Copyright © 2001 - 2013 by David Pyle

All rights reserved.  Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author/publisher.

The characters and events in this story are fictitious.  Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

www.pentwist.com

Sulphur and Wine

by David Pyle

One

Ævon could feel the blaze in his eyes, taste the sulphur in his breath as he fought away the transformation. 
The girl splayed on the cold slab of ground before him was ruined.  For nineteen years he had hidden in the shadows, watched her self-destructive decisions take their toll.

Her nearly bloodless human body lay fetal, naked, singed of every trace of hair.  Gashes of a heavy blade evident across her skull; exposed bone as white as her lipless glaring teeth.

He lifted one of her thin limp arms, there were three fingertips missing, only exposed bone jutting from the ends.  He dropped it with a toss of his hand in disgust.

“She was yours?”

Ævon stood angrily and threw back one side of his long black duster in silence.  The ones responsible for the child’s current condition retreated a step, expecting a long-gun to appear.

There was no weapon to expose…, only a pack of crushed cigarettes.

“What’s left of her.  What did she do to earn this punishment?”

Two of the five circled behind Ævon slowly as not to attract any attention.  One on the right tossed an empty propane torch into the greasy dumpster with a deafening rattle.

“She stole from me.”

Ævon nodded silently.  He slipped out a cigarette from the mangled carton and tapped it thoughtfully.

“How much?”

The bulbous man standing beside the soft-tail Harley was studying him.

“Does it matter?  What’s mine is mine.”

“I asked you how much?”

Ævon raised the Camel cigarette and touched the end of it to the tip of his tongue and felt the satisfying crackle and snap as it caught fire.

He flipped the glowing ember around and slid it between his lips and inhaled.

“You’re Drago?” asked their leader.

All five of the men froze at the mention of the title.  Only a handful of humans even knew the term and what it meant; especially what it meant to meet one.

“I asked you a question,” mumbled Ævon. 

The man beside the Harley let his hand slide slowly behind his back before answering, a cold sneer forming on his lips.

“A dime bag.”

Ævon nodded slowly and exhaled a sulphurous spew mingled with tobacco smoke and crackling embers.

“Shit…,” someone hissed; they all backed up a step.

One of the men flanking their leader stepped back two more paces, the two circling quit their movement as well, staring at the sparks that fell around Ævon’s feet.

Nineteen years of following the pathetic suicidal girl, protecting her from her own poor choices and yet she lay here on the cold concrete in an alley dying over a ten-dollar debt.

“We didn’t know she was yours.  How could we?”

“Shut up, Patch.  We don’t owe this monster anything.”

It was getting harder to contain the anger and he felt the heat smoldering inside him.

“Oh, but you do,” said Ævon.

Their leader slid a hand from behind his back, fitted with a large silver cannon of a revolver.

Ævon mumbled a laugh and spat the charred remains of his cigarette to the ground.  He raised both hands away from his side in submission and began mumbling some barely audible gibberish.

“See?  Even a Drago knows when to back off.  Let’s see what else he has in that coat of his.”

Slowly, the two cautious men of the pack walked to either side of Ævon from behind and took his arms.

The girl coughed and shuddered, possibly her last.

Ævon turned his palms to the men at his side and exhaled as they both turned to ash in a silent scream.

The one their leader referred to as Patch stepped closer to his motorcycle, ready to retreat, just as the silver gun exploded.

All six .44 magnum shells incinerated in one resounding blast.  Only a fragment of the handle was still clutched in the man’s numb hand.

Patch kicked frantically at his bike until it thundered to life.  He would be the only one that survived the meeting with a Drago in the dark alley in Galveston Texas. 

“Always let one go,” mumbled Ævon.

Four heaps of steam and ashes smoldered on the pavement as Ævon leaned over the dying body of Lynde O’Tole.  He had no choice now.  She had forced his hand.

He took off his duster and draped it over the closest Harley’s bitch seat in a neat fold.

He placed a hand to her cold chest, barely a thump, almost gone.  There was no time to make it to a hospital, to let human hands salvage what was left of her life.  There was no time left to consider what would become of her now.

The anger of his failure, of what he now had to do, forced his own transformation.

Two

Heavy leathery wings draped over the naked body as Ævon chanted the Latin script known only to the Elders of Drago.  The glow of heat and stench of sulphur poured from underneath his covering of veined tapestry.

Then it was quiet, it was over, done.  His emotions quieted as he waited for his steaming body to revert to its weaker counterpart.

There was no return to innocence for the girl; she coughed and gasped in two lungs of damp coastal night air.

Ævon felt his human form return and pulled Lynde into his lap.

Her hazel eyes blinked open into the dim alley and her body lurched in a sharp spasm.

“What happened?” her voice rasped.

Ævon rolled his eyes upward in disgust.  Now his job began.

“You want the truth?”

“Where are my clothes?” she asked, feeling the sudden cold.

She was too weak to crisscross her arms and cover herself.

Ævon shook his head and stood both of them up.  He took his duster and wrapped her nakedness, then tied it shut around her tiny waist.

His ancient duster dragged the ground behind her like the train of an obscene wedding gown.

“My head,” she groaned, threading her fingers through thick strands of unruly black hair.

“My hair,” she hissed, “What’s going on?”

“What do you remember?” asked Ævon.

Lynde shook her head, “Not much.  I…, I was hungry.”

“Can you walk?  I have a place nearby.”

“My shoes…, wait no…, my boots.  What did you do to me?  I can’t remember anything.”

“Let’s go.  It’ll be dawn soon.”

She fell into step beside Ævon after looking back at several motorcycles, “Why don’t we take your Harley?”

He looked down at her clothes, or rather the lack of them, and Lynde pulled the wrap tighter around her.

“It’s only a couple of blocks.”

“Do I know you?  Why can’t I remember anything?”

She shook her head and felt a sickening nausea.

“Here we are, watch your step.”

She stopped and looked up the steps at an old house from the cracked uneven sidewalk, then looked behind her.  What just happened?

“I thought you said it was few blocks.”

Ævon took her hand and led her up the thirteen wooden steps to the huge front porch of the old house.

“You’ll feel better soon, I promise.”

He pushed the door open and flipped on a few lamps as he made his way into the kitchen.

Lynde stopped by a huge gilded mirror in the living room and looked at herself.  Why didn’t she recognize the person in the reflection?  Her hands brushed across the soft cheeks of her oval face; she blinked her large hazel eyes and leaned closer to her reflection.  The mass of long black hair followed her and she felt its baby soft texture between her fingers.  Her pouty lips were deep crimson; she ran her tongue over them, feeling their shape.  She tried to remember until her eyes watered.

Nausea swept over her and she wanted to throw up.

The stranger was suddenly behind her holding her up.

“Who are you?”

“Ævon.  Come eat before you make a mess of the floor.”

She sat heavily into the chair beside the small kitchen table and groaned.  The only thing worse than her pounding head and the nausea was her sudden vicious hunger.

Ævon dropped a plate on the table in front of her.

“What is this?” she asked, prodding at the large piece of steak.

“It’s food.  Eat it…, before you get sick.”

She sniffed the steaming browned meat, picked it up with her fingers and took a nibble.  Her stomach growled like a wild animal and she began to gnaw at the tender meat, swallowing whole bites.

“Chew…, chew or it’ll make you sick.”

She snorted in a breath through her nose and smacked noisily at the bite in her mouth.

Ævon opened two bottles of drink and sat one down in front of Lynde before dropping into a chair across the table.

He watched her jaw piston open and closed, her eyes closed in ecstasy.  She hadn’t eaten in days…, strung out on cocaine, the past weeks pleasure.  That wouldn’t be a problem anymore.

She opened her eyes and swallowed, then gulped down several swallows of cold beer.

“Mmmm, what is this?” she grunted.

Lynde nearly emptied it before turning back to the last few bites of steak on her plate.

Ævon emptied his bottle and clunked it to the table, waiting impatiently for her to finish.

She licked her fingers clean and finished the last of her beer and closed her eyes dreamily.

“Time for you to sleep.”

She shook her head, “Not until you tell me what’s going on.”

“After you sleep.  When your head clears, you won’t have as many questions.  Trust me.”

It made sense to her somehow as she felt her strange body reel, begging for a soft place to lie down.

She nodded forward, then felt herself being carried in someone’s arms, then covers were shoved around her nakedness before she drifted away.

Three

Lynde heard a door close somewhere in the distance and forced her eyes to open.  They felt almost dried and crusted shut.  Had she been crying in her sleep?

It was dark except for a small lamp in the corner of the bedroom where she was laying.  She must have dozed off.

There was food…, the stranger…, Ævon.  What a strange name.

The bedroom door opened and Ævon tossed two large sacks onto the bed, then kicked two boxes through the door into the room.

“Get dressed.”

His dark blond hair whipped as he turned and closed the door behind him.

Was he kicking her out?  She’d just got here.  Just been asleep.

She sat up and realized her nakedness, then pulled one of the sacks closer.  There were several pairs of jeans, t-shirts, a fairly nice looking leather jacket, underwear….

She shoved her hands under the cover and gasped.  It was the first time she realized just how naked she was.

Her head felt clear, clearer than it had in days, maybe weeks, except for one problem, she couldn’t remember anything.

“Oxymoron,” she grunted as she slipped on a pair of cotton panties.

She looked at the bra, she’d never been that size, even with padding; or had she?  It fit, snug; she grimaced at the confusion and looked at the other clothes.

She finished dressing after ripping off the labels; black jeans, snug gray t-shirt, the jacket, then looked at the two boxes on the floor.

A pair of low heels, a pair of black leather boots.  She held them up to her feet, both pair were her size.

She grabbed a pair of tall socks and the boots and walked out into a hallway.  There was movement to her left so she walked that direction into a living room decorated like an elderly woman’s house.

Ævon was seated, reading, drinking from an open bottle and waiting.

Lynde sat down and began tugging at her socks.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?  Why couldn’t I sleep a few more minutes?”

He dropped the paper to his lap, “You’re welcome.”

“Th…, thanks for the clothes.  Now are you going to tell me?”

“I couldn’t let you sleep more than two days without eating.”

Lynde laughed, “Two days…, I just…, bullshit.  Now tell me the truth.”

He held up the newspaper he was reading and pointed to the date.

“So?  I can’t remember when I got here.”

“Of course not,” he sighed.

She snapped the boots onto her feet and began to lace them in a fury.

“When you’re done, we need to take a walk.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you unless you tell me….”

Ævon stood suddenly and threw down the paper.

“Wouldn’t you rather I show you?”

Lynde walked past the mirror she vaguely remembered and stared at the stranger in the reflection once again, fighting away that sudden nausea.

“Come on.  Quit admiring yourself and let’s go.”

She hurried behind him out onto the gray-planked porch and stopped at the top of the steps.  It was some old neighborhood where all the houses were built up high off the ground.

“Where do you want to go?” he asked.

“You’re the one that wanted to walk.”

“To the beach then.”

He took Lynde’s arm as they started down the sidewalk.  The sun had just set, with soft fuchsia hues still hanging on the horizon.  Three more steps and she heard the sound of the surf around her.  She jumped against Ævon and looked down at the gray sandy beach and the waves licking up from the bay.

“What just happened?” she asked, then shivered.

He let go of her arm that had been steadying her steps.

“Do you remember your name?  How old you are?”

“Of course…, it’s…, I’m…,” she groaned, “What’s wrong with me?”

He grasped her arm again to steady her, “Some things have changed that you need to know about.”

Any number of scenario’s began to swim through her thoughts.  Drugs, brainwashing, insanity….

“You’re not going crazy.  You were on drugs, but they don’t affect you like they once did.”

Ævon measured his words carefully, trying to find a way to explain what had happened, what he’d had to do.  The young girl was racing around in her mind, trying to understand herself.

“Do you remember what happened to you in the alley?”

The alley.  She remembered wandering into an alley and talking to some big hairy man covered with tattoo’s…, then…, nothing.

“No.  Just that I was there.”

Ævon nodded, “That’s probably for the best, even though what I have to tell you would make more sense if you did.  I’ve been watching you for quite some time now Lynde…, since you’re mother died - actually since you were born.”

He reached down and swiped his fingers at the incoming wave on the sand, then watched as the water turned to steam and evaporated.  The smell of salty water felt calming as he tried to choose his words.

“Lynde…,” she whispered, “That’s my name?”

“Was your name.  Lynde O’Tole.  You can keep it or change it to whatever you want I suppose.”

A little piece of terror ripped from the corner of her mind, “What happened to me?”

He might as well lay all the cards face up.

“In the alley, two nights ago, you were in the wrong place at the wrong time.  Some…, humans…, beat you, carved you up, burned you with a blowtorch, and left you to die.”

“Humans?”

She would have to ask about that first.

“Yes humans.  I left you alone for only a few moments.”

Lynde gasped and stepped away from Ævon, digging her heels into the softer sand.

“I died?”

“No…, not exactly.  Especially not now…, maybe not ever.”

“You’re not making any sense at all,” she whined, “Who are you?”

Ævon began to walk again, the sound of the water was soothing in times like this.

“Who are you!?” she yelled.

“I knew your mother, years ago.”

She stopped long enough to look at the features of his face, the dark brown of his eyes and the three day’s growth of beard, his unruly hair.

“You knew my mom?

“It was a long time ago.”

“How long?” she whispered.

“About twenty years.”

“Before she…, did you know my father?”

He couldn’t be angry with her.  It was her senses kicking into overdrive, the clear-headedness of her first changes.

“Too well, I’m afraid.”

She began to walk once again staring at their every step in the water packed sand.

“What was he like?”

“A lot like me.”

Lynde laughed at the insinuation…, “You’re not old enough to be my father.  You’re…, you’re…, my father died before I was born.  My mother died when I was born.”

That was the stupidest thing she’d ever heard.  This guy couldn’t be thirty, thirty-two tops.

She gasped as another memory slipped in from some distant void.

“My gramma…, she told me….”

She gasped, “The house we were at.  That was my gramma’s house….” 

She shook her head furiously, “Gramma’s dead.  That was my house.”

Ævon nodded, “You’re remembering.  Good.”

“No…, no it’s not good!” she yelled.  “I’m alone.”

“Not anymore,” whispered Ævon.

Four

“Enough questions.”

Ævon shook his head tiredly.  Following Lynde around for years, staying out all night trailing her every move was never this tiring.

At least she didn’t know what he was…, yet.  At least she didn’t know what she would become over the next twelve months or an entirely new set of questions would keep them up the rest of the night.

Admittedly, he didn’t need sleep, but he did need rest a few days every month.  Especially now, after the energy he’d expended while performing the ancient ritual over her dying body.  The fact that she was alive and breathing before him was proof that she was his child.

She was still staring at him, wanting to know why she couldn’t go to sleep, but felt so sleepy all the time now.  She suddenly jumped up from her seat on the living room floor.

“I smell it again, like someone struck a match in the house.”

Ævon closed his mouth and breathed slowly through his nose to calm his frustration and lit an unfiltered Camel to hide his breath.

“I’m hungry…, can we at least go get something to eat?  I could eat a cow.  Why am I suddenly craving meat?  I haven’t eaten meat in two years.”

“I’ve already told you.  Your body is going through…, changes.  You’ve been through a lot.  Think of it as a symptom of withdrawal from all the drugs and alcohol.”

“It’s like I can smell the meat cooking at the McDonald’s, but that’s… insane.  It’s over four blocks from here.”

“Your olfactory senses are the first to become more enhanced, then your hearing and eyesight.  You might find it painful during the daylight until you learn to control yourself.  They’re all the survival mechanics in your genes.

“You mean I’m going to have to wear shades everywhere I go?  That’ll make me look totally druggie.  Every cop on the island already stalks me.”

“You look different than you did before.  No one’s going to recognize you, much less stalk you.  Half the people on Galveston Island wear shades day and night.  Don’t be so paranoid.”

Lynde opened the front door and sniffed angrily at the muggy night air; salt, sweat, suntan lotion, flesh, stinky exhaust fumes, and then she smelled the sick sweet of someone close by taking a hit of crank and her stomach twisted into nausea.

At least that would never be a problem again, so said Ævon.

There was that smell of cooking meat again.

“Take me to get some food or I’m walking out on my own.”

Three more months of this…, and that was if he was lucky.

“Get your jacket.”

“But it’s warm out.”

Ævon felt the flame inside begging to ignite, “I’ve already explained, you’ll run hot and cold for the next few weeks.  You’ll thank me later.  Are you going to argue with me every minute of every day?”

She snatched her thin dark gray leather and threw it over her shoulder.

“Whatever.  I’d wear a parka to get a double meat anything right now.”

Her hands automatically grabbed the loop of keys hanging on the hook beside the door.

“You won’t need those,” he grunted, “We’ll walk.”

She locked the door and skipped three steps at a time to the sidewalk with the ease of a rabbit.  She felt stronger than she had since she was a little girl now that the drugs were out of her system.

“Where do you want to eat?”

“Just like a guy, make me choose….  Okay, the little diner on the west end of the beach.”

She knew it was almost an hour’s drive from where she lived; she knew it well.

Lynde grinned inside, hoping that he would do that weird thing once again.  She looped her arm through his and took a few steps…, and up ahead was the neon ‘open’ light on the front of “Grubs”, her favorite food on the beach.

“Are you going to show me how to do that?”

“You just did it.  There’s nothing to show you.”

Lynde gasped, “I did that?”

Ævon rolled his eyes up to the dark sky tiredly, then held the door open for the obnoxious young girl.  Why did she have to question everything?

“Any place you’ve been, you can go to in three steps or less just by remembering something about it.  You’re not ready to know more, not yet.  It’s not safe.”

They sat down together in one of the remote seats near the front window.

“Okay…, Ævon…, I’m almost past the truly weirdness of what’s happening to me.  All I’ve heard from you is bad things that are going to change.  Are there any good things?”

The waitress came by and took their order.  True to his word, Tess didn’t even recognize Lynde, even though she was a regular from her job at the pawn shop just across the highway.

She quickly ordered a double burger, hold the cheese, hold the buns, hold the veggies.  The thought of the taste of charcoaled meat in her mouth made her glands water.

She turned back to the strange man seated across from her and waved him on, to answer her question.

“Keep going.  Tell me something good.” 

“You’re not in a morgue.  You’re not in burn unit or an intensive care unit in one of Houston’s hospitals on a breathing machine.”

She thought about that while twiddling the cap on the pepper shaker nervously.

“I was that far gone?”

“Almost your last breath.”

She tightened the cap and slid the shaker back to the wall.

“What happened to the assholes that messed me up?”

It was time to quit coddling her.  Things over the next three days were going to rattle her sanity as it was.

“Ashes.”

“You…, burned them?” she whispered.

“Nothing left.”

She nodded, her eyes blinked madly while she processed her version of what might have happened.

“How?”

Ævon held up his hands.

“Don’t be a smart ass.  I mean what did you use on them?  Gas?”

He stuck one of his fingers in his glass of water for a few seconds, there was no need to release any pent-up rage; she already had him on edge as it was.

The water bubbled, boiled and sizzled until he removed his finger.  Steam whiffed up in a swirl and disappeared.

Lynde stuffed her hands under the table and stared at Ævon.

“I know who you say you are…, but what are you?”

He shook his head, “You’re not ready to know anymore yet.”

The waitress arrived and slid two plates down in front of them.

Despite her fear and anger at his answer, her hunger was more important.  She reached down and pinched up one of the patties between a thumb and finger and took a bite of the sweet charred meat.

“Mmmm…,” she moaned as she forced herself to chew before swallowing.

Ævon was just taking his second bite of food when Lynde finished her second piece of meat.

“Good?” he asked, “Order another.  Your hunger is normal for now.  Then you’ll need to sleep for another day or two.”

When they walked out the door, she had eaten three orders…, six large pieces of charred beef, her hunger barely sated.  She noticed that he pulled out a wad of cash and paid with a large bill when they left.

“Can we sit on the pier for a few minutes before we go back?” she asked.

He nodded and shrugged, “We’re not on a schedule of any kind whatsoever.  Do anything you like.”

They began walking out to the end of the salt weathered boards.

“Yeah…, about that.  I’m pretty sure I’ve lost my job by now.  What am I supposed to do about bills while I’m doing what I like?”

“I have more money than you’ll need for one lifetime.  Focus your energies on surviving the next few months.”

A permanent vacation with Mr. Mystery?

“Look, I appreciate everything, but…, I don’t know you.  Not really.  I have a life to get back to.”

He laughed up into the sky, the kindling of heat rolling inside him.

“There!  There’s that smell of matches again.  Is that you?”

“You have a life to get back to,” he grunted and sat down on the edge of the pier.  “How I wish that were true for you Lynde.” 

She stood beside him angry that he was ignoring her.

“What exactly do you do for a living?”

He ignored her again, looking out over the softly rolling waves, smelling the whip of the wind.

“I don’t have to stand here while you laugh at me…, I’m going home.”

“You will stay.  You will sit and learn to control yourself.”

He felt the rage of his limits being pressed.

Lynde wanted to run…, but could only manage to slowly step away.

“I said stay,” he fumed, smoke billowing from his nostrils.

His eyes lit into an orange blaze and the planks of the pier began to smolder where he gripped them.

She felt herself wilt, her hands shaking.

“What…, are you?”

“I’m an executioner.  It’s both what I am…, and what I do.  Now sit down before I regret the choice I made over you.”

Lynde O’Tole felt a sudden pour of ice flow down her back and she quickly slipped on her leather jacket.

Five

Lynde sat there, shivering cold, the humid heat from the surf felt like a heater in the dead of winter.  For the first time in days, she was silent.

“I tried to ease you into your new existence.  Too much information at once can shock you into an early transformation.  You’re a woman…, it’s much like early onset puberty.”

Ævon wiped his eyes, the wind whipping across his long lashes like gnats.

“This transformation…,” she whispered, sucking in some air, “Is it something I want to know about?”

Ævon repressed another surge in frustration, “What you should be asking me is… what happens to you if you don’t listen to me…, and your transformation comes too early.”

She nodded and scooted a few more inches away from Ævon.

“I would be forced to terminate you.”

“You…, you’d kill me?”

“I would regret it, but yes…, I’d have no choice but to correct my mistake.”

It wasn’t a complete lie but it was necessary to make Lynde see the seriousness of her choices.  He was determined that she wasn’t going to keep making stupid decisions that endangered her existence.

“And if I listen to you?”

“You will become Drago…, like me.”

“Drago?  An executioner?” she hissed.

“Drago is what we are.  Only the oldest and most powerful of our kind become an executioner.”

Lynde sat in silence, shivering uncontrollably in the dead heat of the summer night.  Our kind?  There were more like him?

“Do you think it’s the wind that’s making you cold?”

“I feel sick,” she whispered.

“Time for you to sleep.  We should hurry back.”

He stood, then reached down and lifted her up to her feet effortlessly.  Lynde didn’t protest as her feet found purchase.

“I didn’t mean physically sick…, well maybe that too.”

Her stomach clenched and her head swam.

“Walk…, think of your home.”

He grabbed her shoulders firmly and her feet began to move.

In three steps, they were standing at the front door of her house on the porch.

“You’re getting better at travel already.”

She ignored his praise and unlocked the door.  Her mind focused on the soft bed in her bedroom.  She collapsed, then sleep fell on her like a stone.

Ævon helped her out of her boots and coat, then covered her, leaving on a dim light in her room.

The only thing left to do was watch over her.  Ævon made a quick inventory of the house.  There was a freezer, somewhere to store more than a few days meat for his new Primitive, now his primary responsibility.  Over the next three months it was possible for Lynde to consume a thousand pounds of nothing but flesh until her body regulated itself.  Drago his age only needed to sate their hunger after expending raw energy.  Ævon only ate once or twice a month now followed by a short sleep very much like death itself.

There was another item fresh on his agenda…, a man called Patch.

Ævon locked up the house, then circled it in the darkness, using his heightened senses to check for intruders or predators.  The only smell was Lynde…, her current state left her rife with odors from the fevers that would beset her for the next three phases of the moon.  That odor was easily detected, a raw stench of flesh and sex; the most vulnerable stage before becoming true Drago.  Predators would be able to detect her from miles away and she was defenseless while sleeping.

That was his job now…, to see her through the crucial next three months and the remainder of her first year.

He sat on her front steps, smoking his last unfiltered Camel cigarette, the only blend of tobacco that could truly mask his sulphurous breath.  Satisfied that his newly acquired charge was safe, he closed his eyes and remembered the incident in the alley.

Patch wasn’t that large of a man, mostly belly from years of too much beer and sitting with his legs hugging a Harley; transporting drugs across state lines.

All Ævon needed was one definitive feature.  There was a succession of letters across his right hand…, tattoos across his knuckles spelling b-o-n-e.

He spat the tiny stub into the quiet street with a splay of sparks and pictured the hand once again.

The sound of music faded into his hearing almost as soon as the smell of excess choked his nostrils.  He slipped on his shades and ran his fingers through wind shocked hair before he walked into the smoke filled bar.  His biker’s square-toed boots were so scarred they spoke of years on the road in all kinds of weather.  He folded his duster over his arm and threw it over the stool next to him at the bar.

Standing in the back with a pool cue in hand was Patch…, oblivious to the certain death that was watching him.  Not by Ævon’s hand, but by his daughter’s.

Patch would be her first kill.  He had to make sure that Patch didn’t meet an untimely end before Lynde performed her rite of passage.

He knew what her first response would be…, that she would never be like him.  That would change as soon as he unlocked the memory of what Patch had done to her body…, the blast of a propane torch as she screamed and begged for him to stop…, as she felt her lips retreat from her face…, her tongue curling into a cinder, her teeth shatter and pop from the hot blaze.

Ævon drank down the ice-cold beer and sniffed the air…, he could still smell the stench of Lynde’s burned hair and flesh on Patch’s clothing.  He hadn’t so much as bathed her blood off his hands since his time in the alley.  The cold fluid quietened the inferno inside him.

The sign over the bar read, “Montgomery Louisiana.”

Patch had put some miles between him and Galveston Island in the last few days.  Miles meant nothing to a Drago.  If he wanted to visit the surface of the moon, he could be there in an instant, then back on a beach in Tahiti with a drink in his hand.  A young Drago could find their way to any place they’d ever been, but an Elder Drago, an Executioner only needed an anchor.  Something as simple as a memory would carry an Executioner wherever his quarry was located.

Patch hammered the cue ball, cursing as the shot skewed.  It was a ploy.  He was without a pack and looking frantically for a hookup with one of the local riders clubs.  Losing a few dollars in a game of pool would keep his new friends listening until he could meet their alpha.

Ævon took his time, ordered another beer, memorizing every feature of his new task.  This one was barely six feet, greasy dark brown hair that was getting thin even at his thirty some odd years.  The eyes were already hazed gray from whatever blend of illicit medications he had stuck under his tongue before drinking his belly full of alcohol.

The door had been opening and slamming shut at a regular cadence for an hour before Ævon noticed a different smell, tensed, then relaxed as another person sat down on the stool next to him at the end of the bar.

“Busy night?” asked the stranger.

“The usual.”

Ævon looked over at the hidden eyes of another of his kind and nodded.

“You working tonight?”

Ævon shook his head, “Just trailing…, and you?”

“Got a mark later.  Might give me some trouble.  You want to assist?”

Ævon shrugged, “Nothing better to do.”

He’d seen this one off and on for several years, they’d barely taken notice of each other, never spoken, until tonight. 

Then he understood.  It was the smell of a primitive on his clothes…, the smell of Lynde on his duster, a mistake.

He took another drink and cursed himself for being so stupid.  It had been many years since he’d taken on a Prime, but he shouldn’t have been so careless.  There were those of his kind that loved the taste of the freshly turned, couldn’t resist the temptation to devour the hybrid before the final transformation.  There were other perks.

“Hey man…, you reek,” the stranger grimaced.

“Fresh meal, nothing left to see,” Ævon lied.

“That’s too bad.  The names’ Crais.”

Ævon nodded, “What’s this mark that’s got you worried?”

Crais shook ducked his head as he spoke, “An Elder gone rogue.”

That was something to be worried about.

“An Elder.  Why wasn’t I summoned?” asked Ævon.

“This is your summons…, you were…, busy at the time.”

That meant that Crais knew he’d lied about the Primitive under his care.

“What’s he look like?” sighed Ævon.

“She…, looks like a princess.  Trying to take over the southeast territories without a sanction.  Vicious bitch from what I hear.  Dangerous.”

All Drago were dangerous, the Elders were rarely challenged, years made them almost invincible.

“Tamitha?” asked Ævon, dropping his bottle to the bar.

Crais nodded, “The one and only.”

Ævon cupped his face between both hands.  Why did trouble always come in three’s?

“Why are you worried?” asked Crais.  “Aren’t you Elder, Mr. Badass?”

Ævon gritted his teeth at the childish taunt.

“We have…, history,” said Ævon, instantly wishing he’d kept that information to himself.

How did Crais know his age?  How long had he been following, studying him?  He’d somehow allowed his focus on the girl distract his hunter skills.  He studied Crais for a few more seconds out of the corner of his eye; he couldn’t be more than a few hundred years old, a hybrid.

Suddenly Ævon felt that hot surge inside, one that the bottle of beer wouldn’t be able to quench.  

Speak of the devil.

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Thank you for reading the first five of 46 chapters of my part time project - Sulphur and Wine.  Hopefully it will be complete this year.

I welcome all comments / questions - AND I hope that you enjoyed this preview.

Please visit Pentwist.com for free writing aids and tools.

David Pyle