The Tower - Part 1
Authors Note:
This story is the result of a, perhaps foolish, promise made during my first year of undergrad at Trent University: that I would write an "undead army" story for my, then new, friend by graduation. Years passed - I procrastinated - and I didn't actually start until fourth year. Fortunately, as I have since pointed out, I never specified which graduation this story would be ready for. So when undergrad came and went, I made a new promise that it would be finished by the time my, then best, friend graduated law school. And I am happy to say that I have finished, with a year and a half to spare.
Of course, if not for the help of a few people, I would probably still be working on this. So, to that end, I thank Sabrina for listening to me brainstorm for the last few years. I thank Shawn for being my beta reader, and turning this into more than just sex and death - his comments were very helpful, and any grammatical or logic errors that remain are my own fault because I ran out of time and ignored a lot of his suggestions. And I thank Brandi for not being too weirded out about the content of the story I wrote for her boyfriend.
Most importantly, I owe a huge debt of gratitude to Jamie. For asking for the story, for Isabeth - that character is totally his fault - and for his patience when I kept putting this off. No one could ask for a better best friend.
Additional warning for the faint of heart: this most definitely contains "adult content". Beware.
Isabeth reclined on the chaise-lounge, the fingers of one hand drumming on her raised knee while the other hand gripped a knot of hair on the head between her thighs. She leaned her head back and sighed, watching the mirrored ceiling. Her own reflection was absent, of course, but it amused her to watch the mortal struggle. She could have forced him to enjoy what he was doing, had in fact spent many pleasurable hours having him beg for the honour of servicing her. But not today. Today she wanted the smell of hatred and frustration. She wanted him to know that he had no choice. That she could hold him there until he suffocated, or drowned, if she so chose. An erstwhile vampire hunter, sent by what little remained of the human government, now nothing more than a plaything. She laughed and ground his face harder against herself. As much as she had doubted, joining this war had been an excellent decision.
She felt their approach long before the door opened, but decided against moving. Soon enough she would be back in the field, forced to find what little pleasure she could find with common minions. Better to enjoy her time now, whatever the other commanders thought. It wasn't as though she hadn't seen them in similar positions before.
She watched their entrance in the mirror. Dy came first, as always, scanning the room for threats. From above he appeared as any other mortal man, although no human would ever come armed into Isabeth's private chambers. In her mind's eye, though, she could see the gaping wounds on his throat and chest; the empty socket where his left eye had once been; the ivory coloured bones and teeth peeking out from the holes in his cheeks. Dy had been the zombie commander for many years, and bore the marks of battle proudly.
Behind the zombie came the swirling dark presence of Karn, leader of the wraith. He spread into the room like a vast, cold shadow, touching briefly on the lone mortal to steal some of his warmth, before pulling back into his humanoid form. He had the appearance of a man's shadow, floating a few inches above the ground, with unblinking, blood red eyes that watched everything.
The last to enter was a surprise. Not at all humanoid, it had the appearance of an oversized dog - charcoal grey, with pearl white eyes and razor sharp teeth. It padded into the room, a silent, menacing presence. Shade, leader of the hell hounds and guardian of the Necromancer Himself. Not that He would lower Himself to attending one of these meetings. No, He would be watching and listening through Shade. Isabeth shuddered, partly from climax but also a touch of fear. He would likely not appreciate her decision to continue playing.
Ah, well. Too late to change it now. She pushed the human into the corner and stood, casually naked. Only Dy eyed her with lust, but that was alright. There was no point in teasing the wraith or hound; she would not enjoy their tastes. She pulled on a crimson, silk robe, and gestured to the map table in the centre of the room.
"Gentlemen," she smiled toothily, her voice low and satisfied. "Come in. Let us discuss the end of the humans."
***
James crouched in the corner, shaking with anger and disgust, and not a little fear. He gasped quietly for air, wishing he had something to chase the foul taste of the vampire bitch's cum from his mouth. He felt weak and cold, but forced himself to listen to the discussion. He hadn't gotten much information since he volunteered for this op, but now it finally seemed to be paying off. When that whore Isabeth tossed him back into the cells, he'd activate the transmitters lodged in his jaw and the base of his spine to send the intel. The risks were high, but the undead seemed to completely ignore technology. Which might be the only hope for humans. It was why he'd come here, why he'd allowed himself to be captured, why he endured the humiliation of being used by the vampiress general. As long as it led to a human victory, that was all that mattered.
As he listened, James' mind drifted back to the days before the war. He'd been part of a deep-black military unit, one of the few groups who'd even known of the rising threat of the undead. It had been a good life. Training, hunting, protecting his country, and partying hard whenever he got leave - rescued chicks were always welcoming when he showed up again.
They hadn't even heard of the Necromancer until a couple months before the war started. Snitches started disappearing, hunting teams losing more members than before - or not coming back at all. Vague reports of a gathering of undead, clans that had battled for centuries now united, a powerful new threat the captured only referred to as "Him". James and half a dozen others had been sent to the suspected location of "Him", to scout out and destroy the new threat if possible.
Only James had returned alive.
Even now, years later, he couldn't remember all of what had happened. He remembered an army, far greater than even the wildest estimates of the undead population. Vampires and zombies, wraiths and hell hounds, liches and warlocks. And "Him". A Necromancer. A once mortal man who had somehow gained the power to control them all.
The team had sent back their intel and received orders to take out the Necro by any means necessary. They were the best, every one of them a veteran of hundreds of battles with the undead. They'd gone in, guns blazing, ready to take down the Necro for the good of humanity.
All James remembered were the screams, the stench of burning flesh, the mind-numbing cold, the suffocating darkness. He had no idea how he'd managed to escape. Half-dead, his mind almost gone, screaming long after he'd lost his voice. But escape he did. He spent six weeks in the body shop, and another month in the psych ward. By the time he got out the war had already started, and half the human population was wiped out. The undead were everywhere at once. Africa was gone in a matter of weeks, South America and the Middle East shortly after. Too much of it from friendly fire, when the terrified "civilized" countries carpet bombed anywhere that reported sightings of Him. The whole planet was a warzone. Parts of Europe and Asia held out, Australia safely surrounded by water. Canada and the US combined forces, but every year they were pushed further back. And for every human lost, a new undead rose.
But they hadn't given up. Any human, his back was against the wall, would fight like hell to survive. The old ways were coming back - wearing crosses, carrying garlic and rock salt, learning charms and warding spells. And, as always, new technology rose to the challenge. Every house was lit with UV lamps; cars were equipped with flame-throwers; guns were modified to shoot concentrated garlic, silver, or rock salt. The war was slowly coming to a standstill.
As soon as he'd passed his physical and psych tests (using every trick he could think of to convince the quacks he was over his mission to kill the Necro), James joined the fight. He was a certified expert on undead slaughter, so he went where the fighting was worst. He led desperate charges, he tested new weapons, he advised the President, he went on solo ops to neutralize sub-commanders. And when the chance had come up to infiltrate the top ranks of the undead army, he'd been the first to volunteer. The closer he got to destroying that Necro bastard, the happier he would be.
Even if he never got the taste of that cunt out of his mouth. It would be worth it. It had to be.
***
"We concentrate the wraith here, on the upper levels, shortly after dark. The ground level is all UV so we send the hounds in, loss of twenty to thirty percent, mostly wounded. The zombies have almost reached the sub-basements now, they'll be able to take out the generators. Once security is down the vampires can go in." Dy finished, waving his hand through Karn, who had taken on the shape of the tower that held the last of the human governments. "Once they're leaderless, we'll take the continent within the year."
Isabeth frowned slightly. "Wards? Even without the lamps we can't get past those, and they aren't dependent on any generator."
Karn swirled and returned to his humanoid form, a smile in his sibilant voice. "Warlockss. He hass given uss Hiss sstrongesst."
She glanced at Shade, at His distant presence, and frowned again. "They've never been able to break wards so quickly before."
Karn laughed, a scratching, raspy sound. "He hass ssaid it will be sso. Do you doubt Him?"
"No!" Isabeth felt a rush of fear at the idea that He might think she was questioning his orders. "Of course not. I only want to be sure this is successful. These humans have held us off too long as it is."
"It will be done, Isa." Dy's voice was low, but confident. "The warlocks will see it done. They have been promised . . . help."
Her eyes widened. The Necromancer Himself would be coming? She shivered again, remembering her last personal visit with Him with a mix of fear, lust, and loathing. Horribly aware of Shade's eyes on her, Isabeth nodded. "It will be done, then. The humans will fall." She smiled and allowed her fangs to drop. "And we shall feast."
Karn and Dy laughed. Shade just watched silently. Isabeth refused to look at him. No. Focus on victory. Focus on the prize. It would be worth it. It had to be.
*
The generals remained a while longer, working out the details. The attack would be on the winter solstice, the longest night of the year. Isabeth had to admit it was a masterful plan. And with Him there, it was certain to succeed. As the discussion continued she could feel her blood lust rising. It had been too long since such a decisive victory. Too many skirmishes of late, chasing small groups out of their hiding places. She longed to unleash her true might, to gorge in the heat of battle, to breathe in the sweat and fear and desperation. It would be glorious. She didn't want to wait the two weeks until the solstice.
Fortunately, she mused as the generals left, she had things to amuse herself with until then.
She turned to the mortal still huddling in the corner and inhaled deeply. Ah yes. Hate, fear, determination, unsatisfied lust. She closed her eyes, it was a heady mix.
"So, my little hunter," her smile turned feral when he shuddered. "Alone again. What shall we do, hmm?" She approached him slowly, a huntress stalking her prey. With a little mental effort she forced him to stand and walk towards her. He fought her control, as always, but she was much too strong to be denied. "Shall I have you beg me?" She walked around him, dragging the tip of a razor sharp fingernail along his collar bone and around the back of his neck, her mouth watering as crimson blood welled up. "Shall I let you fight me? Give you hope?" She leaned in, flattened her tongue against the blood she had raised, and moaned happily. "Shall I make you watch while I play with your little friend?" He twitched slightly, and she saw the face of the woman hunter flash through his mind. She moved back and laughed at him. "I know. A new game Follow me, you'll enjoy this." She laughed again, and turned to lead him to one of her game rooms.
***
James didn't even pretend to fight as he followed behind the vampires. He'd trained enough, he could have denied her if he really needed to. But that would end with him dead, and then no one would know the Necro Himself would be at the Tower in two weeks. Only two more weeks of this bitch's games.
If only he hadn't thought of Phoebe.
It should have been a solo op. He'd always worked better alone. But intel hadn't known if the vampire leader preferred men or women for her games. And the fucking shrinks had "recommended" he have support. Hence Phoebe. She was good, he could admit that. Second only to himself in the number of successfully completed ops. So she was qualified. She was also, unfortunately for James (who had strict rules against fishing off the company pier), a walking wet dream.
Relatively tall, slim, fair skin, long red hair, great rack, and a killer smile. Not to mention she was smart, funny, and absolutely lethal. They'd worked together a few times, and it hadn't been easy to keep his mind on the game when all his blood kept rushing south. After every op he'd had to spent at least a day with some red-headed whore before he could sleep.
He'd been here for almost a month. And it hadn't taken long for that goddamn undead bitch to figure out his feelings. She'd played on them a few times, making him watch while she played with Phoebe (turned out the vampire general didn't actually have a preference), or feed from her, or toss her to some minions. It amused the vampiress to watch James be turned-on and furious at the same time. And if she'd come up with a new game, he was not looking forward to it.
They came to a stop in a circular room. One half of the wall was a large curving monitor. The last time James was in this room, Isabeth had been showing off pictures of her recent slaughters. The other half of the wall was a window into another of the playrooms. The vampiress walked him into the centre of the room and turned him to face the window. She must have been communicating with her minions while they walked, because shortly after they arrived Phoebe was brought in, her glorious body completely bare. James tried to fight it, but he was getting hard already.
Isabeth smiled. "I told you you'd like this game." She raised his hands to grip a metal pull-cord. James looked up in surprise, it hadn't been there before. He could see it run along the ceiling and into the playroom past the window. The playroom had a wall running across the middle, so James was looking at the two halves. On one side was a young girl, human, who had clearly been crying for some time. On the other side was a hell hound yearling, snarling and growling as it leapt at the wall that kept it from eating. The pull-cord seemed to be attached to the wall in the playroom. James stared at the pull-cord, then the vampiress, then Phoebe who was now on her knees in front of him. His stomach tightened as he realized the point of the game.
He gasped, then moaned when Phoebe leaned forward and took his cock into her mouth. Isabeth laughed. "If you want release, just pull the cord."
James gasped again, his hips thrusting forward of their own accord. He grit his teeth and shook his head. "Never happen."
The bitch laughed lightly, and sat down on a recliner her minions had brought in. "Well. Let us see how long never lasts, shall we?"
*
He lay on the floor of his cell, exhausted, completely boneless. Phoebe sat in her cell facing away from him. She hadn't even glanced at him since they were thrown back in here. Normally they'd be at the bars that separated them, and he'd tell her what he'd found out. He could hear her crying. He ached. Isabeth had joined in when watching became too boring. She'd whipped Phoebe, then him, then fed, and fucked with his mind until he couldn't tell up from down. All the while Phoebe tasting him, swallowing him - the heat of her mouth, her tongue, her tears. Looking up at him, begging him to make it stop, fucking him with her mouth and hands. So good, so sweet, getting painful. And Isabeth kept whispering just pull the cord, make it stop, need to cum, pull the cord, forget the kid, need to cum . . .
His memory was blank. He'd passed out. He didn't know if he'd pulled the cord or not. Part of him wanted to ask Phoebe, but he was afraid of the answer. So he just lay still, his mind numb. Hating this op, the undead, the Necro, the vampire bitch. Himself.
*
He might have slept for a while, or his mind had just blanked. Either way, his time/date implant informed him a few hours had past. He was facing Phoebe's cell, but it was empty. As much as he hated himself for it, he was glad he didn't have to face her right now. Besides, if she was gone it meant Isabeth was busy, and he could send a warning about the impending attack.
He forced himself into a sitting position, his muscles screaming at him, the lash-marks on his back a stinging counterpoint. He stretched slowly, testing to make sure that everything still worked. It was agony to move, but nothing was sprained or broken. He looked at his palms, both of which were cut from gripping the pull-cord so tightly. Another few minutes were lost staring at them, then he shook it off and turned his attention inward.
Nano-computer implants were still a new technology. The time/date/GPS implant he'd had for years, but the communications transmitters were far newer, and far less stable. He'd only used them once since getting here, to inform control that he'd made it in. This was going to be a far longer, not to mention more important, message. He could only pray that the transmitters still worked.
With a deep, aching breath he visualized the activation key: the characters for "the art of war". It took a few tries for his mind's eye to trace them perfectly, but then he could feel a buzz in his lower back, jaw, and temple. The transmitters were online. He swallowed nervously, and subvocalized: "identification charlie-zulu-niner-omega-blue, call-sign Wildfire, secure feed to delta-green-thirty-black-control."
He waited, all of a sudden convinced he'd forgotten something, or gotten the wrong code, or Control had been found, or the Necro could read his mind, or -
"This is Control, we have a secure feed Wildfire, go ahead."
James exhaled in a rush. "You better have a pen, handy, Control. Here's the news . . ."
***
Isabeth rested her head on her hands and yawned. The girl wasn't as fun to play with when the man wasn't around, but her minions had been getting restless so she'd given them a treat. She'd made the girl desperate for them, and then tossed her over. Her moaning and screaming were getting a little irritating, but it would be worth it when Isabeth returned her to herself, covered in vampire spunk, sore in every hole, voice hoarse from thanking and begging. The tears and self-disgust were always amusing.
She yawned again, rose to her feet, and moved to the map table. Now that she'd sated some of her lust, she realized that two weeks wasn't a lot of time to get all of her forces to the human stronghold. Vampires could travel quickly enough, but she would have to disengage from a number of ongoing skirmishes, and keep the humans from guessing what was going on at the same time. Absently she wondered how Dy would gather the zombies in time, laughing softly at the mental image of his forces lurching down the highway. She pushed the thought aside, it wasn't her concern.
She began plotting paths for each of the clans, now turned battalions. It would take some manoeuvring, as much as the Necromancer had unified the undead, there were still blood feuds between some of the vampire clans that could not be ignored. Isabeth had to keep them separated until the last possible minute, when they could all attack the humans. With a heavy sigh she pulled over a pad of paper and started listing orders.
*
It took two days to work out all the orders and communicate them to the head of each clan. During that time she'd left the mortals alone. They were more fun when they were completely healed, and she really didn't have time for games if everything was going to be ready for the solstice. She was just contemplating what she wanted to do with the mortals when a minion informed her that she had a guest. She considered making whomever it was wait, but decided against it. Important events were taking place, and that had to take precedence over personal pleasures.
She told her minion to escort her guest in, then took a seat on the chaise-lounge to wait.
When the minion returned with Shade, Isabeth was doubly thankful she hadn't made him wait. She stood and bowed slightly while dismissing the minion. Once he left, she stared at the hell hound in silence, uncertain what to do. For his part Shade simply looked around, sniffed the air briefly, then sat.
"Greetings, Isal te Bethsharan of the Taeslen clan." A melodious tenor sounded next to her ear. Isabeth went completely still. It was Him. Here in her quarters. The Necromancer.
She turned, her gaze lowered, and curtsied deeply. "My lord, I am honoured by your presence."
He laughed and gestured vaguely. "You are surprised to see me here."
"I," her face warmed slightly. "Yes, my lord, but I am -"
"Honoured, yes of course." He chuckled. "Come, now. What sort of king would not visit his generals with an important battle approaching? The vampires will be ready, of course?"
She nodded vigorously. "Yes, my lord. The clans are on their way as we speak."
"Good. And your mortals? You seemed to be enjoying one when I last saw you."
Isabeth hesitated, not sure what response He was looking for. He had known she occasionally kept mortals to play with, and although He had once been mortal Himself it didn't seem to bother Him. But she had guessed wrong on His reactions before, and didn't want to risk it again. In the end, she simply nodded silently.
He smiled faintly. "It intrigues me, that you find . . . entertainment with mortals. I would like to meet one. Is that man you were toying with still alive?"
She nodded again. "I believe so, lord. He has been in the cells for the past few days. I would be honoured to have my minions make him ready for your presence."
"No," the Necromancer shook His head. "That isn't necessary. In the cells will be fine."
"My lord, they are dirty, certainly not worthy of your presence -"
He laughed. "It will not be the first time I have witnessed such conditions. Please, dear Isal, it would give me great satisfaction to see this mortal of yours."
With nothing to do but nod, Isabeth gestured vaguely and led Him towards the cells. "Of course, lord. I live to serve your will."
***
It had been two days. Two days since he'd been forced to endure that bitch's presence. Two days since he'd sent his communication and been told to "await instruction". Two days since Phoebe returned, sobbing and still covered in evidence of the minions' games. James wasn't sure if he should be thankful for the break, or worry that the whore had grown tired of them and was just leaving them to die. Either way, he had no choice but to wait.
He paced his cell, practiced his forms, ignored his hunger and thirst as much as possible. At least he and Phoebe had the chance to talk again. He told her of his communication to Control, they discussed the implications of an attack on the Tower, and the possibility of finally taking the Necro down. They very pointedly did not talk about the last "game" they endured together. James still didn't want to know what had happened during his memory blank. No matter what had happened, it was just one more reason for Isabeth, the Necro, and every other undead piece of shit to die. Slowly, quickly, preferably screaming. As long as they were all destroyed. Once that mission was done, then he could look at his own sins. Then he could hate himself. Right now there just wasn't time.
*
He was limping through his attack forms, Phoebe snoring softly in her cell, when his transmitters buzzed.
"Charlie-zulu-niner-omega-blue, call-sign Wildfire, this is delta-green-thirty-black-control. Are you secure?"
James almost fell on his ass in surprise. He'd always been the first to initiate contact, and it was more than a little disconcerting to have a voice suddenly speaking in his head. For a moment he felt sorry for crazy people. Then he realized Control was waiting, and looked around to make sure no minions were nearby.
"Control this is Wildfire, I am secure. Go ahead."
He glanced into Phoebe's cell as he responded and saw that she was now wide awake. She caught his gaze and nodded minutely when he raised his eyebrows in question. So Control was talking to her too. The wonders of modern technology.
"Wildfire, your op has been completed. We need to recover you and Blackjack. You will both receive a dose of deadheart from your med-implant. We will recover you upon disposal. Do you copy?"
"I copy, Control." He shuddered, this was a terrible recovery plan. Not only was deadheart still largely untested (or at least had been when he started this op), but there was no guarantee the vamps wouldn't just drain him and Phoebe when they were found. Sure, it was thought that vamps didn't eat from corpses, but no one actually knew.
Still. It was his only chance to get out of here. He'd damn well take it.
"Good. Deadheart has been administered. You have thirty minutes before effect. Get yourself comfortable, and we'll see you on the other side. Control out."
Just as quickly as it had come, the buzz in his spine, jaw, and temple disappeared. James sat down, all of a sudden sick to his stomach. He knew it was a purely psychosomatic response, deadheart had no overt symptoms - until it shut down all his vital signs for the next 36 hours. But he felt it anyway. He wondered what would happen if the minions didn't notice, and he and Phoebe were still here when they woke up. Would Control hit them again? How many doses could the human body take before it wouldn't wake up? Would he even know if it happened, or would his consciousness just be lost completely? They said it was like a long, dreamless sleep, but did they know?
He shuddered again. Too many questions. Phoebe came and sat next to him, reaching her arm through the bars to take his hand. Neither of them spoke. There was nothing to say. In 30 minutes they'd be dead. In a day and a half, if all went well, they'd be resurrected far away from these fucking cells. Until then, there was nothing to do but wait.
*
He wasn't sure how much time had passed when the outer door swung open. With no desire to count the seconds, he'd shut his time/date implant off and was instead trying to remember how far he'd gotten in his last saved game of "Rome: Being Caesar". It had been almost a year since he last had time to indulge in any non-training VR. But, who knew, if all went well in a couple weeks he'd have all the downtime in the world. Army life had definitely begun to lose its appeal.
So when the outer door opened to reveal a nervously chatting Isabeth and a man of moderate height with a faint smile, James wasn't sure if the deadheart had already kicked in and he was dreaming. Surely that bitch wouldn't be so flustered in the face of what appeared to be a lowly mortal man. He didn't even have the look of a hunter - shorter than James, slim, small hands, scruffy shoes. Obviously this was a dream.
". . . had them for a while now. A two-man hunting team, they tried to catch me the last time I was in the field. Well, two person, as you can see. I've had them here ever since. Mostly to keep my minions amused, of course, but I do indulge occasionally."
"Of course," the man's voice was familiar. James frowned in puzzlement. It was higher than average, but pleasant. Almost musical. He stared at the man's face but his brain was starting to slow down. The man looked at him and smiled broadly. "Hello, Wildfire."
James gasped. "You!" But it was too late. Black crowded his vision, his lungs refused to expand. He knew who the Necro was. The most important intel in the war, and he couldn't tell anyone. Because he was dead.
***
Isabeth didn't know what to respond to first: the fact that her mortal plaything recognized the Necromancer Himself, or the fact that her mortal plaything had died without sharing the knowledge. She glanced at the female to see if maybe she knew, but she was just as dead as her companion. Isabeth scowled when she realized she no longer had any mortals to entertain herself with, then shook her head at how inappropriate a frustration it was. Belatedly remembering that He had wanted to see the mortals, and that He might be angered by their deaths, she turned to face Him.
If He was angered, He had an odd way of showing it. The Necromancer, her lord and master, the only creature she'd ever truly feared, was laughing so hard He couldn't breath, tears of mirth streaming down His cheeks.
Isabeth stared. "My . . . my lord? Are you alright?"
He shook His head, almost doubled over, and held up a hand for her to wait. She continued to stare, bewildered, then looked back at the mortals to see if their corpses were somehow in on the joke. They simply lay there, cooling slowly, the man's face locked in an expression of shock, the girl's strangely serene. Whatever was so funny, the vampiress wouldn't find out from them.
Eventually the Necromancer's laughter died down to the occasional, surprisingly feminine, giggle. He took a deep breath and wiped the tears from His face, all the while staring at the corpses and shaking His head.
"Ah, Wildfire. Who would have guessed we'd end up here." His voice was soft, Isabeth doubted He meant to speak out loud. Still not sure how to react, she waited silently for Him to remember her presence.
It didn't take long. After a few more deep breaths, He stood up straighter, cleared His throat, and turned to face her. "You and your minions won't feed on the remains, correct?"
She shook her head slowly. "No, my lord. Truly dead blood, neither living nor undead, is poisonous to us. I usually send mortal corpses to one of Sir Dy's camps so they can be raised to serve you. But if you . . . knew these mortals . . ."
"No, no." He shook His head and smiled. "Send them to the camps. I would be quite pleased to have that one serve me." He laughed again. "Quite pleased indeed. Now, my dear Isal, the dinner hour approaches. Let us feed, hmm?"
*
They returned to her private chambers. Shade had left while they visited the cells. Isabeth took it as a small mercy that the hound wouldn't be watching. This was humiliating enough without an audience.
He took a seat on the chaise-lounge, His pale grey eyes intense. With a faint smile He gestured at the floor in front of the chair. "Take off your clothes."
Gritting her teeth, she stood where He had directed and pulled off her dress. If He had at least reacted somehow, but He just watched, that damn grin on His face. She removed her undergarments quickly, and waited - naked and furious - for His next command.
"Tell me about the mortal."
"I . . . what?" She frowned, this was new. "I don't understand, lord."
His gaze was steady, not even glancing at her body. "Tell me about the mortal. Where did you find him, what did you do with him, what did you learn of the humans' plans. Tell me about him."
Isabeth searched His expression for any sign of why He wanted to know, but it was no use. Other than His laughter at the mortal's death, His expression hadn’t changed since He arrived. She nodded slowly and began speaking. "Well, as I said, lord, he and the woman tried to kill me the last time I was in the field . . ."
As she spoke His face remained impassive, although His eyes did start to wander over her body. As always happened, she could feel His gaze like a cool hand, stroking and teasing her flesh. The longer He looked, the colder the caress became until she was shivering, and then it began to burn. She lost track of what she was saying, but kept talking anyway. It was as if she were no longer in control of her voice, that it was somehow a separate entity, independent of the body that was caught on the razor edge between pain and pleasure. His eyes were getting darker, His breathing heavier, as He fed on her energy. A profound darkness emanated from Him, so cold she could barely perceive it, so suffocating even her airless lungs were weakened. She could no longer speak, but it didn't matter. He was in her mind, tearing through her thoughts, taking all He wanted.
She hated Him.
She loved Him.
Until it all became too much, and the darkness burst through her - pure ice drawn over every nerve, the most agonizing ecstasy with no end. There was nothing but Him. Only Him. Forever, and ever, and ever . . .
*
She awoke, crumpled on the floor, still shivering. He was already gone. Alone in her chambers, the most powerful vampire in the world began to cry.
***
"No, you moron! You need to decapitate it, not strangle it! Vampires don't need to breath, you'd just piss it off." James shook his head in disgust. Sometimes he was sure brass sent him useless recruits just to piss him off. "Control, restart simulation. Nero, for God's sake, try to get it right this time."
James waited while the scene before him went black for a moment, then restarted with the alley now empty of bodies. The trainee began into the alley, gripping the silver-edged wooden short sword that was the "optimal" weapon for vampire hunting. Privately, James thought a sniper rifle with garlic, rock salt, or silver packed hollow-points made more sense, but he was just a field operative. What the hell did he know?
Nero hesitated when a vampire jumped out at him. It was fair, they used civilian attackers too just to make sure soldiers could tell the difference. Of course, only new recruits were obvious in checking. After a few field ops, soldiers could tell a vamp from a human in a heartbeat. Those who couldn't never made it back. Vamps were shockingly bad mannered about leaving time for a close study before they went for the throat.
The trainee swung wildly at the target, and once again had his sword knocked out of his hand. James rolled his eyes. The kid would have to duct tape the damn thing on if he ever wanted a chance. This time, at least, he reached for one of the stakes tucked into his vest rather than trying to take the target by hand. Not that it mattered. Even on the easiest setting, Nero was too slow. He just managed to get a grip on the stake when the vamp lunged at him, fangs bared.
James shook his head again and waved the simulation away. "Look, are you trying to die? Because there are more pleasant ways than becoming vamp chow. Screw this. Control," he scanned through Nero's training logs for a moment and sighed. "Bring up 'sword play beta'. Every time trainee Nero loses his weapon, give him a zap. I swear to God, you'll learn to keep a grip on that thing. Begin simulation." He waited jus long enough to see the simulation start, then dropped back to RL.
With a long suffering sigh, he stretched carefully before getting out of his chair. His ribs, neck, and right shoulder were still sore, but getting better. A couple more weeks and he'd be back in the field. Not a moment too soon. He wasn't meant to be a trainer.
Scrubbing his fingers through his hair, he shoved his feet into a pair of slippers and headed out of his quarters towards the mess. As much as he hated being stuck in the body shop, at least the mess was always open.
He greeted people casually in the corridors. Although they were technically a military organization, they only ever bothered with saluting and all that other discipline crap when it was really necessary. Of course, he thought to himself when he passed a man without a right arm, not everyone was capable of saluting anyway.
At the mess he loaded his tray with a couple slices of pizza, a protein shake, a vitamin bar, and a bowl of ice cream. He walked out into the dining area and glanced around. When he spotted a soldier waving at him, he grinned and made his way over.
"Heya, Bishop. You're on vacation too, I see?"
The soldier smiled broadly, causing his scarred face to shift in interesting patterns. "Wildfire, you son of a bitch. I thought you were just taking out a couple vamp nests. They too much for a kid like you?"
James snorted through a mouthful of pizza. "They had a Goddamn hound with them."
"Aww. Taken down by a puppy. That's pretty weak, kid."
James rolled his eyes and gave Bishop the finger. "What about you," he paused to down some of the shake. "You still hunting dirt crawlers?"
"When I can get into the field. I've been doing training for almost eighteen months now."
James raised his eyebrows in surprise. "They got you stuck in VR? Shit, man, who'd you piss off?"
Bishop sneered. "Fucked if I know. I get back from my last op and they tell me they don't need me in the field. All's quiet underground. They got me back babysitting culture shocked newbies, try to turn 'em into hunters." He shook his head and stabbed at the remains of his dinner. "I tell ya, these kids are fucking useless. Wanna know why I'm here? A fucking kid tried to throw his knife at a target and fucking missed. First of all, who the hell throws his last weapon? And who the fuck misses a Goddamn Szaetho demon? They're as big as a fucking humvee!"
James snickered. "Yeah, I've been working with a few real winners myself. Why they think that every poor schmuck who's found out about the other side can somehow be a hunter, I'll never understand. Explain the world to them, sure. But good God, you couldn't pay me to team with some of these jokers."
Bishop raised his glass. "Yeah, I'll drink to that. Better to train 'em than have them at your back. At least if it's so quiet, they won't have to rush out to the field. Fuck, doing exercises with them, can you fucking imagine?" He laughed loudly. "Be lucky to make it back alive."
*
A year later, as part of the honour guard at Bishop's funeral, James remembered his friend's words. Missing and presumed dead during field exercises. Along with a half dozen recruits, including Nero who still lost his sword three times out of five. If it weren't for the hints of a new power, or if he'd had anything else in his life, James would have walked out the very next day. But there was nothing else. So he'd volunteered to go check out this "Necro" character.
***
It turned out waking up after being dead for 36 hours felt remarkably similar to waking up after a four day bender. Looking blearily around the room, in between bouts of vomiting into the bucket someone had so kindly provided, James couldn't help but wonder if he was still with that vampire bitch. The room seemed to be carved out of solid rock, lit by a single fluorescent bulb. Monitors and other arcane equipment beeped at him, presumably informing the world that he'd rejoined the human race. At least he assumed he was still human. There were no new bites on his neck, and the only thing he was craving was a stiff drink, and maybe to sleep a couple more days. Or a month. A year or two ought to do it.
He began to heave again. Coming back from the dead sucked.
He dozed on and off for a while, his thoughts a dark tangle of ops, his trainer yelling at him, getting attacked by a vamp when he was 17, and Isabeth's games. A familiar face kept watching him, amusement in its voice, "hello, Wildfire." He knew there was something important, something he needed to tell people, but it hurt entirely too much to think right now.
He didn't even realize he was thrashing around screaming until a couple blurry figures came into the room. That bitch's minions! They were taking him back! He fought desperately, kicking and clawing. Can't go back, never go back. He roared at them, but one got a fang or a claw or something into his neck, and everything started to fade.
His last thought before he passed out was to wonder why the vampires were wearing lab coats.
*
". . . had a bad reaction to the deadheart. We were never sure how it would affect an already weakened physiology. We really can't be held accountable for any-"
"Yes, yes. I'm well aware of that, doctor. No one blames you."
"That's all very well, sir. But two of my orderlies were quite badly wounded and . . ."
James smirked to himself. Hung over, weak from his time with that whore, and he'd still managed to take a couple of them out. Not bad.
He stretched slowly. His head still ached, and he certainly wasn't going to be running a marathon anytime soon, but he definitely felt better. Opening his eyes, he took in his surroundings. He smirked when he saw a tall, stern-faced man in urban camo standing at the foot of the bed, all but ignoring the doctor.
"So what's a guy gotta do to get a drink around here?" Despite hearing how weak his voice was, James managed a laugh when his commander, Stonewall, jumped in surprise.
"Wildfire!" The usually stern commander regarded James with a broad smile. "You've been making quite a nuisance of yourself since you got back."
James grinned and managed a small shrug. "Just doing my part, sir."
"Ha!" Stonewall moved as if to pound James on the shoulder, then stopped when he remembered how wounded James was. His face went back to its habitual scowl. "You did a fine job out there, son. We've already debriefed Blackjack, and we're all very impressed with what you've endured."
James felt his chest constrict. He wondered if Phoebe had told them all of Isabeth's games. Probably not, if Stonewall was so proud of him.
The commander must have seen some of James' worry, but he only hesitated slightly before continuing. "You should be debriefed ASAP. The doctor here tells me you should rest a few more days, but I have to tell you, Wildfire, a lot of people are worried after that communication of yours. It would really help if you could answer a few questions."
James glanced at the grimacing doctor, then shifted slightly to test his muscles. Everything hurt. A couple days of bed rest was damn appealing, but he knew there just wasn't time. Not with the attack so close. Kill the Necro first, then rest.
He met Stonewall's gaze. "I'm ready, sir. Get me outta here and back in the game."
His commander studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Good to have you back, son."
*
As eager as he was to get back to work, James allowed the doctor to check him over before rushing off. Then he had to sign a number of forms acknowledging that he was leaving against the doctor's recommendations, and absolving him of any blame if James collapsed again. Why the doctor was worried about a malpractice suit at this point, James really wasn't sure. Still, he couldn't leave without signing, so he didn't raise the question.
Even then he had to shower and shave before reporting to what little remained of the government. Looking at the face in the mirror, he absently wondered if he'd somehow changed bodies while he was dead. His face and body, relatively trim to begin with, were gaunt and pale. His eyes seemed sunken in and larger than before, bloodshot and rimmed in black. His hair was scruffy, far longer than he'd ever allowed it and his previously bare face was sporting a patchy beard. His torso and legs were covered in scars, but not as badly as his neck. Looking closely he could see dozens of fang imprints, several overlapping. If the humans somehow managed to win this war, he'd have to find a cosmetic surgeon. There was no way he was going to wear turtlenecks for the rest of his life.
After luxuriating in a steaming hot shower and shaving carefully, he pulled on his old "uniform" of urban hunting gear. Loose, dark grey khakis, a fitted t-shirt in varying shades of grey and black, soft-soled leather boots, and a plain black baseball cap. In the numerous pockets of his khakis he tucked a few stakes and packets of rock salt; silver daggers and throwing knives; a small pistol with boxes of garlic, silver and rock salt filled hollow-points; components for the few protection wards he knew; and a tightly wrapped mesh overcoat that could be used to blend better in the shadows. On his wrist he strapped what appeared to be a piece of plain black leather which, under a black light, would reveal his call-sign, ID number, nano implant list, and blanket authority over any city militia he came across.
He looked in the mirror again, and smiled. The camo was loose, his eyes were haunted, and his neck still looked like a chew-toy. But they were his clothes, his weapons, and his ID. Undead and Necro beware: Wildfire was back.
*
Stonewall escorted him to an isolated elevator, pausing to enter a keycard and endure a retinal scan before they could enter. The inside of the lift had no floor panel, and James could feel the car begin to move. He glanced at his commander, who smiled grimly.
"Security measures. Only those who are expected can use the elevator, and it takes them only where they're needed."
James raised his eyebrows. "And if we need to get to the surface without being . . . expected?"
Stonewall's gaze was hard. "No one gets out if they're not expected. Transport lifts or otherwise. The Tower cannot be penetrated from underground. By anyone."
James nodded again, easily understanding what his commander didn't say. If the undead managed to dig into the numerous basements, which they were apparently on the verge of doing, the soldiers would either kill or be killed. Total lockdown. Good to know.
The rest of the elevator ride passed in silence. James felt his ears pop once, and realized they must be headed all the way to the top of the Tower. Seemed he'd be briefing the head honchos themselves. Goody.
When the doors opened, he was immediately blinded by a flash of light. Instinctively covering his eyes, he managed to drop into a defensive crouch, gun in his hand as if it leapt there, his finger tensed to squeeze the trigger.
"Hold fire!" Stonewall's voice boomed in the confines of the lift. James dropped the gun, but stayed in a crouch and risked opening his eyes part way.
Clouds, land, sky, horizon, sun. For a moment he was completely baffled by what he saw. Then something clicked and he realized the elevator had opened into a room with solid floor-to-ceiling windows. He vaguely remembered learning that the Tower had been designed so that the safe-room in the upper levels rotated to follow the sun (UV lights were good, but right from the source was better). It had just been so long since he'd seen the sky . . .
Stonewall cleared his throat, and nudged Wildfire's gun back to him with his foot. "Good to see those reflexes of yours still work."
James flushed as he retrieved the pistol and stood up straight. "Sorry," he mumbled. "Caught me off guard."
"Indeed." His commander's voice was stern, but James thought he could detect a hint of amusement. The old bastard had purposely not warned him, just to see how he'd react. Hope I passed the test, asshole. Biting back the words, James simply pocketed his gun and motioned for Stonewall to lead the way.
The room was simple, open. Other than the wall with the elevator and a heavy steel door the room was surrounded by windows. The ceiling was almost a solid bank of UV lights and numerous pillars were inscribed with wards, holy symbols, sigils, and other magical protection from the undead. Obviously whoever was in this room was meant to be seriously protected. In the center of the room was a large, round conference table surrounded by leather office chairs. In front of each chair was a small stack of papers, a phone, a glass and a jug of water. James raised his eyebrows. Apparently this meeting was expected to take a long time.
At the moment they were the only people in the room. Stonewall sat with his back to the corner of the only solid wall, clearly uncomfortable to have windows behind himself but not willing to be blind to the door. Feeling strangely restless, James examined the pillars. It was interesting to see symbols from so many different faiths, wards and sigils from multiple schools of protection. It must have taken a lot of work to make sure they didn't effect each other It was probably for a similar reason that there were no offensive spells.
Done with the pillars, he wandered over to the windows and looked out. The Tower was surrounded by walls, fences, and machinery. Beyond all that was one of the last human cities left on the planet. Apartment and office buildings, schools that had been transformed into youth battle training centers, churches, bars, cemeteries, hospitals and clinics, shelters surrounded by wards, orphanages, barracks, whore-houses. All teeming with life, humans going about their days, eyes looking to the shadows; purses, briefcases, and backpacks holding weapons. James wondered what it would look like in another week. If they won would humans relax and turn away from the darkness again? If they lost, would there be anyone left? He searched his thoughts, did he even care? Kill the Necro, absolutely, but other than that . . . what would happen to him in a week?
Well aware that he didn't have any answers, James pushed the question from his mind and turned back to the table. Just in time, it seemed, as the door opened before he reached the table. Before anyone else, in walked to secret service agents. Not that they would have been recognized as such ten years ago. Secret service now were a cross between sorcerers, snipers, hackers, spec ops experts, and bodyguards. Dressed in a strange mix of camo, armour, and robes with multiple pockets and pouches containing weapons and spell components, they made a very strange picture.
Next came the "experts". Military advisor; undead advisor with various "specialist" underlings; human concerns advisor; and all the many aides they required. They all came and stood behind chairs at the table, then turned expectantly to the door.
The president's arrival imminent, James strode quickly to a vacant chair beside Stonewall. The sudden movement resulted in a wave of dizziness, so when the president came into the room James was too busy trying to stay upright to pay attention. A matter which he regretted shortly after, because by the time he recovered everyone else was already seated and he didn't know which one the president was. Hopefully he wouldn't make too much of an idiot of himself and call the man a moron or anything.
After his time with the vampire general - after all the rage and hatred, lust and humiliation, pain and terror - after all that it was almost a relief to be bored again. The debriefing had taken nearly two hours at the beginning of the meeting. He hadn't been dismissed afterwards, and it was a damn comfortable chair, so he just sat and let the endless debates wash over him. Settling into the chair, his eyes drooping slightly, James let his mind wander.