Blood Alliance

By Raven Dane

In the face of overwhelming odds, old enmities must be set aside if the world is to survive a powerful and terrifying attack of zombie forces controlled by an alien super-intelligence.

But can ancient hatreds be overcome or will they be the undoing of the Blood Alliance?

In this stunning conclusion to the Dark Kind Vampire series, Blood Alliance shows award-winning fantasy horror author Raven Dane at her very best. This new edition from Endaxi's Prosochi Press has been re-edited and re-set to a high standard to join its matching companion volumes on your bookshelf or eReader.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Prosochi
• Release date: Apr 25, 2013
• ISBN: 9781907375798

Book preview

PART ONE

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The Child of the Last Summer

Prologue

Wrongness. An aberration in the interwoven fabric of reality. It started so softly, no more substantial then the fleeting touch of a spider’s web. Gossamer gliding against skin, provoking a slight shudder quickly forgotten. Birds paused mid flight, coasted through the air for a few lost wing beats to continue on with their journeys. Shoals of fish jinked in one moment of graceful coordinated panic despite no threatening predator close by. As one, herds of grazing beasts across the African savannah raised up their heads, flicked ears and poised for flight, glanced about for unseen danger then seeing none continued to graze.

The resonance continued a little longer within man-made things, a tuneless vibration shimmering along wires and cables, a flicker of image distortion on monitors and screens, a burst of white noise static, all disturbances too brief to be more then a passing annoyance.

Every sentient creature on the planet momentarily felt that involuntary quiver and then got with their own lives…

But not all. Among the few, a human woman and a vampire. Separated by thousands of miles, they had never met, but though they too carried on with their very different lives, any sense of comfort, of security had been instantly shattered by that fleeting but insidious touch.

Chapter One

Isolann, Upper Balkans, August 2013.

Muted thunder rumbled down the jagged valley, little more than a tortured gash in the black granite mountain range. With an uninterrupted panorama of stars above him, Jendar Azrar, prince of Isolann, knew the turbulence was not a storm, it was man made. Steadying his alarmed horse he snarled in fury, hitting his fist against the high pommel of the saddle. The vermin had made another cowardly assault on his people. In past attacks, by the time his troops reached the scene the Imadeen terrorists had melted into the night.

Azrar spurred his black stallion forward into a canter, the mountain trail too narrow and rock strewn for a flat out gallop. This time he was going to pursue the bastards, not stopping until he caught them even if it meant riding out of Isolann and pursuing them deep into their own lands. Into their hell if need be, not pausing until everyone lay dead by his sword’s sharp blade.

Neighbouring Abhajastan was an occupied nation, an angry, mortally wounded viper spitting venom at its conquerors. At the heart of the defeated nation’s bitterness were the Imadeen, religious fanatics who had tried to convert all of humanity to their terrifying deity by scourging it with fire. After twenty years of incendiary attacks, the world was heartsick of the endless Outrages that had killed so many and had reduced so much of its great cities into charred wastelands. Inevitably it had hit back with punishing force. A world divided by politics, by religion, by wealth had become as one, the largest united military operation ever assembled had rumbled into the Imadeen homeland. A behemoth of vengeance against a small though potently lethal foe.

The resistance was protracted, bloody. More lives were lost, both in beleaguered Abhajastan and in the world’s cities as the Outrages had continued despite a brittle, resentful peace settlement. The last remnants of the Imadeen had fled to regroup in the mountains bordering Isolann. Having lost the battle to win Isolanni minds, the fighters chose to invade the remote mountain-girded principality. Beyond it lay a different route to hit back at Europe, the poorly defended, politically inept Svolenia. Only a Dark Kind Prince with his loyal nomad army stood between them and their goal. They did not know that Azrar was a ferocious warlord, undefeated, unconquered. Relentless, ruthless and implacable. To the Abhajastani, the Black Wolf of Isolann was no more then a legend, a myth, a story to scare unruly children into behaving. No one returned home to tell them they were wrong.

One shadow among many, a dark shape flitted and swerved along the valley. Its purposeful flight faltered mid air and abruptly changed direction to be swiftly lost into the depth of the night.

‘Thank you my friend, you have saved many lives this night,’ the Jendar Azrar murmured to the bird of prey as he raised his hand to halt his highly trained and disciplined fighters. Reining in his horse at the sound of loose scree tumbling down the sheer slope, he watched the nighthawk disappear into the mountains, the raptor’s warning had been well timed. As one, the riders held their breath as the warlord assessed the threat.

Detected only by the prince’s sharp hearing, a number of humans some distance further along the valley waited on an escarpment high above them, their presence betrayed by the metallic click of readying weapons, the scent of their fear-tainted sweat. An ambush.

Neither Azrar nor any of his men were cowards but dying in a trap was beyond folly. It was deliberate suicide. He gave an almost imperceptible signal and his troopers wheeled their horses around to return across the narrow, silver birch lined track. It was not over. The retreat was a ploy for Prince Azrar had no intention of letting this determined pocket of invading Imadeen fanatics remain in Isolann. Once they had tried to pollute the minds and souls of his people, jeopardising his long sovereignty over the Land of Secrets and Shadows. Now they came to conquer, to kill.

Slowly dismounting and handing the reins of his black stallion to an Isolanni warrior, the prince continued alone on foot. Nothing could surpass his nightbred vision, his speed and strength, no human was a match for his ruthless ferocity. Jendar Azrar was hungry, a raging blood lust heightened by brooding fury that his land still suffered from these invaders from Isolann’s eastern border. The party of Imadeen raiders stood little chance of surviving the night.

The prince stifled a snarl of frustration as he began the climb up the scree-slippery mountain side. Silently cursing the blight of his lame right leg, the crushed limb held together by a complex metal calliper. As ever it was agonisingly painful. He had been injured beneath the body of his dying horse in a Nazi ambush seventy years ago, that the leg had never regenerated mattered little to Azrar. He could still ride, still wield a broadsword, only noticing the injury at times like these. With his formidable will power, he ignored the pain and forced himself to climb with even greater speed and determination. Once away from the sight of his human troops, Azrar cast aside his self-disciplined pose as a prince, a statesman and transformed into his true form, the fearsome predator, the Blood Drinker. A vampire.

Despite his handicap he revelled in his lithe and muscular strength as he negotiated the treacherously loose stones, making no sound as he climbed towards his unaware prey. At the sight of the Isolanni changing direction, they had become less guarded, voicing their disappointment with crude oaths and mocking the native people of the land as cowardly inbred fools. Undetected, below the raiders, Azrar became as a shadow, part of the darkness cloaking the harsh landscape, stealthily closing the distance between them. Anticipation of the killing to come further heightened his predator’s senses. He paused, concentrated on his prey, his nostrils flaring with pleasure. He could smell their fear, they were far from home in a hostile land, dread sweetened their blood, stoking up his hunger, his bloodlust. A little further up the hill and he would be able to hear their heartbeats, the steady throbbing rhythm pumping delicious hot blood through their bodies.

As he reached a small stand of wind contorted and stunted mountain pine, the glint of many amber eyes told the prince he was not alone. A pack of mountain wolves appeared from the darkness, surrounding him in a river of rippling grey, their muscular and powerful bodies pressed against him, eager for the caress of his hand. Their bodies’ warmth in stark contrast to his own glacial aura. Ignoring sharp knives of pain Azrar crouched down and took the leader of the pack’s long muzzle in both hands. Gazed into eyes that were as wild and fierce as his. ‘I did not need any help tonight, my brave allies but I will enjoy your company on the hunt.’

Grabbing the loose fur around the wolf’s neck and using the strong body of the pack leader as support, Azrar quickly and silently reached the ridge’s peak. The prince slowly bared the scimitar curve of his fangs, four inches of slender silver death, sharper than the finest honed metal. Designed to slice accurately and neatly through human skin, muscle and gristle to reach the gushing reward within. He paused briefly to savour the moment, the intoxicating anticipation of what was to come, gathering his energy in preparation of the surprise attack.

With no sign of the oncoming Isolann cavalry, the raiders had moved away from the edge leaving just two on guard and were preparing to set up camp. The lookouts did not see what killed them. Part of the night became alive and broke their necks, their bodies left behind for the wolves and scavengers. He struck again, taking down a man wandering from the others to the nearest spinney to urinate. Waiting until he had finished before stifling any scream with the powerful grip of one hand. A strong, healthy specimen, Azrar drank deeply, only ceasing before the victim’s heart stopped its last beats. All Dark Kind loathed carrion, the sour, lifeless blood of the dead.

With renewed energy surging through his body Azrar summoned the wolves and together, in a blur of darkness-cloaked energy and animal strength they attacked the rest of the raiders. A few managed to fire some wildly inaccurate rifle shots, the prince moved in a power-laced blur, breaking necks and spines, slashing throats with his fangs, effortlessly slicing through flesh with his broadsword. A couple of victims he half stifled to enjoy at his leisure after the battle. The night air was rent by the snarling wolves, human screams of shock and terror then deathly calm. In the silence that followed the carnage Azrar finished draining his last victim and watched dispassionately as the wolf pack claimed their own reward. With so much fresh meat there was no squabbling among the animals; alpha males and subservient youngsters for once at peace with each other.

Prowling away from the feeding frenzy, Azrar left the wolves to finish cleansing his land of the contagion that were the Imadeen raiders. He stood at the edge of the steep descent and threw back his head and howled the eerie, resonant cry of triumph of the Dark Kind. Echoing down the ravine to the ears of his waiting men, the sound joined by their cheers of relief and the wolf pack’s baying. Isolann, the Land of Secrets and Shadows remained undefeated, unconquered.

Finding a still pool of crystal clear water beside a stream tumbling through a thick stand of pine, the vampire prince washed the gore from his matte black armour and broad sword. Cleaned it from his pale, austere yet handsome face lit by sharply intelligent all-emerald eyes. Azrar’s reflection unchanged for millennia gazed back with stern contemplation from the water. A shower of crimson diamonds flew through the air as he washed out the blood from his waist length jet hair.

He did not tire of battle, he relished it with his entire being, to the depths of his soul. He was created a Jendar, a Dark Kind warlord. He had no choice, he had to defend and protect the humans under his rule. To fight their enemies, to kill to keep this land safe and free. And he enjoyed it. The song of his broadsword as it cleaved the night air, the screams of the wounded enemy; all were as sweet music to his predator’s ear. Others of his kind had berated him for not changing. His lover Jazriel had abandoned him twice for not yielding his fierce pride, his warlord arrogance. Azrar could not; change was physically impossible, he was made to be a ruler of men and vampires. And more importantly, he did not want to change.

Returning to his troops, he brusquely spurned aid in remounting his stallion, by necessity a more patient beast than the wild-eyed, spirited mounts of the past, the one humiliating concession Azrar gave to his shattered leg. He wanted to return home to his keep, the mountain winds sang with uneasy portent, a warning of change and the threat of a greater peril than the open festering sore that was the Imadeen. As always duty ruled his every action. The raiding party he had just slaughtered was one of many, pouring across the border into his realm like a plague of rabid rats. However pained and weary he became, the prince knew he had to press on, hunting the human vermin that threatened his people. He was their Dark Lord, the Jendar Azrar, there could be no other path for him to follow.

Chapter Two

Chess Manor, The Chilterns, England, August 2013

At the sound of approaching vehicles, Gabrielle Thorn glanced up sharply from the files stacked high on her desk. Old fashioned paper documents, no one trusted their computers for anything other than frivolity these days. Not with the worldwide hacker scourge completely out of control. Thankful for the diversion, she arose from her desk as the ceiling briefly flared brightly, reflecting the headlights of a convoy of cars sweeping past her room. Their wheels scrunching in the deep gravel in front of the Georgian manor that served as headquarters for her team. Overdue by six days, the mission to Seville had returned. She held her breath, listening for another engine note. A powerful motorcycle, a Ducati. The individual she was certain had caused the delay.

Knowing there could be any numbers of explanations, Gabrielle pushed her anxious thoughts aside. The mission was home, a reason to be relieved and grateful. At her summons on an internal line, a young trainee knocked at the solid oak door to her office and entered, Gabrielle warmly returning her shy smile of greeting.

‘Tell the team I’ll meet them for debriefing in ten minutes.’ The pert young girl, still in her late teens turned to leave. ‘I don’t suppose...’ began Gabrielle, delaying her.

Her mind on the same wavelength, the girl blushed, averted her eyes. ‘No Mrs Thorn. He wasn’t with the rest of the team.’

‘Damn it.’ Gabrielle’s hands tightened with renewed tension, dismissing the girl with a brief nod. Silly little fool, did she think she was the only one he called his preciosa, his princess.

With difficulty Gabrielle forced herself to concentrate on the files again, so many applicants, all with special gifts. When Gabrielle’s grandmother had been recruited to the so-called Spook Squad in the Second World War, there had been just a handful of agents. And those had been hard to find and even harder to recruit. Now there was an explosion of young people born with psi talents; empaths and telekinetics, clairvoyants and telepaths. Not just in Britain, the same thing was happening in every human society around the world. Rescuing those with the tragic misfortune to be born in hostile and repressive regimes was a full time international effort. Every young person stoned to death for being different was a crushing and demoralising blow that hurt them all.

Something was triggering this change in human genes at an accelerated rate, a biological response to a coming threat. As one of the few people in the world who knew the truth, this development was profoundly disturbing. With that burden of knowledge came responsibility. Too much to tolerate the reckless antics of one vampire junkie! And how exactly had she picked the short straw to end up looking after the welfare of Jazriel? For that she had to thank her ancestors, an accident or plan of genetics had burdened her with the Knowing. Both a gift and a curse. Her grandmother Khari could enter human minds. Gabrielle could only experience the violent, blood-spattered minds of vampires. She imagined raising an ironic, bitter toast to her family. ‘Thanks for bequeathing me a ‘gift’ that can only experience horrors, Jaz’s tormented angst-ridden mind, Sivaya’s predatory ferocity. Thanks for giving me endless horrendous nightmares that are a vampire’s real experiences.’

After the routine de-briefing of the Seville mission and reluctant to return to her paperwork, Gabrielle wandered around the manor, agitated at the reminder of her unwanted gift. Not one of the team had known where Jazriel was. Obeying set orders, they had waited for the allotted six days then returned without him. She paused at the entrance of what had been the music room during her grandmother’s time here. Enver, her husband, held his evening class of young telekinetics in thrall. A tall, gangly and unprepossessing man at first glance, Enver‘s diffident and difficult personality became charismatic and invigorating when working with the gifted youths. He inspired them, brought them out of their frequent sense of alienation. He had once been a difficult, rebellious and troubled teenager, orphaned by the Outrages, burdened with his secret ability, labelled a freak. No other tutor at the Manor could get under the skin of the new arrivals better than Enver.

He looked up, his lean face brightening at seeing Gabrielle by the door. He held out his right hand and one yellow rose lifted from a vase on the mantelpiece, drifted across the room and into his wife’s hand. She laughed and kissed the fragrant bloom.

‘No one can make a romantic gesture quite as spectacular as a telekinetic!’ Gabrielle said to the trainees. ‘Try not to show off too often in front of the empaths. We don’t want to have to deal with any inferiority complexes. Never forget we are all on the same side.’

Leaving them to their studies, she walked away with the flower and decided to face the music -- the work back in her office. Neither ignoring it or some helpful magic would make that disappear so Gabrielle reluctantly returned to her pile of paperwork. Sitting at her desk she gave the documents a desultory shove. What had happened to her in the past year? How had she become a pen pusher of all things? Wistfully, through the rose-tinted spectacles of hindsight, she found herself missing those years out on active service. A covert agent working alongside Jazriel, seeking out the undiscovered gifted and any discovered Dark Kind artefacts. Always staying a few steps ahead of the ever pursuing operatives from the Nemesis Corporation in their tireless and so far futile search for vampire DNA.

‘Damn him!’ Recalling those dangerous yet exhilarating times with the vampire, Gabrielle’s already tenuous concentration on her work had completely evaporated.

Abandoning the pile of documents, she went to the French window and stepped out onto the patio. Drifts of sweet perfume from the tangled honeysuckle creeping up the side of a trellis did its best to sooth her. The summer night was delightful, serene. Fleets of ribbon-like clouds swept past the sliver of a sickle moon, driven on by winds high in the atmosphere. A lighter, gentler breeze murmured through the woods that surrounded the Manor, home to teeming and protected wild life. As if to confirm their presence, a family of foxes yowled and screeched as the cubs played, learning how to be fierce and agile. A wonderful world, one worth sacrificing everything to save.

Her nose wrinkled as the smell of tobacco wafted from the room behind her. Gabrielle didn’t turn around. Controlling her temper she held out her hand. A glass of neat vodka was firmly placed in it.

‘Lo siento querida.’

How well she knew that tone, the mock apology spoken with a voice laden with warm honey. Bloody, bloody Jaz!

Totally immune to his seductive, hypnotic voice, his dazzlingly handsome looks, Gabrielle took a big swig of the vodka, wincing at its rawness as it hit the back of her throat. She would need the strong spirit to stay in control of her temper. She swung around, swept past him, muttering under her breath, ‘I hope he was bloody worth it! Poor sod.’

‘Of course.’

‘It’s all a game to you, isn’t it fang boy? Just one big bloody murderous game.’

Bemused by her outburst, Jazriel shrugged, took a long drag from his cigarette. ‘Er… vampire? That’s what I do.’

‘Eshan doesn’t.’ Gabrielle turned to face him. He was leaning against her desk, arms folded, a gleam of mischief in his wondrous turquoise eyes.

‘The latest batch of synthetic blood her laboratories have manufactured is amazing. I defy any vampire to tell the difference.’

‘And where is the fun in that?’ Jazriel returned with a rueful grin. ‘Artificial cold carrion from a test tube.’ He gave an elegant shudder of distaste, ‘How unutterably vile.’

This was a pointless conversation. One they’d had many times before and one that always led nowhere. Gabrielle finished her vodka and in an effort to regain control of the situation, of her authority, sat behind her desk. Another pointless gesture. Jazriel slouched elegantly on the edge, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from his immaculate Hugo Boss black jeans. Not biker leathers.

‘What happened to the Ducati?’

The vampire gave a heartfelt sigh of regret. ‘I knew you would be furious with me for the delay. To make up time, I hammered her rather too hard on the autopista. Fucked the engine up.’

Knowing Jaz, with the Ducati out of action he would have abandoned the already stolen bike and charmed his way to another means of returning to Britain. Maybe hitched a lift. If so, some poor man paid for that act of kindness with his life. Gabrielle swore colourfully. How on earth did she end up working with these ruthless predators? Especially this one, addicted to killing as much as he was to substance abuse. She was aware he was using again, if he had ever stopped. Hell had a special place warming up for her for continuing to shelter and protect the bastard.

‘Let me see it then.’ Gabrielle briskly returned to the business in hand to avoid dwelling on her unwillingly complicity in the murder of innocent human males. Originally a professional archaeologist before working with the Spook Squad, her old intrigue with objects of antiquity had never evaporated.

‘You are not going to be pleased,’ Jazriel announced, reaching into the inside pocket of his black leather trench coat and producing a small, red fabric pouch. Its dusty, faded appearance meant the fabric was man-made. She stifled her disappointment as he placed it into her hand, it was not the rich, unfading bariola velvet of the Dark Kind. It was just a pouch, reminding herself what it contained was all that mattered.

She tipped out the contents onto her hand, a glint of gleaming gold and matte black ivory. Her heart sank. A fake. Although it looked authentic, there was no tingle of strangeness when she held the ornate and very ancient amulet in her hand. It was a fake, the black substance was not carved Dark Kind bone. Whoever made it knew the high value of the so called magic healing powers of vampire bone. Enough to put so much creative energy and effort into this forgery. Part of her mission was to ensure that every scrap of Dark Kind bone circulating in the world, be it set into ancient jewellery or adorning religious relics must be gathered up. Must be!

Frederick Hain, leader of the massive Nemesis super-corporation was ruthlessly and murderously obsessed in obtaining Dark Kind DNA to find the hoped for cure to Mankind’s diseases that might be written into their chimera genes. And who knows how many more were searching for the same genetic Unholy Grail? Hain even believed the possibility of immortality was waiting for him, trapped in a chip of vampire bone or drop of their thin, purple blood.

It was so wrong. Gabrielle replaced the fake amulet in its pouch, shuddered at the thought of the immense power of curing all humanity’s ills put into the hands of a psychopathic despot like Hain and his Nemesis Corporation. An organisation that already held a stranglehold monopoly on the world’s communications networks. One she knew also had vast laboratories experimenting in human gene manipulation under the guise of medical research. It must not happen.

‘Should have left it behind,’ ventured Jazriel, ‘It might have given Hain’s cronies something to do.’

‘Well, it will give you something to do now, Jaz’ She answered with a sigh. ‘Put it somewhere difficult to find, keep Nemesis busy for a couple of weeks. But no longer. I want you back here by the first of September. At the latest.’

Giving a mock salute, Jazriel took back the worthless bauble. ‘You’re the boss. I’ll get this planted somewhere distant and mysterious -- maybe a deserted ruined monastery in the deepest Urals. Let Nemesis waste time and money chasing a worthless piece of costume jewellery.’

The vampire gave a mischievous grin, a gesture he’d borrowed from humans for so long it had become part of his nature. Nemesis baiting was great sport. Almost as much fun as hunting human prey. And best of all, he would be away again, far from Gabrielle’s gimlet, disapproving scrutiny. The grating lectures over his bad behaviour, the watching his every move, checking through his belongings for narcotics. Yet this trip away from the Manor would only be an illusion of freedom. He always felt a long, invisible chain around his neck, one she occasionally liked to yank tight to remind him of his place. Working with Gabrielle gave him the shelter of her organisation against a hostile human world, protection with a price to pay - his self-respect as a Dark Kind predator. His freedom to wander the after sunset world, killing for fun when and who he wanted. Indulging in any illicit substance that promised to numb his emotional pain. It never did, so he carried on his search, there was always the hope of finding something that would. For Jazriel the unrepentant junkie was also Jazriel the perpetual optimist.

Chapter Three

The Ukraine, August 2013.

The forest path ended in a high ridge, overlooking a wide, meandering valley. Wind driven clouds parted giving tantalising glimpses of the brightness behind as the full moon gradually emerged, a beauty disrobing coquettish and teasing.

A lone rider approached from the north. Moonlight silvered his stallion’s long mane and glowed off its snow white coat, transforming the animal to mythical status, a unicorn or grounded Pegasus. Diego gently reined in the horse, pausing on the narrow, rock-strewn path. For a moment his heart stopped beating as the shock of recall shuddered through him. He had been here before. In a past that was both distant and as fresh in his memory as the night before.

The valley had not changed for centuries; the crass hand of man had not spoiled its verdant beauty, a tranquil river winding serenely through glistened crystal clear and unpolluted. Its creatures thrived, living out their lives without the threat of man’s interference and predation. Diego mourned for once he had lived in a world where such pristine valleys were many and not a fragile, precious rarity. This one was preserved by its remote location. But for how much longer?

He had last ridden along this vale in the company of his fellow warriors, in the service of King Dezarn. How many centuries ago? Twelve, thirteen? Time had lost all meaning in his long, shameful exile. Dare he ride on through it? Would the ghosts of his warrior friends join, taunt, him? Diego closed his eyes, imaging the sound of their horses champing at metal bits, side stepping and snorting at imagined frights in the bushes. The Dark Kind warriors’ weapons chinking against armour and harness, the occasional clash of stirrups as they rode in close formation. His human servant, the Cornishman, Carrig, at his side. Would the apparitions fix him with their death-dulled eyes, hating him for surviving, for hiding, protected by the K’elphin while his caste had been wiped from the face of the earth?

The alien emotions of guilt and shame that no Dark Kind should bear, he had worn them all these centuries like a leaden mantle. Made even heavier by the burden of crushing responsibility. Could any being live with higher expectation on his shoulders than Diego? Was he truly the special one, the Earth’s champion? The hidden weapon against the Enemy? He only had the word of the K’elphin that he was.

What if this long exile had been built on a mistake? An error of judgement? Or a myth based on desperation to find a source of hope? Any hope, however fleeting. And if he was not the true champion and he failed in whatever it was he had to do, all life on the planet would be stolen, used and extinguished. For the ultimate Enemy was most definitely not a myth, the Enemy was cold, hard fact.

One thing was not in dispute, he was created one of the Dark Kind warrior caste, one who had faced vast armies of his Kind’s enemies unafraid, knowing his role in life was to fight and die defending his sovereign and the lands he ruled. Only Diego had not died. He had survived the massacre instigated by the fanatic, Bishop Alaric, a bloody massacre that had taken his fellow warriors and his King. How could he call himself a warrior? He was a failure, a nothing.

And how could he turn away from this valley? Easy. He had turned away from the Dark Kind, hiding on the command of his K’elphin protectors while humans had systematically all but exterminated his people. A shameful excuse of a life for an honour-bound warrior.

Sighing, Diego forced away such melancholy, pointless musings, he had more immediate pressing concerns, his circus needed a safe place to rest. Their livestock were desperate for good grazing and fresh water supplies. This secluded valley was perfect. He must endure the accusing ghosts for the sake of the humans who depended on him to find somewhere safe. In truth, how safe could anywhere be after that murderous attempt by Nemesis to kidnap him? The circus had spent the past year on the run, keeping a low profile, playing only to the smallest villages in the most remote areas.

He returned to the waiting convoy and dismounting from his horse, glanced down the rag taggle line of ancient trucks and caravans, generators and beast wagons parked on a dusty roadside verge. Tired, hopeful faces peered from the cabs; whatever his personal thoughts about the valley, it would have to do.

Though the twenty first century was into its second decade, the Yasuul were stuck in a time warp, the countries they visited had moved on beyond all recognition. Even some of the small villages had electricity, satellite television and the internet. Wealthy foreigners bought up every tumbledown farmhouse for a holiday retreat. What place was there for an old-fashioned travelling circus? Crowds that used to be in awe of jugglers and lithe-limbed acrobats, who gasped in amazement at the high fliers and laughed at the clowns, were cynical and disinterested. In a world of electronic marvels, who would be delighted in the spin of a sparkling diablo or a magician’s sleight of hand? Maybe it was time to disband but what would his families do? What would he do? He was brought back to more immediate concerns by the approach of his new foreman, Gledor, a youthful purebred Xenari.

‘Well, Boss, what is it to be, a few more hours travelling or have you found us shelter?’

With some effort Diego attempted a smile, a human gesture, one he had adopted in his long association with the gypsy tribe. ‘It is perfect my friend, perfect for a short rest.’

Ignoring the look of dismay on the young man’s face, Diego glanced at the straggling convoy, all the families would share the same disappointment. This valley would be a wonderful place to rest and recuperate for weeks. Ever since the circus had been attacked by agents of the Nemesis Corporation last year, their Boss had driven them hard, keeping to the most remote regions with the worst roads and the smallest audiences. They never gave advance notice of their tour now, just turned up and hoped the village would welcome some diversion. The super-corporation Nemesis had cast a brash spotlight across the whole world, it was increasingly difficult not to be caught in its relentless beam.

‘Buenos. Vamos, mi compañero, mi amigo guapo...’ After a few words of affection and encouragement to his Spanish stallion, Diego remounted and led his troupe down into the idyllic valley. There were no ghosts, no vengeful phantoms, just the pain of his own conscience. The circus family carried enough of their own ghosts: the sad shades of the previous foreman’s wife and young daughter, caught up in the brutal assault by Nemesis when its agents had attacked the circus and snatched Diego a year ago. Lev had been the only survivor of his family; too distraught to continue despite the support of the tight knit circus community, he had settled in a Romanian village, comforted only by bottles of local moonshine.

Urging on the horse, Diego sighed. What a waste of a life. He was saddened by the slow decline of a strong, intelligent man drinking himself to oblivion to hide a broken heart. Dark Kind did not hate, but Diego harboured a simmering fury. One day, somehow, he would make them pay, the avaricious, callous men from the super corporation which pretentiously called itself Nemesis. In particular, its single-minded leader Frederick Hain. A man who believed the answer to his immortality lay in vampire genes and would not rest till he had stolen the secrets of the Dark Kind’s existence. Hain’s minions had shackled and tortured Diego once. Had killed innocent humans for no reason than their own arrogance. Diego’s genetically engineered inbuilt need to defend and protect his tribe of humans drove him, preoccupied his every waking thought, haunted his nightmares, kept him on the run from the settled, modern world. A world that would destroy the Yasuul as surely as it would destroy him.

Within an hour of arriving in the valley, the circus was settling in with the practised efficiency learnt from many lifetimes on the road. Diego was always in the centre of the action, unloading equipment, handling the livestock, comforting the youngest children bewildered from awakening in a new place in the middle of the night. He was the dark heart of the Yasuul and his humans adored him. They needed him, needed his strength and focused drive, his determination that they would survive and prosper in an uncertain and fast-changing world. And though he would never realise or admit it, perhaps not as much as he needed them.

Chapter Four

After three hours of hard graft, it was time to pause and take stock of their situation. Gratefully accepting a proffered hip flask, Diego took a long swig of brutally raw local brandy. He sat on the ramp of a circus horse box with his foreman, taking a break from setting up camp in the serene Ukrainian valley. He had locked away all mournful memories of this region from his past, the fading shades that meant nothing to his human followers, he had no choice - their welfare had to come first.

‘Surely this is a good place, Boss? A safe place?’ Persisting, determined to make their leader change his mind, Gledor pressed on. ‘The families will be able to have a longer rest here?’

Diego shook his head wearily and handed back the flask. ‘Those days are over, my friend, we have to stay one step ahead of Nemesis. We must keep on the move.’

He watched the troupe go through their own human routines, there were children to be fed and washed, bed time stories to be told, the horses stabled and brushed over. Only then would it be time for the exhausted adults to rest. Tomorrow night, the settlement would be lit with many small camp fires and with everything set fair, music would erupt to dance and echo across the valley. The rather mournful, primeval sound of the Xenari gypsy women’s laments, an eerie sound as old as the Steppes. The non-Xenari circus folk would bring their lively Hungarian dances and robust Ukrainian folk songs. There would be dancing and laughter and reminiscences of times both happy and tragic. And throughout, the Boss would keep his distance, enjoying the entertainment but ever wary, always on guard protecting his human retinue through the long hours of darkness.

For the humans, the stay in the valley would feel like a brief sojourn in Paradise. It was too soon for their much needed rest to be interrupted by local youths throwing stones or picking fights with the circus men. No officials and police to harass the circus yet, forcing them to move on. Or demanding heavy bribes to turn a blind eye to the encampment. Such peace from outsiders and their inevitable interference was a blessing. It could not last.

It would soon be time to move on again, within days no trace of their stay here would remain. Grass would grow over the wheel tracks and sprout back from where the horses grazed. No litter would be left to despoil its purity, any ash from the campfires would be widely scattered, dispersed to enrich the soil.

The next arrivals in this peaceful Eden may not be so careful. Diego sighed at the sad inevitability and rose to his feet to make the rounds of the camp, ensuring all was well, his humans and horses safe, the equipment correctly stored. As ever he was accompanied by the circus’s guard dogs, not the pampered pets kept by the families but wary-eyed semi-feral animals, scrawny, loose-limbed and fiercely loyal. They adored their alpha male, the vampire, and padded silently beside him, looking up at his face, their amber eyes shining with mute adoration.

When his conscientious patrol was finished and the dogs settled on their chains around the perimeter, Diego walked towards a small spinney of trees, seeking solitude, to consider what the hell he was going to do next.

He leant against a tree trunk and looked up at the night sky, a high wind carried clouds scudding across the heavens as if pursued by some hideous celestial beast. He smelt rain in the air. Mercifully it would be fresh, little more then a shower or two for there was no ominous sense of an approaching storm.

Something scratched his face in a swift, malicious assault. Alarmed he dived for cover. A glancing bullet? The wing tip of a bat disorientated by rabies? He raised his hand to touch his cheek, there was nothing, no purple blood, no graze. Diego shuddered, realising it was something unnatural that had sped close by him on its way to who knows what diabolical purpose. His hand involuntarily reached for the golden dragon amulet he always wore around his neck. Once whole, it was now a broken thing yet one he would never relinquish however much he wanted to. His fingers tightly held the familiar smooth metal but when he tried to release the object, it would not allow him to let it go. He growled as a vibration began to build within the talisman. A resonance that became a sound, an eerie banshee song that briefly rang out from the gem, whirling around his head then disappearing into the sky to join the racing clouds. Then silence. It was once more inert cold metal, nothing more than a damaged piece of ancient jewellery. Diego stood up and bared his fangs, a despairing howl escaped from his soul to echo down the sleeping valley. Had his preordained and feared destiny finally arrived? One thing was certain. The Enemy was on the way.

Chapter Five

Chess Manor, the Chilterns

August 2013

Gabrielle eased off the rowing machine in the gym, grabbed a towel and wiped sweat from her forehead and the hollows above her collar bones.

Her body had never been trimmer, she looked a decade younger than her thirty years. Sometimes she felt that young, sometimes as old as the softly rolling green hills that cradled the Georgian manor. This morning, with the summer sun shining and Jazriel somewhere in Eastern Europe, she was happy.

Retreating here to the Manor three months ago had been her salvation, back to Enver Thorn, the Spook Squad’s leader, her lover, now her husband. The trauma of rescuing and caring for that suicidal nightmare of a vampire, Jazriel, had taken a heavy toll on her. Gabrielle wanted, deserved some pretence of a normal life. Preferably one in which Jazriel did not feature at all. The illusion of time to give her the strength if and when the ordeal came. Sometimes, she believed it was almost possible to forget that vampires and the gentle, benevolent K’elphin who shared the planet with humans existed. That it was all a crazy delirious dream brought on by high fever or a surfeit of red wine and cheese. Almost. And that happy mock amnesia could last for many years, she might still have time to fulfil her and Enver’s greatest wish, to start a family before the alarm on her biological clock deafened her with its stridency.

She left the gym, acknowledging the friendly greetings