Twice as High, page 3
The stones, dirt, sticks, and rubble swirled around him as if a small cyclone moved through the space. The wind lifted him up, only to drop him hard onto the sarcophagus, breaking his neck, while a jagged piece of wood pierced his heart.
This life wasn’t meant to be his after all. With one last gasp, he exhaled the final breath of his vampiric life.
The last thing he heard was the chanting of his brethren. But they’d been no brothers at all.
A reptilian hand reached out, touching the cooling had of Sam’s body, and like putting on a new outfit, Sam seemed to fit.
He’d been sacrificed to the dragon.
This new body felt strange. Ragnar popped his neck back in place and removed the stake from the vessel he’d been gifted.
“Hail Ragnar, the risen one,” the vampires above sang out, and he smiled. He was magic. The seeds of the gods created him, after all.
A fulfilled life should have been his. What had once been regarded as depression had morphed into anger and now rage. For centuries, stuck in that chasm between life and death, he’d been planning, while watching the Order of the Dragon rise, the supernatural fall prey to their lies.
And the time was now sublimely aligned for the Order’s defeat. Their snotty-nosed Queen was kept in the Ether, unable to leave, and her brothers, his brothers were weaklings. They’d always kept in line, never receiving the ire of the gods.
But he’d show them what it meant to be free and feral.
How long would they continue to allow the one with the least amount of power to control their every movement? His plan required tools of the gods and one who could wield them. Only then would those things once held sacred, that were now locked away and discarded, just as he had been, be free.
Although they did not have access to Ymir, those godly tools might prove useful.
What more could they create with such in their power? Awareness.
They’d been hidden for far too long, falling to the whims of man. It was time for the supernatural to arise and rule, to come out of the shadows of suffering and feast.
It wouldn’t take much. Even a baby vampire could figure out how to stir up trouble with the right prompting, especially when one had terrible leadership ordering its steps.
Gathered with the shadowy figures in black, they all danced around the sacred flames, chanting: “Come, fellow witches, to burn so bright, summon the witches to scry this night.”
Their black cloaks fluttered behind them as if lifted by an invisible force. Tonight, they would use their seer and determine the first recourse.
As the sons of Ymir, the malevolent, the rightful heirs to the throne, they were prepared to take back what belonged to them: all of creation.
Slowly, with all the wisdom a dragon contained, he snapped his humanlike fingers, and blue sparks flickered.
Now, he was no longer Sam, but again Ragnar, eager to rise to his former glory. That was the thing about power and possession. Energy produced energy, and in that new body, it, too would meld with his magic, prepared to shift into his natural dragon form at will.
The accumulated magic had time to chip away at the dead, long buried.
As if devilish made, Sam’s network made nothing impossible for him. He had the social clout to open any door, with women and men throwing themselves at him, all willing sacrifices for his good.
But now it was time to raise his dead, Tauris, his dragon-made vampire. He’d have the ferocity of a lion, the strength of a bull, and above all, be magically imbued.
His Norse prayer caught on Valkyrie-protected wings, and the runic glyphs glowed, as if unlocking the chamber to be opened. Taking the holy scepter in his hands, he slammed it into the sealed sarcophagus, and it cracked open.
“Rise, my son, it is time that the world bows down in all of its glory to the new gods.”
He turned to the seer. “Tell me, dear girl, where is the relic?”
Ásgeirr’s Seer rolled her shoulders, craned her neck, and waved her arms, spasming in large movements. Her eyelashes fluttered rapidly, and she spoke words in old Norse as if summoning ancient spirits to guide her vision.
Two gnarled human hands inched through the cracked stones, and reddish glowing eyes flashed.
“Bring the sacrifice,” Ragnar ordered.
One of the cloaked vampires brought forth one of their faithful thralls, just as in the days of Vikings, when the chief died, so did those chosen to accompany him to Valhalla.
Ragnar was creating Valhalla on Earth.
The drunken women, who’d signed up at a recent Ren Faire, had enjoyed the pleasure of the nightshades, the rogue vampires. They’d snacked on them, but now the true feast could commence. One by one, they were pushed into the darkness with one loud yelp and a growl. Then another, and another.
What good was glory without sacrifice?
Together, they would bring the Order to their knees, resurrecting the most powerful of heroes to kill the monsters they’d become.
And he, wielding the power of the mighty dragon, would become unstoppable.
Even the gods wouldn’t be able to topple him from his place upon the pinnacle.
“Rise, son, for we must travel to New York to take what is ours.”
On command, Tauris pushed up from the crumbled stones. Fresh blood dripped from his chin, and runes appeared like tattooed glyphs on his face. He wiped the blood away from his mouth with the back of his hand.
“More, I want more,” he pleaded in his hunger-filled voice.
“And more you shall have. A city with millions awaits you to taste, and even magic lurks there.”
Tauris, his features now chiseled, the freshly drank blood again providing life, vitality, and youth. His gray beard changed back to red. The magic of the vampire made him handsome, even more so than any of Hollywood’s elite. His athletic but muscular physique filled out. He flexed and turned his palms over, and on them, were etched the three runic staves.
“You will be the hands to light the way for us, Tauris.” Ragnar then turned to the others present, including the seer who’d awoken him from his sleep.
Ásgeirr’s seer moved over from the shadows, a magical red dragon tattoo now glowed upon her oval face. Power radiated around her.
“But first you must continue to eat and change those here,” the seer commanded. “I am the rightful Queen’s lady, and you will obey me.”
All present nodded.
“And Ragnar is the Hand of the Queen. Obey him as you would her majesty. Disobey and feel our wrath.”
Ragnar then waved at the small group of men gathered, those closest to the brave Vikings and Saxons he’d once known.
The bloodline of the beast would live on, and they would decimate all that stood in their way.
Ragnar had been climbing toward this one moment for what felt like eons, and the fruit was almost ready to be plucked.
Reaching for the sacred Viking horn that rested in the grave alongside him, Tauris pressed it to his lips and blew.
This was the sacrament now fulfilled.
Chapter 3
Crew on The Titanic Replica
Monday, Present Day, Atlantic Ocean
On what some considered being as close to a replica of the grand Titanic passenger liner, much was like the ship of its former glory, including the voyage route.
Thick fog painted the fourth night, and the ocean liner’s bow cut through the icy Arctic water. In its wake, and even at twenty-two-and-a-half knots, it discharged the treated sewage behind them out in the sea as it pushed forward on its maiden voyage from Southampton, England on to New York City.
Light laughter had died out from the first-class dining, the ultra-wealthy, who dined on an array of oysters, salmon, filet mignon, lamb in a scrumptious mint sauce, and of course, chocolate eclairs. All the while, those in the third class enjoyed the fact that they were one minute closer to their destination, despite the fast-food quality of meats, cheese, and bread.
Along the ten decks, light bulbs dangled and swayed, illuminating the otherwise dark night.
On the starboard side, two sailors snuck away from their nightly duties for a smoke break. They packed away the fishing lines used earlier to capture that for the second dinner. However, at this hour, closing in on midnight, the ship had eased into its nightly routine. The parties below having died down, the rich and famous quietly tucked in their private and opulent cabins, except those playing cards.
“These here blimey blokes don’t know what it takes to create something scrumptious.” Enoch laughed and pulled down his warm knit cap even more to cover his already-red ears.
Meanwhile, his friend Montague rubbed his hands together. “There are more stuffed shirts than I’ve ever seen.”
“It’s because of the name change. If this were a simple cruise ship, and not a historical recreation steamer, there’d be no steerage here, instead we’d be upstairs with the stiff ones.” Montague let the older sailor speak his piece once he’d finished. After all, he was learning the ropes from the older chap, after having only served on one luxury cruise liner earlier, he’d gotten this position with little-to-no experience.
“Name change?” Montague asked.
It was an honor to serve on this historically recreated steamer, of course, even if they sought a moment’s respite. He wasn’t a snazzy steward, nor did he work in the Engine Room, but there was honor in being a sailor out on the open sea. Many of the men on board had worked with him on the other cruise ship, and they were hand-chosen to work on this luxury liner. Luckily, someone had put in a good word for him, as well.
“We have to take extra precautions because of the type of passengers, too. Not only because of the mail in the hold.” Enoch waggled his bushy eyebrows.
“Why are you a bundle of nerves? This is duck soup, I tell you,” Montague said. “We get fresh air and don’t have to deal with the haves and have-nots inside, a respite, I tell you.” He paused for a moment. “Those are the facts of life. I’ve heard there be ice in the water.”
“Global warming, or climate change as the protestors keep calling it, has ice melting and shifting all the time up here. We’ll be fine. “Enoch smacked his thigh in laughter. “They don’t want our lives.”
“We don’t have a shot at theirs.”
Montague knew enough about Enoch to know that he always had one thing or another to say about those socially above the crew. It wasn’t so much that the older man was jealous, but maybe just that he’d not been afforded the same opportunities. At last, things were changing dramatically all around. Even now, the #metoo movement was sweeping across the world for women’s rights. What would happen when women were given equal access and opportunities like the men? What would that mean for society when change came? Even just last month, he’d read about the fifteen-dollar minimum wage for many retailers and fast-food workers. That meant the beginning of more opportunities as well. The workers had unionized. Maybe that was what the crew needed to do, too, to strike to get a chance for a seat at the table, then?
“It’s a ship for the genteel—haven’t you heard the band? Snazzy,” Enoch grumbled.
Montague inhaled deeply on his cigarette. “Did you talk to the bloke who wanted to check the hold? Something about an important artifact we’re transporting? An artifact like no other, from the whispers.”
Enoch nodded. “I overheard it’s for the Greek exhibit.”
“Oh, an ancient piece? That is something you don’t hear every day.”
“Well, I did hear him talking about a Hephaestus.”
“I could use some godly fire about now,” Montague joked.
“I was on the way to retrieve the key and an extra set of gloves when I overheard that bit. I understand it’s under lock and in thick crates, weighted down, too, whatever it is. He was even able to convince the captain about it being a security issue for us all to do yesterday's mandatory emergency drill.” Enoch reached into his shirt and pulled out a cell phone, bringing up a picture of the crate.
In old-time fashion, everything needed to appear like the grandeur of the still-talked-about beauty of then. But that didn’t mean no one had sneaked on modern technology to send online.
“That’s why it was canceled?” Enoch scratched his face. “Maybe because the captain’s retiring soon. I saw him talking to that bloke about the cargo and keeping things safe. Where is it headed?” he asked. “Luckily, he put it on an unsinkable ship.”
Montague stared out at the black waters, dotted somewhat with icy patches. “I don’t know. I have a bad feeling about it all.” Suddenly, a large gust of wind blew, pushing the cold air toward them, and he shivered. It was as if invisible icy fingers played along his spine, sending painful prickling of what felt like a thousand needles into his hands and feet. He clenched his jaw until it passed. “Isn’t that what your wife said when you left, a dreadful premonition?”
Enoch grinned broadly. “And she’s never wrong. Of sorts. I promised that I’d send her something back.”
The ship stuttered, akin to a car coming to a hasty stop. Then Montague gripped the metal rail, squinted, as something caught his attention. The fog broke, and there in the middle of it, he clearly saw a female resting on an iceberg just ahead in the distance, visible because she glowed in a bright blue, the iceberg acting like a beacon of sorts. He raised his hand and squinted. A sea witch? A siren? He watched the creature gather light to create a warm golden orb. It grew ever larger, spinning and swirling, and the sound of whisperings mixed with that of the crashing waves.
As she disappeared, so did the glow along with her, leaving behind darkness.
“What was that?” Enoch paled, and Montague raised his hand to point when the shrill-sounding alarms rang out. Enoch paled further, which surely reflected his own trepidation. The supernatural was paying the unsinkable a visit.
By Jove, his wife was correct. Yes, this ship wasn’t unsinkable after all.
Chapter 4
Alistair
Tuesday, Early Morning, Present Day, Scotland
What did unicorns and merfolk have in common? Vampire stupidity. It made for a strange night.
In his study, Alistair sat at his massive desk. The room’s dark décor matched his brooding mood. A fire raged in the fireplace.
What did it mean to be a supernatural in this ever-shifting world? All of the siblings seemed to have chosen their ecosystem. Even now, there were fish that could walk on land. Did that mean that he, too, could one day glide through the air, again?
He stared at the confiscated alicorn—the unicorn horn was all that was left from the vampire attack, as the Order had arrived too late. He fingered the strange fluorescent, yellow-striped horn. The latest report from the merfolk around Selkie Island caused him even more concern. Usually they were safe from the goings-on of what happened on land, but even they had taken a recent hit.
He’d have to investigate this personally.
Gillianbusti, the dwarf-turned-boar, loudly snorted and snored from his position on the dais, surely running in his sleep.
There were two things Alistair didn’t get involved with in the human world: politics and their religion.
Those things proved divisive, but he kept track of how the human world influenced the supernatural. There was this constant tug. When things hit what seemed like the opening of a post-apocalyptic or even dystopian novel, that energy practically infected the supernatural communities. It never failed that this was the time that some sought to terrorize.
And that was what the Order was there for: to reinstate lawfulness.
That was the thing about being Nessie, a dragon, and the head of the Order. Not all tasks could be so easily delegated to another, no matter how competent his number one, Killian, was.
Alistair pinched the bridge of his nose, only to then rub his tired eyes to be rid of the blurriness. With a loud sigh, he pushed up from his chair.
They all had directives, and Alistair’s were no different. This mission wasn’t one that could be so easily handled by the others but required his attention. Alistair crossed his hands behind him and paced.
He felt the tension tightening his muscles. He closed his eyes, his office disappearing, and in that space, he called out to Leslie, until the image of her formed in his mind.
Taking in the small details of her, he silently watched. She sat in a black-and-blue leather office chair, before two monitors at her desk, he surmised. Her hands pensively arched over a keyboard. Muted light glowed around her. Her unruly, red curly hair was pulled back into a ponytail. Accented blue thick-rimmed glasses rested on her nose, and she chewed on her bottom lip.
This life, he’d bound up in glass. Darkness reigned. But for mere seconds in her presence, that darkness let in a strand of light. That was what it meant to be mated, he guessed. She gave him something he’d not been able to find anywhere else: a respite.
He simply stared, feeling refreshed from only a few seconds with her.
“Is this part of our connection?” Leslie asked. “You can now see me?” She didn’t seem too happy about the interruption, but then again, he also hadn’t knocked before entering her private moment.
The last few days had passed by as though on lightning speed. He’d had little time to consider what the changes of being a vampire might be doing to Leslie or how she was adjusting. He’d saved her life, but their connection was also there no matter what emotion lay between them. If something happened to him, she’d feel it, know it.
“Sorry to intrude,” he stuttered. He hadn’t thought that she’d be so keen in recognizing his presence. Perhaps their connection was even stronger than he assumed.
Leslie frowned. “No, no interruption. I can’t seem to stop writing about unicorn farts.” She pushed away from her desk to turn to him, and again, that feeling of being unable to breathe struck him.
She was lovely.
“Why are you smiling?” She raised a brow in question.
