It's here!
Jan. 27th, 2012 01:47 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
valarltdApologies for a 3 week delay. Edits were more intensive than expected.
http://stormmoonpress.com/books/Power-In-the-Blood.aspx
POWER IN THE BLOOD
Oren Stolt understands the natural order better than most people. Vampires prey on humans and Undying keep the vampires' numbers in check.
Until now.
Now, across the United States, vampire numbers are exploding, thanks to a new church. The Tabernacle of the Firstfruits preaches a Risen Lord and invites believers to follow Him in death and resurrection... quite literally.
In Memphis, the church is about to host its first conference, with an eye to converting the whole world to the vampiric gospel.
And all that stands between humanity and eternal night is Oren, his kids, and a thin line of insane immortals.
The Lego table lay on its side in the restaurant flowerbed, a few of the plastic bricks clinging to its four-color top, the broken glass around it just catching the first glints of light as the new sun came over the ridge. The rider parked his motorcycle beside it and swung off, leaving his helmet on the bike seat. He paced the scene, careful not to leave tracks, especially since the attackers had left none when they ate the patrons of the little restaurant.
The young man counted six dead inside—a fair crowd for an early Thursday breakfast. The whole air felt like vampires: cold and ugly, without the proper sense of growing that an Ozark spring should have in early May. He gave a mirthless smile. He was starting to sound like Jacob.
A small school bus, its grille and most of its glass missing, mocked him from the junkyard by the defunct canoe rental place. The other three victims, all children, slumped bonelessly on the cracked seats, their heads lolling on shredded throats. Great—this crew had a sense of humor. He turned away, ignoring the building's tattered bunting and last summer's faded flags as they fluttered raggedly in a dawn breeze.
He ignored the dingy motel—its fresh paint not quite covering its age as it advertised air conditioning and color TV—since no odor of blood came from it, and mounted up. It was still three hours' hard riding to Memphis, so he kicked it into gear and started out slowly, in deference to the winding mountain roads.
He hadn't gotten farther than the next bend, before he saw the native stone church which probably boasted more bodies in the graveyard than in the pews. He obeyed his tingling sixth sense and parked. He wasn't psychic, but he knew his mind assembled details in ways he wasn't readily aware of. That sixth sense never led him astray if he just took things easy. He left his helmet on, wincing at how much he was thinking like Jacob these days, and made his way through all the cars in the lot. Too many for a Thursday morning with no funeral. A stake in one hand and his Colts in their holsters, he pushed the door of the church open.
Bodies in the pews, indeed. He stared at the two dozen folks in Wednesday church clothes and an utter lack of blood on the scene, save for on the wall, where "1 Corinth. 15:20-22" had dripped down the white paint.
He grabbed a Bible out of one of the pew racks and checked the table of contents for 1 Corinth. Ah, Corinthians. Jacob was religious, but didn't go much for direct Bible quotes. He preferred illuminating stories.
He found it and flipped to it, vaguely remembering that the first number would be the chapter and the later numbers the verses. "'But Christ has indeed been raised from the dead, the first fruits of those who have fallen asleep. For as in Adam all die, so in Christ all will be made alive'." He read the words slowly out loud—the action of a man who had learned to read late in life and never really trusted his literacy.
Great, more vampire humor—just what he didn't need on this trip. It was harder to think of them as animals, animals he needed to exterminate, when they evinced intelligence and humor.
The vampires were long gone. He climbed back on the bike, letting the sun warm his leathers, and took off down the ridge. This was going to be messy. Most police departments knew about the vampires and had deals with them to look the other way as long as no bodies turned up. This time, there were too many bodies for an easy cover-up.
He roared through the just-waking town, noting the sign saying Hardy, the Antique Capital of Arkansas was founded in 1880. He did the math. He was fifteen years older than the town. His father had been with the Morton Rifles, the Indiana 34th Infantry, for the last battle of the war. Dad had died two days after he'd gotten home. Cholera, his mother had said, and told everyone they'd burned him to keep it from spreading.
He knew better now. Pigs weren't the only animals that fed on the dead and dying of the battlefields. Vampires had followed the battles as well. He didn't know why his father had been chosen for a turning. He didn't know why it had been incomplete, but his father had not turned there in Texas. Instead, William Doolittle had lived long enough to come home and make love to his wife. Then he had died, had a proper burial, and returned hungry. Fortunately, Ma had been a good shot.
He'd found it all out the hard way, over a friendly game of poker that had gone very unfriendly out in Dodge City. The lean and vicious cardsharp had shot him down in the street over a joke that had been funnier in his head than in his mouth. He'd woken up on a buckboard behind the livery stable.
The cardsharp, Jacob, had explained everything as they headed to Mexico for his training. He was not a vampire: he was an Undying, a vampire hunter. Jacob said all Undying were called to be vampire hunters—they were descended from the Nephilim, the human-angel crossbreeds God created to protect humanity from the monsters sired by Cain on his stepmother, the demoness Lilith. The story kind of meshed with the Bible stories the young man remembered his ma reading him, but as far as he could tell, the main difference between him and the animals was that he didn't drink human blood. He didn't know about angels and demons and Cain and Nephilim. He just knew he hunted, always—never stopping long in one place and always on the move, whether by foot, on horseback, or, best of all, on a motorcycle.
Jacob had taught him all he knew and, using techniques from the Inquisition, had tried erasing his personality utterly, right down to making sure he would never tell another bad joke. It was Jacob's way. It ensured loyalty and cut the ties to his past and to humanity. Jacob said those who had been purified by death should not cling to humanity, since their own humanity had burned away, and only the angelic parts of their being were left behind.
Memories of mortal life caused the hunter pain now, and he hated even to hear the name his mother had given him. Only Jacob called him that. Jacob's other protégés called him brother. He told himself, on the long nights, when he lay bundled up by his bike at a rest area or stretched out on a cheap motel bed, that he was the Hunt: there was nothing now but an endless succession of searches and kills. He never stayed in one place long enough for anyone to ask his name.
He watched the hills take on a lusher look as he came down the truck route that cut into the rocks of the mountains. He stopped short at the bottom of a hill and hoped no sleepy driver would rear-end him, sending him through the T-intersection and into the river.
Traffic was light, and he continued through the outskirts, stifling a smirk at the sign advertising a daycare when all the motorist could see was a cemetery. He considered paying a visit to the local police, but he figured they'd find the mess up at the church soon enough.
The vampires must have stopped for a bite before dawn. They wouldn't stay anywhere near such a mess. It wasn't like them to leave such a mess either. He let his thoughts wander until he finally made the mental connection he needed about the quote on the wall, and he knew he would find them on down the line.
He kept his bike at a legal speed and continued on toward Memphis, and Oren Stolt.
For giggles, here's the actual location where our story starts:
http://stormmoonpress.com/books/Power-In-the-Blood.aspx
POWER IN THE BLOOD
Oren Stolt understands the natural order better than most people. Vampires prey on humans and Undying keep the vampires' numbers in check.
Until now.
Now, across the United States, vampire numbers are exploding, thanks to a new church. The Tabernacle of the Firstfruits preaches a Risen Lord and invites believers to follow Him in death and resurrection... quite literally.
In Memphis, the church is about to host its first conference, with an eye to converting the whole world to the vampiric gospel.
And all that stands between humanity and eternal night is Oren, his kids, and a thin line of insane immortals.
The Lego table lay on its side in the restaurant flowerbed, a few of the plastic bricks clinging to its four-color top, the broken glass around it just catching the first glints of light as the new sun came over the ridge. The rider parked his motorcycle beside it and swung off, leaving his helmet on the bike seat. He paced the scene, careful not to leave tracks, especially since the attackers had left none when they ate the patrons of the little restaurant.
The young man counted six dead inside—a fair crowd for an early Thursday breakfast. The whole air felt like vampires: cold and ugly, without the proper sense of growing that an Ozark spring should have in early May. He gave a mirthless smile. He was starting to sound like Jacob.
A small school bus, its grille and most of its glass missing, mocked him from the junkyard by the defunct canoe rental place. The other three victims, all children, slumped bonelessly on the cracked seats, their heads lolling on shredded throats. Great—this crew had a sense of humor. He turned away, ignoring the building's tattered bunting and last summer's faded flags as they fluttered raggedly in a dawn breeze.
He ignored the dingy motel—its fresh paint not quite covering its age as it advertised air conditioning and color TV—since no odor of blood came from it, and mounted up. It was still three hours' hard riding to Memphis, so he kicked it into gear and started out slowly, in deference to the winding mountain roads.
He hadn't gotten farther than the next bend, before he saw the native stone church which probably boasted more bodies in the graveyard than in the pews. He obeyed his tingling sixth sense and parked. He wasn't psychic, but he knew his mind assembled details in ways he wasn't readily aware of. That sixth sense never led him astray if he just took things easy. He left his helmet on, wincing at how much he was thinking like Jacob these days, and made his way through all the cars in the lot. Too many for a Thursday morning with no funeral. A stake in one hand and his Colts in their holsters, he pushed the door of the church open.
Bodies in the pews, indeed. He stared at the two dozen folks in Wednesday church clothes and an utter lack of blood on the scene, save for on the wall, where "1 Corinth. 15:20-22" had dripped down the white paint.
He grabbed a Bible out of one of the pew racks and checked the table of contents for 1 Corinth. Ah, Corinthians. Jacob was religious, but didn't go much for direct Bible quotes. He preferred illuminating stories.
He found it and flipped to it, vaguely remembering that the first number would be the chapter and the later numbers the verses. "'But Christ has indeed been raised from the dead, the first fruits of those who have fallen asleep. For as in Adam all die, so in Christ all will be made alive'." He read the words slowly out loud—the action of a man who had learned to read late in life and never really trusted his literacy.
Great, more vampire humor—just what he didn't need on this trip. It was harder to think of them as animals, animals he needed to exterminate, when they evinced intelligence and humor.
The vampires were long gone. He climbed back on the bike, letting the sun warm his leathers, and took off down the ridge. This was going to be messy. Most police departments knew about the vampires and had deals with them to look the other way as long as no bodies turned up. This time, there were too many bodies for an easy cover-up.
He roared through the just-waking town, noting the sign saying Hardy, the Antique Capital of Arkansas was founded in 1880. He did the math. He was fifteen years older than the town. His father had been with the Morton Rifles, the Indiana 34th Infantry, for the last battle of the war. Dad had died two days after he'd gotten home. Cholera, his mother had said, and told everyone they'd burned him to keep it from spreading.
He knew better now. Pigs weren't the only animals that fed on the dead and dying of the battlefields. Vampires had followed the battles as well. He didn't know why his father had been chosen for a turning. He didn't know why it had been incomplete, but his father had not turned there in Texas. Instead, William Doolittle had lived long enough to come home and make love to his wife. Then he had died, had a proper burial, and returned hungry. Fortunately, Ma had been a good shot.
He'd found it all out the hard way, over a friendly game of poker that had gone very unfriendly out in Dodge City. The lean and vicious cardsharp had shot him down in the street over a joke that had been funnier in his head than in his mouth. He'd woken up on a buckboard behind the livery stable.
The cardsharp, Jacob, had explained everything as they headed to Mexico for his training. He was not a vampire: he was an Undying, a vampire hunter. Jacob said all Undying were called to be vampire hunters—they were descended from the Nephilim, the human-angel crossbreeds God created to protect humanity from the monsters sired by Cain on his stepmother, the demoness Lilith. The story kind of meshed with the Bible stories the young man remembered his ma reading him, but as far as he could tell, the main difference between him and the animals was that he didn't drink human blood. He didn't know about angels and demons and Cain and Nephilim. He just knew he hunted, always—never stopping long in one place and always on the move, whether by foot, on horseback, or, best of all, on a motorcycle.
Jacob had taught him all he knew and, using techniques from the Inquisition, had tried erasing his personality utterly, right down to making sure he would never tell another bad joke. It was Jacob's way. It ensured loyalty and cut the ties to his past and to humanity. Jacob said those who had been purified by death should not cling to humanity, since their own humanity had burned away, and only the angelic parts of their being were left behind.
Memories of mortal life caused the hunter pain now, and he hated even to hear the name his mother had given him. Only Jacob called him that. Jacob's other protégés called him brother. He told himself, on the long nights, when he lay bundled up by his bike at a rest area or stretched out on a cheap motel bed, that he was the Hunt: there was nothing now but an endless succession of searches and kills. He never stayed in one place long enough for anyone to ask his name.
He watched the hills take on a lusher look as he came down the truck route that cut into the rocks of the mountains. He stopped short at the bottom of a hill and hoped no sleepy driver would rear-end him, sending him through the T-intersection and into the river.
Traffic was light, and he continued through the outskirts, stifling a smirk at the sign advertising a daycare when all the motorist could see was a cemetery. He considered paying a visit to the local police, but he figured they'd find the mess up at the church soon enough.
The vampires must have stopped for a bite before dawn. They wouldn't stay anywhere near such a mess. It wasn't like them to leave such a mess either. He let his thoughts wander until he finally made the mental connection he needed about the quote on the wall, and he knew he would find them on down the line.
He kept his bike at a legal speed and continued on toward Memphis, and Oren Stolt.
For giggles, here's the actual location where our story starts:
