The Anointed

by Darkness7

Hard to describe this saga in a few lines but I'll have a go anyway. Brooklyn goes behind the clan's back to get revenge against Demona, which may eventually lead to the world's destruction when other forces intervene. Completed up to Chapter 20.

19. The Gathering Dark

The Gathering Dark

Author: Darkness

E-Mail:

Author's Note: At last! The next part of the ongoing saga! A tad late but, better late then never, eh? J Hopefully those few faithful followers of my little story arc won't be disappointed with this chapter, as it was one of my favourites to write, and took a really long time and a lot of revisions and such before it was really good enough for posting. All acknowledgements, save for one, can be found at the bottom of this fic. The one acknowledgement that will be stated now is this one: The poem written in this was a fun joint effort between me and my very, very good friend Caboose, or, as he likes to be known in some circles (i.e deviantart), Sanguineous Rex.

This crappy fic of mine is dedicated to you dude! Because with out you, I probably would have given up on writing a LONG time ago! :)

"O so vast…"

The song echoed through his head, the voice singing it was male, and a low, powerful baritone. It had come out of nowhere.

"O so mighty…"

He was suddenly aware of his surroundings, of the paved street and the walls, the distinctly Chinese architecture, and the script nailed to the post nearby, dark with Oriental characters. He traced a claw over the dried ink. He somehow knew that what it said was important, life changing even.

"The Great River rolls out to sea…"

And it all felt…so familiar and yet so alien at the same time.

He didn't know what to make of it all. This was all happening too fast.

"Flowers do waves thrash…"

He turned his head in the direction of the voice. It was just down the street a little. Maybe…maybe whoever was singing could explain what was happening to him, why he felt that he knew this place.

"Heroes do sands smash…"

He walked down the street. He looked up into the cobalt sky as he did so, at the sun, which beat down on him, bathing him in its warmth, at the occasional bank of snow white clouds that floated along lazily by in the wind.

He recalled the first time he had ever seen such a day, over a year ago when Alex had made them all human for one day as a practice for his spell casting.

He had been left stunned into silence by its beauty and warmth, unable to understand how humans could take such things for granted.

He took a corner and reached a gateway. The matte brown paint was peeling off the wooden gate, which he gently pushed out of his way. He found himself within a walled garden.

"When all the dreams drain…"

Peach trees filled most of the garden, all in full bloom. Shafts of sunlight came in through the gaps of the flowers and shone down on the damp, healthy grass. A soft wind blew throughout, dislodging peach flower petals and filling the air with a rain of pink and white.

His chest suddenly felt heavy, and he had to hold back a sob. The feeling of familiarity had vanished, only to be replaced by a rush of intense loss that nearly made him cry out loud.

He didn't just know this place; he had loved it with all his heart once.

A simply made altar of light grey stone stood near the wall on the opposite side of the gate. He crossed over the soft, petal covered grass to stand in front of it.

"Same are loss and gain."

He looked over to his right. A silhouette stood between several of the white and pink trees. The silhouette was the black outline of a man, standing nearly as tall as himself. What it lacked in height, it more than made up for with its broad shoulders and powerful limbs.

No robes for this one, but the blunt outlines of what were obviously a full suit of armour.

He could swear he felt it smile at him.

It made a gesture with its arms indicating all of their surroundings.

"All this," it said, "I gave up. All this…beauty. Everything that was in my life that I valued. All of it, I gave up. All…for the cause."

The spectre took a step towards him.

"You and I are alike in many ways my young friend."

"How so?" he found himself asking.

He felt the spectre smile at him again. "I'll leave you to find that out yourself."

He looked around the garden's interior. Birds were chirping as they glided overhead, and there was the sound of rushing water coming from somewhere too. Carried along by the wind, came the rhythmic thump, thump, thumping of drums.

Both he and the spectre stood for a moment, taking in all that the wind carried to their ears. And then the spectre spoke again.

"This…this was the last day that I stayed here. The last day that I would ever have looked upon this little piece of heaven that I had made for myself. I don't think I fully understood just what I was getting myself into really. Perhaps, none of us truly did."

"What was it that you were getting yourself into?" he asked, curious.

The spectre's invisible stare seemed to bore right into him for an uncomfortable moment, before it finally answered.

"War." It said. "I was more horrified by it than I ever let on to anyone. All I had to ease my horror was the bottle, and it did me a great deal more damage than I could have guessed later on."

"Then why did you not just stop fighting?" he asked.

"Because," answered the spectre. "I believed in what I was fighting for. The cause was noble, but ultimately doomed."

The birds chirped again and a few landed on a nearby branch. The drums in the distance grew closer.

"Why am I here?" he asked. "What's happening?"

"Fate," stated the spectre. "That is what is happening now. You, my friend, are caught in the rapids that are history, to be carried away from all that you once held important. From all that you loved. Like I was."

He opened his mouth to speak, to tell the spectre that he didn't believe in fate, but the spectre raised a black hand to beg to stop him.

"Wait," it said. "For the moment, listen. More lives depend on you than you could possibly imagine."

It took another step forward, coming towards him and whispering this as it did so:

"Plump was his belly, greater though his heart,

His soul was that of priceless jade,

A tiger, blessed with wings in the fray,

From isle, where cloud touching castle lay.

He sought no greatness, had no ambition,

But throughout his life, damned to Perdition.

No fault of his own, a victim of crime,

Now hunted, now hated, by the Heavens divine.

Three dragons shall meet you in this life,

With them come only war, flame, and strife.

But listen now, for this truth I can tell,

To linger on the past is to make our own Hell.

The first of these dragons is cold flame and steel,

But not all that he seems, for once he did feel.

Once hailed unto the divine gentry,

Now trapped by his hate, he awaits you, on the isle of mist and plenty.

The second one a general, from the mountains, far away,

You he will call "brother". But he, you must betray,

To stop the Great River, in its flow, turning red,

As he strives to rekindle an age now long dead.

In the dim mists of the future, the third shall arise.

Sharp is his mind and bright are his eyes.

Keen is his tongue, his voice like thunder.

Together shall ye two craft a great wonder.

But time all things devours,

Birds, beasts, trees, and flowers.

So shall it your wonder consume,

And time will march on, approaching your doom.

Heed me well, for in the seeds of betrayal

Lay that which will cause your kingdom to fail.

The truth, cast aside, will open the door

To your utter destruction in the ruin of war."

The spectre was now but inches away from him. It had stopped advancing. He didn't know why, but being this close to it made him shiver.

"That," it said, "is you destiny."

The beat of the drums had now become loud enough to almost drown out all other sounds. With them now came the SLAM! of hundreds of booted feet, all hitting the pavement outside as one.

The spectre wheeled around, its body language alarmed.

"No…not yet! I haven't finished with him yet! He doesn't know!"

"Know what?!" he found himself yelling suddenly. "What am I supposed to know?!"

"No time," growled the spectre bitterly. "Never enough time."

It turned around quickly and grabbed him by the shoulders, its voice desperate.

"When you finally meet him, you must tell him this!" it yelled. "Tell him it's over! Tell him it was not evil that drove them to treachery; it was fear that drove them to it! Tell him that they are forgiven! Tell him enough blood has been spilled already!"

"WHO?" he practically roared as he grabbed hold of the spectre's arms. "Tell me! Who am I supposed to tell this to?"

"You'll know when the time comes."

"Then whose treachery are you talking about? Don't give me any cryptic crap I can't work with!"

It was silent, as it stared at him for a moment, like the question he had asked was monumentally stupid.

"The treachery of your kind. Of course."

dddddbbbbb

Broadway emitted a long, pained groan as his eyes opened into tiny slits. His breathing was harsh and more forced, his chest barely rising at all.

Goliath bent down further from where he knelt beside him, and squeezed his son-in-law's hand tightly.

"It's all right," he whispered. "You're going to be all right. We just have to wait a little longer."

Broadway tried to raise his head a little, but he was still shaking uncontrollably. He opened his mouth, trying to whisper something that Goliath could not hear.

Goliath let go of Broadway's hand and gently eased his head back to the ground.

"Ssssh," he whispered. "You have to conserve your strength. Rest. Try to sleep."

Broadway tried to say something again, but his eyelids started flickering and suddenly he passed out.

Goliath brought his good hand up and felt Broadway's forehead and emitted a silent curse.

Broadway was burning up. He had a fever.

His onyx grey eyes looked over his friend's shaking body, at the crossbow bolt that still protruded from his right shoulder.

He had been about to pull it out when Faith had advised against it. Nosferatu who congregated into groups were usually particularly sadistic, so the bolt probably had hooks on the blade to tear up flesh if it was pulled out, making the wound even worse.

But from how bad Broadway looked, it was probably also poisoned.

Goliath growled with the fury of the powerless as he looked over the street and at the eight storey building that served as a hotel for the richer percentage of tourists that graced St. Petersburg's streets. It had been the closest and most secure looking place to escape from the disaster that had just hit his clan and their allies. Inquisitor Thompson had gone inside a few moments ago and was now trying to secure a room on the top floor for them.

Broadway emitted another prolonged, pained moan and Goliath found himself squeezing his injured friend's hand again, even tighter than before.

Broadway wouldn't die. He couldn't die. Goliath wouldn't let it happen. He'd lost so many already…

"Hurry up Thompson," he growled. "Please hurry up."

They waited another twenty minutes, which, to Goliath, felt like an eternity. A light on the top floor facing their side of the street finally came on, only to be turned off an instant later, and then turned on again. This was repeated twice more and then the last time the light was left on.

The signal. Goliath quickly slipped his arms under Broadway and hefted him up with some effort. His right forearm let out an agonising reminder of the injuries it had received from the stab wound in the fight earlier. He let out a pained growl and nearly toppled back as he tried to heft Broadway into his arms. He paused for a minute, shaking his head a little; trying to fight off the feelings of exhaustion that had swept over him since the adrenaline rush he'd gotten from their disastrous fight finally faded. He'd have to rest soon, and get his arm tended too before he passed out.

But his clan came first before his own injuries.

He hefted Broadway up into his arms, ignoring the agony in his arm through sheer force of will and leapt off the building, quickly gliding over to the window and landing awkwardly on the balcony as inquisitor Thompson opened the glass sliding door.

She was pale too, and shaking, and her breathing was harsh, her stride was underlined by obvious pains from her injured chest and she looked like she needed medical attention as well.

"Bring him in quickly," she said. "I'm sorry I took so long."

Goliath nodded and quickly carried Broadway in as the female inquisitor shut the door behind them.

"They had plenty of English speakers on the staff," she explained, leading Goliath over to a door. "But I had to practically buy out the entire damned floor and most of the ones below to make sure no-one hears you two when you wake up from your stone sleep tomorrow."

"Thank you inquisitor. It must have cost a great sum of money."

"I work for the Catholic Church Goliath. The cost for all those rooms is just a drop in the ocean to us. We're just lucky this place isn't that popular a place for the tourist industry this time of year."

The door opened to reveal a vast bedroom with a double bed with red and gold braided sheets and pillows. Faith quickly pulled the covers back and Goliath gently set Broadway down on the bed.

Inquisitor Thompson quickly bent over beside Goliath and looked Broadway's right shoulder over, running her finger up and down the black shaft of the crossbow bolt experimentally.

"I'd say it's about a quarter of the way in," she observed after an eternity.

"What can we do?"

"Umm…let's see…" the female inquisitor started. "Uh…I want you to get him out of that bodyglove first, but try not to disturb the bolt. Tear it off of him if you have to. We can worry about finding him some clothes later. Then do whatever you can to keep him warm. I need to go out and get a few things."

She started off towards the door.

"How long do you think you'll be?"

"I don't know!" Thompson yelled, wheeling around to face him, suddenly furious. "I don't know okay? I promise I'll be as fast as I can! Now just keep him warm and stay out of trouble till I get back!"

She turned and ran out of the room before Goliath could say anything, slamming the door to the hall outside violently.

Goliath stared after her for a moment, feeling sorry for her.

She'd lost as much to that attack as he had.

He growled another curse, and started to undress Broadway.

dddddbbbbb

They had been loaded into two vans, which had then followed an intimidating black limousine as it glided down various streets and back alleys, heading west to the docks in the port.

Lexington had kept pace with them, staying in the shadows as best he could, until they had finally turned into an industrial estate a few minutes from the docks, and then into a large concrete warehouse with a tall wire fence topped with razor wire surrounding the premises. It was tall, bleak and a dark shade faded brown. This building was the only one other than the guardhouse at the gateway on the flat concrete surface, which took up a vast space of ground.

As Lexington looked at it from the roof of a warehouse roughly fifty meters away from the grounds, he couldn't help but shiver a little. There seemed to be a strange atmosphere of decay surrounding both the place and all of its black-wearing occupants.

He saw them get out of their rides and bundle in the unconscious Demona, Fang and Malibu in through a small side door before the two vans and the limo came around to the front and went in through the now open steel sliding double doors, which promptly closed as soon as the vehicles were in.

Lexington gritted his teeth in fury as the last shaft of light coming from the inside of the warehouse vanished with the slamming of the doors.

Broadway was dying. It was obvious that the crossbow bolt that had hit him in the shoulder had been poisoned. Jezebel might have been able to help him but she was dead along with Bronx. Just thinking of the beast dying in the flames made Lexington want to scream.

But he'd have to keep his tears in check for the moment. Broadway was dying from poison and he might not last the night, and the only person who could possibly help him now was Demona. With all her years of existence she was just bound to recognise what was used and know the cure. It was simple logic as far as the small olive green gargoyle was concerned.

He tightened his grip on the BXP submachine gun that he had taken from the redheaded woman who was part of the attack on them barely an hour ago. Its weight in his hands and the weight of the Ruger Redhawk magnum in the belt of his armoured bodyglove were very reassuring. He'd dumped the woman's serrated shortsword after he'd smelled the blade and nearly hurled from the stench of disease coming from it.

Not that he was very keen on blades anyway. Like most of the clan before the massacre, he had never been into fencing that much, not because of arrogance or a lack of skill though, which was what he perceived their reasons to be.

It was because of his physical weakness and size. He hated his weakness above anything else now. As the last few years had past he had found himself becoming more and more aware of it.

He had seen Goliath seeming to get bigger and stronger as the weeks since they had first awoken in this time passed them by. He had originally teased Broadway as Brooklyn had, about how his belly seemed to be growing on a nightly basis. But then Angela had shown up, and suddenly Broadway's stomach began to slowly shrink, as the fat travelled up from the waist to the shoulders and arms, becoming muscle in the process.

Hudson was older, less fit, and yet he was still a great deal stronger than Lexington was and probably would ever be. Brooklyn had been a little taller and a little better built, but most of the changes he had gone through in the past few years were more psychological, as he slowly started to isolate himself from everybody else, giving himself little else to do other than dwell on wrongs done to him in the past.

He, Lexington Wyvern, hadn't changed at all. He was still the same height he was when they had first re-awoken (his growth spurt had abruptly ended, as with most web-wings, at the gargoyle age of thirteen). Physically he wasn't any stronger, just a tiny, tiny bit faster.

His training back before the massacre had been the same as all web-wings, focusing on their strengths. Scouting, infiltration, and sniping.

He had proved to be below average at the first two, but to his own surprise, he was actually a decent shot with a short bow. He had even had a lot of fun toying with some of Xanatos' collection of bows and crossbows, but when Broadway accidentally shot Elisa, any chance of the clan ever being allowed to be equipped with ballistics went right out the window.

He briefly recalled the gargoyle who had trained him and a handful of the other web-wings in the more subtle arts of war, and who was also one of the most dangerous gargoyles he had ever met - an ancient web-wing, whose nickname had been "the Ghost".

He had been old even before Hudson had assumed command. Thin, wrinkled, bald, elf-eared, with eyes of steel grey and skin of midnight blue, he could vanish into shadows without the slightest trouble. He had been an outsider from the clan who'd just turned up soon after Hudson had assumed leadership and offered his services as a drill sergeant for scouts and infiltrators in exchange for all the ale he could drink.

He'd finally expired two years before the massacre, at about eighty in gargoyle years. Hudson had once casually remarked once that he must have killed at least fifty people with his knife, short bow and poisons.

They had lamented his loss when Hakon had laid siege to the castle. The Ghost, even at his late age, could have snuck into their camp and killed Hakon and all his lieutenants with his silent weapons as they slept.

Not that some of his former students didn't try. They had forsaken Goliath's orders and threats and headed off while the Vikings were still a few days march away from the castle, hoping to take out Hakon so that his followers might lose their nerve. Lexington had desperately wanted to go with them, but they said he was still too young and undisciplined.

He never saw any of them again. After that there were only a handful of web-winged gargoyles, all as young as he was or younger.

Lexington desperately wished the Ghost were here now. The old bastard could have saved the lot of them without any real problem. He let out a mournful sigh.

But the Ghost wasn't here. Instead there was only him. The one the Ghost seemed to be constantly furious with for lacking such talents as he possessed. The one he always pushed the hardest, and who he was constantly disappointed with. But it might be enough.

He scrambled down the wall of the warehouse, keeping himself within the shadows as best he could.

He had found where they had been taken, so now all he had to do was backtrack and try and find Goliath and inquisitor Thompson. That would be the easy part. The tricky stuff would start whenever they would have to figure out a way to rescue Demona and the others.

He landed on the ground, deciding to sneak back up along the road a little before scaling another building and gliding off, just in case those inside were watching the air for any gargoyles that may have followed them back.

Lexington ran back down the in the direction that the little convoy had come, staying right beside the wall of the building he had been watching on top of, keeping in its shadows and being careful not to let any of the lights from the streetlamps touch him.

He was coming to a corner in the building when he thought he heard something.

He stopped dead in his tracks and looked around quickly, pressing the BXP's foldable stock to his shoulder, the barrel following the careful gaze of his sharp, steel grey eyes, as he scanned his darkened surroundings.

He heard it again. A faint, barely audible scratching, coming from very nearby.

But where?

He advanced in a crouch to make himself as small a target as possible, being as quiet as he could manage, treading forward, putting his feet as gently against the ground as possible to avoid his claws clicking against the concrete, whilst wishing that he still had the leather padded talon covers that the Ghost had made for each of his students.

The scraping came again, closer, but just as brief. It was coming from around the bend of the wall. He could hear their breathing.

Lexington eased his thumb up along the handle of the BXP until he found the switch to the safety. He silently flicked it off. He had read about this type of gun on the net. Contrary what his brothers' believed, he did not spend all of his surfing time in chatrooms and porno-websites. Human porn had been diverting for a couple of weeks, but after that time it started to get repetitive and boring so he just ignored it all and turned his attention to sites about technology and weapons. The BXP was South African in origin. It was quite light, accurate, and had a horrifyingly fast rate of fire. There were twenty-three rounds left in the thirty-two round clip he had. He had never been given a chance to loot the bitch that had carried it for extra ammo so that and the five rounds still in the Redhawk magnum were all he had.

He had to fight the temptation to just stick the BXP around the corner and empty the gun at whatever was sneaking towards him, but without any reloads there was always the chance he would miss and then he'd have to try and use the powerful Redhawk to try and fight whatever it was. The gunfire would also undoubtedly be heard by the people holding Demona and the others, who'd probably come running and shoot anything that moved.

No…he'd have to go around.

-Who knows? It might just be a really big rat. You never can tell after all.-

He eased himself up against the wall, keeping his breathing slow and quiet.

-Okay…in three…-

The scratching came again, and a low, animal growl.

-…two…-

Someone whispered something around the corner. Quick and low and in a language he knew wasn't Russian.

-One! Go!-

He leapt around the corner, the BXP pressed to his shoulder, ready to fire. In the same instant there was a blinding flash of amber flame and a familiar howl. He cursed violently as the flame blinded him for an instant. He tried to fire but something hit the gun out of his hands with a metallic clang! An instant later something came at him from behind, and suddenly a thin arm wrapped itself around his waist, pressing his arms to his side and scooping him up as another hand clamped itself around his mouth before he could scream. He started kicking wildly at the figure that had picked him up and tried to lash at them with his tail. His eyes still hurt a little so he had to keep them closed.

"Relax," whispered the figure softly, over his struggling, its voice kind and familiar. "I'm not going to hurt you Lexington."

Lexington's eyes opened, and he looked up at the old, wrinkled, upside down face looking down on him, and his own face lit up.

"Great minds really do seem to think alike," smiled Jezebel Tibbs.

dddddbbbbb

"I want her," said Zaitsev slowly, pointing to the unconscious Demona, who lay in the arms of two of his lackeys. "Taken to a cell on her own."

He, Furcifer, Xander, and the rest of Zatisev's group of Nosferatu were in the main hall of the warehouse. It was great in size, yet there were barely more than a half dozen crates scattered along the cream white tiled floors, which reflected the strong lights from above, they were so clean.

"And what of the other two?" asked Xander.

Zaitsev regarded him with his storm cloud grey eyes. His bleached blonde second was holding the prize he had captured around the waist, guarding it jealously from the others. It was a kind of gargoyle that Zaitsev had never laid eyes upon before. It had matte brown fur with a cougar's head, and huge bat-like wings protruding limply from its back. Its fur covering its strong chest and fairly trim stomach were blackened from what smelled like a daemonic attack. Its breathing was weak and laboured.

"Kill him," commanded Furcifer. "Destroy both him and this other one at once." He indicated the other gargoyle, beaked with horns that swept backwards, with long cotton white hair and with skin of pale green. He was lying on his back, unconscious upon a table but a few feet from the assembly.

Zaitsev had downed him personally.

When none of the vampires made any move to do his bidding, Furcifer growled something exceptionally profane under his breath before turning the full gaze of his dark, dark green eyes upon their leader.

"Gregor. Destroy them. Now."

"Why?"

This response actually stunned Furcifer into silence for a moment. He recovered quickly enough, though, his face becoming dark and menacing in an instant.

"What?"

"Why should I kill them?" asked Zaitsev, almost lazily. "You may do as you wish with the female; after all, you did take her." His expression suddenly turned venomous for the briefest of moments. "But the two males are mine. And need I remind you my friend, that you are a guest in my home? One does not enter another man's house to order them about." He made a gesture about them. Nearly half of his followers had drawn weapons and were looking at Furcifer menacingly. "Especially when he has so many loyal servants."

Furcifer's glare could have razed cities to the ground. "You are my subordinate!"

"Only in rank." Replied Zaitsev, already growing bored of the argument. He turned about and started walking towards the gargoyle lying on the table. "And even then my friend, your actual authority over me is, at best, questionable."

He took his leather gloves off and placed them in the pockets of his floor length brown greatcoat. He watched the gargoyle's chest and stomach rise and fall slowly for a moment as he slept, before he pulled his shirt and t-shirt up to his throat, and examined own his prize's bare torso.

His chest wasn't nearly as strong as the other's, while his belly, though not pudgy, definitely had a lot more fat in it. Zaitsev patted the gargoyle's bare stomach, clearly disappointed. He preferred his prey to be heavier around the waist, but then again that's what force-feeding was for.

But what really peeked Zaitsev's interest were the scars. Three of them, all deep and terrible ran up in a row along the young gargoyle's belly. A fellow gargoyle's claws must have done them all; only two had then seen something like a hot coal pressed against them, as there were very horrific burn scars over them, with a few fresh gashes over these. His left foot was also covered in very brutal burn scars. There was also a scar from a stab wound to his shoulder, and three more claw-like scars were on his right cheek.

Zaitsev looked the youth over carefully, before his eyes focused on his stmach again, as it slowly rose and fell. His hands were shaking ever so slightly as he laid them on the young, young gargoyle's bared flesh. His breathing became a little ragged, and his hands shook even more fiercely as they lay on his prey's badly scared belly, and rose up and down as he breathed.

"Gregor," said Furcifer, his tone giving warning to his building fury. "Not now. Satisfy your lust later. For the moment, we have other work to do. We must find Brooklyn and the others."

"This one," Zaitsev whispered, ignoring Furcifer completely. "This one. He is much, much younger than he appears." He ran his left hand up to the gargoyle's throat and then down again to his belly, earning an uncomfortable, almost fearful shiver from his prisoner that only seemed to increase Zaitsev's excitement even further. He started running both his cold hands up and down the youth's bare chest and stomach. The gargoyle stirred a little where he lay on the table and groaned as if he were having a nightmare.

"So young," he whispered hoarsely, as he continued, getting a thrill from every shiver, and every fearful groan that emitted from the adolescent's trembling beaked lips. "…so…so…healthy…and…yet…so…so…"

"GREGOR!"

Zaitsev whirled around, his fangs bared in his elastic mouth and his eyes murderous for the interruption. "WHAT?!"

Furcifer was but a few yards from him, his lithe, black clad form shaking in barely contained rage as he glared back at the vampire, the whites of his eyes now black.

"If you want to rape him," growled Furcifer. "Do. It. Later! We have business to attend to!"

Zaitsev did not respond immediately. Instead he met his supposed master's gaze head on, and the whole area became deathly quiet, as the ancient vampire's followers cast frightened glances from one to the other.

No one had ever dared speak to their master in such a tone before.

The two, Furcifer and Zaitsev, remained quiet for some time, as they continued to stare dangerously into each other's eyes. Eventually Zaitsev seemed to calm himself down a bit, as he straightened his posture and unclenched his hands.

"Very well Furcifer," he said slowly. "I shall place business before pleasure. For the moment at least."

He turned and glared at one of his followers, a fat man with brown hair and carrying a naginta polearm. "Edmund!"

"Yes my Lord!"

"Take the two males down stairs," commanded Zaitsev. "Place them in a cell together."

"Sir," interjected Xander, his voice showing the slightest hint of fear. "This one here is badly injured." He held the cougar headed one up a bit to show the injuries to his furry chest and stomach.

"Will he last till sunrise?" asked Zaitsev impatiently.

"I'm not entirely sure sir."

"In that case," growled Zaitsev. "Take him to the infirmary and bandage his wounds, and then toss him in the cell with his friend here."

"Shall we strip these two sir?" asked Edmund, meaning both males, a dirty grin forming across his fat, clean-shaven face.

"Yes." Replied Zaitsev. "Burn their clothes while you're at it. They'll never need them again. And make sure you put them in the cell with the environmental controls. Might as well make their last days on earth as embarrassing and uncomfortable as possible."

Edmund nodded and selected two others to help him haul the two males over to the service lift.

"Now," commanded Zaitsev imperiously. "I will give the rest of you lot, six hours to find this Brooklyn fella. If by then we have not found him, then none of you shall participate in the little session for those two, which I shall start tomorrow at sunset. Do you all understand?"

His followers nodded and started running back into the two black armoured vans, while three others carried Demona, Fang and Malibu to the storage lift that led down into Zaitsev's underground home.

As the vans sped off to the other end of the warehouse where the automatic sliding doors were, Furcifer walked up to beside Zaitsev.

"Can they really find those three in such a short time?" asked Furcifer.

"I hope not," replied Zaitsev darkly. "I prefer to do my torture on my own."

He looked over at Furcifer, a knowing smile crossing his lips.

"And so I shall find him right now. In my own, unique way." He turned about and started heading to the doors of the service lift. "Come with me. The sooner we find this bastard, the sooner I can have some fun."

dddddbbbbb

One by one, the minutes crawled by.

The tick, tick, tick of the second hand on the ornate rosewood clock that sat on the mantle of the grey, granite tiled fireplace in the main room of the apartment had by now taken on an ominous, foreboding tone.

Coupled with Broadway's slow, laboured breathing, Goliath found the entire atmosphere maddening.

He had done everything that his limited knowledge of first aid allowed him to. All he could do now was hold his son-in-law's hand tightly in his own, and whisper encouragingly into his ear.

But Broadway was warm at least.

The flue in the fireplace was actually opened, maybe to bring extra air into the room. There was some firewood by the fireguard, so he had decided to move Broadway from the bed to lying beside the fire he had now lit.

Broadway now lay on the floor, a few feet away from the now crackling flames, which were to his left. Goliath had stripped him completely to make him more comfortable and had made a makeshift bed for him out of several fake fur carpets and the pillows from the bed. There were three bedrooms to this apartment, and he had taken every blanket he could from them and covered his unconscious clansman up to his chest in them.

Despite that, whenever he touched his friend's stomach or chest under the blankets, he was still shaking and ice cold, while at the same time his forehead was burning up. But that actually wasn't the most worrying thing about Broadway's condition.

It was Broadway's shoulder that terrified Goliath.

To take him out of the bodyglove and get a better look at the wound, Goliath literally had to tear it off of Broadway. When he finally exposed his friend's torso, and looked at what the crossbow bolt was doing to him, he was horrified.

The flesh around the wound in the right shoulder had turned from aquamarine to a dark, glistening shade of violet, and it seemed to be slowly spreading over the rest of Broadway's shoulder from the lodged bolt as Goliath watched. It had now spread to almost an inch radius, and had begun to take on a strong, familiar smell of spices that Goliath had quickly learned to dread.

The poison was some sort of daemonic concoction. He had had a terribly sick feeling in his stomach that this was something that stone hibernation might not be able to heal.

Broadway groaned and his head stirred about a little on the pillows. Goliath focused back on his friend and gave his limp right hand a little squeeze with his left, which the aquamarine gargoyle didn't (or couldn't) return.

Goliath gritted his teeth for a moment from a sudden surge of pain from his wound. The pain was unbelievable. He'd torn some cloth up and wrapped it around his forearm to try and stem the blood loss. Another surge suddenly ran agonisingly up his arm. He gritted his teeth and then pushed it out of his mind, instead leaning over a little from where he sat on the cream coloured carpet beside Broadway.

"It's alright," he whispered softly. He blinked before he continued and shook his head a bit. His arm was still bleeding a little despite the cloth bandage and he couldn't stop himself from feeling so tired. It needed to be seen to, but not until he knew Broadway was going to be safe.

He suddenly imagined returning to the Eyrie, at some indefinite point in the near future. He tired to imagine telling his daughter that her young husband was dead. He tried to imagine Hudson's reaction when he learned that his son had died, gone to join the rest of the gargoyles of Wyvern. Another face to plague him in his dreams. Another face to accuse him of failing them.

And there wasn't a single thing that he could do to stop it.

"You…you can't die Broadway. Please don't die. I…I don't want any more ghosts."

Goliath continued to whisper to Broadway, booth to soothe and to plead, for some length of time afterwards that he couldn't measure. After a while the only sounds that could be heard were the flicker and crackles of the flames in the darkened room, and the sound of the clan leader's own hushed voice and the weak breathing of his friend as he tried to give comfort, though whether at that stage it was for Broadway or for himself, it was hard to tell.

But as long as he talked, he was able to keep hope, or at least, the illusion of hope, present in this dire situation.

Eventually though inquisitor Thompson finally returned, looking strangely invigorated and carrying a rather full black backpack, and finally Goliath felt some desperately needed feeling of relief from his fears.

"Sorry I took so long," said Faith, quickly closing and locking the door to the hall outside and switching the lights on before rushing over to where Goliath sat beside Broadway on the floor. She noticed the fire immediately and commented on how it was a good idea. Goliath said nothing, being too anxious to get to work on his friend.

Faith sat down beside him and quickly started to empty her backpack of all its contents. Several scalpels, vials of morphine and several other drugs that Goliath didn't recognise, due to the Russian writing. Syringes, including an especially large one in a plastic case that Faith explained was an adrenaline shot, just in case. There were also several other chrome pieces of equipment that Goliath had seen before but did not know the actual names of. There was also a white plastic bag with several tinted plastic bottles of various coloured pills in them. Goliath noticed that one of these had already been opened, as it was clearly missing at least half a dozen tablets.

"Where did you get all these?" he asked, as inquisitor Thompson started setting the scalpels and various other pieces of equipment out in a row on the floor.

"A hospital." Was the answer the female inquisitor gave, in a very on-edge tone. "I found a very co-operative orderly that spoke English."

It was all Goliath was willing to hear. He saw the Glock 17 in the shoulder holster under her black leather jacket and decided that he didn't want her to give any extra details. Right now Broadway's life was a lot more important than a pointless moral argument.

Faith examined the bolt and cursed viciously when she saw the effect it was having on Broadway's shoulder.

"Get some hot water and towels or sheets or something," she growled. "We have to get this out now. I just hope this isn't as bad as it looks."

She first injected some sedative into Broadway's right arm, and waited a few minutes for the young gargoyle's breathing to become a little less strained and his shivering to decrease a little, before she started making small incisions around the flesh where the bolt had struck, loosening it a little. It didn't seem to have shattered the bone, so it was relatively easy to pull out with just a little twisting after about half a dozen incisions. The point did indeed have hooks as she suspected. If she had just pulled it out immediately, she would have opened the wound up even further when the hooks would have caught on to flesh and pulled it up with them.

She held the steel tip of the crossbow bolt up to the light to examine it. Her heart sank as she did so.

There were runes carved into the steel that stung the eyes to look at, and the runes seemed to be sweating a gelatinous, dark violet liquid. She looked back down at Broadway as he slept uncomfortably. Her throat suddenly felt very, very dry.

"Goliath I…I'm so sorry," she whispered hoarsely. "This is daemonic…I…I don't know how to deal with this sort of thing. I'm sorry. Perhaps if Jezebel or Demona were here..."

Goliath said nothing; instead he only stared down at Broadway as he slept.

"Then…then we find Demona. We find where those creatures took her and we get her back and then she'll heal him."

He sounded desperate as he spoke. The whole situation seemed to be getting too much to handle. Faith could sympathise with that. She'd been feeling that since they had to flee. She'd been silently praying since then that both Peter and Malibu were all right. She had become very fond of Mal. And as for Peter…

-Please God let them be alright…-

"Yes Goliath," she said eventually. "We'll look for Demona. And when we find her, she'll fix this whole mess up." They both watched Broadway as he slept for a moment. He looked terrible, but he was strong. He could last the night if they made sure he was kept warm.

"Before we do anything though," she said. "I think you had better let me have a look at your arm. Then we should take a rest and then try and figure out just how those scum knew where we were."

"How come you are looking better so quickly?" Goliath suddenly asked. "What were those pills that you took from that container?"

"Painkillers," replied Faith.

"Just how many did you take inquisitor? Almost half the bottle was empty."

"I took enough," stated Faith briskly. "Take that cloth off and pull your sleeve up. Let me see your arm."

"Then you're still injured?"

"Yes but it doesn't matter. We have to find the others and help them." Her emerald green eyes glared at him for a moment. "And the sooner you let me see your arm, the sooner we can get about finding them."

"I think then that we should not do anything tonight," said Goliath.

Faith stared at him for a moment. "What?"

"Think about it inquisitor," said Goliath slowly. "Even if we knew where Demona and the others had been taken, what do we do? The pair of us are injured, and there are at least a dozen of these Nosferatu. We will not help them if we struck at them, only to be killed or captured, leaving my clansman here to die a slow death." He shook his head. "No. We must take time to recuperate. Otherwise, anything we try will be folly."

Faith glared at him, hating him immeasurably for that moment, though whether it was because he was holding her back from helping Peter and Mal, or because he was right and she wasn't, she couldn't tell.

She sighed in resignation. "Very well Goliath. We'll wait a while."

Goliath smiled and laid an encouraging hand on her shoulder. "Good. And don't worry. I believe we will know soon enough where the others are being kept."

Faith looked up into his face, now suddenly confident again. "How so?"

"Lexington," was Goliath's reply. "I think I was being very hasty when I thought he had deserted us. He would never do such a thing. I believe he may have hidden away, so that he could follow the Nosferatu back to where ever their lair is. I don't doubt that when he finds out where our friends have been taken, he'll come and find us."

"If you'll forgive me Goliath," said Faith. "But I think you're being foolish to put all our hope on him. Assuming he is doing as you say, how's he supposed to find us?"

"I don't know," admitted Goliath. "But I don't doubt he'll find a way. He's always proved himself to be an exceptionally resourceful warrior."

dddddbbbbb

"Stupid piece of fucking crap!"

"What's the matter now?" groaned Jezebel.

Lexington turned around to face her, holding up a small black tracking device of sleek design with a small pale green screen and a half dozen silver-coloured buttons on it.

"This," he stated, raising it and shaking it a little in his right hand for effect. "This has got to be the worst piece of friggin equipment I ever had to work with!"

"What's the matter with it?"

"It must have gotten a bit of a battering when we were in that fight," said Lexington absentmindedly. He had already laid it and his BXP down on top of a small wall and was pulling a small pouch of electronic tools off of his belt. "Look it doesn't really matter that much. It'll only take me a couple of minutes to fix it."

Jezebel sat down beside him on the wall of the three-storey building's roof that they had decided to rest on for a moment, setting her runestaff across her lap while Bronx curled up on the floor between them and waited patiently for the next jump.

Up to this point they had been travelling by Jezebel's teleportation spells, slowly figuring out just where Goliath, Faith and Broadway had fled to by using the tracking device Lexington had hanging off of his belt. He had explained to the human witch that when their bodygloves were being made he had a small tracking beacon sewn into the material of each, just to make sure he could find the others should they ever get separated during a fight.

They stayed silent for several minutes; the only sounds heard were those rising up from the streets below them and the occasional noise made by the tracker as Lexington fiddled around with the wiring and circuitry under its black steel casing with his miniature tool set.

"So," he said after a while. "What happened in the transport? Why'd it blow up?"

The thin old woman that had once been Macbeth's servant, looked out at the lights of the city. "I was…attacked."

Lexington stopped working on the tracker. There was something in Jezebel's voice that just didn't sound quite right. She sounded…upset. Really, really upset.

He cast a glance over to her. Her coat had been lost, most likely to the flames; her frilled white blouse was stained brown and black here and there from burns and was torn lightly in places as well. Her black dress seemed to have been torn slightly too. Her face was quite pale and dirty in the harsh yellow city lights from below them. The hand which was holding that metal staff with the daemonic runes was clenched so tightly it was about as pale as her face, while her other hand was shaking a little. Her short, neat white hair was singed a little. She looked very tired and a little nervous; her old eyes didn't seem capable of focusing on anything for more than a few minutes.

"Jezebel…are you okay?"

"Yes. Yes I'm fine," replied the witch. "I'm just very worried about Malibu and Fang." She sighed, looking down at the ground as she did so. "I swore to Macbeth that I would protect them. And Brooklyn too. And look at what's happened now." She looked back up at the cityscape, looking exhausted. "I've failed, yet again."

Lexington said nothing for a while, taking in everything that the woman he was starting to respect greatly had just said. There were truth in those words, he had no doubt about that, it partially explained why she was looking so upset. But something in his gut told him it wasn't the whole reason.

"What happened in the transport?" he asked suddenly.

"What do you mean?" replied Jezebel, very quickly he noted.

"I mean what happened," he said almost casually. "I mean something must have happened in there. It did blow up after all."

"Oh yes, of course. It was me that did that."

"Any particular reason? I mean did those things attack you too?"

Jezebel seemed to zone out for a moment as he watched her. An unfamiliar expression crossed her face for the briefest instant, one he thought a woman such as her was incapable of feeling.

It was a look of sheer terror.

"Yes. Yes something did attack me. But it wasn't a vampire. It was…something else. Something a great deal worse..." She looked down at the staff in her hand, her thumb constantly running over the deep etched runes. Lexington thought that he saw a few scars on the tip of her thumb. The runes on the staff were difficult to look at for longer than a few seconds, as any longer would result in an odd stinging sensation within and behind the eyes, and the watering of the eyes as well. But as his steel grey eyes looked at the two-meter long, chrome staff, he thought he could make out dark stains within many of the etched runes. They looked a little like specks of dried blood.

He looked back up at Jezebel carefully. She had trailed off and didn't even seem aware of it. He decided to probe a little more.

"So then," he started "I'm guessing that you knew you couldn't fight this thing and win, right?"

"Yes. That's right."

"So then you blew up the transport because you were hoping that might be enough to stop it?"

"Yes, basically. I was hoping that flame might be enough to at least weaken it or drive it off."

"Sounds sensible," concluded Lexington, turning his attention back to his work. "So then you set the place ablaze with some spell and then used another to get you and Bronx out."

Jezebel remained silent, so Lexington took that as an affirmative. He picked an electronic screwdriver up and started probing the interior circuitry with it.

"Did it work?"

"Hmm…what?"

"Did it work?" repeated Lexington absentmindedly. "I mean we were pretty close when the whole thing went up. Freaked us all out. Mal especially. I actually thought he was gonna have a heart attack or something."

"I'm sorry about that," said Jezebel. "I didn't mean to scare any of you, but I didn't really have any choice. It was either that or die."

"That's okay. We'll get Mal and Demona and Fang back as soon as we find the others and you have a look at Broadway."

"Oh yes," replied Jezebel, no longer looking at the small olive-green gargoyle beside her, but instead at the runes on her staff, as she rubbed her thumb up and down several. "He's injured. We can't have him dying on us."

"More than injured," growled Lexington suddenly. "I think the bolt that hit him on the shoulder was poisoned. He started shaking really badly after it hit him and he passed out. He was ice cold to touch too, and I think he might have a fever to boot."

"That sounds terrible," said Jezebel, the hollowness in her voice not picked up by the otherwise sharp Lexington, as he was too focused on repairing his tracker again.

"There!" he declared triumphantly. "Fixed!"

He quickly put the tracker back together. He then stuffed his tools back into the pouch on his equipment belt and picked his BXP up. He looked at the blipping screen for a moment, before pointing east. "They aren't moving. And they're about half a kilometre or so in that direction. Jump us to there would you Jezebel?" He indicated the top of an eight storey building eastwards, about a hundred meters or so away with his sub-machine gun. "I should be able to get a clearer idea where they are then. Might only be a few more jumps after this one."

The last bit was said with a little hope in his voice. He found the old witch's preferred mode of travel a little flashy and disorientating.

Jezebel nodded, rose and walked a few paces away from the wall. Lexington walked up beside her, followed by Bronx, who stood by his young master, apparently looking forward to the next jump as much as he was.

Jezebel held her staff in her hands tightly and began to whisper something in Latin; a language Lexington thought was a little too archaic to be learned.

"So," he found himself saying suddenly. "Did it work?"

Jezebel stopped her chanting and looked down at him. "Did what work?" she asked, puzzled.

"The fire attack," explained Lexington casually. "You said you blew the transport up to try and stop that thing that attacked you. I was wondering if it worked. You never said if it did or not so I was a bit curious."

Jezebel stared at him for a moment, her features devoid of any recognisable expression.

"No," she said finally. "I don't think it did work. If you want me to be honest, I don't think I even phased it."

"Do you know what it was? I mean I saw the explosion. What kind of thing can survive that sort of explosion?"

"Something of immense power," replied Jezebel, casting her thoughts back to her spell. "And of incredible evil."

A column of fire, the colour of vibrant amber, erupted out of the ground, surrounding the trio and enveloping them in an instant, before flashing out of existence as fast as it had appeared, taking the three companions with it.

dddddbbbbb

They had turned on the television set, and its light now became the dominant source of illumination in the room besides the fire.

Goliath had darkened the lights again as he feared it might make Broadway uncomfortable. He still sat attentively on the fine carpet beside his sleeping son-in-law. Broadway's breathing was still weak and forced, though not as bad as before. Bandages crisscrossed his chest and right shoulder. All the heavy blankets had been pulled right up to his throat now to keep him warm, while Goliath still tended the fire, using one of the wooden chairs in the room as fuel, rather than call room service and raise suspicions. The right sleeve of his black, armoured bodyglove had been pulled up, the stab wound on his forearm cleaned and bandaged, and he had taken a few painkillers to ease the pain until sunrise, which was still several hours away. The crossbow bolt from Broadway's shoulder lay on the mantelpiece, a pool of its disgusting violet poison growing around the bolt head as the minutes passed.

Inquisitor Thompson was watching the television. She had dealt with her own injuries in the bathroom rather than let him help her with them. Her breathing was fine now, and she'd only taken one more of the painkillers she'd brought back earlier.

She had been skimming along the channels, looking for any that spoke English, to at least allow her to kill a few hours before she went to sleep.

She eventually found one American station, a news station. The female reporter at the minute was doing a report on some bizarre events occurring in the Orient. Faith had come in perhaps a couple of minutes after she had started.

"…This is the fifth such occasion," she stated. "That something this unusual has occurred in the city of Cheng Du, within the south western region of China. Though of course, compared to the other events that have happened in the recent months, such as the first occasion when a rainbow appeared in the main square of the city during a snowstorm, this is most certainly the most violent to date.

"The white coloured viper that supposedly appeared out of thin air and bit and killed the head of the Communist Party of the city, Xu Zhou Cang, as he was in the ancient Prime Minister's palace on a tour, has yet to be found.

"A powerful cult within the city and surrounding provinces, calling themselves "The Servants of the Sleeping Dragon", openly defied the Communist Party only hours after the representative was killed, by taking over a local radio station for a brief period of time, and declaring that these are signs from the Heavens that a period of great violence and chaos will soon sweep over all of China…"

There was a scratching at the window, snapping Faith and Goliath out of inactivity in an instant. Both were up quickly, Faith holding her Glock ready, while Goliath Broadway's sword in his left hand as his right was pretty much useless to him now.

"Hello?" called a familiar, and nervous voice from the sliding glass doors. They'd pulled the curtains closed and so they couldn't actually make out the figure. But it was unnecessary.

Goliath smiled in delight as he heard the voice. "Lexington!"

The lavender gargoyle swiftly ran over to the balcony door and pulled it open. Sure enough, there was the little web-wing, a BXP submachine gun and a small black device in hand, and a huge smile on his face.

"Hi Goliath," he said almost casually. "Miss me?"

"Where have you been?" asked Faith, lowering her pistol.

Lex looked her over for a moment, still smiling. "I was following those goons that took Demona, Mal and Fang actually."

Goliath and Faith exchanged looks for a moment, Goliath looking like he had won some sort of bet, while Faith looking like she had obviously lost.

"How's Broadway?" Lex asked, the smile on his face replaced with a look of concern.

"He is resting," replied Goliath, looking tired and worn. "We took the bolt out of his shoulder, but it was poisoned. Its spreading under his flesh, though its moving slowly. I thought it might be wise to wait a while to recover our strength before we took any action." A proud smile came to his lips. "I also believed that you might have followed our attackers, and may be searching us out." His smile became greater. "I knew you wouldn't abandon us."

Lexington could feel his chest swell with joy at those words. Goliath was, and always had been, an idol to him. But at that same moment, the words that the daemonhost known as Sin, spoke to him telepathically popped up in his mind, and Lexington suddenly found himself unable to meet his leader's gaze anymore.

Those words it told him…

-No! Never…-

"Well," he said as he started looking at the floor, suddenly feeling very, very small. "You might be pleased to know then that I found more than just those goons' lair when I was out."

"Really?" said Goliath. "What else did you find my friend?"

Lexington headed back to the balcony door and rushed up to the rail and leapt upon it. He waved his hands about for a moment and then jumped down again and headed back into the living room.

Goliath was about to ask what he was doing when a column of amber flame suddenly erupted out of thin air upon the space in the balcony. Goliath took a step back in surprise as Faith cursed and raised her gun again.

But the flames vanished as quickly as they had first appeared, and there before them stood two companions thought lost to them. Bronx, looking ecstatic, his stubby tail wagging, ran up to Goliath and rose up on his hind legs to plant his front paws on the clan leader's chest, giving him his own version of a hug, as the old witch, Jezebel Tibbs, stood back, leaning on her staff, looking tired and dirty, smiling.

Goliath and Faith stared at them both, speechless.

"Them," smiled Lex.

dddddbbbbb

"I will of course," said Zaitsev slowly, "require you to remove that little incantation that you've undoubtedly placed over him."

"Of course," said Furcifer.

The two of them were standing in one of the rooms underneath the warehouse, a part of Zaitsev's little underground complex. This was a room that had not been on the previous tour that the ancient vampire had given Furcifer.

It was where many of Zaitsev's old trinkets were kept. There was a strange smell within. It was a mixture of the musty smell of ancient paper, and the unmistakable aroma of disease.

Centuries of vast wealth and eccentricity had allowed him to amass quite a grand collection of valuables and artefacts of power.

The room itself was circular and perhaps fifteen meters in diameter, while the ceiling was two and a half meters up from the green marble tiles. The walls were of the darkest ebony and gold, while the ceiling was of tiled obsidian.

There were three concentric circles of steel framed shelves and racks in the grandiose storage room. The first row out held two hundred and sixteen texts, books and scrolls of the different disciplines of the black arts, their ages varying from to fifty years to several thousand. The second row, the middle one, was half devoted to housing a great variety of jars of many shapes and sizes, containing potions, pickled organs and even several fully severed limbs, some mummified, some well preserved within their jars, while the other half was taken up by a grand collection of magical talismans, from the necklace of the first of China's Three Divine Rulers, to the leather and iron belt of Genghis Khan.

The last, interior row, contained a full suit of dark green plate armour, a bastard sword with a thorny, rune encrusted, puss sweating blade and large circular shield, each emblazoned with the symbol of Grandfather Nurgle. There was also a banner with the symbol of Zaitsev's patron lord upon it; as well as several chests of dark wood and iron along with a rack for several other, less corrupted swords upon which the ancient vampire placed his unbuckled rapier.

In the very centre of the room was a waist high white marble pillar of Romanesque style, and upon this small pillar sat a rounded object, hidden under a black, embroidered silk cloth.

"Impressive," said Furcifer, taking in all that he saw around him. "You've become a bit of a magpie if I may say so."

"Thank you," replied Zaitsev gracefully. He stepped right up to the central pillar and placed his gloved hand upon the black silk. "This is my most prized treasure," he said, his pit bull voice low and proud. "Next to you and I my friend, this is the oldest thing in the room."

He pulled the cloth away with a tug rich in drama, and Furcifer saw what lay hidden beneath it.

"By The Prince…"

It was an orb about twice as big as a human fist. It rested upon a three-legged stand of purest jade, carved into the semblance of three formidable Chinese dragons. Its silver surface glimmered in the light.

Zaitsev turned a proud eye to where Furcifer stood just a couple of feet behind him. His black clad colleague's eyes were wide in amazement.

"How, the Hell, did you get that?" said Furcifer eventually, his voice trembling with awe and what seemed to be a rising level of anger.

"It's a long, long story," replied the ancient vampire, folding his arms over his black pinstripe suit with its dark green mandarin shirt underneath. "I…could tell you I suppose, but I think I prefer to leave you guessing."

"Brooklyn must not be shown this!" exclaimed Furcifer suddenly, that rising level of anger Zaitsev had noticed now coming to the fore.

Zaitsev raised an eyebrow, discreetly smiling to himself. "Why not? I'd imagine that this fellow would appreciate seeing this piece of history. Why on earth would it be bad for him to see this, to touch it, to know all that has happened since his kind made it?" He turned around slowly, his smile becoming dirty as his storm cloud grey eyes watched Furcifer carefully for any slight reaction. "Unless of course, my old friend, this compromises what other forces are telling him."

Furcifer stared at him, his whole posture like that of an oncoming hurricane but Zaitsev didn't care. He was having fun with this and he'd be damned if he stopped now.

"Tell me, my old friend, does the truth contradict with what he believes?"

Furcifer trembled in rage. He opened his mouth to speak, to threaten, to destroy, if necessary, but Zaitsev raised a hand and beat him to it.

"No need to say. I think I can guess what he's been told. This is, after all, you we are talking about here my old friend. I know how you love your little religious dramas. But don't you worry. I won't say anything. I shall keep my mouth shut and not say a word." He smiled. "But…my silence shall cost you."

Furcifer crossed his arms, looking tense and suspicious. "What, will it cost exactly?"

"The two males," said Zaitsev instantly. "I have a feeling that they're important to this Brooklyn of yours, which is why you're so eager for them to die. I want you to make it clear to him that those two are now my property. That female can be given to him if he wants, since you took her. Females don't really interest me a great deal anyway."

"Agreed," said Furcifer. "Anything else?"

"Yes. I'm not coming with you."

Furcifer stared at him for a moment, stunned. "What?"

"I said I'm not coming with you," repeated Zaitsev, his grin dark and frightening. "After he acquires the gauntlets, you lot can go on without me. Despite all its fault, I like this place, and I do not wish to be uprooted so unceremoniously." He began to slowly circle the pillar, the light from the orb that lay upon it casting a strange, silvery light upon his pale features, while his eyes sparkled ominously. "Besides…I want to spend some time with my new playthings. They shall keep me happy for quite some time I imagine. Gargoyles have always proved to be most resilient. Already, I can envision a great many ways in which they shall entertain me. Who knows? If their pain and despair pleases me sufficiently, then I shall give them my kiss, thus ensuring that they keep me entertained for years instead of days."

The pillar was now between him and Furcifer. For a while both were silent, their eyes drifting to the shimmering orb in the centre of the room, which they stared at for just a little while.

"Do you agree?" asked Zaitsev eventually.

"Yes." Said Furcifer. "Yes. I suppose the terms are quite reasonable. We have a deal."

Furcifer took a step forward, looking at the ancient vampire over the shimmering orb. "Now, old friend. Find Brooklyn. Find him, so that our Lord's work can be done. Find him, so that we shall be out of your way, so that you may torture those two fools downstairs. No more delays Gregor. Find him for me. Find him, now."

Gregor Zaitsev smiled. "As you wish, my Lord."

He raised his hands above the orb, muttering in the ancient tongue of the daemon. The reek of decay became stronger with every word that he spoke. The bastard sword on the weapons rack shuddered, spilling more puss and bile from its dirty, rust tinged blade. The banner, made of the skins of dozens of sacrificial victims, fluttered in a breeze that didn't exist. Within the jars, organs and limbs twitched sporadically, as if receiving small jolts of electricity.

Furcifer closed his eyes for a moment, muttering the counter to the incantation he had placed on Brooklyn, to protect him from any prying eyes who knew the proper spells to spy on others.

He opened his eyes again after a moment, as the shimmering of the orb became a weak glow of silvery light as it began to emit a steady hum.

Under all the background noise, Furcifer could hear whispers. They were low, barely audible at all, and always coming from some point just out of the edge of your vision, always on the extreme corner of your eye. There was the undeniable feeling of being in the presence of some others in the room who were watching, but never becoming involved.

They were daemons, the very least of all daemons. Weaklings who had been summoned eons ago and whose continued stay in this world was through the tether granted to them by the orb.

Contrary to what some may believe, it is exceedingly difficult to summon and contain a weak daemon. When a point in reality is stretched and opened, and a mind reaches forth into the warped, insane reaches of the daemonic realm or, as some chose to call it, the Warp, the presence of their consciousness is like a beacon in the night, declaring their presence to all.

This psychic light attracts many of the strongest and most ruthless of daemons to it, eagerly searching for prey and possibly even a physical vessel, whilst the weakest ones flee, wary of wills stronger than their own, who will be able to force them to reveal their true names, thus turning them into slaves.

And so, one must plunge their own consciousness deeper and deeper into this realm of madness, giving chase to them, as their minds weather the mental assault of daemons of all descriptions, clamouring around their consciousness, making empty promise after empty promise, offering anything and everything in exchange for their souls. Until at last the mind catches up with the weakling, and, grasping them tightly in a mental vice grip, they must return to the break in reality that they created, closing it up behind them, lest something stronger gives pursuit and follows them through.

Only the strongest of minds could possibly accomplish this and remain sane, and yet this was only half the job.

A vessel would have to be found to contain the daemon without having to rely on the will of the caster's mind to hold it, and that took great time, effort and vast resources to construct successfully. This process was an art in itself, exceptionally dangerous and now long forgotten.

But once it was done, this "Daemon Tether", as it was known amongst its creators, could be a most invaluable resource, for it allowed the owner to send out all the weak daemons that they could amass and trap into the tether, out into the world, to literally act as both the owner's eyes and ears. Depending on the strength of the caster's will, a whole pack of daemons could be released from the tether and sent out to anywhere in the world, at any distance at the speed of thought, searching for whatever it is their master wishes to know, their movements totally uninhibited, except for the hold that the tether held on them, always dragging them back within it if the master's concentration is broken or something else occurs which breaks their line of thought.

It was the ultimate in information gathering. Absolutely reliable, as long as the caster's will could overpower and control the weak daemons trapped within the orb.

As Zaitsev continued to mutter incantations in the daemonic tongue, Furcifer fancied he saw a small, unrecognisable blur appear near the orb and then vanish into the corner of his eyesight with incredible speed. His dark green eyes did not bother to follow it, for it was impossible, even for one such as him.

This happened nearly a dozen more times before Zaitsev finished chanting, and spoke.

"I wish a description. Give me details that they should search for."

"He is in this city and he is a gargoyle," stated Furcifer patiently. "His skin is red as fresh blood. He is beaked and with great horns sweeping back over his head. He has hair and it is cotton white in colour. He is reasonably tall and well built. Hs eyes are hazel. He carries with him the Black Sun Staff and around his neck is the Lack of Conscience. He is also the bearer of a copy of the Malus Codicium. Riana and Jeremiah, two of His guardians, accompany him. Is that sufficient?"

"Perfect," smiled Zaitsev, turning his head to look at him. The ancient vampire then cast his storm cloud grey eyes down upon the orb, which was now glowing weakly.

"Search him out," he commanded imperiously. "Find him and tell us of his location. Now go!"

And an instant later, the feeling that there was others present in the room vanished as quickly as it had come.

"Now what?" asked Furcifer after a moment's silence.

"We wait," replied Zaitsev, not looking up from the orb. "It should take them no longer than half an hour. By dawn, we will know where they are, and then we can go and get them." A dark, sadistic smile spread across his lips. "And then, when the sun sets, I can have some fun."

dddddbbbbb

Bronx had been lying at Broadway's feet since the beast had first entered, and refused to move away from the injured gargoyle, even as Jezebel prepared to work on his poisoned shoulder.

Lexington sat on the floor near Broadway's head; to both tend the fire keeping his shivering brother warm with pieces of shattered table and chair and to give Jezebel whatever she needed as she worked on him.

Goliath and Inquisitor Thompson were out 'acquiring' a list of medicines that the witch had quickly drafted up and told them to get. Unfortunately Jezebel didn't seem to know the cure to whatever poison was being used on his oath brother, but she knew of other ways to help him.

The poison was quite slow acting and slow to spread, so she was going to dig it out of Broadway's shoulder. The medicines that she'd sent Goliath and Faith to get would be used then to speed the healing of the wound up and prevent infection.

Goliath and Faith had been gone for maybe half an hour now and Lexington was hoping it wouldn't take them much longer to get back. He really didn't enjoy watching this.

Jezebel had taken off Broadway's bandages and had pulled all his blankets down to his waist, exposing the strange smelling wound on his shoulder. Lexington's eye's had widened in horror, as he saw the drastic change in skin colour around where the bolt had hit his brother. It was spreading under the flesh, along the bone Jezebel had said, taking up a scalpel after she had observed the wound for what seemed to the olive green gargoyle like hours.

She explained that she was going to have to cut his shoulder open and scrape the poison off the bone underneath. Lexington felt sick when he heard her say that but agreed to help anyway. Despite the fact that seeing blood made him a little squeamish (another reason, undoubtedly, why the Ghost was constantly disappointed by him), this was his brother after all. There was no lengths he wouldn't go see him safe.

Jezebel must have noticed how uneasy he felt about seeing his brother cut open because she had patted him on the shoulder and smiled at him while saying: "Lexington, relax. I watched my grandmother do this twice in similar cases and trust me it works. She developed it herself from a technique she read about in a Chinese history book. He'll have a very bad pain in his shoulder for about a week afterwards but he'll be fine. I swear he will."

That did actually make him feel better, though this feeling vanished the second that Jezebel made the first incision and a violet, mucus-like substance oozed out of the wound. Lexington found himself watching in horrified fascination as the flesh on Broadway's shoulder was slowly carved open and kept that way with pins and anything else sharp that the old witch could use, allowing Lexington to now see bone, covered in thick, strange smelling violet liquid.

"Scalpel," said Jezebel.

Lexington placed one of the half dozen or so that they had available into her hands without even looking at her. His steel grey eyes couldn't draw themselves away from the now gaping hole in his brother's shoulder.

But worse was to come.

Jezebel took the scalpel, placed the blade along the bone horizontally, and used it to scrape some of the violet substance off. Seeing it was bad enough for the young gargoyle, but hearing the metal run along his brother's exposed shoulder bone was awful.

Jezebel wiped the vile stuff off of the blade with a washcloth and proceeded to repeat the process.

Scrape…

Scrape…

Scrape…

"Scalpel please."

Lexington handed her a fresh one. He wanted to say something but found that his throat was bone dry. He'd been feeling hungry before they'd begun but now he was glad Jezebel had suggested that they eat after. He felt like vomiting, but there was nothing to throw up.

Scrape…

Scrape…

"The story behind this technique's quite interesting you know," said Jezebel, her tone conversational as she continued to run the blade along Broadway's shoulder. "There this general once, from…China, I believe. From quite a long time ago. Scalpel please."

Scrape…

Scrape…

"I forgot his actual name, but I think that his style name was…Yunchang. I can't really be certain but we'll call him that anyway shall we? Anyway, once while on campaign he was shot in the arm with a poisoned arrow. It had similar properties to the bolt that hit Broadway. Scalpel please."

Scrape…

Scrape…

"His arm became useless and his men thought his only hope was amputation. But Yunchang would have none of it, because the arrow had hit him in his sword arm. Scalpel."

Scrape…

"His men became desperate and called out for any one skilled in medicine to come and heal him, because he was actually a living legend during the time, I believe he was even deified later on. Scalpel."

Scrape…

"They had practically given up hope when this famous doctor arrived and offered his services to the general. Some sort of weird travelling doctor that was supposed to have been very famous in his time. When they asked what had to be done, the doctor explained that he would have to cut the general's arm completely open and scrape every single bit of the poison off of his bones and even at bits out of his bones. Scalpel."

Scrape…

"So they go to Yunchang, who's playing a game of chess to keep his mind off the pain, and tell him what has to be done to heal him. The doctor offers him sedatives and asks for a few of his men to hold him down as he performs the operation, but Yunchang refuses any drugs or any help, as it will interrupt his game. Scalpel."

"So what did they do?" Lexington found himself asking.

"The doctor performs the operation on old Yunchang while he's still fully conscious and while he's still playing his game of chess. He just sits there with his arm stretched out for the doctor to cut open and work on, while he chats away and drinks and plays his game like nothing's happening. All the while his poor sub-commanders are all watching, quite horrified and many on the verge of fainting. Scalpel. Anyway after a while the doctor finishes up and closes his arm up and then sews the flesh back together while Yunchang is still playing chess."

There was a pause, followed by a satisfied sigh from Jezebel as she placed the last tainted scalpel down on the cloth with the others.

"There," she said. "All done."

"Huh?" said a puzzled Lexington. Had she really finished it up so quickly?

"All done," repeated Jezebel. "I've got it all out and now I'm going to close the wound again till Goliath and Miss Thompson get back. Then I'll just make up a batch of my grandmother's medicine to place in the wound and then he should be fine." She picked out the pins from Broadway's shoulder and then started to apply some fresh, clean bandages.

Lexington couldn't help but sigh in relief. He gently laid a hand on Broadway's forehead and frowned. "Jezebel, he's still burning up."

The witch checked Broadway's temperature aswell. "Yes. He still has a bit of a fever…though it should break soon." She got up off of her knees while smiling at Lexington. "Don't worry Lexington. He'll be all right. He'll be very weak for quite some time after this; I don't think he'll even regain consciousness for at least a few days."

"He'll be okay though," said Lex, his voice hoarse for just a little moment. He had felt a great terror he'd barely known was there suddenly lift from him. His brother was hurt but he was going be okay…

Jezebel started gathering up some of her equipment. She'd have to get things ready to see to inquisitor Thompson whenever she came back. Then she'd also have to get ready to make a draft of one of her grandmother's old medicines to give to Broadway to ease his pain a little more. Then make sure he didn't wake up when he cracked out of his stone shell tomorrow morning as he was likely to scream and then pass out from the pain. She hoped Goliath and inquisitor Thompson would find everything on the list she'd written up for them. She realised dismally that tonight and the next were probably going to be extremely busy and draining ones. It wasn't that she minded the work a great deal; it was just that in the past few weeks, she was becoming increasingly aware that she wasn't a young woman anymore.

After nearly fifty years in her late master's service, time was finally starting to catch up with her.

"So what happened to Yunchang?" asked Lexington.

Jezebel was suddenly snapped out of her thoughts and looked over at Lexington. "Hmm?"

"Yunchang," repeated Lexington. He looked drained, but relieved. "What happened to him then?"

Jezebel thought for a moment, recalling the old books, dusty and crumpling at the edges, that had all rested on the creaking shelves of her grandmother's room, that had been read to her ever since she had been about a quarter of Lexington's height. They'd been collected from all over the world when Macbeth and her grandmother had travelled together, going on their adventures. The book this particular story was in had a huge compendium of tales, rather than a structured novel. She tried to remember the footnote her grandmother only read to her once at the end of the story, as this particular one was factual.

"He died," she said after a moment's reflection. "He was a victim of betrayal, both from inside his own camp and from supposed allies without. But he was also a victim of his own pride. While on the same campaign that he was injured, he was attacked from the rear by supposed allies, and then some of his own officers betrayed him. He was eventually captured and beheaded. Legend has it that his ghost came back and killed one of those that were responsible for his death, such was his desire for vengance."

"Wow," said Lexington. "That's pretty cool."

"Yes. I suppose it is isn't it?" replied Jezebel. "I'd feel sorry for anyone else who he might have held a grudge against, wouldn't you?"

"Definitely."

Jezebel finished packing her equipment away while Lexington sat in silence beside his sleeping brother. She was worn out, so she decided that she would get a little rest before Goliath and inquisitor Thompson returned, and then she would double-check their injuries, make Broadway's medicine, and then settle in for a nice, long sleep.

She told Lexington that she was going to have a quick lie down, and promptly headed to one of the doors leading to a bedroom. Her runestaff was resting against a wall and as she passed by she reached out for it but suddenly her hand stopped a few feet away from it.

She stared at it for a moment, watching the reflection of the crackling fire dance upon its chrome surface. The runes carved into iron surface were but darkened shadows in the flickering light, and yet, despite this, she could have sworn she had seen some of them glow weakly as she had stretched out her hand to take hold of it.

A feeling of dread welled up in her; where it came from, she did not know. The only thing she was positive of right at that moment was that she needed rest, and that she while she rested, she didn't want her staff to be anywhere near her.

"Something wrong Jezebel?"

The old witch looked over to where Lexington was sitting. He looked worried for some reason.

"Jezebel," he repeated, concern starting to seep into his voice. "Jezebel, is something wrong?"

"No," replied the witch after a moment. "No nothing's wrong Lexington. I just felt…a little funny for a moment. I shouldn't worry about it though. I'm just tired. There's nothing else wrong with me." She managed a weak smile at the olive green gargoyle. "When Goliath and inquisitor Thompson get back, please be sure to wake me. I'll be resting in here."

"Will do Jezebel. Thank you."

Macbeth's old servant nodded, turned about, and went straight into her room, closing the door quickly behind her.

Her staff remained outside, leaning against the wall close to the door.

Lexington watched the door for another moment, his expression unreadable. And then he turned his attention back down to where Broadway was sleeping, and a smile crept across his lips, and its cause wasn't totally from the relief felt from knowing Broadway was going to eventually recover.

It was also caused by the realisation that he may have underestimated the old woman who was now lying down to rest, and that gave him a feeling of relief nearly equal to knowing Broadway was going to be fine.

He leaned over and patted Bronx on the head, and scratched him under the chin for a moment, and then started to throw more wooden wreckage into the flames to keep his resting brother warm.

dddddbbbbb

In the ancient city that had seen the fall of an old order and the ascension of new, more violent one, which in its turn, fell as well, the sun finally began to rise. A warm, orange glow began to chase away the deep blue, while the clouds that lingered like a thick grey blanket, became outlined in golden light, as the sun began to bore through them.

To the extreme northeast of St. Petersburg, there could be seen on the horizon a very thick bank of black rain clouds, rapidly approaching the city, carried along by fierce winds. They would arrive in less than an hour after the sun chased off the last trappings of a most violent night, promising very heavy rain that would not let up till the sun had nearly set again.

In a street near the harbour, near one of the old, ruined palaces of the Tsars, hiding under a bridge that ran over the canal, and sitting on a protruding rock, was the necromancer and dark guardian, Jeremiah Rincewald. He was in a tattered, dark brown suit with a cream coloured shirt with no tie and the top button lying open, while he wore a pair of black shoes that were a size too big for his feet. Across his lap lay a two meter long black staff with a silver raven, its wings outstretched at one end and a blunt, silver cap piece at the other. He stared down at the muddied ground between his feet with a pair of tired, sky blue eyes.

Something in his jacket pocket rustled, and a small squeak was emitted from the same pocket a moment later.

"Hush," he whispered.

There was a creek from within the ambulance, followed by a very violent crash and a long string of devastatingly crude obscenities, before the back double doors were roughly thrown open and out jumped an enraged Riana Mirelip in a tattered, mud brown dress with white sleeves. She looked over at her companion.

"Fuck," she stated.

"Is he flesh Riana?" asked Rincewald almost casually.

Riana fixed him a venomous stare and said nothing. Instead she dived her hand into a pocket sown into the dress and pulled out a packet of cigarettes and a battered old lighter. She lit up a cigarette, took such a long drag from it that the whole shaft leading up to her pale fingers nearly disappeared, tossed the spent cigarette away, blew out a veritable cloud of smoke, and then proceeded to light another.

Rincewald watched her, fascinated, as she repeated the process twice more, before she finally stuck the lighter and packet back in her pocket.

"Cheap crap," she muttered under her breath, looking out over the muddy brown water of the canal.

"Well despite that I think that was rather impressive," said Rincewald. "Can you do any other tricks?"

"Eat me stiff shagger."

"And join that long, sad list of unfortunate men? I'd rather not thank you."

Riana glared at him over her shoulder for a long, terrible moment, before she looked back at the waters.

The smell of salt was in the air. The echo of gulls calling to each other could be heard along with the slow flow of water. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed.

"He's still flesh," said Riana.

"Hmmm," muttered Rincewald.

"I guess you did underestimate him," said Riana, smiling smugly.

"I've met gargoyles before who broke the stone sleep," replied the necromancer coldly. "And they didn't need such a powerful artefact to do so." He rose slowly, taking his staff firmly in his right hand. "You can keep your blind, brainless faith in him my dear, but I'll maintain my scepticism. I don't think he is the one we're looking for, and I think that when we find Gregor, he will agree with me."

"Whatever," said Riana.

Rincewald rolled his eyes and started over to the rear of the stolen ambulance, muttering incomprehensibly as he did so. If Brooklyn was still flesh during the daylight as he had been yesterday, then he could be out much longer than he had originally feared.

The doors had slid closed again during his brief conversation with Riana, so he was reaching out with his free hand to grab one of the handles and yank the door open when something…happened.

He stopped, his hand open and halfway to the handle of the door. A black, one eyed, fat rodent stuck its head out of his pocket, hissing in a very dangerous way. He felt as if he was being watched, as if there was some, small set of cunning eyes were staring at him from some unseen corner.

His tired, sky blue eyes suddenly came alive, darting from here to there, as he felt the presence and the eyes shift suddenly from their original position, as if knowing that they had been spotted. His eyes caught sight of something dart under the ambulance. A small, dark blur that he could only see in the corner of his eye.

The fat, one-eyed black rodent suddenly leapt from his pocket, landing on the muddy ground, emitting a viper like hiss as it ran under the ambulance in pursuit, a sickening green trail of flame coming out of its empty eye socket as its single pair of large teeth began to get sharper and even larger than before.

There was a shuffle from behind and when he looked around he found Riana at his side. She had pulled a single edged knife from her pocket.

"We're being watched," stated Rincewald.

"Duh."

There was the sound of a brief scuffle from under the ambulance. Then there was the feeling of something rushing between them at incredible speed. Then just as fast as it had come, the feeling of presence vanished, leaving a subtle scent of familiar spices in the air, which faded an instant later.

The black rodent came out from under the ambulance a moment later, and leapt up onto Rincewald's open palm. It hissed.

"Good Fuzzy," said the necromancer.

"I thought he was supposed to be a guinea pig?" said Riana, looking at the fat rodent familiar. It was still fat and black, though its body had become more streamlined and its one remaining dark green eye was a great deal smaller and slit like, while its legs had become thicker, more powerful, and the claws at their ends were now almost crescent like blades while its two primary teeth resembled thin daggers. "He looks like a rat on steroids."

"He was," sighed Rincewald sadly. "He started changing when he tasted the corrupted flesh of those two meat puppets of Harrison's. They were infested with all sorts of daemonic power that that madman pumped into them to keep them working. Poor thing."

"That was a daemon he chased off," said Riana.

"I know."

"A weak one at that," continued Riana thoughtfully. She looked over at him. "A spy?"

"Very good," replied the necromancer sarcastically. "Nothing gets past you does it?"

Riana glared at him but decided to stay on topic. "Who do you think sent it?"

"I dare say it was Gregor," replied Rincewald, patting his corrupted familiar gently on its rough head.

"What makes you so certain?"

"Its an incredibly flashy and complicated way of looking for someone," explained Rincewald. "Just like him. He can't do anything without showing off in the process. He's an egotist." He looked up at her. "I suggest we wait right here. It shouldn't take him long to find us."

"Are you sure?" asked Riana, her scepticism glaringly obvious. "It doesn't sound like Gregor to me."

"I'd stake my beard on it," replied the necromancer confidently.

"Okay," smiled Riana, her look sadistic. She brandished her knife casually in front of her companion. "I'll hold you to that one."

The necromancer grinned at her with unusual confidence. "I guarantee you Riana, that within an hour or so, we'll be back in the lap of luxury. And then you can finally get back to covering yourself in black leather like the brainless gimp that you are."

"We'd better stiff shagger," growled the woman, brandishing her knife menacingly in front of his gruff face. "We'd better. Cause if you're wrong and that spy wasn't sent by Gregor, I'm using you and the rat as bullet shields."

With that, she turned around and headed back to the ambulance.

"Bitch," muttered Rincewald.

dddddbbbbb

Alone in a cell deep underground, upon a blanket-less bed and in tattered and torn clothes, lay an unconscious Dominique Destine. She moaned and rolled onto her side, dreaming of a great building, multi-storeyed and made of wood. It was aflame and she was trapped inside the vast main hall with its shattered table, as flames poured down from the roof and the sound of earth shattering explosions dominated everything.

She looked around suddenly and saw Broadway, cloaked in deep shadows, a small, stereotypical angel resting on his right shoulder, and stereotypical devil on his left. In his left hand he held a rosary made of bones and in his right he held a tiny, dead Chinese dragon, its throat slit. Blood poured from his mouth as he fixed her with a disturbingly sadistic grin, and his dead, glazed turquoise eyes seemed to stare right through her.

"You're fault," he said accusingly. "Not mine."

dddddbbbbb

Within the cell next to the dreaming Dominique's, Fang and Malibu lay.

Both were on individual, steel framed beds covered with plastic and with no covers and only one, rock hard pillow each. Apart from the bandages covering Fang's chest and stomach, both had been stripped naked.

Mal lay on his back, a statue that looked like it was unconscious, or at least in a very deep sleep. He had a horribly vivid day-mare of being trapped in a room where the walls and floors were made of hands. Like in a bad adventure movie the walls began to close in on him. The hands stretched out and grabbed him, holding him tight as they started to rip his clothes off. When he was finally naked, the cold, fishy skinned hands began to run themselves all over his trembling body, while he screamed and screamed and screamed.

Fang also lay on his back. He breathing had gotten weaker, far more laboured, despite the treatment his wounds had received. He groaned, his breath foggy in the room's considerable cold. He was shivering, despite the fur covering his body. His head fell to the side and he started coughed, spitting some blood onto the plastic cover of the bed he lay on. After a little while longer he coughed again, spitting up some more blood as his breathing became even shallower than before. His head turned and he rolled a little onto his side.

And then he stopped breathing...

dddddbbbbb

Several kilometres away from these cells, in a top floor hotel room, a handful of gargoyle statues were crowded around the fireplace, where one of their number lay under many blankets, in what looked like a drug induced sleep. Because of this and his injuries, Broadway Wyvern would dream nothing that day.

Sitting at his side in a worried pose, Goliath dreamed, as he always did, of the faces of those he failed, hovering above him, accusing him of treachery and bringing down vile curses upon him, as he lay, tied down to the ground, unable to escape their hatred.

Lexington was near Broadway's head. He dreamed of the Ghost, giving off to him for his constant failures, and of the daemonhost known as Sin, and the terrible future that it had told him of.

In two other rooms in the penthouse, Faith and Jezebel slept uneasily, their dreams filled with fear for those whom they cared about, as a thousand grisly scenarios played out in their minds.

And yet even then, in their most troubling of nightmares, they could not guess the terrible fate the trapped gargoyles when the sun finally set.

dddddbbbbb

In an ambulance near the canal, Brooklyn lay unconscious, with enough drugs in him to knock out an elephant. He dreamt nothing, while barely a kilometre away, an intimidating black limousine pulled out of the industrial estates of St. Petersburg, gliding down the streets like an underwater predator, heading his way, its pale driver humming to himself as his two immortal passengers sat side by side in the back, as silent as the grave.

dddddbbbbb

As the population of St. Petersburg awoke, and began to prepare themselves for their daily routine, many turned on the news. There were the usual reports concerning murders, rapes, disappearances, and a brief side note on the sighting of winged monsters in the mall near the city centre, which was declared by the militia to be caused by some sort of mass hysteria. Finally the weather came on. It was going to be a very wet day, with almost total cloud cover for most of the day. The sky would only be clear for a handful of hours, before a great bank of storm clouds building up in the north would descend upon them, unless of course the winds changed, which was unlikely.

The population of the great city groaned almost as one.

The day was going to be long and miserable, but it would be nothing compared to the misery of the night ahead.

To be continued…

As it will probably be a while before the next instalment comes out, due to college life imposing itself upon me, I thought it only fair to say thanks to: Storyseeker, The Sadistic Cow, Revenge, Chris Velazquez, Doppelganger, Yume No Zencho, Maelgrim, Worker 72, Mooncat, Dylan B. Blacquiere and anyone else who had been kind enough to offer ideas, constructive criticism or even just a kind word about my work over the past couple of years that I've been doing these fics. You all totally rock! :)

And now, back to trying to write more trash!

Till I return!

Darkness