Author's note: Okay, I was nearly done with this chapter when I published "Delusive Confidentiality", and that's the sole reason why "The Terminal Awakening" was this consecutive. I'll try to update this fan fiction as often as I can—if you readers are interested, that is. However, it will not be updated within such small intervals like it was this time.
Great thanks to both Aiel and LiRA for giving me their support, which undoubtedly gives me the urge to keep writing. Be kind and write more of them. :)
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THE TERMINAL AWAKENING
Two Elders had been murdered consecutively. Two! Mason winced in distress. This woefully reminded him of the outset of the twentieth century—in 1904, if he was to be exact. Nicholas, the first sovereign and the one who implemented the Chain back in the seventh century, had been killed—betrayed by one of his own breed. Just like Viktor. That is if Caleb is telling the truth, Mason thought with suspicion. Although Selene had opposed the strict orders and awakened Viktor ahead of schedule, he could not envisage the female Death Dealer as a cold-blooded, treacherous killer. The rumors simply had to be false. Unfortunately, no vampire had been able to scrutinize the main chamber where Selene, according to Caleb, had sliced Viktor's head in twain; the feral lycan beasts had constellated within the murky locus, defending their dead leader, Lucian, whose demise was verified. If the Death Dealers so much as tried to approach the area, the werewolves bayed the attempters, showing no mercy.
Both breeds were deprived of their respective leaders that night, and therefore were in need of reestablishment. If the vampires had proceeded with their assault, the outcome would be decided with indisputable randomness. They could just as well roll a dice and let it decide the consequence. Thus, the withdrawal was a fact; neither of the breeds wanted victory on account of happenstance.
"They have left the main hall," one of his Death Dealers informed devotedly as he entered Mason's room. "The assembly can commence."
Mason nodded in apprehension. "I'll be right down. Tell Isaac he can begin the presentation as he sees fit."
The Death Dealer hit his stride and left his commander alone.
As soon as he was certain that he was left undisturbed, Mason delved his head into his hands depressively. He was unaccustomed to the turmoil, which intensified in step with the seconds that ticked away. Ordoghaz was about to enter a panic-stricken state, and their seemingly impervious superiority over the lycanthropes had been abruptly torn into nonexistence. The mansion was in convulsion—a condition they had to be freed of if they wished to continue their being. And Mason knew who their liberator was. He was the sole alternative—the one hope they had. And the Death Dealer could only pray that the newly formed council would show accordance.
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A blonde vampiress had been confined to her boudoir as though she was a little brat who had defied orders. What is all this tumult? she thought perplexedly. Did it have something to do with Viktor's death? Or is Kraven's perfidy today's topic? Or perhaps both? I wouldn't be surprised if it was Kraven who murdered Viktor, not Selene. That despicable vermin … The vampiress was filled with avid ire. Too many times had the damn traitor humiliated and oppressed her in other's presence. No one seemed to cherish her—or respect her, even. And that rat of an ex-regent was the one that started it all. She writhed in pain as she slammed a clinched fist against the adjacent birch table, the remedies on top of it quivering, perhaps apprehensively, when the low-pitched thud banged across the room. Her moan turned to a slight gasp, violet orbs protuberating, as she became cognizant of the uncommonness of her reaction. She lurched out of the gilded chair, creating a most dissatisfying screech. W—what is happening to me? she wondered anxiously and strode to the window in an unsteady manner.
Fuscous water ran down the glass in torrents, blurring the alfresco beech trees beyond concreteness. Shutting her eyelids, she exhaled a whimper. I've … I've changed, she grasped. And she knew fully well why. What good is an immortal existence if your life is solely pervaded with disgrace and servitude …?
The heavy suspiration ceased, and brumous silence descended upon her while she thoroughly sifted through her chaotic thoughts, desperately trying to find her purpose.
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The sound of footfalls reechoed against the perpendicular walls as Mason and his cohorts stepped through the hallway in a steady pace. Formerly being answerable for tactics and warfare, the Death Dealers were now compelled to form a temporary council, as well. Feeling a huge amount of tension, the leader of the Death Dealers sighed reluctantly. He didn't want to manifest his despair; he wished he could become as relentless and conclusive as Kahn, his prior superior. Kahn's death, which had been untimely and unjust, filled Mason with grief nearly beyond capacity. He remembered how much the murderers had exasperated him, and he recalled each and every silver bullet … scorching perniciously from the muzzle of his gun and piercing the lycans' hirsute skin. He remembered blood spouting, thunderous roars and heavy thumps as they had fallen to the mucky ground. It was gratifying, but did not redeem the deprivation of a great leader—a great man.
Mason, along with his tetrad of Death Dealers, had reached the end of the hallway. Incoherent voices murmured from the adjacent room. Without hesitation, he raised his arm and flung the door open, maintaining his unvarying pace. A great hall imbued with architecture from the English-Gothic times towered before him.
"Sorry I'm late," Mason said and quickly began to find himself a chair. That fortunately proved to be no nuisance; his group of Death Dealers had reserved a seat for him. The council gave him ambiguous looks as he reclined on the thoroughly engilded chair. Drawing off his black leather gloves, he placed them on the table next to him. "Proceed," he ordered firmly.
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The imposing storm had almost dissipated, the mild raindrops lightly tapping on the filthy window that separated Erika from the outside world. The world of freedom and independence, she thought moonily. She never really considered it as an alternative to Ordoghaz, which over the last years had analogously reminded her of severe confinement. She was a part of the vampire sybarites, and their tedious lives were entirely permeated by indulgences and luxury. Perhaps an interesting way of living, but collaterally boring and monotone. If one enjoyed such a life, like most of the vampire sophisticates seemed to do, Erika had to concede that the never-ending parties inside the mansion would most certainly be lovely. She had liked it, in fact, but now it had grown wearisome. And the consciousness of knowing that she once could have been released from this prison aggravated her. The only obstacle was an unrelenting barrier of egoism. I could have been liberated from this dull life if that bloody cur had accepted our union.
She turned around and leaned pensively against the window. The chilly glass blazed her alabaster skin. She didn't seem to perceive the burning sensation, however; her eyes were fixed on an arbitrary spot on the fuscous parquet, apparently lost in thought.
If he cannot accept our union, she deduced, then why should I accept his selfish disposition? Why should I make no bones about the demotion I've undergone ever since my infatuation?
Erika's brows furrowed, her beauteous face distorting into an ominous countenance. Avid orbs, turning from violet to azure, began to blaze with luminous ardency. Glancing down at her hands, the vampiress witnessed her fingernails elongating into deadly sharp talons that seemed to be able to rend granite apart. She flurried about and glared at her vague reflection in the mucky window. Her light-blue eyes were peeled open, emphasizing her pale features. Growling threateningly, Erika exposed pernicious fangs. The entire reflection gleamed with purpose.
My love, it is high time that you redeemed for your treachery.
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"As we all know and unfortunately experienced during our intrusion, the lycans clustered and protected the deceased Lucian—whose death, by the way, is now substantiated, as opposed to Kraven's endless fables." Isaac's voice became severe as he mentioned the traitor's name. The grim vocalization contrasted greatly with his entire mild appearance. As did his black apparel, which was partially gilded with intricate markings running down his back and along his arms. No one would initially think that he was the captain of the Death Dealers, his countenance implying genuine lenience. But Mason had seen what Isaac was capable of, which all the more proved that looks could be deceiving.
"And now," Isaac accentuated. "Now, two of our sovereigns are dead! One brutally killed by our enemy, and the other murdered by one of his own!" he exclaimed furiously, spitting out the words. The perspiration, wetting his forehead, glinted in the fluorescent light. There was a moment of utter quiescence in the main hall, every member of the council indirectly showing reverence towards the dead Elders.
Mason didn't like Isaac's accusative tone. No concrete proof had been found, the few words from Caleb's mouth being the only so-called evidence. The leader of the Death Dealers had never actually liked that vampire. Caleb was priorly one of Soren's men, and Soren himself was the one taking orders from Kraven. That immoral scum of a vampire, he thought indignantly. Mason was actually glad that Soren was dead. The janissary had not been much of a reliable person, and his minions, Mason conceived, could impossibly be much better.
Isaac shattered the silence. "Selene didn't just liquidate Viktor, the oldest and strongest of us all; she is together with a lycan beast, plotting a conspiracy against us as we speak!"
Manipulative, are we? Mason smirked. He glanced at one of his cohorts, Blake, who exposed his opinion of Isaac's speech with a fitting snort. No one except Mason seemed to notice it, however.
"Condemning herself to death was apparently not enough for this treasonous vampiress," the Death Dealer captain continued, his eyes contracting. "At present time, there are two traitors out there,"—he pointed toward the window—"who are alive and well. And they shall be forced to compensate for their abominable deceit!"
Stemmed vessels were raised in the air as the entire audience shouted in agreement. Well, not all of them. Mason didn't like this—at all. He consorted that Kraven deserved an early demise, but he had a hard time believing Selene was just as much a villain—if not even more wicked than the ex-regent. After all, why would she kill Viktor? the Death Dealer asked himself. What could her purpose possibly be? No, he didn't believe it—he couldn't. If a day would come when the unambiguous evidence lay before him, he would of course reconsider. But, at this juncture he found the thought to be too irrational.
"Now." Isaac's expression had become noticeably sterner as his introduction reached an end. The meeting was now entering a phase where the council members were to proclaim their respective opinions.
"The lycans are more in number than we initially thought, and the end of the war perhaps doesn't seem imminent anymore," Isaac predicted grimly. "However. We have a great and powerful Elder slumbering in the dark crypts of our mansion—an Elder that will give us an advantage on account of his determined and merciless disposition. An Elder that will help us exterminate traitors and lycanthropes alike!" Ardent excitement ignited a vivid fire in the speaker's eyes. "I strongly advice you all to show accordance when I say that the key to our survival, and our revenge, lies directly beneath us—on the lowest level of Ordoghaz. Now, let us perform the last Awakening of our time. Let us revenge the inopportune deaths of Amelia and Viktor. Dear members of the council, let us awaken lord Marcus!"
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A dusky double door creaked open, permitting rays of vivid light to pour inside the obscure room, slightly kindling the Byzantine patterns running along the dado. The otherwise dull plaster walls were adorned with perpendicular columns—accentuating the delicate verticality—and the orthogonal, figural cornices crowned the temporarily desolate dojo. It was however Spartanly furnished in comparison to the other epicurean rooms located downstairs.
This was the second time Erika had visited this part of Ordoghaz. The first time, she had compliantly done Kraven a great favor; she stole one of Kahn's new inventions—ammo containing silver nitrate. Shutting her eyes, the blonde chambermaid shook her head in disappointment. How could I be so naïve? Why would he become more generous and mild if I did him this favor? Kraven had known all the way that she would do anything for him. Anything. And he had, without an ounce of hesitation, used her—manipulated her deviously.
Bulging with indignation, Erika efficiently ruptured a dark fir door leading to Kahn's snug place, where the prior leader of the Death Dealers had cozily repaired, concocted and created all types of ordnance—ranging from semi-automatics to silver grenades. Numerous wooden slivers were sprawled across the concrete floor, proving the rustic condition of the door. Now, she thought cunningly, where to find the most effective article …
Erika didn't dare turn the lights on. Even though the council was gathered, it was still plausible that a Death Dealer might come in and expose her thievery. Well, not exactly thievery, she pointed out wryly. She didn't want to call it borrowing either. No, I'm simply just … offering them a bit of help. Yes, an offer—that's what it was. She smirked passionately, the dry conclusion seemingly gratifying her.
Several weapon racks hung on the dimly lit plaster walls. In a sedate manner, the chambermaid strolled parallel to the stands, inspecting each and every weapon displayed. They were all very fascinating, but a long and slim sword in the corner had especially captivated her. She read the bronze sign placed above it. The Nuit Noire Rapier, an unforgiving rapier in cruel hands. Forged in 1389 by the french. 44 inches, overlaid with silver. Grasping the black hilt of the sword and removing the massive article from the mortar pedestal, Erika began to quiver slightly. She was not terrified, however; the trembling reaction solely implied excitement. Most adequate, she thought with satisfaction White, pointy fangs were bared as the vampiress beamed thoroughly. She glared at its alluring entirety anew, then scabbering it, she continued to scrutinize her environments—this time the miscellaneous furnishing that was desperately trying to breathe life to the tedious local. Not seeing anything more of particular interest, she was about to turn on her heel. But just before, she noticed an oak closet, considerably subdued by the feeble illumination. The servant—ex-servant—turned grave as she walked to the cabinet. She observed the complex impressions tangled into the oak. Directly beneath a snarled mass was an engraved angel with his arms extended in the air. Considering his posture, the winged figure seemed to be exhibiting absolute devotion towards the suspended, tangled element.
The angle of Death.
A keyhole was amid the confusing mass. The gilded key was already inserted, sparing Erika the vexation. She rotated the key and opened the closet door. The sight was beyond her expectations. It is as if someone arranged this plan for me on beforehand! The blonde vampiress found herself vis-à-vis several black trench coats. Amongst them were various garments, but she particularly noted an armless blouse, snug, glossy trousers, a couple of burnished boots—all of which evidently inspired by the English-Gothic style back in the 14th century. And on top of the lowermost shelf she found … a clip of ammo. Erika discerned a slight deviation about this ammo, however. With burning luster, a purplish fluid radiated from the rounds, making her violet eyes burn. What is this? she winced, twitching her eyes as she covered the radiation with her hands. Is it … fluid daylight? Being merely a humble chambermaid, Erika wasn't in any way into science. It sure feels like it. Regardless of that, she could easily sense what was deadly to a certain vampire. And that was all she needed to know.
She shifted her gaze from the strange ammo and on an adjacent, empty Desert Eagle. Picking it up, she could perceive a weight she wasn't exactly too accustomed with. But as she lived and breathed: She would be eventually. Regardless of how. Not heeding what she was doing, the vampiress took a firm clasp about the glowing magazine, resolutely inserted it into the pistol and tugged back the slide.
A baneful bullet racked into position.
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On few matters did Mason endorse Isaac, but he wholeheartedly accorded with him about awakening Marcus. Chaos whirled about in the corridors of Ordoghaz, and his fellow confreres would soon breathe their last if they didn't reobtain their moral and—most importantly—a new ruler. A ruler that would reunite this Coven with the one dwelled across the North Atlantic. Only a few nights before, Amelia had administered the second Coven, which was located on the North American continent. Now, everything was turned upside down; both Covens were in distress, desperately in need of reunification. And Marcus was the only one that could bring this operation to fruition—to disembarrass them of this entangling mess.
"Are there members who oppose my appeal?" Isaac challenged. He searched the crowd intently, but nobody within the semi-circle had their hand raised. "Is there really no one against Marcus's revival?" he reiterated, apparently exulted by this moment of excellent persuasion. You didn't convince anyone, Isaac, Mason thought irritably. Deep down, you know everyone is intent on resurrecting the last Elder.
"Good," Isaac beamed. "Then let us commence."
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Finally, my Lord, you will be resurrected anew, Isaac rejoiced with delight. And this time, your stay will be a permanent one. He didn't have anything against Amelia—or Viktor for that matter; they were all great and determined rulers. But ever since Marcus's second reign, the Corvinus Elder had had a penchant for Isaac above all the other Death Dealers. Isaac himself believed it was by reason of his own unyielding dedication. He had invariably shown Marcus complete allegiance—regarding debates, actions, and battles alike. As an implication, the Elder had displayed absolute reliance toward him. Just like Viktor trusted Kraven, Isaac realized, not exactly thrilled about the comparison. He didn't like the thought of comparing himself with that mutt. Fortuitously, there existed a dissimilarity: He was neither hedonistic, nor was he an immoral double-crosser. He nodded decisively. Yes, there were big differences.
Isaac, as well as his retinue of Death Dealers, came to a standstill. Directly before them was an electronic double door made of plexiglass. Glancing through the transparency, Isaac could see three hatches. Only one, he cognized, was occupied.
"Open," he ordered. A second later, the doors obeyed the command, parting with a vague hum. Isaac paraded down the stairs alone, his heart becoming encased with intense cold as he did. The frigid aura of the tiled floor started crawling up his feet in circles.
Standing in front of the leftmost hatch, he locked his eyes onto it. The round, bronze cover was heavily filigreed. Embossed into it was a letter.
M. For Marcus.
He took notice of a coagulated, scarlet fluid that had soiled the intricate impressions. His eyes followed the source of the grease—a curdled, red river—and all of a sudden he found himself glaring at a bloody carcass lying prone on the icy floor. Isaac felt a vexing discomfort as he sniffed the air. Disgusting blood. One of his blue orbs twitched, his senses perceiving that something could be wrong. Better check lord Marcus right away. Two Death Dealers joined him as he indicatively waved with his hand. You two,"—he gave them both a sidelong glance—"You will be responsible for the pivot."
The black-clad vampires nodded gravely in apprehension.
"Alright," he whispered to himself, feeling the many pairs of eyes behind him, watching his every move. He bended forward and rotated the rusty, bronze disc of which the letter M was engraved into. A mechanism located beneath ground started churning, and different parts of the hatch screeched as they began to move and rotate into various positions. Strident sounds reechoed within the crypt. Splitting into four parts, the hatch abruptly receded into the concrete.
Yes, Isaac thought joyously, forgetting the strange coagulated fluid he noticed not ten seconds ago. Awake, my Lord, the last Elder, and guide us to triumph!
An imposing black coffin slowly protruded from the floor, carrying the golden M. Isaac watched the sarcophagus as it elevated before him. The dim light exposed a couple of gray feet, then two veined legs. Subsequently, Marcus's emaciated torso was revealed, along with his crossed arms. Isaac found something a bit strange, however; the Elder's body didn't seem too affected by the long-lasting hibernation. It was gray, but not too gray; veined, but not too veined; emaciated, but not too emaciated. Must be a result of his incredible powers, Isaac concluded proudly. He heard the murmur from the crowd intensifying.
A taut neck.
Do not worry, my dear confreres, he thought hopefully. Our Lord will assume control over the lycans in a blink of an eye. He will hunt the betrayers through the depts of the underworld and assure their painfully slow death.
A desiccated mouth agape.
The wolfen will be driven to the very outskirts of this world, where they will famish to death slowly. And the last thing Kraven, Selene and her feral lycan will recollect before their bane, is excruciating torment and suffering!
Two sharp, bloodstained fangs.
When they stand face to face with the scorching infernos of the Netherworld, they will agnize the content of their new lives …
A furrowed nose.
Continuous amounts of surging mortal sunlight will incinerate the traitors for everlasting time, while deadly, silver whips will incessantly lash the ferine beasts apart. Both lycans and treasonists will undergo eternal pain … and we will remain here on Earth forever, indulging sole salvatio—
Two eyes—pitchy, opaque and utterly peeled open.
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Mason had guided the arrogant captain down the stairs to the cellars and was now standing firmly in the doorway between the tomb of the Elders and the security hall. He could currently see Isaac start the hidden machinery, which immediately responded with its diligent motions. Not being able to eye the captain's countenance, Mason could nevertheless envisage a grinning face gleaming with pride beyond abundance. He knew Isaac respected Marcus above all, and that the captain himself was exceedingly well aware of a forthcoming elevation within both the hierarchy and the ranks. He wouldn't be a tad surprised if Isaac anticipated absolute sovereignty over the other Coven, as well. Mason snorted, albeit knowing the captain's expectations probably would be fulfilled, the American Coven presently being just as leaderless as this one.
The crowd unavoidably began their annoying muttering.
Mason considered himself as he watched the top of the coffin rising from the ground. His disrespectful thoughts of Isaac were not because of envy. It was just the fact that when it came to such administration, he had instinctively lost confidence in everyone but the Elders. For a whole century, it appeared that Kraven was qualified, but in the end, when the appalling treachery was revelated, it really couldn't have been any worse. A harming conspiracy that could have terminated our being in a heartbeat, he thought. A deep wrinkle in his forehead inferred trouble. No, the Elders—and the Elders alone—could manage this enormous task, and Marcus was the only one remaining. Perhaps he would coronate a new Elder—or maybe even two? If so, who could it possibly be? To his dismay, Mason could not recall a single living vampire that had the adequate experience. He, as well, was not fitted for such a task. He had always known his destiny: to protect his breed from the enemy as a Death Dealer. Better to wait and see what he will do, he deduced and glanced back at Isaac and the sarcophagus.
What the h…? Mason freed himself from his pensive condition and narrowed his eyes, thoroughly scrutinizing the top of the coffin. Did Marcus's feet stir? he wondered. He cast a sidelong glance at his cohorts, but apparently they hadn't noticed anything, still maintaining their formation with callous faces. Shifting his gaze back to the rite in front of him, he unwillingly became a spectator of the horrifying event that would change everything.
An achromatic fist agitated in the air with a godly motion, vehemently backhanding Isaac. Winging high up, the captain coursed in an immense parabola before clashing into the concrete wall with a loud thump. Mason's bulging eyes followed Isaac's extraordinary fall as gravity yanked him back to the ground. Strident screams and convulsive gasps from the spectators surged alarmingly into his ears. "Lord Marcus!" he shouted coarsely, absolutely shocked. "What the hell are you doing? You're hurting your own people!" Every observer except the Death Dealer squad was already on the run, shrilling out piercing cries.
Acrobatically, the still gaunt Elder performed a vigorous somersault, freeing himself from the taut coffin. His movements were quicker than eyes could discern, and just when Mason's chain of thoughts were able to realize the cruel fate awaiting his two black-coated companions, he saw their gory remnants already sprawled across the entire floor, their bodies cleft beyond recognition.
Plaster and debris fell down in front of Marcus, who stood in the middle of the tomb, respiring rapidly. My Lord, what have you done …? Mason couldn't believe the scandalizing sight before him: pools of blood, two minced Death Dealers, a subconscious Isaac and the jet-black contours of a menacing figure, seemingly ready to perforate all opposition. … Where the hell are his eyes? Mason wondered in horrification, his mouth ajar. This was not the Marcus he once knew. The Elder had been known for his asperity ever since the coronation, but now the vampire had gone mad—undoubtedly. His countenance had also changed; he was now considerably graver and more charnel. In fact, his entire being appeared more powerful and imperious than ever. Something was wrong—horribly wrong. The thoughts of trust he had toward Marcus had irrevocably receded into nothingness.
A series of smooth clicks sounded behind him, his quintuplet ostensibly aware of the danger.
Mason hurriedly raised his hand. "Don't!" he commanded severely. "In this condition, if he senses so much as a feeble threat, he will terminate it without hesitation!"
The awe-stricken faces of the Death Dealers didn't seem to comprehend their leader's message, awful eyes being completely fixed upon the black creature.
"Depart Ordoghaz immediately! Go—now!"
Still no reaction—only the convulsive and laborious ventilation heaving in unison.
Sensing Marcus virtually breathe down his neck, Mason crudely repeated the command: "Go, damn you!" His light-blue eyes incinerated with aggravation.
A powerful havoc thrust the clustered squad apart, each member reeling head over heels and into the respective walls of the security room. Dust and detritus flung about in the remaining gush of wind until all quieted three seconds later. The rubble dropped down leisurely, unveiling a vast destruction.
Marcus was gone.
All right, Selene and Michael are next.
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Upcoming chapter: Prowlers