The Children of The Night

By T. L. Carlyle

In the 24th century, a journalist is invited to a secret enclave, a place long thought to be a myth, only to find an utopian community resisting the march of time.

Legends of The Dragon's Blood is a series of science fiction adventure novels featuring alien vampires who come from a planet called Antellus, located somewhere in t

• Language: English
• Publisher: Antellus
• Release date: Feb 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9781087947150

T. L. Carlyle

T. L. Carlyle is an author and illustrator who publishes under the Antellus imprint. She writes science fiction adventure, mystery, and nonfiction books on genre topics, with a view to educate as well as entertain. Her latest books include the series Legends of The Dragon's Blood.

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The Children of The Night

Legends of The Dragon’s Blood book 6

Ebook edition Copyright ©2021 by T. L. Carlyle, all rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced in whole or in part in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author. Requests to make copies of any part of this work should be by electronic mail to: [e-mail].

Any resemblence to any dramatic character or personality, living or dead, or geographical locations, is purely intentional within the context of human history without libelous intent. Not intended for readers under the age of 16.

Published by Antellus, Los Angeles, CA USA - Catalog no. 06C

ISBN 978-1-0879-4715-0

Other books in this series by T. L. Carlyle:

The Path of The Red Dragon - The Legacy of Mars - Destiny’s Forge - The Queen’s Marksman - The Pirate’s Pledge - A Journey Toward The West

TABLE OF CONTENTS

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"I am Dracula. Welcome to my house. Come freely. Go safely; and leave something of the happiness you bring." — Bram Stoker, 1897

1

Her name was Megan Thereau. She graduated from the University of California School of Journalism in 2358 with a Bachelor’s degree in journalism and a minor in the history of world civilization. When she landed a job as a junior writer for The Radcliffe Center for Inquiry, she thought she had a secure position there until her parents were killed in a starliner accident and she was forced to take over the family business.

Not knowing the first thing about running a large company, she soon sold the firm to the stockholders and pocketed a few thousand credits a month as a consultant, which afforded her enough comfort and time with which to pursue her aspirations.

She sold freelance articles to other news sites to supplement her income and had built a tidy nest egg against her eventual retirement, but at only 27 she still had a long way to go. Megan had success enough to keep her working steadily.

Her insight and attention to detail were apparently what qualified her for those assignments, since the scope of her work included snippets about the background history behind the people and places she wrote about. She enjoyed the research and found in it the benefit of learning something new every day. She could never claim to be bored.

When she had a break, Megan toyed with the idea for a novel, but still had not fleshed out more than a detailed outline; something about a stranger in a strange land. Or perhaps that was something she had read when she was younger. She felt far more comfortable with writing nonfiction, so it represented a bit more work than she was used to.

She struggled along quietly for several days, but ended up thinking that fiction was simply not her forte. She was so used to finding facts and tying them together into a coherent piece with a definite ending or conclusion in mind, that she could not imagine how others could create a completely different world out of whole cloth; little realizing that part of the reason for her success relied on her capacity for telling a good story to shore up the facts.

She went to bed every night wishing she could find something to write about that broke the mold, before she fell into a deep and dreamless sleep. After a while, Megan started to think that her lack of dreaming was responsible for her lack of imagination. It was just that she did not know how to switch tacks, and write her fiction as if it was nonfiction and add a few adjectives into the narrative to flesh out the plot.

One day she sat in front of her computer screen, editing the fragmented outline once again. There was something wrong with the whole premise, and she could not tell what it was. Finally she closed her screen with a frustrated slap and leaned back to sigh heavily.

It’s not working, it’s not working, it’s not working! she complained bitterly to the room. Why isn’t it working?

She glanced over to see her big orange tabby cat, named Gandalf, carefully and methodically licking himself clean in the middle of a tumbled stack of datachips sitting on her desk. He glanced up at the sound of her voice and stared at her  for a few moments, meowed once, then resumed washing.

Megan fervently wished her cat could read. I just wish someone could tell me what I’m doing wrong, she said, then reached over and skritched him on the top of his head. Gandalf closed his eyes and began purring, stretched out even more and scattered most of the chips onto the floor.

Megan abandoned her screen and went to gather the chips up from the floor. No matter where she put them within reach, Gandalf kept plopping himself onto them. There was something about the little green plastic squares which invited him to lay there. When she had piled them up again, the cat sprang onto the table and toppled them again, contributing even more to her exasperation about the book.

Gandalf, she said. Please, don’t do that.

He looked up at her and meowed, then reached out, stretched and splayed his paws. Relenting, Megan scritched the top of head again, and was rewarded with the loud sound of purring. She chuckled, you’re no help, are you?

Little did Megan know what she was in for when her earsquib sang its little ringtone into her ear, startling her. She keyed in and said, Megan Thereau.

The disembodied voice which spoke to her was male, warm and accented, sounding slightly like Hungarian. Its tone was friendly. "Hello, it said, My name is Lucien Arkanon. I hope I am not interrupting you, Miss Thereau. Are you free to speak with me right now?"

Megan glanced at the computer screen, the wilted petunias sitting in the planter on the wrought iron plantstand in front of a broad expanse of window, the glittering lights of the city just beyond it, dimmed only by the sunfilm coating the plexiglas. The second hand of the analog clock on her wall moved down three notches.

She willed down the urge to scream her frustration and took a deep breath before speaking. I think I can spare the time, she replied calmly.

"Excellent. I have read your articles with great interest, Miss Thereau. Tell me… are you working on a project that could be set aside for a brief time? I would like to enlist you for a freelance assignment that may be more lucrative and rewarding than the one you are working on now."

She thought about that for a moment, then said, I am constantly at work in some form or other, Mister Arkanon…

"Just call me Lucien, the warm voice interjected with a small chuckle. I find that putting ourselves on a first name basis leads to a much warmer relationship, don’t you think?"

Megan could hardly argue with that. …Lucien. But there is nothing that demands my urgent attention, she continued. What would it be about?

He said, "I would like to invite you to come out and see us."

This piqued her interest. Us?

"I belong to a very private and select community," he replied. "We are engaged in a debate and trying to settle a very important issue. I would like to get an outsider’s perspective about it. Does that sound like something you would be interested in writing about?"

That caught her interest at once. What kind of debate? she asked.

"One which could determine a new direction and focus for our projects. Mmmm… Whether we should attempt to reveal ourselves to the outside world, and what the consequences might be for us if we did."

For a moment Megan thought he was the leader of some kind of aberrant nonsense cult trying to cultivate free publicity for his cause. Such things were rare but not unheard of.

Are you talking about a religious community, Mister… uh, Lucien?

"No. Nothing so mundane as that, the sexy voice replied. We are…it would be very difficult to explain without showing you, and I have come a long way. May I come up and see you, person to person?"

Megan felt a creepy feeling run up her spine. She asked, where are you calling from?

The words caught her unprepared. "Quite close by. In fact, I am standing in the lobby of your apartment house."

Megan’s breath caught in her throat. He could be a stalker, too. Such things had happened to other journalists with bad results. Then, as if he could read her thoughts he continued. "You need not fear me. My offer is quite genuine. Look out your window."

Slowly, Megan forced herself to move and went to the window looking out onto the lobby. She looked, and saw a tall man standing on the ground floor of the lobby, looking straight up at her.

He was clad head to toe in black. His hair was dark and long, tied back neatly into a ponytail. In the golden glow of the lobby lights his face was very pale. He was amazingly handsome, smiling with rosy lips that stood out against his skin, and he waved with his other hand to show that he had seen her. His right hand was pressed to his ear.

In that instant Megan remembered the stories her grandfather used to tell her when she was very young; about the strange people he had met when he was a spacer running cargo out to Altair 4; people who kept to themselves and only appeared from time to time among the general populace. He told her they were more than human, and that they were waiting for the time when they would be called upon to save the world.

Of course, that meant little to her at the time, because she was only five years old and did not understand at all what he meant. She thought it was a wonderful fairy tale until she heard other rumors about them years later. But her fascination with the fairy tale legend was shoved to the back of her mind by other, more pressing and important events in her life, and she had entirely forgotten about it.

This man looked like one of those people, from her grandfather’s description of them. Her curiosity buried her apprehension. Megan waved back and said, Please come up.

He nodded and replied, "I will be there directly." Then the connection went dead.

Megan looked down at her shabby appearance. When she was writing she was prone to throw on just enough to be decent in case a delivery man came to the door, and she did not really care if the house was clean or not.

She went into her bedroom and looked in the closet for something nice to wear while Gandalf, sensing something new was going on, danced around on the bed demanding her attention.

Megan became so excited about meeting Lucien that she found herself unable to choose, and managed to throw on a blue tee shirt and a pair of jeans just as the door chimed.

I’m coming! she called while she frantically searched for her shoes. I’ll be right there!

She took just enough time to comb her fingers through her hair and pushed it out of her face while she raced to the door and opened it.

Lucien Arkanon was tall, about six feet four inches, and his head nearly brushed the overhead portion of the lintel as he stood in the threshhold. His body was lean and solid as a tree trunk. Megan got the sudden impression that he was out of place, from some other space and time, but that could have been part of the romantic haze that had formed in her mind about him. Close up she could not look into his silver grey eyes without feeling off balance; like she was about to faint, and she was not prone to fainting at the sight of a handsome man. Quite the opposite, sometimes to near embarassment.

Come in, she said, when she had found her voice. I’m sorry about the mess, but I was not expecting visitors today.

It’s quite all right, Lucien replied. He passed in and stood looking around at the interior of her apartment while Megan rushed to clear the clutter of unsorted laundry sitting on her living room couch and moved the pile into the bedroom.

When she returned he smiled down at her like an older man, though he did not look older than about 30. His teeth were white and even, with canines that seemed longer than the rest. Megan stared up at him, suddenly at a loss for words, and her wit deserted her. For a long awkward moment they stood silently. Then he broke the silence with that melodic voice again.

It is indeed a pleasure to meet you, Miss Thereau, he said, and put his right hand out toward her.

Megan looked down at it. He had piano player’s hands, with long slim fingers and strong tendons. He wore a silver ring with the design of a diamond on it in onyx. His fingernails were tapered and sported a strange sheen of pearl. Fashion made it common to see men wear makeup and polish their nails if they chose, but everything about Lucien appeared natural.

When Megan took it his hand his skin was cold and dry to the touch like snake skin. She let go almost too quickly, willed down the odd tremor again and hid it with a shy smile.

Just call me Megan, she told him. Please, make yourself comfortable. Would you like something to drink? Coffee? Tea? Me?

Nothing for me, thank you, he replied with a short smile. But please, do not stand on ceremony. He moved toward the cleared couch and sat down on it while Megan tore herself away from the spot she had rooted herself on and went into the kitchen.

When she returned to the living room with her tea she saw that Gandalf had planted himself in the stranger’s lap and was purring like mad, while Lucien fondled his ears with a calm affectionate expression on his face.

Gandalf was quite territorial, and for him to accept this stranger like an old friend of the family was the height of hypocrisy for an old cat who hissed at everyone else and hid under the bed; especially whatever men Megan brought home with her, and met with his instant and final disapproval.

You have an interesting pet, Lucien said without pausing. What is his name?

Gandalf, she replied. I named him after the old wizard from a book by Tolkien. Have you read it?

I have. It suits him. He is an old soul in a new life. His wisdom is in loving you without condition, and I think he tries his best to protect you though he does not always succeed. I suspect that he reacts differently to others, but they could never compete with the rapport you two share. I am honored that he has accepted me with such ease.

Megan thought of his remark as a display of rare insight. That is amazing, she said. It’s as of you could read his mind. I tend to think he understands me, far better sometimes than I do myself. I can talk to him about things I never share with others. When I am done talking, all he wants to do is play. Maybe he helps me keep a better perspective on life because of it. Because of that I spoil him terribly.

Or perhaps he thinks you are simply another cat, Lucien replied as he continued to stroke Gandalf, who had taken to gently kneading on his