Berlin, Germany – Twenty years ago.

A heavy rain descended on the streets of Berlin, a wet chill working its way into the marrow of those pedestrians unfortunate enough to be caught in the deluge. The slick streets reflected illuminated lampposts; cars speeding by displaced water with their windshield wipers swinging like a metronome keeping time with the rhythm of life. For several months, it seemed neither sun, nor moon, shone the same way it once had, but that could have been Karl Wagner’s perceptions conspiring against him.

Either that, or he had been working too hard lately.

Digging his hands into the pockets of his heavy, wool trench coat, Karl continued walking toward a large estate nestled deep in the heart of the city. His cheap, brown loafers splashed in puddles, soaking his feet while a sigh escaped his lips. It produced a billow of steam which mingled with the rain. As Karl lifted his eyes from the dirty sidewalk to the wrought iron gates protecting the largest vampire nest in Berlin, a frown tugged at the corners of his mouth. It might have only been months, but it felt like years since the world was the way he remembered it. He feared it would never be the same way again. Read the rest of this entry

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Mitchell Livingston had been born during a time when the abacus still defined the technology of modern computing, in an era before cars and trains dotted the landscape of the country he was raised in. His short, black hair slicked back with a widow’s peak perched atop his forehead, he appeared to be the consummation of Count Dracula himself, sharp fangs slumbering in a sea of white. His dark, cunning eyes could cut through men with the simplest of scowls. Nobody liked to anger Mitch. The results often proved fatal.

The evening started as most did for him. After a shower and a fresh change of clothing, his fingers raked through the hair of the woman he kept as a pet. Her gaze met his expectantly – a pretty little blonde thing he picked up in Texas (fuck, but those women were feisty before they were broken) – and a sharp moan punctuated the prick of his fangs into her throat. Mitch only stole a few sips from her, but he knew the day was coming soon when he would have to end her. Her large, brown eyes indicated the lights were on, but the resident was vacating the building.

With a sigh, Mitch settled into his chair, noting how quickly it seemed those pets met their expiration date. The vampires of his bloodline – the Lamiae, according to the Supernatural Order – often supplemented kills with quick feeds and the keeping of pets. The problem being that feeding from a human too often eventually reduced them to a mindless zombie. Granted, he had held onto this one longer than her predecessor, but even the strongest of mortals could not avoid the inevitable. And Mitch had no desire to blood bond with her to keep her rational beyond a few additional feedings.

Other than that, things seemed to be quiet. Mitch reclined his leather office chair and oscillated from side to side on it, pivoting this way and that while his feet remained planted firm on the floor below. His eyes scanned across the pictures hanging on his study walls, seeing visual reminders of a long, accomplished life. A landscape of Britain reminded him of where he had been born and the painting of Austria served as a recollection of the first nest he oversaw. Prints of Romania, Hungary, and Germany each placed markers on one rung after the next up the political ladder. Mitch turned to face the large windows overlooking Portland, Oregon, seeing the lights of downtown from his posh penthouse. One step further, and he would be a king.

If the current one ever abdicated, that is. Read the rest of this entry

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“The dog days are over,
The dog days are gone.
Can you hear the horses?
‘Cause here they come.”

- “Dog Days Are Over” by Florence + the Machine

The black, polished shoes produced a perfect squeak as they shuffled down the corridor, a single sound bouncing from one wall to the next in the empty thoroughfare. Where ordinarily, there would be scores of people walking this way and that, headed to the various departments of these hallowed halls, tonight was different. The body of people typically assembled were already in a meeting room, sweating over coffee and cigarettes and Mark Johansen was running late.

In their long history, the Supernatural Order had faced world-ending situations before. The splintering of bloodlines which formed the vampire faction they hunted in the first place almost provoked a giant cluster-fuck which ended life as they knew it from their very inception. That had been a millennium ago, roughly. Back when humanity still believed in magic. Sorcerers, witches, and warlocks dotted the landscape of the Dark Ages and one magician in particular drifted further into the darkness, looking for immortality. That was the first time vampires learned to wield magic themselves. The genesis of a war.

Not that they ever told anybody but those in their employ about the other bloodline which existed, the older one the Order never tangled with except on very rare occasions. Or that there was much of a difference between the vampires humanity still denied existed in its blanket of blissful unawareness. Ignorance an intoxicant with the populace drunk on its spell, oh vampires had been around for more than the millennium the Supernatural Order existed, but they hid the truth like they hid every other truth from mortals who no longer believed in magic.

The time for ignorance had ended, though. The war had entered Phase Two. Read the rest of this entry

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