A/N: I'm BACK! As promised, the sequel to How The World Ends. I actually wasn't going to start this story until I finished another one, but it kept bugging me so bad that I finally decided "What the hell?". I have the next three chapters roughly outlined in my head - but I've found I do well running by the seat of my pants, lol. Now that my script is (finally) done, I hope to update on a more regular basis.
I'll be writing this under the assumption that you've read HTWE - if you haven't, shame on you; it's a fun read. There is a time difference between the prologue and the following chapter - hopefully, if you're familiar with the previous story, you'll understand what I'm doing. I don't want to give too much away yet.
Anyway, as always, read, review, enjoy! PEACE!
Where Forever Dies
Prologue: Amid The Ashes
"Now, this is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning..." - Winston Churchill
"So you think you know how this story goes/Are you ready for this?..." - Three Days Grace, "Are You Ready"
From the moment he'd stepped into Apartment 1417, Josh Mathews had known that something was off.
The homicide detective flipped his memo book closed, twirling his pencil absently between index and middle finger. He had still been asleep when the first reports of a 10-80 - an explosion - had come in just after dawn, and hadn't gotten the official summons until a few hours later, when the bomb squad's sweep of the apartment had turned up the body of an unidentified young woman in the bathroom.
After eight years on the force - two of those with Homicide - Mathews was used to getting called out to scenes at all hours of the night, so he hadn't experienced much more than a passing irritation at having his Sunday morning slumber cut short. But as soon as he'd crossed over 1417's threshold, that typical annoyance had evaporated, replaced by a unfamiliar sensation of disquiet - a feeling that had only deepened as he tried to make sense of the various...unusual...aspects of this particular crime scene.
The door to the apartment, blown almost completely off its hinges - it looked ordinary enough, but it had taken three patrolmen to shift it out of the way, and when Mathews had rapped his knuckles against it out of curiosity, it had produced the unmistakable CLANG of metal...
The collection of knives scattered on the floor, most of them looking like they belonged either on a movie set or behind glass in a museum...
The large pile of greasy-looking grayish ash near the uncovered floor-to-ceiling window...and the wicked-looking Bowie knife right beside it, its angled blade and hilt coated with the same sooty substance...
Mathews sighed, massaging his temples between thumb and forefinger. He hadn't even had time to grab a cup of coffee before driving over here; he'd only been at the scene for an hour, but already it felt like five. One of the things he loved most about his job was figuring out the jigsaw puzzle that each individual crime scene presented; spreading all the various reports and photos and notes across his desk or his living room floor and figuring out how they all fit together, but this...
No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't make all of these pieces fit together...and in the far reaches of his subconscious, he couldn't quite dispel the notion that maybe he shouldn't; that the final image these seemingly random details comprised would be one he was never meant to see-
The homicide detective rapidly shook his head, giving both of his cheeks a light slap. That insane idea was just the fatigue and lack of caffeine talking - maybe he could ask one of the rookies to run down to the nearest Starbucks and get him a large black coffee.
Besides, all crime scenes were overwhelming at the start - all that noise and activity and confusion. The trick was to take a mental step back from it all; to detach yourself from the stark obscenity of a human life being extinguished and force yourself to remain objective.
Mathews took a deep breath, running one hand through his hair and looking around. There was a handful of crime scene technicians and uniformed officers sprinkled throughout the large main area of the apartment. Through the front entryway, he could see more uniforms out in the hallway, though their presence was largely unnecessary - the fire department still hadn't given the all-clear for the building's residents to return to their homes.
The detective flipped open his memo book, jotting down a reminder to question the rent-a-cop at the front desk - though he doubted it would amount to much; the guy looked like he phoned it in on a regular basis - before tucking it into his jacket pocket and heading off to find his partner.
With his pleasant open features, graying hair and goatee, and faint Southern accent, most people assumed that Det. Brian G. James was nothing more than an unremarkable "good ol' boy" cop, counting down the days until he could collect on his pension.
What they didn't know - and often found out the hard way - was that lurking beneath that laid-back exterior was a sharp mind and even sharper wit, as well as a rebellious streak a mile wide - hence the reason why he was known around the precinct as "the Road Dogg".
At the moment, however, James' expression was solemn and inscrutable, and he didn't even look up as his partner entered the apartment's master bathroom, squatting down on his haunches next to him. Together, the two men silently regarded the body slumped inside the walk-in shower stall.
James was the first one to speak. "Any word on when the coroner's getting here, kid?"
Mathews only rolled his eyes at the childish moniker. Even though he had just turned thirty-two a few weeks ago, his youthful features often caused people to mistake him for a rookie - something his partner never failed to rag him over. "He's on his way; there's a lot of gridlock on the east side of town, and with all those one-way streets..." He added nothing further; merely raised one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug.
James grunted by way of response. "Figured." He fell silent for a moment, his gaze still fixed on the lifeless young woman in the shower stall. "You find anything out there?"
"Yeah, I did - and none of it makes any fucking sense." Mathews rested his elbows on his knees, his focus also captivated by the body before them. The young woman's hands were folded over her chest, her head lolling forward slightly against her collarbone. If not for all the blood - on her clothes, her face, the tile floor beneath her - it would have been easy to mistake her for sleeping.
The younger detective glanced at his partner. "I don't get it - she struggles with the killer out there, she runs in here, he kills her...but then what about the explosion? Hell, what about that fucking vault door we had to shove aside just to get in here?"
James said nothing. Mathews went on. "That shit out there - the knives and the ashes - do you think we're dealing with some kind of psycho here? Or a satanic cult thing? I mean-" The detective pressed his fingers against his forehead. "-call me crazy, but when I first saw the body, I could have sworn that the marks on her neck were bite marks-"
At this, the veteran detective finally looked over, a strange, secretive look flitting across his face; in the depths of his eyes, he seemed almost...fearful. He opened his mouth to speak - but then abruptly snapped it closed as a new one floated out from the direction of the living room, indistinct but filled with a stridency and pomposity that instantly set Mathews' nerves on edge.
"Ah, hell," James muttered sourly, just as the owner of the voice strolled into the bathroom.
"Gentlemen! May I have your attention please!" Captain Michael Cole clasped both hands behind his back, the faint smile on his face a few degrees removed from a smirk.
Mathews gritted his teeth, struggling to keep his countenance neutral. He hated Cole; to him, the captain was nothing more than an incompetent ass-kisser who had managed to fail upward; a moron who cared more about politics than actual police work. He never came to a crime scene if he didn't have to, so the fact that he was here, at this hour and in full uniform...meant that Mathews' day was about to get even worse.
The captain cleared his throat, most likely for dramatic effect. "Effective immediately, the two of you are off this case."
"What?" both detectives exclaimed in unison. Mathews jumped to his feet, his mouth dropping open in shock. "The call came to us - you can't do that-"
"It's already done," Cole interrupted. "The case has been reassigned. The CSIs have been instructed to forward all findings directly to me from now on, and I want any notes you've taken on my desk by the end of the day." By now, the smirk was in plain sight, and a note of unctuous superiority had crept into his tone. "You two are out of the loop on this thing, and I suggest you try and forget what you've seen."
"You little-" Before Mathews knew what he was doing, he was already storming toward his superior, the fingers of one hand clenched into a fist.
"Watch it, Mathews!" Cole held up his hand warningly. His voice had skittered up an octave, full of the sort of quavery courage that only an unshakable position of power can evoke. "Don't do something you might regret! You've got a promising career ahead of you on the force - I'd hate to see you spend the rest of it back in Patrol." His tone was light, but there was no mistaking the threat it contained.
Mathews stopped, his features tightening in a glower. He had no doubt that Cole would make good on the threat; the hatred he had for the captain was mutual, and this wasn't the first time that they had butted heads. Besides, the last thing he wanted was to give Cole the satisfaction of knocking him down even further.
In the back of his mind, however, the younger detective wondered why his partner wasn't backing him up on this. Unlike Mathews, James didn't fear the consequences; he had been written up for insubordination more times than anyone could remember, and he often challenged Cole's decisions on issues far more inconsequential than this one.
But instead of adding his voice to the chorus of protests, the veteran detective remained strangely silent - and there was something about his total lack of any opinion that sent a prickle of unease flitting through Mathews' insides.
What was so bad about this case that it had even muzzled the Road Dogg?
Cole's smarmy tone cut across the younger detective's thoughts like the abrupt screech of a needle against a record. "-now, I want you and your partner off this scene immediately - otherwise, I'll have you escorted out of the building."
Mathews swung his gaze back toward the captain, mentally weighing whether the primal satisfaction of plowing his fist into the middle of Cole's weaselly face would be worth the inevitable suspension. Instead, though, the homicide detective merely deepened his glare, brushing past his superior with a muttered: "This is bullshit..."
As he emerged back into the living room area, Mathews' furious pace slowed, then stopped. The CSIs and uniforms that had previously occupied the space were gone now, replaced by two unfamiliar figures.
Mathews' first thought was that they were part of the SWAT unit, since they were dressed in full head-to-toe black gear - gloves, helmets, the works. But that assumption didn't quite ring true, and a second later, he realized why - neither of the pair had any weapons on them.
As he watched, still trying to determine their purpose, one of the figures strode over to the window, fidgeting with a control panel on the far end. There was a faint rumble of hydraulics, and the heavy black drapes on either side of the massive pane of glass began to inch closed.
The homicide detective felt an involuntary rush of panicked annoyance surge through him, and despite the directive Captain Cole had given, despite the consequences that any further disobedience would bring, he found himself rushing forward, the words tearing out of his throat: "Hey, don't touch that! This is a crime scene - what are you doing-"
The figure barely moved; only turned its head in his direction. A beam of morning sunlight hit the helmet's visor, reflecting off the polished surface and dazzling Mathews' vision. At the same time, a cold numbing fog swarmed over his brain, infusing his limbs with lead and stopping him in his tracks.
The younger detective's mouth moved, but no sound emerged. He couldn't move, couldn't speak, and all around him, the world seemed to be distilling down into shades of gray. The figure by the window continued to gaze at him, and through the deadening blanket tamped down over his thoughts, Mathews heard a woman's voice, faint and sweetly enticing:
Josh...
Fingers sank into the meat of his bicep, digging in hard. A bright hot bubble of pain burst through the haze engulfing Mathews, clearing his head a little, and looking over, he saw the grim, determined face of his partner staring back at him.
James' voice sounded as though it was coming from the end of a hallway: "-get ahold of yourself!" Mathews could only blink; his thoughts felt heavy and scattered.
The veteran detective sank his fingers in harder, actually shaking his partner a little. "Come on!" the Road Dogg growled. Without adding anything further, he made a beeline for the front doorway, practically dragging his barely cognizant partner behind him. "Whatever you do, don't fucking look back-"
As soon as they made it out to the hallway, Mathews' head began to clear, and by the time the two detectives stepped into the elevator, he had all but forgotten that overwhelming mental haze and the powerlessness that had accompanied it.
He couldn't, however, shake the memory of that voice, and in the days, months, years that followed, he would find himself remembering it; recalling the mellifluous way she had uttered the single syllable of his first name...
Josh...
The curtains met with a dull WHUMP, shutting out the rays of the sun. Cole cleared his throat, tugging nervously at the collar of his uniform. He and the two black-clad figures were the only ones remaining in the apartment.
The figure nearest to him removed his helmet, revealing a young man with slicked -back bleached blonde hair and handsome features that exuded an air of cockiness and arrogance. He flicked his gaze coolly toward the police captain. "You know, we pay you to keep your lackeys in order - what was up with that detective of yours?"
"Don't worry about Mathews," Cole hastily replied, his blustering tone unable to mask the apprehension lurking just beneath it. "He may be a hothead, but he knows when to follow orders. I guarantee he won't be a problem."
The blond man grinned, revealing a set of whitened fangs, and the police captain involuntarily gulped. "He better not be," the vampire whispered ominously.
A moment of uncomfortable silence crawled by. Cole shifted back and forth on the balls of his feet. "So...anything else you need done?"
Instead of answering, the blond man glanced over his shoulder at the other black-clad figure, who had yet to remove their helmet. Neither of them said a word, but Cole still got the sense that a conversation was taking place - and that for all his bravado, the vampire in front of him was not the one calling the shots.
Finally, the blond man looked back in his direction, as though he'd all but forgotten the police captain's presence. "Yeah - go out into the hall, make sure no one else comes in, and don't move until we tell you otherwise." His grin widened a touch, making him look almost wolfish. "Got it?" Cole nodded, swallowing hard, and backed up, practically tripping over his polished shoes in his haste to follow orders.
As soon as he was gone, the figure near the window carefully removed their helmet. Long pale blonde hair tumbled free, falling around an extraordinary beautiful face - delicate features, full lips, dark brown eyes framed with long thick lashes - that was so devoid of emotion or concern, it could have almost been a mask.
With a dainty practiced motion, the young woman flicked her hair back from her face, looking around the large living room with vague interest. Her upper lip curled ever-so-slightly in disgust as she uttered her first words:
"What a mess."
Her diction was perfect, despite the thick French accent coating each syllable. The blond man turned around, shrugging nonchalantly. "What do you expect, Maryse? Hunters aren't exactly known for picking up after themselves - and all those cops tramping around-"
His voice trailed off as the woman shot him a withering look. "Thank you, Dolph, for pointing out what I could not possibly have picked up on my own." she drawled sarcastically. The blond man's cocksure countenance flushed with embarrassment, and he ducked his head.
Maryse rolled her eyes, pulling off her thick workman's gloves to reveal long slender fingers with manicured nails. "I was speaking rhetorically," With smooth graceful movements, she strolled over to the large pool of ashes, kneeling down and running her fingers through the grayish grit like a prospector panning for gold.
She stopped suddenly, pulling out a twisted ring of metal. It was blackened from heat and partially melted, but the scales and head of the coiled snake were still identifiable.
Dolph eased closer, peering at the patch of ashes. "Is it her?"
Maryse nodded absently, her attention still fixed on the warped metal ornament. "Yes. This was a gift from her sire - she never took it off." She ran her thumb over the sooty surface, revealing a dull flash of gold. "Alberto will not be pleased when he learns of her death."
The blond man rolled his eyes. "Yeah, well, Alberto's never pleased." Maryse didn't respond to his attempt at humor, but instead set the melted bracelet back down onto the pile of ashes almost reverently. Dolph's handsome features twitched in amusement. "Don't tell me you're actually sorry that Melina's gone - I thought the two of you hated each other."
The female vampire lifted one shoulder noncommittally. "She resented me, true - for reaching my position within the Council despite being a fraction of her age - but I bore her no ill will." A sardonic smile touched the corners of her mouth. "Her death was inevitable, though; she was careless...careless and stupid. Careless for living as she did with no thought of the consequences - stupid for believing that five centuries of immortality would be enough to protect her."
Maryse stood, dusting her hands off briskly. Her tone, when she spoke again, was detached, clinical. "I want to see the body now."
Dolph leaned against the wall, watching as Maryse examined the corpse in the shower stall. "So this is the supposed vampire baby-mama," he remarked dryly. "The infamous Mickie James."
The blond woman didn't answer; she was too busy prodding the dead young woman's abdomen, poking her fingers down between her legs. Finally, she leaned back on her haunches, letting out a frustrated sigh that bordered on a growl. "The child is gone."
Dolph straightened up, moving over toward the shower stall. "How do you know?" he asked slowly. "Maybe it's dead. Maybe she died before she could pop it out-"
Maryse shot him another contemptuous glare and the vampire instantly shut up. "She gave birth," the female vampire declared. "That's what killed her. But there's no sign of the baby. If it died, they would have left it behind."
The blond man frowned. "They?" he asked. "Who are 'they'?"
Maryse's dark brown eyes narrowed slightly. "Whoever it was that blew in the door-" Before she could finish, the shrill electronic jangle of a cell phone ringer went off, echoing off the walls of the tiled space. Rolling her eyes, the female vampire dug in her pocket, pulling out a rhinestone-encrusted IPhone and holding it to her ear. "'Allo?"
"Get me the fuck out of here!" Even coming through a tiny phone speaker, Randy Orton's deep voice was deafening. Maryse winced, pulling the device away from her face.
Dolph looked at her, his eyebrows raised questioningly. Maryse flipped one hand in an impatient shooing motion, indicating that he should leave the room. The blond vampire obeyed, shoving his hands in his pockets and ambling out into the dim master bedroom.
As soon as he was out, the female vampire raised the phone back up, taking care to keep the speaker well away from her ear. "Randy? This is most inconvenient-"
"Oh, I'm sorry," the Viper's Pit owner interrupted, his voice oozing snide sarcasm. "I'm sorry to call in the middle of your facial - just get me the hell out of here!"
Maryse lifted her hand, examining her nails as she spoke. "Where are you?"
There was a long pause, then: "The emergency room."
The female vampire let out a soft snort of laughter. "Whatever are you doing there?"
"I have no fucking idea - I just woke up and found myself here." Orton lowered his voice a touch. "Get me out of here, Mar - I'm going out of my mind. They won't give me painkillers, they won't stop with their stupid fucking questions-"
"Why should I?" Now the blond woman was the one to interject, her tone clipped and icy. "In case you haven't already realized it, you're in no position to demand anything." Her dark irises flicked toward the motionless body in the glassed-in shower stall. "That merchandise you promised...has been irretrievably lost."
There was another pause on Orton's end, even longer this time, before the Viper's Pit owner finally barked out a single word in a harsh growl. "Cena."
As soon as those two syllables floated through the tiny IPhone speaker, the female vampire went absolutely still. "What?"
"John fucking Cena!" Orton practically screamed - either he hadn't heard the sudden interest in the blond woman's tone, or he just didn't care. "It was all his fault! Him and that whiny fanged bitch Dave! I had everything under control before they showed up-"
The Viper's Pit owner went on, but Maryse was no longer listening - her mind was already racing ahead, whirring with that clocklike precision that had served her just as well throughout the years as her pretty face and ample figure. Eventually, she grew bored with Orton's ranting, and cut him off in mid-sentence: "Sit tight, while I take care of things."
She hesitated for a moment, then added: "Just so you know...if this turns out to be some ploy you thought up to take the blame off your own incompetence...I'll come to that bar of yours and make your day exceedingly unpleasant-"
"I'm so fucking scared." Orton interrupted sarcastically, and there was a dull buzz as he hung up. Maryse returned the IPhone to her pocket, pursing her full lips as she considered her next course of action. After a minute or so, she cocked her head to the side. "Dolph!"
Instantly, the blond vampire was at the doorway. "Yes?"
Maryse stared at him, her expression faintly imperious. "Go fetch that police captain - whatever his name is - and bring him back here. There's an errand I need him to run."
Dolph nodded, but didn't move. The female vampire arched her eyebrows expectantly. "Well? What is it?"
The blond vampire turned his head to the side, peering at her out of the corner of his eye. "You've got that look on your face," he remarked after a while. "You find out something?"
A tiny smile touched the edges of Maryse's lips. "Let's just say...that things are becoming interesting again."
She said nothing further, and Dolph finally shrugged, ducking out of the bathroom and heading off to retrieve Cole. The female vampire looked back toward Mickie's body. "Very interesting," she added, to no one in particular.
Maryse steepled her slender fingers underneath her chin, her mouth widening in a smile both sweet and cruel. "Yes, it has been a very long time since we last saw one another..."
"...Johnny."