The beasts were on the prone nightmare in an instant, tearing, growling fighting over scraps of dead flesh. The giant could sense it these weren’t beasts, they were dead like him. Vampires.
Soon the remains of Lord Blithe, pioneer of the Invictus had melted to ash. The giant stared as the three turned their gaze to him. He watched, mesmerized as they shifted. A man in a conservative western suit, Indian, stepped forward and smiled, wiping blood from his lips. He recognized the young programmer, another member of the first estate, embraced in Silicon Valley some years before, his Rakshasa contact. The others demurely stood silent in their brightly colored incongruous saris, jewelry tinkling in the night breeze. One giggled, destroying the quiet as she whispered to her fellow in their native tongue, nodding towards Sykes.
“Hello Mr. Sykes,” the accent an almost perfect American. The giant dropped the club.
“Wha’ the ‘ell was ‘at Mr Gowda?”
“An unfortunate necessity Mr. Sykes, Blithe had become ‘addled’, you understand of course.” The small man brushed ash from his lapel.
Sykes nodded, “I un’erstan’ I was the bait for ‘is li’le ambush.”
Gowda nodded, “a job you did admirably, my friends and I thank you.”
Sykes shook his head, “you could ‘ave staked ‘im y’ know.”
“Most inefficient at this juncture.” He was interrupted by a chattered coment from one of the women. He smiled broadly. “They are quite taken with you, perhaps a pleasant reward will soothe your conscience.
Sykes looked at the two and shuddered seeing their blood soaked claws. “No fanks… no’ to offen’ bu’ I ain’ ‘appy Mr. Gowda.”
“As you wish Mr. Sykes, you have done us a service, and for that you will be rewarded. The late Lord Blithe’s retainers have been dealt with; the one which is left is yours to keep. He may be helpful, but I suggest he leave with you, soon.”
“I wasn’ finking of stayin’… It’s a bi’ ‘arsh ‘ere jus’ now.”
Gowda nodded pulling a telegram from his pocket. “I of course understand. This is for you, an associate of mine works for the telegraph office.”
Sykes took the folded paper, eyeing the streaks of blood the younger kindred had left on it. He shook off the urge to drop it and unfolded the paper deliberately. He imagined how he looked, khaki outdoor gear torn, his body dirty and weary, stained with his own sweat and blood, towering over this small and strange modern man in this ancient wilderness.
Dearest Bill (stop)
I would like you to see me soon. (stop)
Come to Washington. (stop)
-Lizzie (stop)
“Righ’ I've jus’ abou’ ‘ad it wiff ‘is nutter.”
The giant turned as the battered Land Rover sped over the dirt path towards him. He felt his strength surge into his weary muscles, awakening them, filling the space of aches and exhaustion with fibers of steel. In the tangled morass of life, the dead man felt more alive than the beasts he imagined in the shadows.
It had been such a lovely trip. The cooperation of the locals had been assured through Asira’s contacts. It wasn’t often Sykes felt like an honored guest, but the locals had gone out of their way to entertain the massive visitor. He had been helpful and friendly enough to work through the harsh memories of their occupation by his countrymen; after all it had been decades since the Empire withdrew from these lands. The country’s recent rise to prominence through the technology sector had gone a long way to improve their moods.
He reached out, choosing a stout limb from a low hanging tree. It splintered away from the trunk with an audible crack. The driver accelerated as his target was thrown into glaring relief against the darkness of the jungle.
It was this vestige of the bad old days that was a problem. Lord Reginald Blithe, the self-styled Huntsman. Too many years in isolation had twisted the kindred’s mind. Blithe had been his Invictus contact; however the man had been unwelcoming to say the least. He’d played the class card early and often. His stories vacillated between epics of fighting the local kindred (vastly exaggerated as it turned out) and the extolment of the traditional class system’s virtues, both in India and back in England. Blithe had two praises for India, the quality of the hunting and the harshness of its social customs. He was clearly of the opinion that the Empire would have persisted had it adopted a similar caste system instead of letting ‘commoners’ run amok.
In the last moment the giant made his choice, moving with impossible speed, slipping to the side and turning. Few understood his size was not a drawback to his mobility. Years of physical training had made him an almost unnatural paragon of power and grace as a man. His embrace had nearly doubled that training’s effectiveness.
One night, over a case of gin, Blithe had become drunk and belligerent. It was apparently a common problem with the man. He had terrorized a number of the local kindred when these moods were on him. Victimizing the younger locals had become his favorite sport. Safe by day, behind an army of Gurka military retainers, he’d rampage at night, hunting the ‘lesser’ kindred for sport. Sykes’ size had made him an interesting target, in his drunkenness Blithe had chosen to forget that as an Invictus himself, Sykes was not to be the subject of such a game. That was weeks ago, now a sober Blithe needed to stop the giant before this story reached Kindred of quality he knew.
Spinning, the giant crouched, discarding the makeshift wooden club, for now. His fingers managed to catch the speeding Land Rover’s frame, just beneath the passenger’s door. The rough steel cut deep, tearing skin and scraping bone. Fluidly, Sykes lifted and turned, feeling his muscles scream under the weight of the vehicle.
The strain on the frame caused the expensive machine to twist. Cubes of glass exploded, glittering by moonlight as they passed through the protective brush cages, ricocheting off at odd angles. The truck had not been stopped, merely redirected slightly; forward momentum was augmented by the spin leant by Sykes’ efforts. The Land Rover listed impossibly, wheels leaving the packed dirt and clinging mud, rolling now as it moved through the air. The scene went to slow motion for the giant as he leaned down to grasp the Club in his bloody hands. He stood before it had completed its final rotation, sliding off the muddy road to rest upside-down against the trunk of a tree half its girth.
Closing the distance cautiously Sykes brandished the cudgel. The occupant was almost certainly alive. Kindred were too sturdy to be killed by this kind of crude battery; with luck the elder would be stunned. It was an unlucky night for the giant; a single shot rang out catching his shoulder solidly. The club slipped from his blood slick grasp.
A hand clawed desperately from beneath the inverted Land Rover’s hood. Blithe had not escaped harm, the truth was more grizzly than Sykes had imagined. He retched as the horrific scene unfolded.
Blithe had been thrown forward through the windscreen when the vehicle struck the ground. As he came into view the shattered remnants of his legs and lower torso became obvious. Withered viscera trailed behind the nightmarish thing as it writhed, reforming as the young Invictus watched in horror.
The elder dragged himself slowly, painfully fighting for each inch of ground. He moved forward with one clawed arm grasping at mud and brush, the other trying to train the old service revolver on his prey. The elder had been thrown from the driver’s seat to land against the tree a split second before the car came to rest on it, bisecting him.
The jungle had gone deathly silent. Even the chitter of frogs and insects died as six points of baleful light reflected back the Land Rover’s flood lights. The Giant stared a moment, automatically diving for his cudgel as the single roar echoed in the quiet. Tigers, three of the massive brutes moved in sinewy unison.
He knew this was impossible. Tigers wee lone hunters, weren’t they? The beasts were on the prone nightmare in an instant, tearing, growling fighting over scraps of dead flesh. The giant could sense it these weren’t beasts, they were dead like him. Vampires.
Soon the remains of Lord Blithe, pioneer of the Invictus had melted to ash. The giant stared as the three turned their gaze to him. He watched, mesmerized as they shifted. A man in a conservative western suit, Indian, stepped forward and smiled, wiping blood from his lips. He recognized the young programmer, another member of the first estate, embraced in Silicon Valley some years before, his Rakshasa contact. The others demurely stood silent in their brightly colored incongruous saris, jewelry tinkling in the night breeze. One giggled, destroying the quiet as she whispered to her fellow in their native tongue, nodding towards Sykes.
“Hello Mr. Sykes,” the accent an almost perfect American. The giant dropped the club.
“Wha’ the ‘ell was ‘at Mr Gowda?”
“An unfortunate necessity Mr. Sykes, Blithe had become ‘addled’, you understand of course.” The small man brushed ash from his lapel.
Sykes nodded, “I un’erstan’ I was the bait for ‘is li’le ambush.”
Gowda nodded, “a job you did admirably, my friends and I thank you.”
Sykes shook his head, “you could ‘ave staked ‘im y’ know.”
“Most inefficient at this juncture.” He was interrupted by a chattered coment from one of the women. He smiled broadly. “They are quite taken with you, perhaps a pleasant reward will soothe your conscience.
Sykes looked at the two and shuddered seeing their blood soaked claws. “No fanks… no’ to offen’ bu’ I ain’ ‘appy Mr. Gowda.”
“As you wish Mr. Sykes, you have done us a service, and for that you will be rewarded. The late Lord Blithe’s retainers have been dealt with; the one which is left is yours to keep. He may be helpful, but I suggest he leave with you, soon.”
“I wasn’ finking of stayin’… It’s a bi’ ‘arsh ‘ere jus’ now.”
Gowda nodded pulling a telegram from his pocket. “I of course understand. This is for you, an associate of mine works for the telegraph office.”
Sykes took the folded paper, eyeing the streaks of blood the younger kindred had left on it. He shook off the urge to drop it and unfolded the paper deliberately. He imagined how he looked, khaki outdoor gear torn, his body dirty and weary, stained with his own sweat and blood, towering over this small and strange modern man in this ancient wilderness.
Dearest Bill (stop)
I would like you to see me soon. (stop)
Come to Washington. (stop)
-Lizzie (stop)