Rominus

by Jonathan Amaret

Another Award for Rominus by Jonathan Amaret - Hollywood Book Festival 2011 gives an Honorable Mention to Rominus in the Wild Card catagory.

Congratulations to Jonathan Amaret for receiving an Honorable Mention in the New York City 2011 Book Festival for his new book, Rominus.    Click Here to Order

 

 Sample Chapters

 

 

HISTORY

 

11,600 years ago in Indonesia, a giant super-volcano known as Krakatoa erupted with the force of over 100,000 hydrogen bombs, ending the Earth’s last ice age and drowning the continent of Atlantis beneath a Great Flood of glacial water.  A once fruitful land that was home to a thriving civilization, fabled by Plato to be greater than Libya and Europa combined, left behind no trace of its existence save for the thousands of mountain peaks that formed the unnavigable Islands of the Dead.  For over a hundred years, ash strewn skies cast out the sun and its life-giving energy.  Nothing survived.

Or so we were led to believe…

 

 

 

PROLOGUE

 

At the birth of the Rominus Empire, two hundred years after the great eruption, two main races of vampires arose from the original Kali bloodline, each possessing its own unique abilities: the Ro and the Etwa.  However, it was Marcus the Great, a survivor of the former kingdom, who assumed the throne.

10,400 years after the beginning of his reign, an ever weakening Magi Marcus decreed that the Ro Clan, the strongest and most powerful of the races, would be barred from ascending one of their own to the throne.  The decree intended to fashion the Ro Clan into an independent body within the kingdom thereby creating an unbiased assessor of endeavors and protector of the crown.  The decree was also meant to preserve peace but the goodwill of such an order was completely lost upon the hearts and minds of those it made permanently ineligible to rule.  The truth behind Marcus’ decision however, was far more crucial to the future of the world than anyone could have imagined.  It stemmed from a vision of chaos and ruin, one where the Ro had seized control of the throne and sparked a civil war between clans that spilled over into the human world, consuming the earth in fire.  Before Marcus’ dream waned into oblivion, he saw the vision of a stern faced young man wearing the Magi’s crown; one who was a hybrid, the first of his kind, neither Ro nor Etwa, but both. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A voice speaks.  It is neither from this time or place but from the future, it is the voice of a young man named Julian.  His tone is cold and burdened.

 It is a sick feeling isn’t it, to be awake, to be conscious of its existence…the bad taste in your mouth, the hole in your stomach?  It knows your name, can’t you see?  It’s coming for you.  It comes for me…

 

CHAPTER I

 

1703 A.D.

     

Near present day Istanbul, the once great capital of the ancient world known as Constantinople.  The night is cold, dark and wet.  Snow falls gracefully to the ground from clouds that hover so low to the earth that they appear as fog, softly beckoning the land to join them in dance.  A great forest of Judas trees conceals a flat basin at its center.  It is early fall and already the sea of purple-pink petals that once adorned each branch like clusters of grapes, wilt into the wind, never to be seen again until next spring.  Not a single creature stirs in these woods, something has frightened them away and their silence echoes for miles.  Within the basin lies a citadel with massive stone walls erected so as to protect it from invaders, but tonight, the enemy is already inside its gates.

An army of fierce pale-skinned soldiers force their way into the stronghold, burning every dwelling in their wake like a virus consuming its host, but there is something strange about these warriors who each fight with the strength of Hercules.  The truth can be found in their glowing crimson eyes and within their mouths that house a pair of long ivory fangs, they are vampires, members of the Ro Clan, a breed of nightwalkers who have evolved with greater physical strength than the rest of their kind and with it, have perfected the art of killing.  They are proud and oftentimes volatile characters but nothing less is expected of soldiers who exemplify the military arm of the Empire whose name remains unspoken, especially by those chosen few who know of its existence.  Their black uniforms, made of the finest silk, cotton and linen, are of greater quality than even kings are presently afforded.  In their hands they wield swords forged of prime solid steel, a precious and expensive rarity in the olden days and armor and helmets fashioned in combinations of bronze, silver and gold.  The significance of the metals goes far beyond mere fashion as these are only found together in one region of the world, a land sought by more explorers, conquerors, adventurers, philosophers and scientists than any other location in history.  It had once been a place of inconceivable beauty and limitless peril, a paradisiacal Eden seated at the pinnacle of the volcanic Fire Belt of the Pacific Ocean, guarded by treacherous seas, uncompromising terrain, and frequent earthquakes.  The ancients rightfully called this place Taprobane the Charred Land or Golden Peninsula but it has been known by many other designations over millennia.  The Greeks knew it as Elysium, the Egyptians as the Field of Reeds, the Spanish as El Dorado, and the Celts as Avalon, but to the rest of the world it has always remained Atlantis. 

A pair of soldiers marches before their fellow warriors, carrying three black banners bearing a white insignia. 

 

 

It is the emblem of the Rominus Empire.  The crest represents the major symbols of science, mathematics and religion with one last non-terrestrial sign embedded at its center to symbolize the emblem’s cosmic origin, the trilateral insignia. 

Villagers and guards gasp in fear at the sight of the black banners, most have heard stories of these flags, horrible tales of death and slaughter, they know full well who has come for them and dare not lift a finger in defense.  Many hide, and some run away in vain.

“No one leaves!” shouts a vampire commander to his men.

The soldiers quickly hunt down the runaways like wolves chasing after fawn, and murder them by slitting their throats and stabbing them through their hearts. 

The sight and smell of blood overwhelms the soldiers’ senses and one of them even licks the blade of his sword, unable to resist the sweet temptation of blood just once.  They enjoy killing with supreme obsession and revel in the suffering of their victims.  It is this lust that has immortalized their image on the walls of tombs, caves and temples the world over, always appearing as tall, human-like creatures with wings.  Sightings of them however, are rare and often leave behind only the remains of the dead.  Yet, wherever there should arise a major catastrophe or massacre, people are sure to see them.  They are the hands of the architect, builders of the Empire and agents of the crown.  The world has known them by many names but none evoke more fear than the winged red-eyed Mothmen; Hitler’s fabled masters, the Superman; and the Men in Black. 

The Ro army pushes through the town, upwards and onwards towards the palace that overlooks the city from its center.

From a distant antipodal hill deep within the forest stands a pale-skinned man dressed in armor fashioned entirely in gold and adorned with a red silk cape that drapes off his shoulders, waving like a flag in the wind.  He is ruggedly handsome with prominent facial features, dark eyebrows and a strong distinguished nose.  His long dark hair is twisted together into one thick braid and bound by gold lace.  By all appearances he is a man in his mid-forties, but his barren, primeval eyes impart a story far older than that which his countenance dare betray.  He, too, bears the Rominus insignia, made of fine silver and fused upon his breastplate.  His name is Vlad Tepes, General of the Rominus Army and leader of the Ro Clan, but history has provided him many other names; Vlad the Devil, Vlad the Impaler and Vlad Dracula.  He is known as perhaps the most notorious despot to have ever lived and his legend has haunted the peoples of Europe since his supposed death at the hands of the Catholic Church and the Turks in 1476 A.D.  Over two centuries have passed since and yet here he stands, more alive than ever yet closer to death than he ever cared to be. 

Staring off into the distance, he watches his soldiers seize the palace at the heart of the citadel.  From this expanse, he can see every face and read every lip.  It is the gift of every vampire, but if once his supernatural abilities held novelty, now they bear none.  Secretly, he longs for this night to be the dawn of his demise. 

Nineteen days prior, one of the army’s most eminent commanders by the name of Ivan approached Vlad bearing information of the utmost priority.  In that conversation, he was informed that through the help of an informant, a human monarch from a town near Constantinople was discovered to have committed high treason against the Empire, a crime punishable by death.  As Vlad prepared to issue the order having the monarch put to death, the distinguished commander conveyed additional knowledge of a young man found living within the same town who had by his own volition mastered the Core Discipline taught to would-be vampire initiates in preparation of their turning.  Vlad’s interest in the subject was quickly piqued.  The identity of the young man however, was not revealed but that was of little consequence.  On that very night, Vlad and the bulk of the Rominus army set sail for Eastern Europe from their home in the South China Sea.  It was a trip that would have taken at least twenty days, yet they reached their destination in eighteen.  Throughout the entire voyage, Vlad was rarely seen, even at nightfall.  Most of his time was spent locked away in his quarters, occasionally visited by his second in command.  Night after night, the only sign of life was in the form of a giant Blakiston’s fish owl that flew back and forth from Vlad’s windowsill to that of another’s aboard the largest, most impressive ship in the fleet.  Attached to the raptor’s leg were small parchments, secret messages of which no one else was privy to and written upon them were specific instructions, orders for Vlad.  There would be more credence to this journey than the triviality of exacting punishment on a worthless monarch and his people.  Something else was calling them to Turkey, something Vlad had clandestinely sought for nearly three centuries.   

A rustling emanating from the bushes behind Vlad forces his attention.

A lone black wolf strolls out into the open, it had traveled a great distance to inspect a foreign smell detected on its turf as he foraged the woods hunting for prey.  It warily approaches Vlad, sniffing the air around him, not recognizing the scent.  Nevertheless, the wolf senses something strange about this trespasser, something unlike any past predator or prey ever encountered, and for that reason is not quick to act violently.  The wolf bobs and weaves its head back and forth, never taking his eyes off Vlad, and with every step forward it reflexively takes two back. 

Vlad extends his hand before it and the wolf bares his fangs in distrust, yet it does not run away, curiosity will not allow it.  They lock stares and suddenly as if by spell, the wolf grows calm.  The feat however, is less mystical than can be imagined.  By emitting ultralow-frequency vibrations through the use of telepathy, Vlad stimulated the wolf’s pituitary gland, increasing the release of oxytocin and vasopressin, which heightened the wolf’s feelings of trust thus encouraging the bond.

“Come,” calls Vlad, neither by meekness nor command.

The wolf steps forward and allows Vlad’s fingers to scratch its ears.  It has never felt this type of touch and the experience is both electrifying and soothing.  

Vlad stares out at the burning citadel once more.  “Look at them, sheep and their lamb.  Who will weep for them?  God?” he scoffs.  “We too are pawns, merely pawns.” 

The wolf whines and licks Vlad’s hand, wanting him to continue fondling its ears.  It is no longer as if under a spell and yet the bond between them remains.

Vlad turns to the creature and it, in turn, looks to him, both staring into each other’s eyes seemingly as equals.  “Pray for me...for my forgiveness that I may see my son again,” Vlad quietly asks the wolf. 

The rhythmic sound of approaching footsteps causes the wolf to quickly break away from Vlad’s touch and it scurries back into the forest.

An elder vampire dressed in armor less splendid than that of Vlad’s yet more elaborate than that of a mere soldier, approaches from a narrow trail.  His name is Uri, Captain of the Rominus Army and Vlad’s closest confidant.  He tries concealing his labored breathing and unsteadiness but it is clear that he is past his prime.  “My General, it has been secured.”

Vlad’s eyes harden hiding the weight within.  The thought of having made this trip in vain churns his stomach in such a way that he feels at the very brink of collapse.  

“From His Majesty,” says Uri, retrieving a blood-filled gold encrusted vial from his pocket, handing it to Vlad, “If he is here, we will find him.” 

Few within Rominus boast a closer bond than the General and his Captain.  It is a friendship forged on the battlefields of countless wars, one without secrets or separate loyalties, and although Uri is many centuries Vlad’s senior, that does not lessen the respect for his General.  There is no one Vlad trusts more with his life, nor anyone Uri would rather give his for.  

Vlad broodingly stares at the vial, within it lies the gateway to his freedom but all that is missing now, is the key.  He walks away with Uri, back through the forest and down the hill, counting every step as if it were his last.

     

Inside the open courtyard of the palace, the Ro soldiers round up many well dressed prisoners and force them to their knees.  They are all members of the royal and Boyar families who rule the lands of the surrounding areas, but by the look on their fear stricken faces, they have never had the misfortune of witnessing vampires in the flesh.

The soldiers also herd a group of nearly forty frightened young males, ranging in age from four to twenty five.  The majority of them are dressed in soot-covered peasant garb, while a handful sport regal clothes identifying them as sons of the nobles.  The youngest boys cry, waiting to be reunited with their parents, some of which stand among the adult prisoners gathered on the opposite side of the courtyard.

The night steadily grows colder.

In a corner of the courtyard stands a commander dressed mostly of silver and bronze armor, presiding over a handful of soldiers holding several human guards prisoner.  He is the reason they stand upon this foreign land for it was his informant who revealed that treason had been committed against Rominus.  He is Ivan, a vampire seemingly in his fifties whose burly frame, thick beard, grayish receding hairline, arched brows, deep hazel-green eyes, and protruding forehead make his appearance look more demonic than his fellow comrades.  His very gaze and gesture exude an audacity that recognizes no authority from either death or God.  He stares at a pair of black stallions tied to a wooden post a few paces away, they belong to the human lords of the palace and they, too, have never locked eyes with a vampire until this night. 

Both steeds whimper and jostle around, trying to escape their bonds.  They can smell the scent of death on each soldier’s breath and it spooks them mightily. 

Ivan approaches the stallions and they grow even more frantic.  He stops next to them and lulls their excitement by holding out his hands in front of him and shushing them gently.  The horses calm their nerves enough for him to pet them and, as he does, he whispers a rhyme into one of their ears with a raspy yet clear voice.    

“There once was a boy long ago who had a steed like you.  But father Troy hated the boy and now that steed is stew.” 

He chuckles doing his best to appear refined despite lacking the necessary blue in his blood, but underneath his apparent delight is an underlying tone of resentment.  Ivan’s rhyme is more than impromptu poetry; it is the memory of a time long ago.  He dares not narrate his misfortune in prose for fear that his memories might blossom into such vivid thoughts that they return to destroy what little they left of his sanity.  “Oh, you are a magnificent beast,” he whispers, “‘A little too magnificent,’ grumbled my father...”  Without warning, Ivan rips out the stallion’s throat with a single swipe of his bare hand and the animal falls dead to the ground. 

The other stallion jerks back so violently startled that it nearly snaps its own neck breaking its reins free of the wooden post.  It darts off into the courtyard but as it passes one stern-faced soldier, it suddenly trips over itself, collapsing dead on the ground with a loud thud.  The stallion’s throat and entire side have been sliced clean through, an attack delivered so swiftly that the horse’s body continues twitching for a while. 

The stern-faced soldier holds a bloodied sword in his hand, his face displaying no pity.  It was he who had run the animal down for the simple reason that the sound of hoofs tramping on the ground dampened the melody of prisoners weeping.  His name is Faustus, a tall clean-shaven lieutenant who serves directly under the command of Captain Uri.  His small eyes and strong jaw rob him of good looks but accentuate a desire to be taken seriously.  

Ivan nods at Faustus then notices his sullied hand.  The stench of the horse’s blood soaking his fingers disgusts him like the smell of rancid milk.  “Soldier?” he calls sharply, holding out his hand.

A soldier rushes over with a rag and proceeds to wipe the blood from his commanding officer’s fingers, careful not to leave a trace behind.

Ivan spots a single strand of horse hair lying over his breastplate and immediately, his face prunes as he removes it with the tips of his forefinger and thumb.  He growls grinding his teeth, his lips itching with the desire to order his soldiers fetch him a new breastplate, but he endures his acute suffering, unwilling to miss a moment of this night. 

“Commander?” a soldier calls out, directing Ivan’s attention to another soldier standing over the carcass of the horse Ivan had slaughtered.

The soldier’s name is Augustus, Ivan’s lieutenant commander, a stout fellow, seemingly in his early-fifties, with an intimidating yet gentle face.  He stares into the glassy eyes of the stallion lying tattered on the ground and sees his reflection staring back at him.  In that mirror image, he sees every detail of his face yet he no longer recognizes himself. 

Ivan sucks his teeth in disapproval, if there is one thing he despises more than getting dirty, it is the sight of weakness.  “Augustus, if you wish to mourn the death of yet another one of God’s little creatures, please do so in private lest you embarrass the rest of us before the presence of these humans.”

The other soldiers break into laughter.

“Attention!” orders one.

Every soldier immediately snaps to attention holding his right fist over his heart, thus commencing the first movement of the traditional Rominus three-part salute followed by the raising of the right hand into the air in what became commonly recognized as the Nazi salute then finally bringing the hand over the right eyebrow in what also gave rise to the traditional American military salutation. 

Ivan spits on the ground before assuming the subordinate stance, his subtle way of protesting his inferior rank, a status he would do anything to change. 

Vlad enters the courtyard accompanied by Uri and an entourage of guards.  With him, he carries the immensity of his prominence, a fame that seemingly weighs down the air itself.      

The soldiers grow deathly silent.  It is the sound of reverence for their General and that of fear. 

Vlad wastes no time in approaching the group of young male prisoners.  He eyes each boy carefully searching for the right one, every ounce of him struggling to mask the desperation gleaming in his eyes, but as one disappointment follows another, his anticipation turns to anger.

Uri nears Vlad, “All are accounted for My General, every boy in the citadel.  Lieutenant Bathory found them hiding in the lower keep,” he states.

Ivan watches Vlad and Uri with the sharpness of a vulture, knowing exactly what they seek, or rather, whom.  He signals to his men guarding the adult prisoners on the other side of the quad. 

Two soldiers bring forth a femininely painted fat man dressed in exotic furs.  He is the outward reason for tonight’s invasion, accused of committing treason against the Empire and breaking its highest law.  It is the very crime that cost a Greek thinker his life when he boldly wrote the Timaeus and the Critias, the two famous dialogues on Atlantis that in code revealed its true location.  His name was Plato.  

“General, I present Sultan Mustafa II,” says Ivan, his voice lofty and almost musical.  Already he speaks as if he were in command.

Vlad does not turn away and persists in studying each of the boy’s faces once more.  He is waiting for something yet he does not know what it could be.  His instructions said that he would know whom he seeks at first sight but he senses nothing in these human hatchlings. 

“General, you have been deceived,” exclaims Mustafa, “I never threatened to expose you!  That is a lie!  Haakon is the one who…” 

Ivan clutches Mustafa by the throat and lifts him into the air, his irises glowing red as blood.  “Silence, human…” he seethes.

Mustafa chokes from the might of Ivan’s death grip, which feels like a giant pincer forced around his neck.

“Enough!” commands Uri.

Ivan drops Mustafa who rolls around the dirt coughing and struggling to catch his breath.  He is fortunate, if Ivan had so desired he could have crushed Mustafa’s windpipe with less effort than it takes to snap a twig.

“General?” asks Uri, respectfully attempting to gain some response.

Vlad takes in a sharp breath, fighting the urge to be impetuous.  Inside he feels anxiety straining his lungs until he cannot draw breath.  “He is not here,” he murmurs to Uri with a blank stare.

Uri snaps his fingers and Faustus and a female soldier draw swords and approach the group of children.  She, too, is Uri’s apprentice and his doted one by far.  Her name is Lieutenant Erzsebeth Bathory, the Blood Countess of Hungary, seemingly still in her early fifties despite historic accounts of her death at Cachtice Castle, nearly a century ago.  In every way she is the embodiment of an Amazonian.  She is notably tall yet femininely framed, a strong-willed brute by nature, yet refined by her aristocratic mannerisms and swagger.  A soldier once jokingly referred to her as a “Scythian raised on the isle of Lesbos.”  Insulted, Lieutenant Bathory killed him twice before he hit the ground and till this day no one has dared call her anything but by her proper title.  

“No, please!  Mercy, mercy!” cry out the adult prisoners, begging for their children to be spared. 

The soldiers muffle depraved laughs amongst themselves, except for one, Augustus.  He says nothing as he watches everything unfold with peculiar aversion.

Ivan turns to his lieutenant commander, “Do not assume simply because your father is King that you may reserve yourself from the common duties of a real soldier, Augustus,” gesturing for him to join Bathory and Faustus. 

Augustus reluctantly unsheathes his sword and makes his way over to the group of children.  His is an ironic story far older than any vampire standing in the courtyard, including those of his commanding officers, Vlad, Uri and Ivan.  And if truth be known, all of them once knew him as their mentor.  He never imagined however, that one day they would all outrank him.  It has been the embarrassment of his life, one that he has never lived down.  

Vlad turns to leave with Uri when suddenly a small rock strikes him in the back; his feet come to a sudden stop.

Everyone reacts and the courtyard grows deathly silent. 

Vlad turns ominously and sees Lieutenants Bathory and Faustus holding their blades to the throat of a ten year old boy, a pauper who stands unwaveringly in front of all the others.  Both Lieutenants glare at each other in rivalry, hankering for the pleasure of slaying the boy.

Vlad slowly approaches the boy, the sound of his boots crunching tiny gravel beneath them is unnerving and it encourages the youngster to find the limit of his bravery.  He stands over him, his shadow enveloping the boy’s body like a shroud. 

A chill runs up the youth’s spine causing his knees to buckle but he does not fall.  He stands defiantly as before and swallows hard, his little heart beating out the notes to his own requiem.

Vlad eyes the child, studying him closer than he had previously.  He senses nothing about him beyond the ordinary yet, there is something strangely familiar about the boy’s face.  Every curve of his tiny nose, twist of his sandy hair and the green in his eyes reminds him of a child he once knew, a child he had once called son.  For a moment, Vlad loses himself to memories so blissful they seem terrifying.  He remembers holding his son’s small lifeless hand in his and the stench of iron rising from the pool of blood that wet the dank floor at his knees.  His sadness had formed tiny pools within that crimson pool, each without demand of ripples.  Those were the last tears he ever shed, on his final night as a mortal. 

“General?” asks Uri.

Vlad snaps out of his stupor, reflexively drawing his sword from its sheath with blinding speed and handing it to Uri.  He slowly backs away, his eyes frozen in disbelief at what he has done.

As blood drips to the ground from the blade in Uri’s hand, the boy topples over, dead.  

“Constantine!” his mother cries out in grief, running to her child.

All the prisoners scream at the sight, some panic and attempt to flee but the soldiers seize them at the points of their swords, their eyes glaring red. 

As the woman rushes to her son, she passes Ivan who unsheathes his sword and strikes so swiftly that no human eye sees the blow.  The mother’s stride slows until she is forced to drag herself on the ground the rest of the way to her son’s body, leaving a bloody trail in her wake.  Tears fog her vision but she presses on, not wanting to lose sight of her son’s silhouette lying on the cold stone. 

Vlad and his soldiers back away as the woman finally reaches her child.  Desperately clutching her son in her weakening arms, she joins him in eternal sleep.    

Ivan stares at the scene with a smile, taking in every detail of their tragedy like a painter assessing his work of art.  

Vlad however, stares at the same sight unable to move, speak, or summon a thought.  He turns to the adult prisoners for the first time since entering the palace and they gaze back fearfully.  Mercy entreats that he spare their lives however, logic and duty persuade otherwise.  Upon him, he feels the eyes of his soldiers, waiting for him to do that which has made him legendary.  Left with no alternative, Vlad addresses the prisoners, his voice shaken and laden with guilt, “The price of treason is torture till death,” he steels his nerves to speak his last words, “Remember my leniency this night.” 

The prisoners say nothing, finding no use for words.  The die is cast, and all they can do is cling to the memories that flash before their eyes.

Vlad walks away, concealing his anguish with poise but the longer he remains in the open the more vulnerable he feels, and so he hastens his gait. 

“Mustafa, General?” asks Ivan but Vlad does not stop. 

Uri gestures to Ivan, forcing his attention, “Make it quick,” he orders, walking off to accompany Vlad.

“Yes sir,” replies Ivan with a devilishly soft voice, whistling a tune as he unsheathes his blood stained sword, approaching Mustafa.

“No, wait…please...I’ve been framed!” pleads Mustafa, his manliness vanishing instantly as he shrieks.

“I believe you…” answers Ivan then beheads Mustafa with a flick of his blade.  The Sultan’s head falls to the ground rolling to a stop several feet from his body, the long jet-black curls he had worn were simply a wig, he was bald underneath. 

Ivan turns to his soldiers with a nod and they unsheathe their swords and proceed.  The dying cries of the children and adults echo throughout the palace, filling the night with the sounds of Hell.

 

Outside of the citadel’s main entrance sits a massive and regal carriage guarded by three legions of soldiers.  Over the muscular bodies of the horses that pull the coach are the tricolors of the Magi, that of Imperial purple, Royal blue and gold.  Tall banners of both the Rominus insignia and the Magi’s royal colors are posted all about.

Vlad and Uri approach the outskirts of a long line of sentry forming a human shield, protecting the Magi’s carriage. 

“Attention!” orders a soldier.

The barrier parts like the Red Sea and the soldiers form an arched corridor of inward pointing swords held high above their heads.  Their cadence and precision is uncanny, the advantage of possessing abilities that far surpass human comprehension.

Uri looks to his General who stares endlessly at the ground.  “Are you well, My General?” he asks with genuine concern.

Without answer, Vlad proceeds through the gauntlet towards the Magi’s carriage where two elegantly dressed figures await. 

To the left is Adyus, an androgynous vampire apparently in his early thirties whose long hair, flamboyantly styled in braids and lace, makes him appear even more feminine. 

The other vampire however, differs from Adyus in nearly all respects.  He is an old, gray man with pale leathery skin and a hard face, an aristocrat who possesses clout so grand that his title of High Patriarch of Greater Europa has replaced his name entirely.  The Patriarch’s face prunes at the sight of Vlad approaching.  As a mortal, Vlad Dracula had behaved even more like a vampire, wreaking havoc throughout the Eastern European countryside while using appalling tactics never before conceived for battle against any enemy who had stood in his way.  As a result, Vlad had struck fear into the hearts of the ruling families who served the Rominus Empire and thus caused the Patriarch much grief, he never forgave his insolence.

Adyus tucks his elegantly adorned hair behind his ear and fixes his collar as Vlad nears, something about this virile General attracts and it is not simply his physique, it is the power he wields that interests Adyus so.  “Truly a great victory, My General,” he states shyly with much allure.

“Hold your tongue, Adyus,” demands the Patriarch, repulsed by Adyus’ obvious flirtation, “Etwa do not address their Ro inferiors thusly.” 

Adyus stifles himself by lowering his gaze, not daring to challenge the Magi’s right hand.

Vlad and the Patriarch glare at one another.  Long before Vlad became a vampire and joined the Rominus Empire, his sole mission in life was to bring peace to his homeland of Wallachia and stop the Ottoman expansion in Europe.  It was not until he discovered that real power lay not within him but with another more sinister ruler that his true reign of terror began.  It was a crusade to free his country and himself from the clutches of their puppeteer, the High Patriarch of Europa, by striking fear into the hearts of the fearless, namely vampires.  That was centuries ago and his perspective of the world has changed drastically since, but the psychological scars of his struggle remain.         

“Leave us,” commands a voice from within the carriage.

The Patriarch bitterly pries his eyes away from Vlad and leaves with an arrogant stride.

“Truly a great victory, General,” giggles Adyus with a final flirtatious attempt at gaining Vlad’s good graces.

“Adyus!” shouts the Patriarch.

“Coming Your Imperial Highness,” cries out Adyus, sashaying away gracefully.

Vlad steps up to the carriage and bows earnestly to the figure sitting within.

A regal figure nears the open window wearing an Imperial purple hooded cloak, every gold stitch and hook and every bejeweled button of the garment are handcrafted with the finest detail.  Soft wisps of moonlight trace the contours of a pale face and the snowy white hair of an aged old man who by all appearances is in his eighties.  The deep grooves of his visage betray a story countless centuries old like the telling rings of a tree.  He is Magi Marcus the Great, the vampire King of Kings and Supreme Monarch of the Rominus Empire.  Few in the world even know of his existence and fewer still have seen him, yet he has affected the lives of each and every being on Earth since before history was history.  It was he who had written to Vlad every night of their eighteen day voyage and until they embarked on the journey to this forsaken place, he had not set foot outside the walls of Rominus City in nearly two thousand years. 

The Magi’s sapphire colored eyes glimmer in the darkness as they stare out at the burning citadel beyond.  “How many times have I burned this city to the ground and to what end, I ask myself?” his voice resonates so tenderly and without effort that it could endear even the coldest heart.  “Heavy is the crown, my boy.  Heavy is the crown…”

“I slayed a child, Your Majesty,” Vlad somberly confesses as would a man giving contrition, “He was my son’s age.”   

“I know,” Marcus replies, “I know.”

Vlad is suddenly taken aback by a feeling of vulnerability.  “Do you read my mind, Your Majesty?” he asks firmly yet still mindful of whom he addresses.

“No, I can see it in your eyes,” the Magi replies softly.  Unlike Ro vampires who possess physical strength that surpasses that of any other vampire race, Marcus and the Etwa share a common strength in telepathy.  For the Etwa, as it once had been for their ancestors the Kali, thoughts are felt rather than seen and the emotional impressions of an event, idea or intent are more than enough for a telepath to unravel a person’s past and present.  The one concern for psychics however, derives from the “open bridge” created when establishing a pathway to another’s psyche, the very reason Marcus vowed long ago never to read the thoughts of other vampires, lest he betray his own.  That is why, at present, Marcus’ eyes churn with anxiety despite his calm demeanor.

“What if it were ‘he’ whom I had killed?” asks Vlad.  “I could have singlehandedly destroyed the future of the Empire.  Is this not insanity?”

“Providence is on your side, General,” states Marcus flatly, “No one can take it from you, not even the lowliest child.”     

“I will never understand why you chose a harbinger of death for this mission of peace, Your Majesty.”

“A shepherd’s flock will never understand the nature of a wolf.  Therein is the absolution of your sins.”  Marcus sees Ivan approaching, accompanied by yet another figure, a lean dark-haired, pale-skinned man in his early forties.  There is something not quite right about either of the two and Marcus senses it. 

As Ivan and the man near the line of sentry protecting the Magi’s carriage, the man’s hands begin to tremble. 

“A kingdom of wolves…” Marcus murmurs ominously under his breath, eyeing Ivan and the dark-haired man warily.  “How strange that Mustafa would threaten to expose us, his loyalty was always without question,” he expresses suspiciously to Vlad.

Vlad returns Marcus’ gold encrusted vial filled with the Magi’s blood.  “Perhaps it is time for you to seek a new courier, Your Majesty?

“Do not despair my juvenis acerbus, when the time comes ‘he’ shall find you, and you will know him to be King.” 

“We risk too much searching for him like this,” replies Vlad.  “How many more must die before we are discovered as traitors to our own kind? 

“As many as is necessary.  The races must be joined within ‘The One.’  There can be no other way.”

“You are Kali, Your Majesty, the very last, and for that you are honored.  But as you have stated, this is a kingdom of wolves and they will turn on you if it means seizing your throne.  My clan cannot be trusted and neither can the Etwa.  Perhaps it was a mistake to have made Augustus aware of our plans?”

“My son will not betray me, of that I am certain,” replies Marcus with explicit certainty, “It is the reason I did not turn him myself and ordered that he be made into a Ro instead, to give your clan some conscience through these desperate times…”

“Then he should lead this rebellion Your Majesty, not I.”

“No,” retorts Marcus, “Augustus has his own destiny and he must not be corrupted by the duties of your charge, which is why you are General, not he.  My successor must be left with a principled guardian, incorruptible and just.”

“And is Augustus aware of your plans for him?”

Marcus remains silent.  He has not revealed his intentions to his strong-willed son for fear that he may rebel against his father’s will and refuse his role in the coming war. 

Vlad sighs wearily, “This war of yours...we may never live to see it, and I…” he pauses before continuing, “I do not wish to see it, Your Majesty.”       

“Patience, General,” responds Marcus tenderly, “When you are as old as I, an age seems but a memory, a century but a thought.  Be strong my friend, you are needed still.”

Vlad stoops his head despairingly, it appears he will never be free of his torment, “It destroys me, Your Majesty…” he utters. 

“Then you must find him quickly...before it is too late for us all.”  Marcus disappears into the shadows of his carriage. 

The master at the reins whistles to his steeds and the team pulls the carriage away, followed by dozens of sentry on horseback. 

Uri approaches Vlad, returning his General’s sword, now cleansed of the pauper boy’s blood.  Together, they watch as Marcus’ carriage vanishes into the forest.

“I do hope His Majesty imparted good news?” asks Uri, clearing his throat with a labored breath.

Vlad notices Uri’s discomfort, he knows his second in command has but a few years left in him before he is forced to resign his commission, and this worries Vlad greatly. 

“Have you at last made your decision?” asks Vlad of Uri’s successor.

“No My General, I soon shall,” replies Uri with a tinge of concern.  Proclaiming his replacement will be no casual feat, it is a lifetime appointment and one that must be vetted carefully.  

“Choose wisely, I must continue having the best at my side in the coming war.”  With few indirect words, Vlad conveys his gratitude and praise to Uri, as is the way of warriors.

“Yes, My General,” answers Uri, saddened by the thought of having to leave his General’s side.  Over the centuries they have grown to trust each other like brothers and that type of kinship is never easily severed. 

“General?” croaks a raspy voice.

Vlad sees Ivan and the dark-haired man approaching.  They bow reverently to their General but the man, an obvious vampire, never again raises his head high enough to reveal himself.  Instead, his eyes shift from one blade of grass to another anxiously awaiting the right moment to do that which he has waited centuries to carry out. 

“Speak,” commands Vlad, his patience short.

“General, this is Haakon de Marinas, the informant who exposed Mustafa,” states Ivan, his manner unusually velvety, a fact that does not fail to escape Vlad’s notice.

“You have our thanks, vampire,” says Uri to Haakon, “The Empire will reward your loyalty well.” 

“That is precisely why he has requested this audience, Captain,” states Ivan, “He respectfully wishes to decline the reward.”

Vlad and Uri’s eyes narrow suspiciously, as no one has ever declined the offerings of Rominus for fear of offending the Empire itself. 

“In exchange for what?” Uri asks apprehensively. 

“Membership...into the Empire,” answers Ivan with an air of nonchalance. 

“And has he no tongue to speak for himself Commander, or are you now his chosen patron?” asks Uri condescendingly, assessing Haakon with a sharp eye.

Vlad stares at Ivan, dissecting his every gesture.     

Ivan cracks a tense smile, “I believe the General’s presence has stifled Haakon’s tongue, Captain.  I gave my word that I would convey his message for the services he has provided, nothing more.”

“This is most inappropriate, Commander,” states Uri, “I would expect this of Augustus, certainly not of you.”

Vlad sniffs the air and catches Haakon’s scent, “He is not Ro,” he states firmly.

“He is Etwa, General,” replies Ivan nervously, “As was his maker, who died before inducting Haakon into the Empire.”

“The High Council decides induction, Commander,” states Uri, “We are not permitted to make recommendations to the aristocracy by way of introducing a stranger into their clan, you are well aware of this.”

“Forgive me Captain, it was my understanding that the General is a member of the High Council,” says Ivan indifferently to hide the covetous look in his eyes.  

“A ceremonial member,” challenges the approaching High Patriarch authoritatively.

Everyone except Vlad bows to the old aristocrat.  

“As head of such Council, I say there will be no investments today,” declares the Patriarch, eyeing Vlad arrogantly with an upturned nose. 

Unbeknownst to anyone, Haakon secretly grasps the handle of a sheathed dagger concealed behind his back.  His hand trembles as he glowers at Vlad from beneath his brow, struggling to muster the nerve to draw it forth.

From the corner of his eye, Ivan spots the weapon in Haakon’s hand and glares at him with a look of warning.

Defiant, Haakon slowly inches the blade out of its sheath, forcing Ivan to quickly turn his attention to the Patriarch, committing the unthinkable by speaking out of turn to the head of his superiors.

“My Lord, according to the sixth chapter of the Thirty-Third Article of the Rominus Charter, a ceremonial member of the High Council vested by the Magi himself, may recommend any investment directly to the King for consideration, regardless of Patriarchal consent,” recites Ivan perfectly from memory.

Uri is shocked, as is Haakon who glares at Ivan, angered at having been robbed of his opportunity to kill Vlad.

The Patriarch pries his eyes away from Vlad and glares at Ivan instead. 

Vlad however, never removes his eyes from the Patriarch, every fiber of his being longing to draw his blade and stab the old vampire through the mouth.  

“So…?  Ro dogs can read,” states the Patriarch, invoking the derogatory word secretly used among the aristocracy to describe their Ro brethren.   

Vlad steps forward, standing face to face with the Patriarch, his eyes barren and lifeless, “Slur my clansmen again old man, and I shall feed you your tongue.”  

The Patriarch remains silent for a moment, rethinking his pejorative, aware that Vlad means every word of his threat.  “You answer to me boy, never forget that,” he formidably states, “And like the slaves loading your carriage and your soldiers who address you as Lord, so shall you address me.  Do you grasp my meaning?”

Vlad positions his hand over the hilt of his sword, eyes turning redder than the setting sun, “Do you grasp mine…?”  

The Patriarch chuckles nervously, “You are beneath me.” 

“He is weak,” declares Vlad of Haakon, never turning away from the Patriarch, “A coward and a schemer as well.  Confer him to the Etwa Clan with my consent.  I am certain he will find his kin.”  With that simple yet spiteful decree, Haakon is made a member of the Aristocracy, much to the thrilled astonishment of Ivan.  Vlad holds the Patriarch’s stare as he leaves with Uri.

“Yes, General,” replies Ivan, doing his best at concealing his sinister grin.

The Patriarch glares at Ivan with disgust, “Dog, I will not forget your face,” he threatens then storms off haughtily.

Ivan turns to Haakon, finally unleashing his disconcertingly crooked smile.  “Congratulations fool…”

Haakon lunges at him with the dagger but Ivan quickly reverses the move, landing him on the ground holding the dagger to Haakon’s eye.  

“You insolent trifling little bastard, you dare risk my plans with your stupidity?” snarls Ivan.  He quickly pulls away from Haakon, looking around to see if anyone was watching.

“You lied!” shouts Haakon, his eyes watering from the rage searing him from within.

“Keep your voice down, fool!” Ivan retorts.  Then lowering his voice, states, “I said revenge will be yours and it shall be...but not before it is mine.”  Ivan extends a hand to Haakon, “Now, get up.”

“You had best keep your word Ivan, do you hear me?  Remember, I know your secrets,” Haakon states conspiratorially. 

Haakon grudgingly accepts Ivan’s hand and rises from the ground but as soon as he does, Ivan clenches his fingers over Haakon’s hand and yanks him close.  The pain is excruciating and it takes every bit of willpower for Haakon not to cry out. 

“Compromise me once more and I will kill you myself…Your Majesty,” whispers Ivan menacingly then pushes Haakon back to the ground.  Ivan carefully dusts himself off, fixing his attire before casually walking away.  After such a long wait, his nefarious plan has finally been set in motion.

                 

CHAPTER II

 

PRESENT DAY – NEW YORK CITY

 

It is a snowless and late January night, freezing winds clear the streets leaving no warm body in their wake.  The bitter chill feels like hundreds of needles burrowing through skin and bone, and for those brave tourists who walk Times Square, nothing could describe their discomfort more precisely. 

Far away from the flashiness of consumer paradise sits a lusterless neighborhood to the northeast of the borough of Manhattan, a low-income quarter that is the literal antipode of the world’s image of The Big Apple.  To its residents it is known as El Barrio but to its myriad of neighboring communities it is Spanish Harlem, one of the largest predominantly Latino communities in New York City.  During summer months the streets bustle with sounds of children playing stickball as older women sit outside of their homes spreading local gossip and young people socialize to the fusion rhythms of salsa and hip-hop music.  On this wintery night however, these streets are mostly empty, save for a few bums, streetwalkers and local hoodlums. 

An old beat-up 1974 Ford LTD parks across the street from a local corner store, its tailpipe coughs and blows smoke.  The rumble of the engine rattles the car so visibly that the hood seems only one screw away from coming completely off.  The rusty sky-blue automobile, with so much sun damage and patch jobs, resembles more a Jean-Michel Basquiat work of art than an LTD.  All in all, this is one vehicle whose imperfections are often defended by its owner as having “personality” out of fear that admission of its shortcomings will lead to further embarrassment.  The LTD backfires just as the driver switches off the ignition, causing those few braving the cold to flinch, a common reaction to the sound similar to a gunshot. 

“Jesus, this fucking car’s a piece of shit,” grumbles the young passenger in complaint.  His name is Julian Angelis, a twenty one year old of Spanish and Mexican descent.  His long dark curly hair hides the handsomeness of his face yet accentuates his olive complexion and a set of murky eyes so mysterious that direct sunlight fails to coax out any color other than black.  These distinct physical characteristics reveal the true origins of his heritage, Romani or better known throughout the world as Gypsy.  Folklore often regards this ethnic group of nomadic people as mystics who possess psychic powers allowing them to foretell the future and thus divining a person’s fortune.  If that were true however, Julian would have already capitalized on those abilities and gotten the hell out of Harlem. 

A thumping of subwoofers coming from the distance begins to rattle their car as if the engine had been turned on again.  The rumbling draws nearer until it pulls up next to them, a brand new Mercedes sedan sits at the red light waiting for it to change. 

Julian stares longingly at the Mercedes.  What he would give to have that many horses tucked neatly beneath two tons and one-hundred thousand dollars worth of European automotive glory, he ponders. 

The driver rolls down his window releasing a putrid cloud of pot smoke into the air.  A young Puerto Rican male about Julian’s age stares straight at him.  He is dressed like a thug, wearing a baggy white hoodie, platinum chains around his neck and gold in his teeth. 

Julian tries to pry his gaze away from the driver but something prevents him from averting his eyes.  He recognizes the driver, his name is Tito and they attended high school together.  Tito was the school bully and class screw-up, and was voted least likely to succeed three months before dropping out their senior year.  Many thought him dead but as Julian sees, he is very much alive and well.

Tito gives a snobbish grin, he too recognizes Julian. 

Embarrassed, Julian shrinks back into his seat and for a split second loses himself in thought.

How can someone like Tito, who never attempted to do anything good with his life, have it so great? 

As long as Julian can remember he has worked hard to earn everything he has and even harder for that which he does not.  He has never owned a single article of clothing he wanted, but instead was forced to settle for what he and his mother could afford.  When he was propositioned by local gangs to steal, sell and use drugs, his answer was always a firm “no,” although it led him to be jumped several times by those gangs.  Nevertheless, he stood his ground, believing in his heart that it was better to be hurt than to hurt others.  But after twenty one years of wandering down the road least traveled, the only conclusion he’s drawn is that life is never fair, and eventually, you die.

The traffic light turns green and Tito showily guns the accelerator, laying rubber on the asphalt as he pulls away in a haze of tire smoke. 

Disinterested, Julian stares at the twin trails of black tread painting the pavement of the street.  His heart feels like that road, sullied and left behind by the vehicle of life. 

“Do you know that idiot?” asks the middle aged Mexican immigrant woman sitting in the driver’s seat, speaking with a Spanish accent.  Her name is Ana, Julian’s mother.  Her straight brunette hair, light complexion and button nose almost refute any relation to her son, but her dark eyes make up for all the similarities they lack.  There is a bitter sweetness about her demeanor, a disposition acquired throughout a lifetime spent living for Julian’s well-being in spite of her own.                 

Julian ignores her question and instead practices piano fingering exercises on the dashboard, trying to banish Tito’s face from his memory.  His long slender fingers zoom across the surface of the dash like the bars of a typewriter, performing double scales with supreme fluidity.  He loosens his collar feeling suffocated by it.  His button-down shirt, faded black slacks, and unpolished rubber dress shoes are the same ones he had worn at his high school graduation three years ago.  Nevertheless, his mother told him to dress nicely this evening and this ensemble is the best he could muster from his meager wardrobe.  From his pocket, he pulls out a black business card printed on thick paper stock.

 

Aurelious

Academy for the Elite

He flips the card over and reads the back.

 

Guaranteed Future

“What’s that, mijo?” she asks.

“What’s what?” he replies, ignoring her on purpose.

“In your hand, what is it?”  She reaches for the card but he quickly pulls it away.

“It’s nothing,” he says, secretly yearning for her to know exactly what it says.

She pretends to lose interest but just when Julian drops his guard, she snatches the card away from him with a smile.  “I’m not that old you know,” she says and reads the card.  Her jovial expression changes ever so subtly, dreading her next question.  “Who gave this to you?” 

“A recruiter,” he retorts.

She rereads the card front and back looking for an address.  “Where is it?”

“I don’t know where it is, the man said they’d contact me soon.”

“What is that mean?” she says, her broken English making a debut for the first time this evening. 

“Does.”

“What?”

“Does.  What ‘does’ that mean.  You’ve been in this country twenty one years now, it’s not a novelty anymore.”

She grows silent, watching Julian pseudo-playing scales on the dash.  She has always hated the way he corrects her English, mainly because he never does so nicely.  He will never know that most days she is afraid of speaking for fear that she will suffer another one of his harsh corrections, feeling more worthless than before.  She knows in her heart he is ashamed of her, she can see it in his eyes.  “You know we can’t afford private college.”

“Yeah, I know...just like we can’t afford to pay our rent either.  So, where’re we going without money, mother?” he asks sarcastically.  He tried his best to hold back on the sarcasm but in the end, as always, it just slipped out.

“Here,” she hands him a wrapped gift, reluctant to let his words hurt her on this of all evenings. 

Julian’s eyes light up but guiltily harden again, remembering the hurtful remarks he’d uttered only moments ago.  He bites the inside of his mouth, preparing to speak words he rarely expresses, “Thank you, ma,’” his voice leaden with shame.  Slowly unwrapping the gift, he peels back every piece of scotch tape as his mother had taught him, recycling wrapping paper and reusing it for other gifts is common practice in their family.  “Every penny saved,” was always her phrase of choice on such occasions, so much that he grew to hate that expression. 

“Every penny saved,” she says, right on cue just as he expected.

Her words stab him like the bitter wind but he endures, having waited a long time for this moment.  Julian peels back the last piece of scotch tape and takes a few seconds to bask in his turn of good fortune before unwrapping the gift.  Finally, he feels life has given him his due.  Smiling, he turns to her and she beams back at him, her smile a perfect reflection of his.  It has been a long time since she last saw her son smile in this way and it fills her heart with the kind of warmth only a parent can understand. 

Julian pulls back the wrapping with one yank and suddenly, his excitement disappears.  Staring at him is not at all what he had expected, instead it is a large black book entitled:

 

OPERA

The Essential Arias

“Open it,” she whispers with a heavy heart, noticing his upset expression.  She swallows hard and secretly crosses her fingers, hoping that what lies inside may meet his liking.

Julian’s face remains frozen with a look of wretched disbelief.  Somehow his hand manages to open the book and inside he finds two concert tickets to the Metropolitan Opera that read:

 

Melchor Cruz

IN CONCERT

“Happy Birthday, baby,” she whispers, trying her best to mask the melancholy in her voice. 

Julian glances down at the small words printed at the bottom of the tickets. 

 

SEATS:

THIRD MEZZANINE

That pair of words gaze back at him laughingly, a small reminder of where he stands in the great scheme of things.  A bitter taste of iron finds its way to his tongue and he swallows it down with difficulty.  “My strings aren’t coming, are they?” he asks, his monotone as cold as ice.

“They’re cutting my hours back again and…  Things…things will get better, you’ll see.”  She had practiced those lines hundreds of times in her head today and still, she fumbled them.

He struggles to stifle his anger but his efforts only make him more unable to resist what he aches to say.  “Third mezzanine?” he asks, chuckling sardonically, “So you’re accepting charity from work now?  I thought for sure you’d at least beg for something better than Tuesday night’s cheap seats...to see a, a fucking nobody.”

She quietly lowers her gaze, totally defeated.

Julian had always been a precocious child and as he grew, he became completely self-motivated, self-educated and thrived on barking orders rather than following them.  He was never a mischievous child but there was always an emptiness and cruelty about him that only worsened as he grew into a young man.  He was the product of a bastard relationship and till this day, has yet to know any father figure.  Throughout childhood, his mother had done her best to fill this paternal void, all while working multiple jobs to support them, but in the end, her efforts proved futile.  Julian had grown more distant with each passing day and out of pity she indulged him, perhaps too much.  Now all they do when together is argue about the myriad of things they lack, and it destroys her from within. 

“I’m doing the best I can,” she says meekly, a part of her questioning the validity of her reassurance as her sense of worth abandoned her long ago.  “If, you can start working again…”

“There are no jobs, mother...no one is hiring!” he retorts, interrupting her, “This is a recession, do you understand?” he asks not withholding his sarcasm.

“They say on the news it’s getting better,” she responds.

He scoffs at her and chuckles.  “And you believe them?” he asks shaking his head, “Gotta hand it to Reuters and the Associated Press, it’s so easy these days to sell crap on TV for one simple reason, people love the taste of bullshit.”  He looks at her astounded that his analogy went completely over her head.  “It’s a hoax, a game, it’s rigged, don’t you understand?  It’s simple economics.  If you crash the housing market and cause a recession during wartime, then everyone who owns property is fucked.  Meanwhile, good ole Joe six-pack sitting on his life’s savings and retirement pension, lies in bed at night after a hard day’s work scratching his head wondering why the hell he’s not out there buying real estate at rock bottom prices.  So he and the rest of the sheep, who think they know so much about the real world, listen closely to CNN and the rest of the Zionist-controlled mainstream media when they tell them to go out and buy up all the property they couldn’t afford anyway.  And just like that, they crash the market again.  And now ‘they’ have all the money, and ‘they’ own all the debt, and every citizen is finally their wholly owned slave.” 

Julian momentarily stares off in the distance at an old homeless bum sitting on the street corner who gazes sadly at absolutely nothing.  For as long as he can remember, he has never seen that man on a different corner.  The bum takes a swig of a forty ounce bottle of beer wrapped in a small paper sack.  His breathing is shallow and labored, speaking incoherently to himself.  Few will ever know that this man was once awarded the Medal of Honor for saving the lives of thirteen combat marines during the Vietnam War, an award often given posthumously.  Thirteen marines traded for the lives of three Vietnamese children whom he was forced to kill.  He was only nineteen years old when it happened, but the memory of those children’s faces has haunted him ever since.  They had once called him a hero, but whatever goodness he took with him to that terrible place, never left the jungle that day. 

Julian peers more intently at the bum, a strange feeling gnaws at him from inside, an anxiety he seems to have felt all his life.  Deep down he feels responsible for that lowly man sitting on the corner, but he cannot comprehend why. 

Why am I the only one who feels this way, he silently questions himself?

“Why am I the only one who understands, the only one who sees what’s happening?” he asks aloud.    

“Because you want to see,” she responds, “You can’t live your life believing all the stupid things you read, Julian.  There is no conspiracy for the world, that’s crazy.  It’s true, I don’t know about the recession, but I know that in this world there’s only accidents and God.” 

“Funny how you phrased that: accidents and God, and this from a person who doesn’t even understand why a dollar bill is only worth three measly cents.  Next you’ll be telling me that the sun is not round, or the moon, or the Earth for that matter.”  He shuffles in his seat uncomfortably and massages his forehead.  “We’re three months overdue and they’re kicking us out in five days and you spent our last ‘three cents’ on this shit!” he yells, holding up the book and wrapping paper.  He sits back, anxiously running the back of his fingers over his mouth, completely lost in thought.  Piano strings cost more than the opera book that rests at his lap and if she had bought them, it would have put them further in debt, yet that does not matter to him, despite his outward concern for their financial stability.  Strings were all he wanted, everything he needed, and for a moment as he had prepared to open his mother’s gift, he fooled himself into believing his luck had finally changed.

“We’ll find the way, mijo,” she says clutching a crucifix around her collar.  “No matter what you think, Diosito has always watched over us.” 

“Fuck your Diosito…” 

She slaps him suddenly and a profound silence overcomes them.

Julian stares her in the eyes with a look so impassive that he seems soulless.  He attempts to crank down his window with a vise grip which substitutes as the handle, but it jams.  He turns it hard but the crank’s grooves are so worn down that the clamp slips right off causing him to scrape his forearm and scream out, “Goddamn this fucking piece of shit!”  He throws the clamp on the floor and bangs on the door but the force of his fist causes the window to freefall inside the door shattering it within.  He clenches his teeth until his face reddens, but does not utter another word.

Ana exits the car unable to bear the torture of seeing her son like that another minute, especially on this of all nights.  The bitter winds tear at her the moment she sets foot onto the curb and she hurriedly zips up the old puffer jacket she wears over a black dress and matching long coat.  It is the same outfit she has worn to every wedding, ceremony, funeral and formal event for years, and it still smells faintly of mold due to a water leak in their apartment.  She takes in a breath of freezing air and exhales it with a shudder, a tingling behind her eyes presses her to shed her sadness but she denies its release.  All her life she has failed at everything she has ever strived for and, through it all, endured the kinds of hard times most people could never imagine.  Still, none of that compares to the pain she feels at this moment.  She crosses the street heading toward the corner store and wipes away the tiny droplets forming at the corners of her eyes.  With every step, the pressure of her tears intensifies until the levee breaks, unbinding the rivers of grief that freely cascade down her cheeks.

Julian, wearing an indifferent expression, watches his mother from inside the car, he sees her hands wiping at her face and he knows she is crying.  He leans his head back against the headrest and sits there quietly.  His anger and frustration have left him numb to everything, especially his heart. 

Ana walks into the shop, a quaint Mom and Pop corner store located on Pleasant Avenue just north of 117^th Street.  Over the years, this general store has changed owners so many times that the locals no longer know it by name.  It is simply known as “the store.”  She approaches the cashier who appears to be Middle Eastern standing behind the counter and pulls out the only dollar left in her torn billfold, handing it to the man. 

“Mad 7s, just one please,” she asks politely.

The cashier tears away a single scratch-off lottery ticket and hands it to her.  This is the one hundred and forty fourth lottery ticket he has sold today.  The recession has hit the businesses of this neighborhood hard and the residents even harder, it seems everyone is trying their luck these days and hoping for a green miracle, especially now. 

Ana removes her necklace and presses the cross against the ticket ready to begin scratching away to her fortune.  This cheap piece of jewelry has sustained her through all of their hardships in the last twenty one years.  It was presented to her by an old nun as she stood in line outside of Saint Cecilia’s Church on Christmas morning, to be served a hot breakfast.  For two hours she endured freezing temperatures and merciless wind chills, comforted only by the kindness of the homeless standing in line with her.  Each of them offered what very little they had to help keep her and Julian warm.  She was eight months pregnant at the time but remembers that morning as if it were yesterday. 

Closing her eyes she whispers to herself “Please God, just a little help.  Please…”

Back in the car, Julian flips through the opera book, jaded to all of the images of performers and stage productions past.  He loves classical music and understands it more than most people.  However, it is the slow death of true music caused by the overabundance of improvised, uneducated musicians and vocalists that has embittered him to the art.  He comes to a page entitled:

 

‘E LA SOLITA STORIA DEL PASTORE’

 

He sees a pair of words on the page handwritten in ink.

 

Mom’s FavoriteY

 

His mother had developed an appreciation for opera from the day she began working as a custodian at the Met twelve years ago.  It is an art very close to her heart and she often sneaks away from her duties to catch glimpses of performers rehearsing their lines on stage so that she may relive her glory days as an actress back in El Teatro in Mexico.  But for Julian, opera stands in a different light.  He cannot recall how many nights he had to spend alone with only his thoughts and books for company.  Silence became his only friend and books, their playground. 

When Julian was twelve, he paid his mother a visit at work only to witness her supervisor reprimanding her in front of her coworkers for sneaking off to watch a performance.  She tried explaining herself but all she could do was stutter and trip over her broken English.  It was the first time he could remember feeling ashamed of her.  The train ride home that night lasted an eternity.  Neither of them spoke as the train slowly emptied from one station to another.  There was so much she wanted to say, but her humiliation had stripped her of the courage to speak it.  Secretly, he vowed never to become like her, and she prayed for the same.  Nine years have passed since that night, yet the feeling of shame that burrowed its way into his heart and robbed him of his only hero, remains. 

Julian shuts the book and glances at his cheap wristwatch: 7:50 P.M.  He checks the start time on the concert tickets: “8:30 P.M.” 

“Always late,” he grumbles, swinging open his door and exiting the car. 

From behind a building, someone watches as Julian walks across the street and into the store.  A dim streetlight behind the figure throws his ominous shadow onto the curb.

Chimes ring as the door of the store swings open and Julian walks in.  He stands at the entrance, trying to spot his mother, but the place is empty.  “Ma?” he says with a nasally voice, still affected by their previous altercation.  He walks toward the cashier’s counter at the opposite end of the store but sees the Middle Eastern man lying dead over it.  Slow syrupy cascades of crimson spill onto the floor forming puddles at the foot of the counter. 

Julian’s body goes cold at the sight of so much blood, he backs away horrified.  He can feel the walls and ceiling caving in on him.  “Ma?!” he hollers, tripping over a newspaper stand that crashes over him, sending its contents flying in all directions.  He springs back to his feet.  “Ma!”  

One by one, he peers down each aisle desperately searching for his mother but just when he feels his heart will burst from fright, he finds her in the very last aisle lying face down on the floor in a pool of her own blood.  The world grows deathly silent as he stands there, petrified and unable to draw breath.  The opera tickets fall out of his hands and flutter to the floor.  He slowly approaches her body, powerless to register what he sees.  There is a painful lump the size of a baseball in his throat that he cannot swallow.  He blinks, hoping that he will awaken from this nightmare, but to no avail.  He draws closer to her trying to speak her name but no sound emerges.  His hands reach out to touch her but he quickly pulls them back, afraid of confirming his worst fear. 

He musters the courage to reach out again and touches her body.  At that instant, a stream of tears blinds him and he lets out a long quivering breath, realizing this is not a dream. 

Julian’s trembling hand moves her hair exposing her face.  Her skin is pale and eyes shut, appearing childlike as though sleeping.  The wrinkles that once enlivened her visage appear as dry creek beds and as his fingers slowly trace the contours of her cold face, he notices her chin stained with blood.  Turning her head he sees that her throat has been ripped open.  Shocked by the sight, he nearly faints.  His mother’s black dress and long coat splayed over the floor is weighed heavy by her blood, making it difficult for Julian to lift her into his quivering arms.  He raises his hands up to his face but through teary eyes can barely make out their bloody silhouette.  All about his mother the dark shadow of blood spreads across the floor seeping into the cracks of the linoleum.  Ana’s neck bleeds without pause and Julian places pressure on her throat trying unsuccessfully to staunch the flow.  With desperate irrationality, he vainly attempts to revive her by scooping handfuls of blood from the floor, pouring it back into her wound.

“Please, God…please…” he cries incoherently, trying again and again to bring her back to life, but the blood only drips faster than he can gather it.  Losing strength, he can no longer move his hands.  A painful sensation stabs at his chest causing him to shake uncontrollably.  Hyperventilating, he cannot breathe as he cradles her head in his arms and looks all around like a lost child.  His heart screams but his lips remain silent. 

In his mother’s hand are her crucifix and the bloodstained lottery ticket with three matching 7s scratched off, revealing a winning ticket, but it doesn’t matter now.  All of her sacrifices and suffering have led her to this moment, on this night, to this dirty godforsaken floor.  Never again will she endure hardship nor will she see her son grow old.  She will never laugh, she will never cry, her spark has faded, and her troubles are no more.  Ana is finally free and for the first time in Julian’s life, he is alone.

 

Rominus

For over 11,000 years, the survivors of Atlantis have secretly ruled the earth through an ancient society known as the Rominus Empire, bringing death and order to an already decadent world.  Yet within this vampire kingdom, an ancient prophecy foretells of an imminent civil war between clans fated to spark the end of the human race, and of the hybrid king destined to stop it by surviving the merging of all three vampire bloodlines within his mortal body.  At the highest levels of power are a clandestine few who believe in the coming of this new ruler and have conspired to find him only in vain.  But after centuries of searching and waiting, it is he who now seeks them, not for peace or power, but for revenge against the vampire who murdered his mother.

With the help of a dangerous group of renegades led by Vlad Dracula, Julian Angelis must learn what it takes to become immortal in order to stop his mother’s killer from destroying the world.