Crescent Moons Part 26
- Crescent Moons Part 1
- Crescent Moons Part 2
- Crescent Moons Part 3
- Crescent Moons Part 4
- Crescent Moons Part 5
- Crescent Moons Part 6
- Crescent Moons Part 7
- Crescent Moons Part 8
- Crescent Moons Part 9
- Crescent Moons Part 10
- Crescent Moons Part 11
- Crescent Moons Part 12
- Crescent Moons Part 13
- Crescent Moons Part 14
- Crescent Moons Part 15
- Crescent Moons Part 16
- Crescent Moons Part 17
- Crescent Moons Part 18
- Crescent Moons Part 19
- Crescent Moons Part 20
- Crescent Moons Part 21
- Crescent Moons Part 22
- Crescent Moons Part 23
- Crescent Moons Part 24
- Crescent Moons Part 25
- Crescent Moons Part 26
- Crescent Moon Part 27
- Crescent Moons Part 28
- Crescent Moons Part 29
- Crescent Moons Part 30
- Crescent Moons Part 31
Dista made her way back to her quarters within the catacombs. Today she wore a blood-red dress. The top was skin tight, with the bottom flowing back and forth with every step, making a slight swooshing sound as she walked. Her shoes were gold with foot-high steel stiletto heels. Those shoes could kill.
She pushed her double door open. Inside her room, an old song from the nineteen twenties played. She enjoyed the music. When music was authentic and meant something, this particular song brought back memories of an era long gone. Sweeping aside the visions of the past, she strode inside, her heels clacking on the stone tiles.
Things had changed little over the years. The main room contained French antique eighteenth-century sofas, love seats, and chairs in a red floral pattern. Small tables of the same era rested in front of them. Tapestries depicting various terrains covered the walls, capturing memories of Dista’s past.
Her two adopted sons, Hubaire and Rashala, were in attendance, each wearing her standard green and black military uniform. Hubaire, her wolf child, had grown a beard. How silly and a waste of time. Rashala, her tiger spirit walker son, stood up, offered her his hand, and guided her to her seat, the newest edition to the room, a throne created from solid white gold. A girl has to have options.
She noticed Hubaire’s nose wrinkle. Rashala’s too. Most likely at the faint rotting smell emitting from her and the rest of the invitees. Their spirit energy kept their hearts beating even after being turned. They were the only human types present.
Dista said. “No matter how hard we try, that smell is a part of us. Only Fixier has ever produced a perfume that expunges it completely.”
Rocsa and Vocair sat across from her. Each lounging on a sofa as if she owned it. They, too, had taken to wearing the uniform. Rocsa pulled it off. It looked good on her. She made some unauthorized modifications to it, like a v-cut to match Dista’s dress. It suited her. Vocair looked like she had just tossed it on. Everything was not in the right place. Wait! Was it backward?
A crystal glass goblet filled with blood rested on the tables in front of each of them. Dista’s was AB negative, her favorite flavor, but hard to keep in stock. She held three human blood bags in captivity to keep her treasured vintage nearby. She treated them and fed them only the best of foods. I keep my blood bags healthy. She took a deep breath of the copper-iron aroma, licking her lips in anticipation.
The rest of the goblets contained type A, the type most vampires preferred. Except for Hubaire. He got type O. He never drank it. Why waste it? Like his father, he could consume food and was happier that way.
His attachment to his father was too close. That needs to change soon. But how? I don’t know who would win in an actual fight. If he did not wear a skin, it might be different.
Dista sat on her throne and spoke in a deep alto voice. Her cadence was almost hypnotic. “A few years back at the Elder Vampire Calpurnius’s exit ceremony, he bestowed me a book. From this book, I learned an unusual recipe. It requires the capture of five humans. Take them someplace far away from society. Leave them alone, but watch from afar. Eventually, they will turn upon each other and drink.”
Rocsa gasped. “Dista vamps do not drink vamps. It is forbidden.”
Dista smiled. Something of a rarity for her. “Did you ever wonder why? According to this Elder book, if a vampire drinks another, it will drive it insane. If it does this several times. Ah, now this is where it gets interesting. It will make the vampire strong. Insane but strong. So strong that the book recommends to only use fresh-lings for this.”
Vocair smiled. “I knew it. See. I knew it.” She jumped on the sofa in excitement.
Dista asked, “Vocair, you drank another vampire before?”
Vocair moved to a love seat and crouched, seeming to make herself as small as possible. In a faint squeaky voice, she said, “Just once. I promise never to do it again.”
“That explains a lot,” said Dista. Continuing the original subject, “In the end, you should each have only one left. You will subdue it and bring it back here to me. I have already made accommodations to hold them. Vocair, you can help Hubaire.”
Rashala blinked and shook his head. “Mother, what will this accomplish?”
“Rashala, my son, ever the curious one. If all goes well….” She picked up her goblet. “This will be the last step towards moving forward with the army.” She raised her glass to the air and waited. The rest joined her. “To us. Humanity will soon be ours to rule!” She drank deep, emptying the goblet.
Fixer and Hubaire caught up with Vocair. They stood atop a mesa of snow, higher ground than the local area. Everything was white except for the sun’s yellow in the clear sky.
Hubaire had taken a detour to Fixier’s village to have his father attend.
Fixier knew Hubaire was closer to him than Dista. He didn’t believe that Hubaire thought of Dista as ‘Mother.’ Fixer was glad his son got him involved.
This doesn’t seem right. This is low, even for Dista.
When Vocair saw Fixier, she did not appear to be surprised. She said in a shrill voice, “I knew you would get him involved. Dista will not like this.” She cackled. “Besides, it is too late. I have already bitten them and left the five on the icy wasteland.”
Fixer gave Vocair a stare. This look startled her. His gaze made even the undead uncomfortable. “Where on the tundra, Vocair?”
She fell on her bum and giggled like a child. “I will never show you.” She stuck her tongue out at him.
Fixier looked to Hubaire. “She is getting worse. When she loses it completely, she will need to be taken out, Dista’s pet or not.”
Her being called a pet seemed to bring her back. She got up and showed him her fangs with a hiss. “Who are you calling a pet? You’re the one that smells like wet fur, and you say our kind stinks?”
The rotten meat smell from Vocair was horrible. Hubaire choked. Her breath could have knocked over an elephant.
“We need to find them.” Fixier started heading north. “Before they drink each other. Vocair left behind footprints. That should lead us in their direction.”
Hubaire shifted into a brown wolf. Fixier changed into a white wolf.
While Fixier appeared to be a shapeshifter, he was not. He was a skinwalker, a secret he kept from those he lived with.
An occasional arctic blast chilled to the bone. Soon they covered up the remains of Vocair’s snow prints.
They continued to run north by northwest, leaving Vocair further behind.
After about thirty minutes, Fixier picked up that sickly sweet smell of rotting flesh. They turned in its direction.
Soon they saw the five. Fixier growled and mind-spoke. They move strangely. It won’t be long before they attack each other… Fixier saw a shadow using the sun to hide from them. What? What? He was not sure what the flyer saw. It spotted the five fresh-lings for sure.
What did you see?
The impossible. I couldn’t have seen that, right? They’ve been extinct for thousands of years. But what if? I would love to add that unique and powerful piece to add to my collection. What would it take to get it? I have to have it. It most likely will not give its life voluntarily.