Prologue: Fire and Water
The year 1925
The rain fell angrily from the heavens. Depressed clouds wept and thundered their admissions of misery upon the world. The priest watched the world outside from the safety of his home from the living space of his town house. The living space was neat, orderly and filled with few items that most people would expect from a man who served his god. A few bookshelves filled with an assortment of books, most he had brought from Ireland, and some he had bought in a small bookstore outside of York-town. There were a few cushioned chairs for reading placed around a small fireplace. There was a small window seat as well, which was where the priest was sitting now watching the downpour with earnest. A few lamps were lit dimly in the room but he took little notice of the light. Outside the world had darkened and that was all he saw.
"Asher, I when I left here earlier, ya be sittin' at t'at window. Now ya be t'eh when I be back. Is t'ere somet'in' on yeh mind? What ya be t'inkin' about I'd like ta be knowin'?" A voice called out to him softly in English. It was a rich cultured voice, though the English she used sounded hard to his ears, and one that he knew very well. He did not need to look behind him to know whom the owner of that voice.
"Oh, I be here and about t'day lass. I came in wit' t'e rain. I be t'inkin' o' ta rain, lass, and home. " He answered back. His voice was quiet but loud to the girl behind him. He did not turn around for there was no need. Better to watch the rain pour down, better to have his back to her.
"Do ya be missin' it, Asher? Miss ou' home?" Though she had learned English first she mostly spoke in their native tongue. They had been here in New York for almost five years, and she preferred with their new freedoms, to speak exclusively in their native language. In fact this was the most English she had spoken to him in private since they had landed on Ellis Isl for she'd rather speak in their native tongue. He almost asked her why the sudden change in the languages but thought better of it. The lass would surely balk him for asking such a simple question and that would be the end of using the English's language.
"Aye, t'at I be, lass. T'at I be." He answered again. There was a sigh in his voice, one that she knew well. The sigh to the obvious question that she had asked, one that did not need to be asked but was anyway. He felt her move closer though she made no sound. They knew each other well, perhaps too well. She was so close now she could touch him and he could see in the faint light her reflection in the window. Her strong beauty could make any man lust for her, yet for the priest it did nothing for he still saw her as he did then; a child, his best friend's child.
She was not fragile by any means, no, men usually thought twice about approaching her in a dark corner. She was tall for a woman and could meet most men's eyes with her own. Her body was as limber as a young man's but carried a woman's curve. Her temper was as scarlet as her hair; hot and warm as the fresh blood that seemed to boil in her veins, which curled wildly perhaps from the heat of her skin. Today she wore her hair up in the most recent fashion though it was seemed like a hard task to do with those long wild curls of hers (she refused to cut is like so many young American women of today). Against the hair her skin was pale and seemed to hold little color except for the pink of her lips and the faint color of blush of her high cheeks. Her nose is an Irish nose; long and narrow, the bridge crooked as if it had been broken several times in her youth. Not the classic beauty by any means, but she was striking in her own way.
Asher almost laughed when saw that she had dressed up for the evening. American fashions change almost as much as the weather, he thought to himself. He almost couldn't believe any god-fearing proper lass would be wearing a dress as revealing, or as gaudy as the dress she was wearing. Especially for one particular lass who is a priest's ward.
Sara was certainly "dolled up" for the evening. Her dress, ending at an unthinkable length at just below the knees her calves visible under the sheer stockings she wore, was of satin cloth and was the color of the deepest green complimenting her cream colored complexion and vibrant locks. Asher was certain that she wasn't wearing a corset under the dress, or petty-coats; another thing that was thought to be unthinkable for women when he was a younger man.
Although her eyes were a lilac color, the deep green had darkened them to a darker shade of violet. Her face was also painted as well; dark eyeliner and light green eyeshadow further helped to bring out the color of her eyes and seemed to soften her features and the rose rouge and deep red lipstick painted to her lips complimented the paleness of her face. He was amazed at the transformation because she almost looked innocent, demure, and even tamed. He almost couldn't see the girl he knew.
He wondered why she decided to suddenly become a women of fashion for she hated wearing dresses and seldom did even though the looks she got from others were judgmental ones. It was not proper for a young maid such as herself to be dressed as a man. Most thought, (and had told Asher so) that she probably wore the slacks because now the women thought that they were as strong as men because they had gotten their right to vote. That was improper. Asher long ago at one time would have thought this, now he knew better.
"An' where'd be ta young lass be goin' t'is foine evenin'?" He was amused and it showed. He almost sounded condescending to her. Not quite, but almost. She hated that. Men, they always thought that they were better than women and especially the American ones. The egotistical bastards, all of them were. She'd let Asher get away with it, though. He was the only one that mattered to her anyway. The others, all they were good for was practice.
She studied him from behind for a moment, admiring him from the window. Their eyes locked through the windowpane's reflection. She always noticed his eyes. They were green, bright and lively as the hills back home. They were honest eyes. They went well with his ruddy complexion and dark blond hair that always reminded her of the color of honey. He had masculine features and was tall for an Irish man, certainly taller than her (she thanked God every day in her prayers for that). He was built like a workingman although he was a priest with broad shoulders and muscular arms, slim waistline and long well proportioned legs. She wondered what the rest of him looked like under his garments. It was curious fantasy and not Christian like for her to wonder these things especially speculating about a priest.
"We be goin' fer t'eh evenin' don't yeh be remembehin'? Don't yeh be telling' meh yeh fehgot?" She asked astonished. "To Sih Fehost's pahty?" She said with a hint of disgust in her voice. Sure he remembered Frost's party. It was the biggest party of the year but it is also been the biggest blood bath. (Not to mention that it will probably have enough illegal alcohol to fill his entire home if it were poured.) They had been after the Englishman for ten years now and finally had a chance to get him. He had forgotten it was tonight, however. Had it come so soon? Odd, old age must be setting in. Even though he was reaching forty, he did not feel old until then.
Asher set his eyes to the heavy rain again. He had a bad feeling about this. Something was going to happen tonight and it was going to change both of their lives forever. "Are yeh goin' ta be dressed soon, Asheh, We'll be late, an' I do not plan ta miss 'em t'is time." Her voice was curt, determined. Asher sighed as he got up from his comfortable seat.
"Sara, I'm as ready as I am goin' ta be." Erecting himself straight he gave her a small nod smiling a small smile. He went around her to the small entrance grabbed his raincoat from the coat rack and his umbrella. She followed him and waited silently at the door. Pulling on the coat on he opened the door and stepped outside before pulling the umbrella open. It was bad luck to release an umbrella in a house; any proper Irish lad or lass knew that. He held it over his head and left room for his charge to step under before moving to lock the house behind him.
Chapter 1: The Door and Awakened Sleeper
The year: 1998
Whistler sat in his seat sketching out his newest weapon design. Blade was off doing what he did best: hunting and disposing vampires and their familiars. Today was harder than most days for him to concentrate on his work. He kept hearing strange sounds and it was beginning to agitate him. Where was the sound coming from? He could wait for Blade to get back or he could solve the mystery himself and get back to work. The latter sounded more pleasing.
Setting down the sketchpad that was half-filled with pencil marks and scribble lines, he stood stiffly and carefully placed most of the pressure on his good leg. He gave himself a moment to stretch the soreness out of his neck, back and arms that had stiffened a bit from drawing and then hobbled over to grab a shotgun from the worktable. The shotgun was one of the many guns he owned that was a custom design, the barrel elongated to hold silver stake casings. Holding the shotgun ready he made his way along the stretch of the warehouse following the sounds careful to keep his guard up, in case of an ambush.
Following the hum he made his way to one side of the stockroom; a part that was still rather clean and was unused except for storage space. The grinding reverberations were getting louder. Now he could tell it was some sort of machinery and made another discovery. It came from under the depot not above as he had originally thought.
Whistler lowered his weapon and contemplated his next course of action. This could be of use or it could possibly be dangerous. Hell, he thought, his interest has been peaked now, might as well figure it out.
As Sara became aware all she sensed was cold. It seemed to envelop her entire body and had worked its way into her insides. Suddenly a flush of warmth spread through her veins, painful and wonderful. Her body wracked in pain as it was being jolted alive again tingling from sleeping nerves, and from the flesh rising in temperature. She tried to struggle, but it was still around her. They were still there, holding her down while the oozing liquid poured over her. She screamed a silent water-choked scream and struggled more furiously against her bonds. Glass broke and she was free. Coughing she took her first breath of air in what seemed like eternity.
Darkness, she was blind. Most of her senses gone except for touch. She felt around, catching a hand on one of the jagged remains of her prison. Blood spilled and it felt burning against her frigid skin. She noticed only the feeling of warmth because the agony throughout her body took over all other pain.
Everything hurt, her insides turning from shock, throat dry, and head aching. Her stomach leapt and she leaned over and puked the liquid that had been forced inside her and kept heaving. Eventually the retching subsided leaving her feeling empty. Finally the shock on her body overloaded her senses and at last she fell into merciful unconsciousness.
The grind of the mysterious machines was drowned out by his hand-held jackhammer. Whistler whistled to himself as he drove through the ground. Suddenly the jackhammer hit metal and sparks flew. Whistler turned off the jackhammer and peered into his newly dug hole. What he saw shocked him. Grabbing his jackhammer he went on the break though the surrounding concrete and dirt until he had uncovered the rest of his findings. What he saw in the illumination of overhead lights took his breath away in awe and fear.
Under the concrete and dirt, hidden away from the rest of the world, was a round bronze door with a large antique knob on the left and rusted hinges on the right. It was now deep brown with corrosion and age. Edged along the border were primeval writings in a foreign literary. It was ancient vampiric writing.
Whistler sucked in a breath of air and let it out struggling to calm himself. How in the fuck did this get here? He wondered, amazed. What was its purpose, seemed to be the more appropriate question. It seemed to be old judging by the state of decay of the door itself. Maybe it was abandoned years ago by vampires and buried underground to cover up any of the secrets hidden inside. Blade's going to have a fucking cow when he sees this. Holy fuck, he thought, Whistler needed a drink.