A/N: Don't know why I'm continuing this story, as no one has read it :( At least, no one has left any reviews :(
Anyways, here's chapter one.
Chapter 1: Purging The Unclean.
When daylight arrives and half of the nest is still dressed, armed and have fed, half of those awake make our way out of the underground compound to drive through the streets of New York City to try and curb the spread of the unclean, while most sleep, but other half that is awake stay up to guard the compound and the Ancients. It has been three days since the Regis Air 753 plane landed in JFK Airport. Three days of constantly hunting down the unclean, but there are a lot more of them than we first anticipated.
The worst thing about the plague of Strigoi: we spread too fast; once infected, it doesn't take long for a human to turn, and a single non-sentient Strigoi will continuously feed from just after sunset to just before sunrise. Even when the thirst is satiated, a non-sentient Strigoi will continue to feed, and will repeatedly empty its insides, just to keep feeding.
In a city as big as New York, a single non-sentient Strigoi can feed on around thirty humans per night, or more. And if those humans are not killed after feeding (necks snapped, or the head removed), they'll come back and infected others, always starting with their loved ones first. And there were two hundred and ten humans aboard that plane, and two hundred and six who turned. The four "survivors" will take a little while longer. Being fed on by an Ancient takes a bit longer to turn than being fed on by a Strigoi.
We're a plague, and were never meant to live in large numbers, which is why the Ancients, both the Old World Ancients, and the New World Ancients, are extremely picky about who They let turn. We're basically bodyguards for Them, as well as Their caretakers. But, most importantly, we're Their children, and They are very fond of us.
If one of us is killed, the Ancients mourn. It's a very sad thing to the whole nest, especially for the Ancient who stung the Strigoi first (the Old Ones like to share, even those They want to turn. Whichever Ancient stings a human first, that Ancient becomes their creator), and Its other progeny. We've been known to mourn our dead for a month, and we even have a funeral for the one we lost.
The Young One, the Seventh and youngest of the Old Ones, doesn't care about who He turns. His are nothing more than mindless minions; pawns in some kind of twisted fantasy of His. He hates humanity, and cares not for His own progeny, keeping most of them as mindless creatures with a virtually insatiable thirst. He's been known to willingly sacrifice them to protect Himself. He even has the audacity to call Himself the Master. He does let one or two of His progeny become sentient, but not the whole nest, unlike ours.
There is only one who despises the Master more than anyone else, someone whom He has hurt, and pissed off the most; His son: Quinlan, my older brother. Quinlan is the only one who comes from the Young One who cannot be controlled by Him. Half human-half Strigoi, known as the Born, Quinlan loathes the Master's very existence because the Rogue took everyone Quinlan ever loved: his biological Strigoi mother, his adoptive human mother, his wife, his adopted daughter, his friends. Everyone he's ever loved, the Master has taken, and so Quinlan has sworn revenge on his father, and is the one destined to destroy Him.
If we cannot purge the city of the unclean, then we'll have to get Quinlan involved. When I first heard about that plane three days ago, I wanted to call my brother and bring him here, but the Ancients told me to wait and see if we can rid the city first. I think that's unwise, as my older brother will be absolutely furious that we didn't call him the second we knew the Master was here.
My father's team, consisting of my father, three of my brothers: Michael, Tobias, and Jacob, and I are headed towards the Upper East Side, as Michael managed to get a copy of the passenger manifest, which has the names of everyone on board the plane. He also got their addresses. Three of the passengers in First Class lives in the Upper East Side. The second team, consisting of Lar, Raphael, Petyr, Gabriel and Nathaniel, is going to Brooklyn.
Our team is going to check the house of a mother and daughter in Carnegie Hill. The last First Class passenger, a rock star called Gabriel Bolivar, lives in Tribeca, in Vestry Hall. He's one of the four "survivors" of the plane, but we'll check him after, as he might still be human. Shame that Bolivar is infected, as I like some of his music.
It doesn't take us that long to get to the Upper East Side, and pulling up to a fancy building consisting of expensive condominiums. The condo we need is actually the penthouse. We get out of the black SUV with tinted windows, that's been parked at the back of the building. It may have only been three days, but there are still lots of humans about especially during the day, albeit not as many, and there are some screams in the distance; most likely human on human violence, but some may be coming from inside buildings where the unclean are nesting during the daylight hours. Like I said: we spread fast. Likely the unclean numbers are up to a thousand by now...we really need to call for backup.
We need Quinlan; there's no way our nest can destroy all these unclean without him, especially the Master. And, by the time the Old Ones decide to let Quinlan know, the numbers will be a few thousand, but I do as I'm told, and don't get in contact with him. He's going to be pissed at me for not calling him at the start.
Wearing our light proof tactical gear, we're able to get from the car to the back door without burning. It's true what humans think about real life vampires: we really do burn in the sunlight...except Quinlan; being half human allows him to tolerate the sun's harsh rays. Lucky bastard.
Kicking in the back door, we travel up the stairs to the penthouse, not encountering any Strigoi, but the penthouse door is unlocked and open. We make our way in the darkened condo and go through the many rooms, before we find six Strigoi in the master bedroom sleeping on the floor. A well placed silver bolt to the heads from our shotguns, and the unclean have been purged.
While Michael and Jacob bring the bodies downstairs to be disposed of, my father, Tobias and I search the rest of the building. We hear the movements of Strigoi in several of the smaller condos and eradicate them, before going to the pitch black basement...at least, it would be pitch black, if it wasn't for the fact that Strigoi can see in the dark. Michael and Jacob catch up to us on the way down.
Down in the basement we find ten more Strigoi huddled together, sleeping the daylight hours away, and they wake up once half of their brethren are destroyed, but we kill the remaining half within a couple of seconds, then drag their bodies outside to be burned. Once that's done, we climb back into the SUV and head to Tribeca to dispatch of Gabriel Bolivar.
Once we get into Vestry Hall though, we can't find Bolivar anywhere; he's not in his penthouse, nor is he in any of the other rooms, not even the basement. Shame, I was hoping to get his autograph before shooting him in the head. What can I say: I'm complicated, and have a weird sense of humour. We decide to come back later.
We head out to a few other places that the "dead" plane passengers live and kill several more Strigoi, but I know we're not making much of a dent in the unclean population.
Can we call Quinlan yet, my Lords? I ask late afternoon.
No Freya, not yet. My creator replies, for about the millionth time. I sigh.
How bad does it have to be before we can call him? I know the Old Ones are getting fed up with me constantly asking.
Soon. Wait until We see if the Sun Hunters can eradicate the unclean.
I don't think we can do that, my Lords. We need his help. You know he's going to be pissed that he wasn't told from the beginning. The Ancients scoff at that.
We do not answer to the whims of a child, Freya. Especially that of the Roman child. I say nothing to that, and the Old Ones decide the conversation is over, and go back to sleep. I sigh again.
"They're right you know." Michael pipes up. Michael is the youngest of the nest, and was only turned twenty-five years ago, when he was turned at twenty-seven. He doesn't know Quinlan, who left the nest almost fifty years ago.
"No, They're not, Michael." I reply. "And if you knew Quinlan, you'd know that I am right." With that, I walk back to the car. I can hear my father talking to Michael.
"Freya is right; Quinlan must be told, and the Ancients are wrong for not telling him. But we will do what They say, even though it's a bad idea." Michael says nothing.
We drive around to other dark places that we suspect might house the unclean, and though some don't lead to anywhere, most do. I would much rather have spent the rest of the day sleeping; being awake and outside during the day is unnatural. I would much prefer hunting unclean Strigoi at night, when we would have a better chance at finding more. We check back at Vestry Hall, but there's still no Bolivar. Either he's gone for a little while, or he's just really good at hiding. DAMMIT!
Night has fallen for two whole hours when we decide to go to Bronxville, to hunt one of the other "survivors" of Regis Air 753, Joan Luss, a lawyer; it takes us over ninety minutes to get there. It should've only taken us just over forty minutes, but with the traffic because of the unclean, not to mention hunting the unclean themselves, it takes us over an hour and a half to pull up to a fancy looking, light grey building of modern proportions. Outside is a large piece of greyish coloured stone, with a large number "70" on it, which is lit up. I don't really like modern looking houses, I prefer the older ones.
There are two floors, each with massive windows, and a flat roof. There's a garage to the left of the house, with a fancy silver car parked in the driveway. Looks like someone's home. Good. We park the car out the front, and walk up the path, and open the door by Michael picking the lock. We spread out around the house, which actually looks much bigger on the inside, and try to find this Joan Luss.
My father and I walk up the stairs to the top floor with our shotguns out in front of us, and I see our reflections vibrate in the mirrors beside us out of the corner of my eye. Great, silver mirrors. Michael and Tobias take the ground floor, and Jacob takes the basement. The entire house is completely dark. If there is anyone here, then they're all strigoi now.
Opening the door immediately to the right of the staircase, we enter a room that smells like a female, a young one. I switch on the light, and the room is in glittery, pastel rainbow colours. Urgh. I've always preferred dark colours, even as a child. The bed at the back of the room is draped in like a silvery white, and has a sheer lace canopy at the top of the bed to the ceiling.
Before I get a full view of the obviously girly room, I think to myself that it looks like a unicorn farted in it. That thought is confirmed when I see multiple unicorns all around the room. Why don't girls ever like dragons? I liked dragons when I was a little girl, still do. The only things she has in this room that I like, are stuffed animals. I feel the Ancients' horror as They see what I see through my eyes.
"Are you not glad your only child preferred swords and other weapons and was very interested in fighting?" I say to my father, gesturing to all the girly shit around the room, including several very creepy porcelain dolls. He turns to look at me, then around the room before barking out a loud laugh.
"I honestly would not have cared if you liked things like this, Dýrr Einn. As long as you were happy, I was happy." He replies with a genuinely large smile, showing his long, pointed front teeth. I've always been like the son he never had: I hated doing chores, looking after my younger cousins with my aunt, wearing dresses; all the things females were supposed to do in the Ninth Century.
I preferred sword fighting with my uncle, then my father and Quinlan, getting dirty, climbing trees, hunting for dragons and trolls, wearing tunics and breeches, playing rough with boys. I was what people call nowadays a tomboy. I wonder if I would've grown up like that, if my mother hadn't died when I was four?
We are so happy you were not like this as a child, Smár Einn. The Old Ones tell me. I grin at that, but hear my father snorting; he obviously disagrees.
There's a large mirror on the dresser on the right side of the bed, which my reflection also vibrates in, and on the top edge of the mirror, in fancy font is the name Audrey. Along the bottom edge of the mirror are photographs of four young girls, but nothing that suggests which one is Audrey. One is pale with strawberry blonde hair, blue eyes and pale skin covered in freckles. One has flawless olive coloured skin, dark eyes, and dark hair, I can't tell if her hair and eyes are brown or black. And the other two are obviously twins: auburn hair, a few freckles, pale skin and bright green eyes.
Coming out of the unicorn fart of a room, we make our way down the hall, and come to a door that has a sign proclaiming "Keene's Room". What kind of a monster names their child Keene?! Opening the door and flipping on the light, I come face to face with a room that would've suited me down to a tee as a child.
The room is a dark teal in colour, and the toys consist of dinosaurs, army men, trucks and, my all time favourite mythical creature: DRAGONS! Now this is a child's room, I think to myself, nodding in approval. I turn to my father with an even larger grin on my face than he had on his, and he chuckles at me, and shakes his head.
Now this room definitely suits you, Smár Einn. The Ancients say in approval, and I grin even wider. They know me so well. We leave the empty bedroom, and make our way through the rest of the rooms, but don't find anyone on the top floor.
No one here on the ground floor either. Tobias says.
Basement's empty too. Jacob chimes in. Gods dammit!
We make our way downstairs, and I see a photo of a stern looking woman with permed straw coloured hair, a large man with dark hair going grey at the sides, and two children: the girl is the one in the photographs with the strawberry blonde hair, blue eyes and freckled face, and the boy has dark hair, grey eyes and a freckled face as well. We head out to the car and drive away.
We decide to go to Jamaica Estates in Queens, to hunt the youngest passenger on Regis Air 753: Emma Arnot...the eight year old daughter of the man with the French accent on television who slapped Doctor Goodweather from the CDC. No doubt Emma came home and turned her father. We heard news reports that the bodies of the passengers disappeared along with the Chief Medical Examiner, and we heard humans saying that the military took them. Yeah, right.
We make several unintentional stops on the way, as we encounter the unclean coming out of hiding to feed for the rest of the night. It's now gotten so bad, that we can't even burn the bodies now because there are so many. Occasionally we come across unclean with glowing red eyes, and know that the Master is watching us through the eyes of His pawns, but we quickly dispatch them before He can get a good look at where we are, or where we are going. What should be a thirty minute drive, takes us almost fifty minutes. Damn unclean Strigoi!
We can't even pull up to Emma Arnot's house because there are too many humans walking the street, not to mention there's a large blue Jeep parked outside the house. Emma's father's vehicle? We have to park three houses away, and wait for humans to pass before getting out of the car.
Around halfway from the car to Emma's house, we encounter a human woman rushing towards us: she came out of Emma's house. She has long, dark brown hair, flawless olive skin, dark brown eyes almost black, and is really beautiful. She has tears streaming down her face. She almost collides with me as I try to dodge her.
"I'm sorry." She says with a slight accent. She sounds like she's originally from Spain or Mexico, most likely Mexico like Gabriel and Jorge. She looks at me, but I have my hood up and try to pull my face farther back into my hood.
"That's okay, Miss." I say, taking a step backwards. Unknowingly, that backwards step has put me directly under a streetlight, which illuminates my inhuman face. The woman gasps in shock. Uh oh, not good.
"You're one of them!" She says loudly. Unfortunately for her, she's now surrounded by four more Strigoi, all with their shotguns out and pointed in her direction. She gasps again, and raises her hands looking all around her. Her heart beats even faster.
"Let her go!" My father orders, lowering his shotgun, and the others back off. I lower my shotgun too.
"You can talk?!" She asks surprised. She flinched when she heard my father's dual voice. I'm guessing she either wasn't paying attention to mine, or she was distracted.
"We all can." I reply, gesturing to all of us around her. "We're not going to hurt you, Miss." I can't help but purr to try to get her to relax, but it makes her jump so I stop.
"Doctor." She says in a way that makes me think it's automatic. "It's Doctor."
"Alright then. Doctor." I say, lowering my hood, and letting her get a good look at me properly. Her eyes widen at my visage. "What are you doing out after dark?"
A/N:Hello, Doctor Martinez :DI honestly won't be surprised if no one reads this story: I suck at writing. Maybe I should just stick to crochet instead, I seem okay at that at least...at least I think I am...
Translations:
Smár Einn - Little One (Old Norse)
Dýrr Einn - Dear One (Old Norse)