The Savior

Humans did have one big bene going for them, however.

They were everywhere.

This was something that, back when John Matthew had assumed he was one of them—or rather, a super-scrawny, mute version of one—he hadn’t noticed. Then again, humans tended to believe they were the only species on the planet.

According to their myopic point of view, there was nothing else that walked upright on two legs, had hyper-deductive reasoning, gave birth to live young, etc. And the only things with fangs were dogs, tigers, lions, and the like.

Everybody wanted to keep it that way—

Wrath entered the room and a hush came over the conversation as the King made his way to the throne, a.k.a. the only piece of furniture properly sized for what was going to sit on it. And even though John had been around the great male for how long now?, he still was awed. Sure, all the Brothers were enormous, products of a now-defunct—and thank God for that—breeding program instituted by the Scribe Virgin.

But the King was something else.

Long black hair falling to his hips. Black wraparound sunglasses to hide his blind eyes. Black leathers and shitkickers. Black muscle shirt even though it was January and the old mansion had more drafts than lawful inhabitants.

More power in those muscles than a wrecking ball.

Tattoos of his lineage running up the insides of his forearms.

At his side, like a first grade schoolteacher next to a serial killer, a golden retriever kept pace with those heavy strides, the fine leather harness that connected canine and master telegraphing all manner of communication, of which, first and foremost, was absolute loyalty and love on both sides. George was Wrath’s sight, but also—not that anyone would bring this up because hey, who needed to be stabbed, right?—the King’s comfort dog.

Wrath had been so much better with George around—which was to say, he probably lost his shit and screamed at people only two or three times a night, instead of using his booming voice, epic impatience, and brutal communication style every time he opened his mouth. Still, in spite of his nature, or perhaps because of it, he was utterly revered, not just in the household, but out in the species as a whole. Gone was the Council, that ruling body of the glymera, those aristocrats who had tried to overthrow him. Gone was also his birthright to the throne. Now, he was democratically elected and his leadership, although gruff at best, and at worst downright scary, was spot-on in this most dangerous era in the war—

“You, sir, are a bag of dicks.”

Lassiter, the fallen angel, broke the silence with that little ditty. And at least he wasn’t talking to Wrath.

John Matthew leaned to the side to see who was the recipient of the cock-ticular call-out, but there were too many heavy shoulders in the way. Meanwhile, people jumped in with all kinds of shut-the-fuck-up, what’s-wrong-with-you, are-you-stoopid, as well as an at-least-they’rebig-dicks—that last one clearly from the accused.

Lassiter had joined the household ranks a while ago, and talk about indelible impressions. The blond-and-black-haired angel with the David Lee Roth zebra tights and the questionable taste in television seemed to enjoy his role as cutup, counter-cool anarchist. John Matthew wasn’t fooled. Underneath the pecker cracks and the Golden Girls marathons, there was a watchfulness that seemed to suggest he was waiting for something to happen.

Something of H-bomb magnitude.

Wrath settled on his father’s great chair, the ancient wood accepting his weight without a groan. “A civilian died last night on the streets and didn’t stay that way. Just like the others. Hollywood was there. Rhage, do your thing.”

John listened to the Brother make a report that was not a news flash. For eons, the war with the Lessening Society had pitted vampires against de-souled, paled-out humans who stank like baby powder and followed the Simon-says of their bus-exhaust leader, the Omega. Not anymore. Something else was stalking the night, prowling the back alleys of Caldwell’s downtown, picking off vampires, not humans.

Shadows.

And not of the Trez and iAm variety.

These new entities were literally shadows and they were deadly, lashing out, killing mortal flesh while leaving clothes intact, their victims dying and being reborn into some other plane of existence out of the Zombies-R-Us playbook. The Brotherhood had so far found the reanimated victims before any humans did. But how long was that good luck going to last?

Nobody wanted BuzzFeed to sink its viral teeth into “The Zombie Apocalypse Is Real!!!” Or for Anderson Cooper to remote report from a zip code full of snap-jawed, rotting corpses. Or for there to be front-page stories on the National Guard battling an army of leg draggers.

Although knowing humans, it would probably be good for tourism in Caldie.

After Rhage finished sharing the details, all kinds of questions came from the Brotherhood. What were the shadows? How many were there? Were they a new soldier for the Omega?

“I don’t think so,” Butch said. “I can sense that shit, and there is nothing to them that rings that bell for me.”

The former cop from Boston with the Fenway Park accent and the Fendi/Prada clothes would know. He had the Omega inside of him. He was the Dhestroyer Prophecy manifest. He would, someday, or so people said, end the war.

Pretty good source of intel, in other words.

There was more talk, and then someone came and stood next to John, although he was so into what was being discussed that he didn’t look over.

Eventually, the King wrapped things up. As the rotation schedule was reviewed, something that scented of spring, not winter, tapped John’s attention on the proverbial shoulder.

Zsadist was the one who’d joined him. Not a surprise. The scar faced Brother with the silent and deadly M.O. also liked to be out-of-the-way in a crowd. And he was working on … a blast from the past.

The Brother had unsheathed one of the black daggers that were strapped, handles down, to his chest, and he had taken the sharp blade to the skin of a green apple. Round and round, in his large, sure hands, the ribbon of skin spiraled down, the white, tart flesh exposed.

It made John remember another apple that that dagger had been applied to with such paring skill.

They had been on the bus about to leave the training center. John Matthew had been a pretrans smaller than all the other boys in his group, an outsider thrown not only into the program, but into the vampire world, by virtue of a birthmark that was on his left pectoral. Lash, the class bully, had been picking on him.

Something the fucker had been doing since John’s first day of “school.”

This had been before Blay and Qhuinn had become John’s best friends. Before he had gone through the transition and come out on the other side of the change enormous, bigger than all he’d been smaller than before.

It had been before Wellsie, the only mother he had ever known, had been murdered.

He’d had such a hard time in the training program at first. So much weaker than everyone else, so uncoordinated, so shunned and ridiculed by all the trainees except for Blay and Qhuinn.

But an apple had cured all that.

Some nights after his entry into the program, maybe it was only a couple, but it had felt like a lifetime, John Matthew had gotten on the bus, and dreaded the ride home from the training center because of the bullying that was going to come his way. Just before the doors had closed, something huge and threatening had mounted the steps, its weight so great, the load had tilted the vehicle’s suspension.