Rominus

by Jonathan Amaret

CHAPTER IV

Six male students sleep soundly in a windowless bedchamber with walls painted in murals of forest landscapes.  Beautiful as the illustrations seem, their purpose is not decorative but to instill within the students a false sense of openness and freedom.  It is but one more way that the Aurelious Academy manipulates its scholars into remaining prisoners within its walls.

A seventh student lies awake in his bed staring at the featureless ceiling high above him.  It is Julian.  He pays no heed to the picturesque walls.  For over a year he has stared at them.  Dreamt of them.  Traced every curve of every tree in his mind and followed each path through the false woods until his imagination could sustain him no further.  But he will not grace these unchanging walls with his eyes any longer.  The door of the room is halfway open, and through it he can hear the constant pitter-patter of rain thumping the windows in the hallway.  Thunder heralds its presence by filling the air with a rumble as flashes of lightning briefly illuminate everything inside the room

Julian holds his opera book to his chest but does not open or glance at it.  In his mind there is no more time for reading.  He pulls out the dagger he snuck away from the training hall and holds it against his throat.  His hands tremble.  Dying by loss of blood is no painless task, a lesson he learned the first time he attempted it.  He remembers the feeling of panic that overcame him that night as he slipped further away from all that he knew.  And staring back at him from within that oblivion was no one to welcome him into eternity.  No guiding light.  No pearly gates.  Only the blackness that felt so vast that it seemed to go on forever.  And in that void there was no more pain.  And no more laughter.  No love or hate.  Good or evil.  Nothing to judge him -- yet no one to care.  It was in that moment that he realized the depth of his pain, one that ran deeper than vengeance. 

He presses the blade harder against his throat, closes his eyes, and hums his mother’s lullaby.  He breathes his last breath and holds it for courage.

Faint voices echo through the corridors and into the room.  They emanate from outside the mansion. 

The noise severs Julian’s focus.  He pulls the cold blade away from his throat and checks the clock next to his bed.  It reads: 1:00 A.M.  No one is permitted to wander the halls or much less go outside at night, and he knows it.  But he distinctly hears the commotion growing louder and nearer.  And he cannot recognize a single voice.  His curiosity grows more stubborn by the second, filling his mind with more questions.  He stares at the clock again and then at the dagger in his hand. 

“Fuck,” he mutters and hauls himself out of bed.  He slides his feet into a pair of navy blue slippers embroidered with his initials.  They match his blue pajama bottoms and the lining of his white t-shirt, both of which also bear his initials, courtesy of the school.  He sneaks out of the room.

Julian hides behind the drapes of a towering window in a hallway of the mansion spying on a group of armed, pale-skinned strangers standing guard all around the main entrance of the school.  They look and behave like soldiers but wear black light-weight armored suits unlike anything he has ever seen.  He spots another group of strangers approaching the house from further out in the distance.  There are several large silhouettes behind them, but he cannot discern what they are through the rain that impairs his vision.

Then suddenly, his eyes widen in disbelief.  Sitting on the front lawn of the academy is an armada of five stealth-helicopters.  “What?” he mutters to himself, wondering why he did not hear them land.  Unbeknownst to him, these helicopters are thirty years beyond state-of-the-art and fitted with silent electromagnetic gyratory and propulsion systems capable of reaching high speeds without so much as a sound louder than twenty decibels. 

Guarded at the center of the approaching group of strangers is a figure dressed in a magnificent scarlet hooded cloak.  He is shielded from the rain by oversized umbrellas carried by the same soldiers who encircle him.  His cavernous hood renders it impossible to see a face beneath it.  But for an instant, Julian observes the figure’s eyes reflect in the moonlight like those of a lion.  He is taken aback by the sight of it. 

At the head of the procession is a stern faced figure.  He too is shielded from the rain by a soldier who suspends an umbrella above his head.  His imposing outfit is made of black linen, red silk, silver lining, and gold thread which identifies him as one of authority.  It is Uri’s former pupil, Faustus, who is now the new Captain of the Rominus Army.  He leads everyone into the mansion.

Standing in the grand foyer is Philemon and his senior mentors dressed in ceremonial black robes.  There is anxiety strewn across all of their faces.  They bow to the cloaked figure as he enters the lobby.

Down the hall, Julian stays hidden behind the drapes struggling to listen in on Philemon’s and the cloaked figure’s conversation.  From his vantage point he can see them all. 

“General, allow me to present Aurelious’ finest student,” says Philemon in an overly formal tone.

Anthony steps forth from behind the senior mentors.  He stares only at the ground.  It is a show of reverence for the man shrouded in crimson.  He knows well what manner of creatures stand about him.  He has known the truth about Aurelious for months now in preparation for his “graduation.”  But nothing could have prepared him for this moment. 

The air is saturated with commotion.  Yet no one is speaking.

Philemon stands there, staring into the coldness of the general’s crimson hood.  But he finds no warmth.  

Faustus knows this silence all too well.  It is the sound of his master's agitation and discontentment, a quietness broken only by the deathly screams of those who have caused displeasure.  In Philemon’s eyes he can see the Grim Reaper’s reflection.  And from his breath he can taste his fear. 

“I was promised the one called Julian,” says the cloaked figure in a chilling voice.  It is Ivan who occults his identity beneath the hood, the same vampire commander who conspired against Vlad the night he and his fellow soldiers sacked Sultan Mustafa's citadel and palace near Constantinople.  He has replaced Vlad as the general of the Rominus Army and with his title gains the loyalty of every military force in the world, both human and vampire. 

Julian’s eyes shrink in suspicion at the mention of his name. 

Philemon swallows the lump in his throat.  “Unfortunately, there was some difficulty preparing him, General ... unforeseen circumstances that could not be helped.”

“Unforeseen circumstances?”  The calmness in Ivan’s voice is terrifying.  It is the sound of his poise and arrogance derived from the certainty in his enormity and omnipotence. 

Philemon breaks out into a cold sweat, a feat not easily accomplished by a vampire.  “I fear your orders to kill his mother came too soon. We had no time to wean him properly.”

Julian’s face suddenly loses all expression as his heart plummets into the pit of his stomach unleashing a chill throughout his body that he has not felt since the night he discovered his mother lying dead in a pool of her own blood.  Standing before his very eyes is the man whom he has sought all along.  The one who murdered his mother, destroyed his life, and stole his future. 

Ivan turns to Faustus.  In that subtle stare lay his orders.

Faustus breaks away from where he stands and walks behind Aurelious’ headmaster. 

Philemon’s eyes warily shift back and forth from Ivan to Faustus.  He tries to speak, but the only thing that blooms forth from his lips are the last few breaths he is certain he will ever breathe.

“My future heir is unprepared, and you tell me this on the eve of his turning?” says Ivan.

“You said never to contact you,” mutters Philemon in response.  Already he feels the frozen fingers of death wrapping around his neck, reaching for his soul. 

Tears fill Julian’s eyes and wash away the fog that once clouded his vision and mind.  And in that downpour he is awakened to a feeling more devastating than any he has ever known, a rage fueled by something more enduring than sorrow.  Hate.  He reveals the dagger he intended to use on himself from the waistline of his pajama bottoms.  His fingers clench the handle so tightly that he loses feeling in them as he inches closer to everyone in the foyer.  As he stealthily passes from one drape to another, the rubber bottom of his slipper squeaks on the marble floor. 

Philemon is the only one who hears the subtle sound of Julian’s slipper and turns to see what made it.  But before he can look down the hall, his face suddenly grows very still.  He struggles to draw a breath, causing his eyes to change color and radiate green.  Plunged through his back and out of his chest is Faustus’ sword. 

Julian’s face grows stolid with disbelief at the sight of his headmaster with a blade protruding through his heart.  He backs himself into a corner behind a sculpture and stays hidden. 

With the last of Philemon’s fading energy he pleads with Ivan.  “Anthony is stronger ... he’s ...” 

Faustus twists his sword inside Philemon’s chest causing him to grovel in pain. 

“I swear to you ... I swear ...”

Ivan carefully studies Philemon’s face.  His primal abilities are so keen that he can perceive the smallest variations in a person’s expression, behavior, breathing, and heartbeat which makes him a walking lie detector.  And despite Philemon’s current audience with death, he sees no reservation in his Etwa eyes.  The headmaster is telling the truth.  He gestures to Faustus.

The Captain removes his sword from within his vampire brother’s back. 

Philemon falls to his knees holding his wound and attempting to catch his breath.  He will not die from his injury. 

Faustus sighs.  His blade will go unsatisfied tonight.  He has discovered that being the second most powerful figure within the Rominus army has its disadvantages.  But soon he will be the “first.”  It was the solemn promise Ivan bequeathed him for his unquestionable loyalty and favor.

“You displease me, Etwa,” says Ivan to Philemon with an underlining tone of disgust.  “For your sake, this boy better survive his turning.” 

He hands Philemon a silver-encrusted vial filled with blood, his blood.  Such is the neo-ritual that has replaced older traditions of turning human initiates into vampires.  Would-be surrogate mentors from within Rominus send their blood in similar casings to rookeries like that of Aurelious and in turn receive a fully transformed vampire apprentice of the same race.  It is an adoption process called “fostering,” and it has become the vogue among members of the Empire who wish to procreate if they cannot apportion the time it requires to find and prepare a human pupil for vampirism. 

“It is nearly time for you and your students to lure our old king and his dog out of hiding.  Displease me again, Philemon, and it shall be you I feed to my krons.”

The mere mention of the krons forces Philemon to rise to his feet in demonstration of his competence.  To him there are many fates worse than death.  But to be eaten alive by a kron is the worst of them all.

”Thank you, General,” he mutters out of breath.  He gestures to his senior mentors, and they unlock a door hidden within the wall beneath the grand stairway.  It is one of many doorways that lead below the mansion.

The mentors usher Ivan and everyone else underground.

Faustus approaches Philemon with a grin and proceeds to wipe his blood stained sword against Philemon’s shoulder.  “Feed Etwa, you look a bit ... pale.”  He chuckles and enters the passageway.

“No,” gnarls Julian as he witnesses the last of Ivan’s men enter the passageway.  The door automatically begins to close.  Without a second thought, he jumps out from behind the sculpture and runs to enter before it shuts completely.  He narrowly makes it by a hair.

Julian travels through a massive unlit labyrinth of archaic underground tunnels following the sounds of faint whispers.  He uses his hands to feel his way through each dank corridor, noticing with every few paces the stone walls growing colder to the touch, an indication that he is descending lower into the earth. 

His eyes gradually adjust to the darkness, and he discovers that there is in fact diffused light radiating from some unknown source.  It bounces off of the walls just as moonlight reflects off of the murky surface of a pond.  He chooses to follow a path that he is scarcely certain will lead him to the source of the glow.  But as he continues on his course, the luminosity becomes denser until he can feel its warmth upon his skin. 

He reaches an illuminated fork in the road where a single candle burns down the last quarter inch of its wick.  Two roads diverged by a waning candle but he cannot travel both.  Robert Frost’s prophetic words ring new meaning for him as he stands there indecisively at a literal crossroads in his journey. 

A plan hatches itself within the recesses of his mind, but he is reluctant to enact it.  There is comfort in the warmth of the light, and he is hesitant to tread outside of it.  But then the words of yet another great thinker resound in his head.  He whispers them to himself. 

“We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light.” 

He takes a deep breath, nears his lips to the candle, and blows out the flame.  Pitch blackness descends upon him once again, but this time it is thicker than before.  The former warmth of the flame surrenders the corridors to a chilly wind and its bitterness only amplifies Julian’s sense of vulnerability.  His heart races, and he squeezes the dagger tighter in his hand.

After a few moments, his eyes once more adjust to the darkness and, as if by some miracle, enable him to see what he could not have in the light of the candle.  It is a faint glow radiating at the end of the corridor that lies to his right.  “Thank you, Plato,” he murmurs to himself as he walks towards the light.

Julian arrives at a clearing illuminated by an antediluvian chandelier hanging high above its center.  The eerie sea of darkness surrounding the clearing is so impenetrable that the light of the chandelier appears like a school of fish trapped in a whirlpool.  He looks towards the ceiling but is unable to see it.  His eyes also fail to notice the dozens of tunnels surrounding the clearing that lead in every direction.   

Murmurs emanate from somewhere in the darkness. 

Julian finds cover behind a niche in the wall.

Suddenly, Mai, the same Asian girl from the training hall, appears from out of the shadows and into the clearing.  She cries, looking for a way out, but she cannot see into the blackness that surrounds her. 

Loud grunts echo from within the shadows.  The sounds grow nearer until a figure bolts into the clearing like a runaway freight train and stops a few feet away from Mai.  It looks like Anthony and wears his clothes, but it does not seem human. 

Mai clutches her mouth shut with her hands, frantically trying to hold back her crying.

Anthony’s shirt is drenched in a deep shade of red from the blood that pours out of a ghastly wound of torn-out flesh from the side of his throat.  He has been bitten.  He labors to breathe and wheezes with every attempt to respire.  His once light brown irises no longer retain pigment in them, making his eyes appear ghoulishly white.

His movements are jerked and irritable, and he foams ravenously at the mouth.  Such primordial behavior is found only in rabid animals.  He grumbles and twitches his head aimlessly in all directions looking for Mai.  But he cannot see her standing only at the other end of the clearing.  With each passing minute, Anthony’s skin seemingly grows more decrepit.  The once notoriously beautiful

“Adonis” of Aurelious is no more.

Julian remains hidden and baffled by what he sees.

Anthony sniffs the air, attempting to track Mai’s scent, but his sense of smell is so dilapidated by his loss of blood that he cannot trace it.  Of the five human senses, the least resilient and therefore typically the first to wither with age are that of sight and smell.  But the most enduring of them are those of taste, hearing, and touch.  By not making a sound or moving an inch, Mai denies Anthony every one of the latter three senses and hence any chance of him finding her.  Frustrated, he growls so loudly that it practically shakes the ground.

She feels his lion-sized growl travel straight through her body, rattling loose her last ounce of courage.  A whimper escapes her lips. 

Anthony jerks his head in the direction of her sound.  His lips recoil, exposing his monstrous fangs for the first time. 

Silent tears roll down Mai’s cheeks, but she does not cry out.  And she does not flee.  Fear will not allow her to utter a sound or make a move.     

Anthony charges at her roaring.  And in a ravenous frenzy, he mauls Mai from limb to limb.  This is the fate that was previously reserved for Sal.

Julian witnesses her murder in abject horror.  It takes Anthony only a few seconds to completely mangle Mai’s body beyond recognition, but they are the most bloodcurdling moments Julian has ever experienced. 

Anthony pries himself off of her tattered corpse after satisfying his fill. 

Julian recoils behind the niche in the wall again.  His heart thumps so loudly that it drowns out the thoughts in his head.  It is the drumbeat of death playing solely for him.  And somewhere in that ostinato melody he hears the roar of his name. 

Anthony stands there in the middle of the clearing for a few moments, grumbling and wheezing, as his body lulls down from his heavy meal.  Then without warning, he collapses on the floor convulsing, choking, and coughing up blood.  He roars and whimpers in pain.  But just before it seems that he will die of his agony, the attack ceases.  And he is left lying on the stone floor completely motionless.

The silence is deafening, and it fills Julian with a gut-wrenching curiosity to know what has happened.  He sums up the courage to steal a peek at the clearing and sees Anthony lying there next to Mai’s gory remains. 

Out of the shadows appear Philemon, Faustus, and a handful of senior mentors. 

Philemon nears Anthony and turns his lifeless body over to clearly see his face.  With his keen vampire ears he can hear Anthony respiring.  His prize student is still alive and looking younger and more beautiful than ever.  He opens Anthony’s mouth to inspect his teeth and discovers a perfect set of vampire canines underneath.  He then proceeds to open his eyelids.  Anthony’s irises have miraculously regained nearly all of their original color.  Philemon sighs in relief.  Anthony’s transformation is complete.  He is now a vampire. 

Ivan appears from out of the darkness accompanied by a horde of soldiers.  The candlelight from above traces out wisps of Ivan’s hard facial features from beneath his cloak’s hood, making him appear more diabolical.  

Philemon gives Ivan a nod affirming Anthony’s successful transformation.

Faustus gestures to his men.

At once, two soldiers whisk Anthony away into the shadows.

Julian’s eyes smolder with rage at the sight of Ivan’s faceless disguise, his wrath suffocating his fear.  He inches further away from the safety of the niche gripping his knife tightly in one hand and holding on to the wall with the other.  He knows not what to do or whether he should make his presence known as the hero always does in Hollywood films.  Already he feels so far away from the protection of his hiding place and yet he has only travelled a few inches from it. 

Does he have the right to kill for revenge?  What would his mother think of him?  What would God think?  His last question strikes a terrible chord within the center of him.  All of his life he has played by the rules and arrived nowhere.  He had nothing, and still fate came like a jackal in the night to swipe his mother and tax him more. 

There is no karma.  It is the one certainty he has discovered to be absolute throughout his short but exhausting life.  Never have the true masters of the world suffered at the hands of fate despite the people’s certainty that they do.  It is the reason why those same masters toss their puppets into the fire of public chastising once they have served their purpose as proof of a higher power at work.  It is why slaves were taught religion and forced to believe that an all-seeing, all-powerful God condemned the killing of oneself or the murder of another as a sin worthy of eternal damnation. 

How else could the slave masters ensure their own safety while guaranteeing that their corporal property remained alive to do their bidding despite having no reason to live or procreate?  For far too long karma has remained the people’s greatest weakness, a control method for their senseless belief in trivial transgressions such as lying, cheating, stealing, and even killing, the very offenses that the masters of the world continuously commit to maintain their supremacy without concern for repercussion or reverence for any deity. 

Through the manipulation of humanity’s innate sense of loneliness and desperate need to fill that void with purpose, those masters have enslaved the world with fairy tales of good and evil that steal away any possibility of the people becoming shepherds of their own fate.  The “goyim” sheep must be made to loiter about the barn of ignorance for all time.  But heaven be damned if this sheep remains in the shed one more minute. 

Julian’s heart swells with fortitude and a burning desire to avenge his mother’s murder.  He grips the dagger tighter than before and musters the courage to pull his other hand away from the wall.  But just as his palm forsakes the stone, a tiny piece of granite secedes too and founders to the floor.  The crack of the granite hitting the ground stops Julian dead in his tracks.  Before he can think to react, he jumps back behind the niche. 

All of the vampires in the clearing jerk their heads in the direction of the sound with their eyes radiating like rubies and emeralds.

Julian presses his back harder against the wall fearing that he has been detected.  Moments pass, but he hears nothing.  He bravely peers at the clearing.  But what he sees robs him of his every moral fiber.  The clearing is empty.  And the only thing that remains glimmering in the light is a trail of Mai’s blood tracked into the darkness.  But no corpse.  His bodily sounds become so audible that he can scarcely hear anything beyond a voice inside his head that compels him to run away as fast as he can and not look back.  Never has he concurred so unreservedly.  He runs off in the direction from which he came.    

Julian sprints through the tunnels of the labyrinth despite his inability to see further than two feet ahead of his nose.  He is almost certain that he is travelling back through the same corridor that he originally treaded.  But something about the walls seem different now, and suddenly he is not so sure.  He comes to an illuminated fork in the road, but it is not the same one that he initially passed.  The candle burning brightly before him is new and of a different color than the one he extinguished.  A strange and pungent aroma emanates from the red wax, masking a more putrid one.  He does not recognize either smell and has no time to ruminate over the matter.  Indecision is a luxury he cannot afford so he chooses to follow the path to his left.

Julian comes upon a small lair within the labyrinth where he witnesses dozens of people dressed like prostitutes, junkies, and homeless bums locked behind three large glass cells.  Red candles lay all about the den, spewing fragrance into the air, but their effort to disguise the fetid stench of the room is in vain.  The odor is so overwhelming that he is forced to cover his nose with his shirt.    

The prisoners scream for help when they see Julian.

The shrill of their voices in unison and terror in each of their eyes inspires Julian’s dread all the more.  As he warily backs away from them, he suddenly feels something graze the top of his head.  He jerks back to see what touched him.  And that is when he sees them -- human corpses hung upside down from the ceiling high above him.  He gasps in horror.  The fetid stench is that of rotting flesh.

“Oh my god,” he utters noticing that all of the cadavers are attached to an intricate bloodletting extraction system that drains each carcass of its last drops of plasma.  This is how Aurelious obtains its blood fare for its vampire inhabitants through the kidnapping of society’s most forgotten and unwanted citizens.  It is an archaic, time-tested method that has been in use for thousands of years.  And it is but a microcosm of how the rest of the civilized vampire world obtains their food without sparking incidents that lead to public suspicion, investigation, and panic.

Every so often, however, a random occurrence involving a kron like that of the infamous “Goat Sucker” that terrorized many parts of Latin America requires the special attention of the Rominus Empire in order to maintain the existence of the vampire species a secret.  Tracking down a rogue kron and covering up its bloody trail of missing people and maimed livestock is an extremely painstaking ordeal, and if Rominus did not control the world at large it would be next to impossible to do so successfully.

Julian looks back at the frantic prisoners.  He knows that if he stays, Philemon and his henchmen will kill him in the same manner as they did Mai.  He cravenly chooses self-preservation just as he did the day he traded his young babysitter’s innocence for his guilt.  He stumbles away as fast as he can.  But just before he travels beyond the light of the lair, he stops.  Something within him will not allow his feet to claim one more guilt-ridden step.  He will not live as a coward any longer.  Or die as one.  He turns back around and rushes over to one of the glass cells.

The prisoners scream louder and bang on the glass of the cell as Julian struggles to unlock the door.  But he cannot override the digital fingerprint security device. 

The glass wall is so thick that it drowns out all of the captives’ screaming.  But the pounding of fists against the glass sounds like thunder.

“Stop hitting the glass, you idiots,” says Julian in a muffled voice.  But the prisoners’ frenzied desire to be liberated does away with any common sense, and they continue hollering and thumping.  He must work quickly before all of the commotion alerts Philemon of his location. 

In the prisoners’ mad flurry they each push against the glass, trapping a pretty young girl dressed in tight clothing and fishnet pantyhose.  She stares into Julian’s eyes, and for a moment his hands stop working to free them.  Her face looks haggard from the dry streaks of eyeliner running down her cheeks and the ruby red lipstick smeared across her lips.  She pleads with tears in her eyes, but he cannot hear what she is saying. 

“I’m trying,” he mutters back to her knowing that she cannot hear him either.  He abandons his struggle to crack the lock’s code and looks around the room for something with which to break the glass.  He finds nothing. 

But just then he sees a thick metal pipe running across the main extraction system of the bloodletting machine.  He grabs it with both hands, positions his foot against the machine for leverage, and heaves on the pipe with all of his might.  It moves only a few centimeters, but it does not come loose.  He lets go of it for a moment, takes a deep breath, and places his hands over the pipe again. 

“Please, help me,” he utters to himself, in need a miracle.  He heaves on the pipe once again.  Every vein in his body bulges from his struggle.  No lesser feat is this for him than a commoner’s attempting to extract King Arthur’s Caliburn sword from its stone.  He growls, and then roars.  Like a blessing from the heavens, the pipe finally gives way, and Julian falls backwards from the force of his wrenching.  He springs back to his feet and braces himself to smack the glass. 

Everyone inside of the cell grows deafly silent.

Julian swings and makes impact.  But the glass does not break.  Neither does it crack.  His face drops in disbelief.  The cell is made of a plexus composite of glass fibers interwoven to create a virtually unbreakable surface.   

The prisoners begin hollering once more.

Julian strikes the glass over and over again -- but nothing happens.  He turns his aggression onto the digital lock that secures the cell’s door and hammers away at it with the pipe until there is little left of the device.  But the door never opens.  He pulls out his dagger from his waistband and forcefully attempts to pry the door loose with its blade.

Suddenly, the prisoners fall silent and motionless again.

Julian notices their abrupt and uncanny silence.  He looks up and sees that every prisoner’s face is frozen in dread as they stare at something behind him.  On the glass he sees the reflection of a man.  He twists around, swiping his blade through the air.  But much to his horror, he is all alone.

“RUUNNN!”  The young girl screams as she bangs on the glass.  Her fellow prisoners follow suit.

Julian is left with no other alternative but to flee.  He scrambles out of the lair leaving everyone behind. 

The prisoners despondently watch as their would-be savior disappears out of sight.  And with him their last hope for survival. 

Julian rushes down a hallway of the mansion heading towards a side exit door that he knows will lead him to the topiary garden outside.  He must reach that maze if he is to stand a chance of escaping the property.  The vast amounts of adrenaline pumping through his body grant him the vitality to run faster than he ever has in his life.  He turns a corner into an adjacent corridor and accidentally knocks over an antique ceramic vase.  It shatters on the floor.  But he never stops running.  Directly in front of him at about thirty paces he sees his exit.  He steals a quick glance over his shoulder to see if anyone is following him.  But he spots nothing.  Just as he turns his head back around, he crashes right into Philemon.  And everything goes black.

Julian awakens with a jerk.  He looks all around the room, trying to catch his breath, only to discover that he is lying safely in his own bed.  The sun’s rays shine straight through the windows of the hallway and into the open bedchamber.  It was all a dream.  A horrible nightmare.  Yet his heart will not stop pounding.  He wipes beads of sweat from his forehead. 

Never before has his mind conjured visions so vivid that they caused him physical distress.  He can still smell the dank scent of the underground tunnels blended with the pungent perfume of red candles and the fetid stench of rotting cadavers.  He can still hear the screams of the prisoners he left behind to die within their glass cells.  And he can still see the young girl’s helpless face.  It all felt so real.  Philemon, Anthony, and the man in the crimson cloak -- they all seemed so terribly real.

“Hurry up and get packed,” says a voice in the room. 

Julian looks over at the bed lying furthest from his on the opposite side of the room and sees Sal standing over it, packing clothes into a suitcase.  His face is bruised and bandaged from the hit he suffered at the hands of Philemon in the training hall the night before. 

“Where’re we going?” asks Julian.

“They haven’t told us yet, but they said to pack warm and light,” says Sal without ever looking up at Julian. 

“When did we start taking field trips?”

Sal shrugs his shoulders.  “You missed breakfast.” 

Julian looks over at the clock next to his bed.  It blinks statically and reads: 12:00 A.M.  It has been reset and that is why his alarm did not sound for his seven o’clock wakeup call.  But who reset it?

“Did you hear about Anthony?” 

The mention of Anthony’s name forces Julian’s utmost attention. 

“He’s gone.  Left last night,” says Sal in a cold and agitated voice.  He attempts to stuff some of his toiletries into his suitcase but cannot angle his shampoo bottle to fit just right.  “Philemon got him some big job at Standard Oil.  He’s finally free.”  He takes the shampoo bottle and hurls it against one of the mural walls.  The plastic container bursts open, splattering liquid everywhere.  He stands there staring nonstop at the ground. 

“I can’t take this anymore.”

Horrifyingly, images of Anthony killing Mai invade Julian’s thoughts.  And in them he can hear the rumble of Anthony’s roar and the sound of Mai’s bone-chilling screams.  A bitter taste seeps into his mouth. 

“Mai’s gone too.”

“What?”  Julian’s face drops and suddenly his body feels numb.  “Where?”

“They didn’t say.  And nobody asked.”  Sal gazes at Julian for the first time since the start of the conversation.  “I’m a hacker.  Mai was a programmer.  And you’re a pianist.  Why the hell are they teaching us karate?”

Julian does not respond.  He does not know the answer.  But he has asked himself that same question every day for the last year. 

Sal shakes his head and goes back to packing his clothes.

Sal’s words echo over and over in Julian’s mind until he finds himself completely immersed in his own world.

A figure casts a shadow in the room. 

Julian sees the shadow and follows its outline back to its owner.  He sees Matteu standing in the doorway staring back at him with his distinguished ambiguous expression.  The boy’s gaze fills him with a great uneasiness.  Something is very wrong at this school.  He can feel it.  A voice calls out to him from the background, but it sounds so distant and obscure that he only faintly registers it in his consciousness. 

“Julian?!”

Julian finally snaps out of his daze and turns to Sal.

“I said he’s deaf -- he can’t hear you,” says Sal.

Julian glances back at the doorway.  But Matteu is gone.

 

 

 

Rominus

For over 11,000 years they have secretly ruled the earth through an ancient society called the Rominus Empire.  Bringing death and order to an already decadent world.  But within this kingdom lies an ancient prophecy, one that foretells of an imminent civil war between clans fated to spark the beginning of the end for the human race and of the mortal destined to stop it.  There are those clandestine few who believe in the coming of the new king 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.  Not for power.  But for revenge. Scheduled Release Fall 2010

Click Here to be added to the Pre Order List or Email us at Sales@CreativeHousePress.com and put the title Rominus in the subject line. You will NOT be charged for any book orders at this time.  We will send you a notice when the book is ready, and for reserving your book, you will receive a special discounted price. 

Author's Email: JAmaret@CreativeHousePress.com