New World Order: Crimson Shadow, #7

PROLOGUE

LIKE A DREAM COME TRUE

Xander can’t help but feel like he’s in a dream; in a perfect dream.

It is so beautiful.

She is so beautiful.

Estella, skin like a flawless pearl and eyes glimmering like an exotic sea, approaches him; her steps slow, methodic. Perfect. A parted sea of friends and family sit on either side of her path, most of their eyes shimmering with the threat of tears as she passes. She draws nearer. Her smile grows as she does. It is hidden behind a veil the color of the sky reflected off a glittering snowcapped mountain, but Xander sees that smile all the same. Like it always does, it makes him smile back.

Seeing her son’s lips draw upward in response to the sight of his soon-to-be bride, a sob that only half-disguises itself as a cry of joy slips past Emily Stryker’s lips. Xander, in an impossible feat of strength, tears his gaze from Estella and catches sight of his mother—sad-eyed and lips parted in a smile of intense and impossible joy—just as his father, Joseph, drapes a comforting arm over his own wife’s shoulder. As the two Stryker men’s eyes meet, a silent moment of prideful exchanges pass:

You did good, son; found a real angel with her.

Thanks, Dad—for everything, Xander says through the connection, then, to himself, he thinks, It pays to have a psychic father.

Behind Joseph, grinning knowingly and patting him on the shoulder, is Depok. Beside him on his right is Marcus; Stan on his left, closest to the aisle. Most of this row—the groom’s row—is nonhuman colleagues with the Odin Clan and a handful of Xander’s closest friends, mythos and human alike. Compared to this row, however, the opposite set of seats—assigned to friends and family of the bride—is occupied by far more humans. There’d been an inside joke between Xander and his father earlier that the doorman could easily identify which side a newcomer would be seated at by checking what sort of teeth they had.

It was, admittedly, a lame joke, since both Xander and Joseph could easily pass for humans, as well.

As far as anybody who wasn’t a mythos was concerned, however, everyone in that room was one-and-the-same species: a fact that Xander, his father, and many of the others in attendance worked hard to maintain.

That a second Stryker in just as many generations was marrying a human—that a second Stryker had exposed the truth to a human—is the reason for the two scowling faces in the back of the room. Though the Stryker family and the Odin Clan has assured The Council that such a step is unnecessary, the two hybrid vampires—armed with the assets of both sangs and aurics as well as a set of silenced Berettas and serrated blades—represent the closest thing to an agreement.

An agreement that almost everyone on the groom’s side of the room shared an eye roll over.

Estella had been among the eye rollers, but now, stepping past Stan and still wearing the ever-growing smile, she shows no sign of irritation at the armed vampires overseeing the ceremony. Catching her once again in his gaze, Xander watches as his soon-to-be bride offers his sobbing mother a reassuring smile. Her chin dips in the slightest of nods, and Emily stifles another cry—the sad sounds never reaching her joyful expression—and, beaming a loving smile at her, brings the fingers of her right hand to her lips to blow her soon-to-be daughter-in-law a kiss. Estella, without breaking stride, makes no effort to hide the gesture as she mime-catches the airborne love and presses it to the modest dip where her chest disappears under her gown. Xander can’t help himself, and he lingers on the sight of the bride’s cleavage, a tantalizing view on any occasion. It’s too perfect to not appreciate at this moment.

Estella catches him looking.

Seeing without seeing—thanks for the mind’s eye, Dad—Xander sees a dark eyebrow arch over sparkling blue eyes behind the mist of Estella’s veil. There’s no frown accompanying the gesture. Instead, Xander sees, with his eyes this time, the curvature of Estella’s breasts swell beneath her gown as she puffs out her chest for him. Already past the final row of seats, the display goes unnoticed by all except Xander and Father Tennesen, whose aura shifts but remains otherwise silent about it.

The old priest, who is standing before them not because of his role with the church but because of his friendship with the Strykers and, through them, his ongoing relationship with the Odin Clan. He calls himself an exorcist—off the record, of course—and, though he’s accepted there’s plenty he doesn’t know, what he does know has proven useful more than enough in the past. Today, however, his knowledge and his power aren’t what matters; he’s here to lead the service and marry the two.

And, apparently, stealing an eyeful of Estella’s cleavage as she presents it to her soon-to-be husband. Xander could roast a marshmallow on the flare of Father Tennesen’s blush, which he needs neither his eyes nor his mind’s eye to know is there. His grin widens, unable to even feel jealous at that moment.

Manipulative little minx, he speaks without speaking, sending the taunt directly into her mind.

But something in that doesn’t sound right in his head…

A shrug so subtle that nobody else would notice—save for the minister, perhaps—tugs at the left edge of her gown, and her smile grows. A twinge of rapacious mischief presents itself behind her eyes; laced throughout her swimming aura.

It’s like she’s put him under a spell—intoxicated him with some sort of enchantment—and Xander almost—almost!—forgets that his soon-to-be wife, this beautiful, glowing bride of his, does not know how to use magic. She’d always expressed an interest in his and his father’s abilities after he’d confessed the truth to her; after he’d confessed that he was an auric vampire. His mother and father had both been present for that conversation, Joseph feeling it was only right that he oversee the exchange—it was a touchy matter, after all; opening up to a human—and Emily, a human who’d once been on the receiving end of that same conversation with her own husband, felt it only right that Estella have a kindred spirit present. When he’d finally told her, however, she’d surprised all three of them with two words:

I know.

She hadn’t known. Not really. She’d had suspicions, and with these she’d formed theories. And while none of these were necessarily on the mark—my boyfriend is a vampire who feeds on psychic energy, was, understandably, not an immediate go-to hypothesis in most cases—she was open-minded enough to bridge the possibilities she’d been working on to the eventual truth.

With the family secret out, Estella became aware of one of the greatest secrets the world over: that of mythos, of nonhuman creatures that fed on the life-force of others, changed their shape, and wielded deadly powers of speed and strength and magic. Being aware did not mean being afraid, however, and Xander came to find that, while not interested in the gory, violent details of his and his father’s outings, she was intrigued by the things he could do with his aura. Though not magic in the traditional sense, his ability to move things with his aura—the energy field he could manipulate as easily as any limb but unseen by her eyes—and read minds seemed no different to her than a show she might have seen on a stage or, as she preferred to say, the magnificent things that the wizards of her favorite books and movies could accomplish. She’d often tease him by calling him Gandalf or Dumbledore, stating that he should consider growing a long, gangly beard. He didn’t bother to mention that such things would look foolish when he and his father went out to gun down rogues or investigate supernatural happenings. And while she never ceased to be amused by Xander’s magic, she never wanted to know how it was done or whether or not she could learn.

The only reason I would ever want to do such things, she’d explained on one of the occasions he’d offered to teach her, would be to help you. Then, framing him with her fingers, she’d added, But between you and your father basically being superheroes, I think I’d be happier having my own private magic show and not having the tricks spoiled.

Admittedly, Xander didn’t need any help when it came to being protected. Between the weapons and combat training he’d gone through with his father and the support of the mythos clan that Joseph had helped build, there were few threats that couldn’t be faced. Despite all her interest, it appeared that, without an immediate threat to Xander to motivate her, Estella was fine with living her life never learning the arts.

Then why do I keep wanting to say ‘witch’? Xander thinks, catching himself as a frown begins to birth itself across his face.

His chest aches, a deep, breath-robbing sense. Like his lungs…

Oh fuck! he thinks. They broke my ribs!

Then, as the pain subsides and his breath comes back to him, he suddenly wonders what he was thinking.

Who’s ‘they’? he wonders, And why can’t I stop thinking ‘witch’?

The two Council guards shift uncomfortably in the back, making no effort to hide the widening gate of their stances or, despite being in control of them, the aggressive flaring of their auras. Xander sees without seeing as one of them sets a rough, twitchy hand on the hard area over his suit jacket. He doesn’t need his mind’s eye to know there’s a gun waiting there.

The other guard makes no move short of widening his stance, but Xander thinks he sees his aura snap out and—

Hey, Estella’s voice is more of a subtle breeze as she breathes out the word. She’s made it to Xander’s side while he was…

What had he been thinking?

Embarrassed, realizing he’d let his mind wander without having a single viable thought to show for it, he blushes, blinking—awestruck—at the beauty before him.

Estella.

His Estella.

Estella Edash…

Soon to be Estella Stryk—

This… this isn’t… Xander’s whisper trails off as he tries to decide how best to say that he’s thought this before—done this before—and he’s distantly aware that the guard’s aura is—

Don’t fight it.

The words come into his head so easily that Xander’s almost positive they were his own thoughts, but why would he—

The guard…

Hey, Estella’s voice is more of a subtle breeze as she breathes out the word. She’s made it to Xander’s side while he was lost in thought.

Random thoughts.

Nothing important.

Xander shifts, discomforted by this. Letting his mind drift today of all days? A part of him—a part he’s not familiar with and, therefore, unprepared to mentally cope with—flares up with an intense fury. Plenty of times before, during clan missions and outings with his father, he’s felt anger and, yes, even rage towards his enemies—enemies who meant great harm to others—and, channeling it, he had destroyed them.

Now, however, thinking thoughts—random thoughts; unimportant thoughts; thoughts that make him feel… wrong—during his wedding day turns that rage inward.

How dare he spoil his and Estella’s wedding, if even only in his mind!

Self-loathing is a foreign feeling to Xander, yet it carries with it a strange, almost comforting sense of déjà vu. He can’t be sure how or why, but hating himself for spoiling this perfect moment feels…

Real.

Xander instantly wonders why that should be the first word that comes to him. Self-loathing is joined by confusion, and confusion urges him to—

Just stay up there and DIE!

Those aren’t my thoughts! Xander decides. They’re not my—

Both of The Council appointed guards’ auras flare this time, and—

Hey, Estella’s voice is more of a subtle breeze as she breathes out—

Xander hates himself for it—a foreign-yet-familiar sensation—but he frowns at her.

How long have you been standing there? he asks.

No! Just play out the scene like a good boy; just go along with it and DIE!

Hey, Estella’s voice is more of a subtle breeze.

Man, Déjà vu is a hell of a thing! Xander thinks, and he smiles and says H-hey back to her, flinching only slightly at his stammer.

However, given the vision he’s taking in, how can he not stammer?

Good boy.

Xander blinks and almost asks Estella if she’d said something just now, but the guards begin to take a step and he remembers that’s foolish.

The bride and the groom have prepared their own vows, Father Tennesen says, and Xander can’t help but feel that he’s skipped something.

Isn’t there supposed to be a ‘dearly beloved’-part first? he wonders.

But that’s just a random thought; nothing important.

You probably just drifted off into more random, stupid thoughts and missed it, he thinks, then immediately wonders why he’d think of himself as—

One of the guards fondles his Berretta; Xander wonders why he’s…

You did good, son, Joseph Stryker calls into Xander’s mind, and he turns slightly to catch sight of his father giving him a loving, approving smile. Found a real angel with her.

Something in the sight of his father there, happy and approving and alive, relaxes Xander, and he smiles back. Thanks, Dad—for everything.

There. Doesn’t that feel better?

I like to begin all journeys with the guidance of those wiser than me, Estella says, beginning her vows. Somewhere in the back of Xander’s mind, he thinks he hears Stan’s disembodied voice whisper—good advice—but he can’t quite make out the words.

Random. Unimportant.

Estella’s smile holds him, and something in that is so peaceful it almost seems wrong. … a quote from one of my favorite philosophers, Aristotle: she pauses to clear her throat, and the moment of broken eye contact has Xander wondering if he’s heard this all before.

Love is composed of…

‘Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies,’ Estella says, and her smile holds him; her eyes trap him.

NO!

Estella’s smile holds him, and something in that is so peaceful it almost seems…

Estella’s smile holds him as she goes on:

No greater sentiment can be said about my love for you or your love for me. Throughout these years, you have been everything for me—the strong arms to catch me when I fall, the shoulder to cry on for everything from stubbing my toe to watching my entire world getting ripped apart… but, most importantly, you have been a reliable…

…a reliable savior to you—well, to everyone, actually… Xander finishes for her, beginning to take a step back.

Straight into one of The Council’s guards.

When had he—

We’ll behave or—

Why would I think of myself—

I’ll behave or—

Why would I threaten—

I’ll behave. I’ll behave, and everything is alright. This. Is. My. Wedding day!

Xander feels a wave of nausea as he realizes he is letting his work as a mythos warrior carry over; his defenses and constant readiness for the worst on the battlefield are making him think crazy thoughts on his and Estella’s big day. And, to make matters worse, all those crazy thoughts are…

That’s right. Random and not important.

… but, most importantly, Estella goes on, tears welling in her eyes, you have been a reliable savior to me—well, to everyone, actually. She pauses then to let a momentary hum of agreement pass around the crowd then, then says, "No matter the circumstances, you make things better. Throughout all the good, the bad, and the ugly—and we all know there were a lot of ugly moments in the—

Wait… there were ugly moments. But what were—

"No matter the circumstances, you make things better. Throughout all the good and the bad, you stood strong beside me. I thank you for making every day special for me. I thank you for going out of your way day-in and day-out and I thank you for going out of your way in ways you think I don’t notice just to make me smile. I thank you for not trying to become my confidence, but working with me to help build and mold my own. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t realize just how lucky I am to have you in my life. I truly found my soul mate with you and I look forward to spending many more years growing with you and even creating a family together. I love you, Xander Stryker."

Wasn’t there more? Xander wonders. I could’ve sworn there was—

Nope.

Didn’t my vows come fir—

Nope.

But I thought—

Xander, Father Tennesen’s eyes are on him, knowing and… impatient? If not for the irritation bobbing like ugly clumps of mud in the priest’s aura, Xander would pass the expression off as a trick of the light. But there it— … your vows.

It feels more like a command.

Xander obeys:

Oh… uh, yeah—I mean ‘yes,’ there is a soft round of chuckles from the audience as Xander shivers under the weight of the attention that falls upon him, and his shaky hands fight to pull out the numbered index cards that wore his scribbled handwriting. Getting his trembling fingers under control, he takes a moment to draw in a controlled breath and gazes into Estella’s beaming blue eyes—they still have him trap… held in the serenity of the moment. There is a tremor on his nerves, but a tiny voice in the back of his mind reminds him it’s all foolish—random; not important—and he calms soon after, a smile spreading across his face. God damn, you’re so beautiful—sorry, he glances at Father Tennesen long enough to get a passive wave for forgiveness. Something in the gesture seems wrong; like it was somebody else’s body motioning for him to go on and Tennesen’s head was only along for the ride. He shakes the thought away and says, "There are a lot of words that come to mind about marriage, and when you’re a man, those words are sometimes… inappropriate for a ceremony."

The crowd laughs, but it feels canned; the pre-recorded, forced laughter of a sitcom.

I’ll take ‘bullshit delusions’ for three-hundred, Alex.

When did I ever watch—

ON WITH IT!

I’m not that sort of man, Xander continues, ignoring his random, unimportant thoughts, but I do find that the words that come to my mind are still inappropriate—words like ‘shame’ and ‘failure’ and ‘disappointment.’—Try lost and oblivious and exposed!—"But these are words of worry that bounce around in my head already,"—and rightfully so!—"and I wanted to catch the word that best described this moment."—Fake! Fake! Fake!—"And now, before"—FAKE!—"friends and"—DEAD!—"colleagues, I can say with certainty that the word is ‘strength.’"

Says the numb-nuts too dense to—

I’ve had about enough of…

He pauses a moment, taking in another breath and calming his tensing nerves.

Random and unimportant, he reminds himself. Random and unimportant.

That’s right. Good. Good.

I know that many of you were thinking that I was going to say ‘love,’ Xander reads on, and while we’re certainly in love, I think there’s more to this moment. This is about taking pride in the strength we’ve shown so far and preparing ourselves for the strength we’ll need… He catches sight of Estella’s face, sees the love there in her face, but notices there’s no tear.

There was a tear—a shimmering tear—the first time I… he trembles. Oh…

Don’t. You don’t want to do this. You know what happens if you go down that—

I know, Xander’s trying so hard not to cry now. I know. I’ll be good. Just give me—

Done.

He catches sight of Estella’s face, sees the shimmering beginnings of a tear in her left eye and he feels his own throat knot…

Exactly like it did before.

Swallowing the tightening sensation, he pushes on, carefully slipping the topmost index card to the back of the pile to continue reading:

Strength to grow.

Afraid not, son, his father’s voice says sadly in the back of his mind.

Strength to stand together.

BULLSHIT! Marcus’ voice roars in his head.

Strength to overcome whatever dumb bastards might stand in our way.

Not like this, Stan says aloud, and the room erupts into chaos as everyone turns on him, telling him to be silent. The Council guards are upon him, their auras snapping out and filling the room, flooding it, and—

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! Father Tennesen’s voice booms, and Xander can’t remember the last time he’d ever heard the old priest sound so loud and boastful. IT GIVES ME GREAT PLEASURE TO BE THE FIRST TO INTRODUCE YOU ALL TO MISTER AND MISSUS XANDER AND ESTELLA STRYKER!

But I didn’t finish, he thinks, looking down at the unused notecards containing his vows.

You’ll be finished soon enough.

Of course…

Married—finally married!—and Xander had spent most of the wedding lost in thought and worrying about… what? He looks around, sees all his friends and family standing, applauding, and, in a few cases, crying. He can only hope, like with his mother, that they’re tears of joy. He hates the sound of his mother’s crying, has always hated it.

He frowns, not sure when was the last time he legitimately heard her crying. It seems such a familiar sound—somehow even more familiar than her own face, though this seems impossible with her right in front of him—but he can’t for the life of him remember why; can’t remember the last time he’d heard her crying, or, if a memory can be dredged up, it’s certainly not recent or relevant enough to make it something that should be so familiar.

Perks of the job, eh son?

Xander’s eyes widen, and it’s all he can do to keep from dropping to his knees. He sees it happening for the first time all over again, cast against the scene before him—a movie that’s all projection and no screen—and, though it’s an impossible vision (his mother is right there, after all) he somehow remembers it all too well:

He watches, powerless, as Kyle—How the hell do I know who that is? Xander wonders as he watches the man… no, the auric—looks over his shoulder at his friends.

What do you say we have a little ‘down time’ with Emily here before we get to business?

NO! Xander’s knees buckle, and he’s certain that he is about to collapse in front of everyone. Nobody seems to notice the scene that’s playing out all around them—the phantoms acting out a memory that he could have no way of having—and the confused faces occupying the pews are aimed solely at the groom.

Son? Joseph’s voice distorts over the audio of the five year old, non-existent rape and murder of his wife. Xander can’t bring himself to face him, can’t begin to wonder how such a memory could exist if he’s still alive. What’s the matter? What is it?

How could it have happened if you were…?

But Xander can’t finish the question. The ghost of the auric rapist who, in another time and another place, was his stepfather is staring back at him, grinning.

This is the life, ain’t it? he calls to him, transcending time and space in a horrible, impossible way to reach him.

You never married her, you son of a bitch! Xander growls at the vision, and he only realizes he’s spoken aloud to the specter after he hears several of the more sensitive guests gasp at his outburst.

Father Tennesen clears his throat behind him. Rest assured, Xander, he says, his voice sounding impatient; none of the shock the others seem to be showing present, "you are married to her."

You don’t want to go down this path, Xander; you know where it leads. You know what you’ll see.

He’s already seeing a heap of men crawling over his mother, though; watching their leering, scrunched faces twist in glee as they lick at her face and begin to tear at her white gown.

But it wasn’t white, he thinks to himself, finally dropping to his knees as he remembers the red and purple dress that was destroyed on that day.

A day that doesn’t exist; that cannot exist. Not with all that’s happening around him.

Dad… he calls out to Joseph, You need to help her; help Mo—

His eyes dart away from the phantoms crawling on his unsuspecting mother to his father, expecting the great Joseph Stryker to find a way to save his wife. He’s the Joseph Stryker, after all—world renowned auric warrior and, more than that even, Emily’s husband. If anybody could save her it would be…

The scream lodges in Xander’s throat before it has a chance to be born.

The seat beside Emily—the seat that mere seconds earlier belonged to Xander’s father—is now occupied by a gape-jawed corpse. The skin is dark, nearly black—the color of rotted fruit and spoiled meat. The receding, rancid layer of skin allows the sharp, angry bones beneath to stick out in grotesque clarity; a twisted skeleton wearing a damp sheet of decay sitting beside Emily Stryker, ignoring the assault on her and gaping back at Xander with cold, vacant eyes.

Eyes that had never even seen his son, let alone been available to watch his wedding.

God dammit, the thoughts that are more than thoughts curse in Xander’s mind. You Strykers and your arrogance!

I… I don’t want to see this. I want—

Xander?

He turns to face Estella, somehow certain that she can—

Not a witch; never a witch…

Then… how?

A shriek of pain shoots out, calling Xander back to the phantom rape of his mother. He watches as a clump of strawberry-blonde hair straight up like confetti from the writhing mound. The men—the memories—continue; twisting his beautiful, innocent mother to their whims, doing anything and everything they can to accommodate their perversions.

And he’s powerless to stop it; powerless to fight.

For the first time, Xander can’t fight.

Because you didn’t fight; because you couldn’t fight, a familiar voice chimes in Xander’s head.

Stan? Xander calls out, too engrossed in the chaos of this moment to commit to thought-speak. Wh-what’s…?

Stan, however, has no problem committing to it as he says, These dominos don’t look right, do they?

The phantoms, still continuing to satiate their lust, begin beating on their unaware victim. Though Emily remains oblivious of their actions, her body wears the damage all the same. Her dress is all-but destroyed—hanging in tattered clumps here-and-there—and puddles of her attackers’ semen and her blood roll in spiraling clumps down her bruised breasts. She stares, the tears of joy seeming a mockery now, with nothing but concern for her son, unaware of her nakedness or the wounds that continue to spread across her body. A weak smile curves upward, and the light catches on a fresh trail of spit that one of the phantom’s tongues dragged across her cheek. A vase is raised, moved into position, and Xander finds himself reaching out towards her.

MOM! LOOK OUT!

Emily flinches at her son’s warning, but the mass of painted ceramic falls upon her all the same; just the same as it had before. Her eyes cross—the concerned stare still locked on him; the bewildered half-smile still cocked his way—and the left dips downward, dead, as a thick, furious trail of red begins to burble down the side of her face. She does not fall. She does not cry out. She suffers all the damage of that horrible, non-existent day while staring back at her recently married son all the same.

Xander, Estella calls to him, tugging his shoulder. Stay with me.

You should stay with her, Xander, Stan calls out to him again, but I think you know that staying here isn’t the way to do it.

ENOUGH OF THAT! the thought that’s not a thought roars, YOU WILL STAY UP THERE, AND YOU WILL DIE! The Council’s guards are on the move again, their bodies and their auras alike seeming to have trouble navigating around the phantom vision that nobody else seems to even be able to see. As the thoughts that aren’t thoughts continue to demand Xander’s compliance, they’re moving in to force it—the bodies enforcing the voice-without-a-voice—YOU’RE LITTLE MORE THAN A SCARECROW NOW, SO BE A SCARECROW AND—

Oh, be quiet, already! Stan demands, and Xander more senses the flick of his wrist than sees it as his old friend casually casts aside both voice and guards. You said it yourself: Strykers and their arrogance, right?

HOW IN THE HELL—

Another dismissive wave; another forced silence.

I said be quiet, Stan repeats, and the voice and the guards are suddenly gone.

Reality—this reality—begins to fall away, the walls dimming and fading to a blackness that’s far more vast than the room had been. The floor sinks away, leaving everyone and everything resting on a black abyss. The ceiling sails away into the same infinite void. One-by-one the guests begin to fade away, most dimming out of existence while a select few remain. Further back, an old, one-armed man who’d been silently watching from the rear of the room lingers, the thumb on his remaining arm extending in silent approval as he fades to black. Xander blinks at this, a tickling sense of familiarity making the back of his mind itch. Finally, the old man and any chance of remembering who he is vanishes, and Xander is forced to return his focus to the only things left in the otherwise vast, infinite blackness this world has become. His mother, unwavering despite her injuries, continues to stare back at him as the corpse of her husband, Xander’s father, slumps forward and falls away after the vanishing floor. Behind her, Stan and Depok and Marcus remain. Though his back is to him, Xander knows that Father Tennesen is still with him, as well.

And Estella.

Always, ALWAYS Estella.

These dominos don’t look right, do they? Stan repeats in his head. I mean, they’re prettier to look at, sure, but they’re falling all wrong, don’t you think? Granted, anything would be better than…

Though nothing is said or done to motivate the action, Xander looks back to his mother. The Kyle-phantom smiles down at her as he retrieves a serrated knife out of the darkness and spins it in his hand.

Don’t make me watch this… Xander begs.

It can’t be helped, Stan explains. You have to see it now, because you had to see it then. I wish it wasn’t so, lord knows it’s no picnic for me, either.

But you’re…

Like them?

Xander’s eyes are driven on their own once again, and he sees Depok erupt into flames—his body becoming a mound of fire that, oblivious to its fate, sits and stares back at him until it flakes away into ash and vanishes into the void. A moment later, Marcus’ head leaps from his shoulders, a soft gasp of blood belching from the oozing, jagged stump of his neck before he, too, vanishes.

Behind him, Xander hears a series of grotesque pops and squelches, and he resists the urge to turn, knowing that he’d see Father Tennesen lying at his feet in a mutilated heap.

Yeah, Stan says with a sigh, I suppose I am like them. But that you know that now says a lot, doesn’t it?

What does it say, exactly?

That you’re more than a scarecrow, for one. And that you’re not ready to die.

Then what is all of this? Xander asks, already knowing.

This, Stan turns his head to look at Xander’s mother, is a convenient comfort. You’ve got a powerful enemy who’s working to nurture this illusion.

Enemy? Illusion? But I don’t… Xander blinks and shakes his head. How are you even here like this? How can you break the illusion if you’re dead, too?

Stan’s mouth parts to laugh, but no sound comes from it. Not outside of Xander’s head, at least. Oh, Xander, he speaks over the ongoing soundtrack of his own laughter in Xander’s mind, your naivety is still so charming.

The weight of awareness grows, and Xander’s head sags from it. I’m talking to myself, aren’t I?

Yes, but now that you have my (Stan’s) powers, it’s something you’ll (I’ll) have to get used to.

Sounds lonely.

It will be if you (I) don’t let go of this comfortable illusion and wake up from this nightmare.

Xander whimpers and looks up at Estella, who stares back down at him with sadness and pity in her eyes. I just wanted Mom and Dad to see her—see us—like this. I just wanted…

I know, but that’s not the way things happened. And more’s at stake now; a lot more.

I don’t—

But the memory of his mother’s death decides to play out its remainder at that moment, and the Kyle-phantom, still grinning, holds the knife over Emily’s heaving chest. Then, as if suddenly remembering his unwilling audience, he turns to look at Xander through both time and space with a smile.

Perks of the job, eh son?

And then the blade dropped.

And dropped.

And…

The void swallowed all but the body of Emily Stryker as Xander clenched his eyes against the memory and screamed, a red-and-black storm raging around him in an ongoing effort to wash it away; all of it.

Somehow, though, he still managed to hear them:

Oh, God, it’s still alive! Kill it! Somebody kill it!

What if he wakes up? Won’t he kill us all?

Is that the same one from the internet?

What could have done that to him?

Then…

Xander? Oh my… Xander! XANDER!

He drew in a breath at the sound of his mother’s voice, bracing himself for the nightmare of what her face had been turned into. But when he looked up at her, he was delighted to find her just as untouched—every bit as beautiful—as she’d been at the beginning of this dream.

Xan-Xander…?

Mom? his voice was a whimper, and he felt a sharp, stabbing pain in his chest as he tried to speak the words. Knowing why but not prepared to accept the reality of it, he acknowledged that he couldn’t quite see straight anymore. M-mom?

Xander… baby, what’d they do to you?

Xander wasn’t sure what he was saying or why he was saying it. It didn't answer his mother's question, and it only served to birth more questions in his own aching head.

My gun, he said, feeling a lifetime away from her as he struggled to wake up. He had my gun.

When the suicide arrived at the sky, the people there asked him: Why?"

He replied: Because no one admired me.

Stephen Crane (1871-1900)

"To live is to suffer,

to survive is to find some meaning in the suffering."

Friedrich Nietzsche (1844-1990)

It has begun,

But even the Great Machine is unsure where its cogs will fall;

Time—the grandest illusion—begins to fracture,

And they find themselves as one… but not.

A great loss;

Personal blame;

Nothing—utter blackness—a looming goal.

Pain… such pain.

They are as they were;

It was how it is;

The path, though jagged and forked,

Is set.

They are as they were…

She is as he was.

Their fate rests in the other.

And the Great Machine watches

As the dominos continue to fall…

That wife of yours, Xander, has kept you alive at every turn.

Stan

1

NOIR

"Mother, whose heart hung humble as a button

On the bright splendid shroud of your son,

Do not weep.

War is kind."

Stephen Crane (1871-1900)

I need you to promise me that you won’t die.

Estella Edash

Another night.

Another chance for Xander to die.

Long ago—long before their marriage, before becoming a vampire, and even long before reuniting and becoming Xander’s lover—Estella had resented each night for what it represented to her childhood friend. It was a time of death, or, rather, of potential death; the gnarled and infectious roots of which stemmed from a single awful night tainted by a very specific, very significant death. Estella had been there, more or less, on that first night—watching via a magic spell through her old friend’s eyes and experiencing every agonizing moment just as he’d experienced it. A short time later, worry and more than just a little curiosity driving her, she used that same spell again to check in on him. There, with the events of that first night echoing in his mind, she’d watched from the back of Xander’s mind as he performed what he morbidly came to know as his ritual.

It was the most awful thing that Estella had ever known; the most terrible thing that Estella had ever experienced.

Until earlier that night, of course…

All those years earlier, however, she’d been inside Xander’s mind, the Spell of Sight putting her essence inside of him and seeing—living—as he did; she’d smelled the blood and sweat and terror of that first night, and she’d felt the bitter chill of the gun’s barrel and the searing self-hatred on the second. It had been personal, private, and, in a sick and awful way, intimate. Hours earlier, in a single moment that blasted all the fear and pain and torment of the past into oblivion, she’d been forced to watch Xander—her husband, her savior, her Xander—beaten, tortured, and possibly even killed. Worse yet, she’d been forced to watch it on her television along with the rest of the stunned and awed world.

So much for intimacy, even in a sick and awful sense.

The rest of the world, though, had other things to worry itself over. Fair or not, the wellbeing of the tired and anxious looking man proclaiming himself to be a vampire on a global transmission was of little concern. The savage, uncensored beating that followed the unorthodox confession served more as a driving point than a cause for worry. What many might have disregarded as some sort of elaborate prank suddenly became an uncomfortable possibility.

It seemed strange that a worldwide hijacking of both television and internet might have been totally disregarded had it not been for the addition—as some news networks were putting it—of the graphic and vulgar display that followed. A proclamation of vampires and werewolves and all breeds of what had once been passed off as myth could be swept aside as a hoax, it appeared, but utter a few fucks and tear off a few limbs and suddenly the what ifs start carrying a bit more weight.

The whole mess still might have lost momentum if left alone, however. Humans were a sick and creative lot, after all, and none of what had been seen was entirely impossible to fabricate in a day and age of hackers and what the internet savvy called trolls—like they had any real idea what sort of reality that term held, Estella thought, recalling a startling, yet not altogether awful, encounter with a tergoj some time ago. Reality might have settled back into the not-quite-real, where trolls were simply annoying, anonymous figures occupying a digital world and not ten-foot tall, eyeless behemoths with foliage roots laced throughout their flesh aside, though, if the humans had been left to disregard it all…

But panic was hardly a condition to which nonhumans were immune.

Before the broadcast of Xander Stryker was complete—even before the beating of Xander Stryker had commenced, and even before Estella Stryker had begun to unleash wave after wave of desperate magic to rip the mansion she and so many others had been trapped within to splinters—mythos the world over had begun to expose themselves in a blind panic. Certain that the secret that had been maintained for eons was out and that they’d be discovered soon enough—this, Estella figured, wasn’t an entirely unfair conclusion to come to—all breeds of mythos began to worry less about being hidden. Some revealed inhuman traits or abilities in an effort protect themselves, others abandoned human disguises for stronger, more capable forms, and others decided that if the world was going to know that monsters existed then—what the hell?—they might as well just come out of hiding and be monsters.

The Trepis mansion was still being devoured by Estella’s magic, many of their own members fleeing into the night and abandoning the clan the moment they were able, by the time the world had all the evidence it needed that the crazy man—her crazy man—on every screen the world over had been telling the truth.

It could have been just another night. It could have been a night like any other, with Xander, vampire or not, at risk of death; hurting and pushing on, loving Estella and fighting—always fighting—for nobody else if not just for her. It could have been. But in such a short time things had gone wrong—oh, so wrong!—and now…

Folks, Serena Vailean had said shortly after they’d dragged themselves from the rubble of the decimated mansion, the shit has oh-ficially hit the fan.

Serena hated being nosy.

No, that wasn’t necessarily true. Serena loved being nosy. She also loved being loud, vulgar, violent, outspoken, and, coupled with all those other things, she loved being horny (especially in situations when she was being naked and nasty with Zane). What Serena hated at that moment, however, was how much she hated what she normally loved. What she loved was, after all, more for the sake of feeling strong and stable—feeling sassy—for the sake of herself, her family, and her clan.

Fucking hell! she thought, stifling a shudder and swallowing a fresh well of worry, How’s the Clan of Vail handling all this?

It had been some time since she’d left her home, leaving who-really-knew-who—how could she be expected to keep track of such things?—in charge. For all she knew their own headquarters were just as demolished as the late, great Trepis Clan.

…

Okay, maybe not that demolished. Serena had never seen anything like Missus Stryker and her special breed of fuck everything and spunk it Peter North-style for good measure-magic (Serena’s own words for it; she was sure Estella didn’t know the word spunk or who Peter North was). She’d seen, and been personally responsible for, any number of destructive moments. Explosions were practically a nightly affair, and if she didn’t get Zane inside her at least four or five times a week she was prone to taking down a building or two just to relieve the tension.

That, she wasn’t proud to admit to herself, was only a marginal exaggeration.

But nothing—fucking NOTHING!—in the wonderfully chaotic and morbidly lengthy resume of Serena’s reckless and destructive history could have compared to what the Stryker couple had accomplished in a single night.

It would have been awesome if it wasn’t so awful.

And Serena would have been scared to death of both Xander and Estella if she hadn’t come to love them so much in the short time she’d known them.

Xander’s reputation, like hers, had any on the outside either rolling their eyes or ducking for cover. And, like hers, Xander’s reputation, while not entirely inaccurate, was an unfair representation of the truth. Like her, Xander Stryker had an ugly way of attracting bad luck—though she wasn’t about to be entering any competitions for Worst Day(s) Ever against him; she’d be laughed out of that competition before judging had even begun—and, like her, he had loud and aggressive ways of dealing with bad luck. The entire world was going to shit around them, and Xander’s name was the centermost point on an ever-widening spiral of dog shit that was smearing itself across anything and everything.

But the entire world knew even less about the true Xander Stryker than it knew of Serena, a self-proclaimed vampire badass who took the fact that her file with The Council contained the word horny in it as a personal achievement. The entire world could go screw itself for all she cared, because what they knew about Xander Stryker amounted to dick.

He might have threatened Serena, her husband, and her closest friends after she’d (ACCIDENTILY) smashed in the gates of his home and parked on—not near, but on—the front steps of his mansion. He might have beaten the shit out of her husband, destroyed a mythos safe house full of innocents, and been an all-around mysterious loner when the situation called for anything but those sorts of antics. He might have gone AWOL from his clan and, worse yet, his wife while a tropical shit-storm collided head-on with a clusterfuck of biblical proportions. And, sure, he might have hacked the entire world—how in the shit is that even possible?—to break the oldest and most crucial law their kind adhered to; a law that, as a warrior and a clan leader, he’d sworn to uphold and protect.

But Xander Stryker, like Serena Vailean, had his reasons, and Estella, though scaring the shit out of Serena at that moment, was doing exactly what she’d do if her own husband was in the sort of trouble Xander was in. And so, while the rest of the world went to shit and the name Stryker was at the root of it all, Serena couldn’t bring herself to curse the name or to abandon Estella as she and the few remnants of the Trepis clan sought to find their leader.

But Serena, though she played the part exceedingly well, was not stupid. She was also loyal, empathetic, and worried-to-shit about her newest bestie-slash-fellow soon-to-be mommy.

Which brought her back to her original thought:

Serena hated the idea of being nosy and probing Estella Stryker’s mind, but it was obvious that, in this circumstance, being loud, vulgar, violent, outspoken, horny, or naked and nasty wasn’t going to help.

Estella wasn’t talking.

She hadn’t said a word since managing to gather the few warriors of the collapsed Trepis Clan and moving them and those too injured to decide whether or not they wanted to stick around or jump ship. Even then, her words had been few, far between and painfully distant; her eyes never seeming to see the people she was speaking to or the places she was navigating. Serena, holding her and Zane’s sobbing little boy to her breast and doing all she could to keep from sobbing as well, followed along; staying uncharacteristically quiet while the others took the initiative to give the commands that Estella couldn’t give with her limited voice. As soon as what remained of her and her husband’s clan had been relocated to a storage facility neighboring a harbor—a burst of magic casting crates and cargo alike into the inky abyss of the night-bathed bay to make room for them—she’d turned away from them and started back out again.

Everyone had been too wrapped up in their own issues—most still reeling from the events while others, like an anapriek-therion couple whose names escaped Serena at the time, busied themselves by helping the injured. Zane had just finished setting Ruby, a young, scrappy vampire who’d had a run of bad luck against the anti-mythos church Xander had set out to dismantle, onto a stack of crates that was supposed to serve as a medical gurney when they’d heard Sawyer call out to Estella. The Trepis Clan’s head warrior (and one of the last people to speak to Xander before the incident) was starting at a jog that was ready to become a sprint at any instant, and it was then that Serena realized just how far she’d made it to leaving them all without detection. Catching her by the shoulder, she heard Sawyer asking where she was going and what she intended to do.

I’m going to find Xander.

It was simultaneously the simplest and most impossible thing Serena had ever heard somebody aspire to accomplish.

She hadn’t asked for the help or organized the search groups—all of that had been volunteered by everybody else—but nor did she argue against it. This, however, seemed less about accepting the assistance and more about being indifferent to it. Like before, her eyes weren’t committed to the moment; the bright blue orbs wavering, staring out with vacant worry, and shimmering with so much moisture that Serena couldn’t believe the tears hadn’t begun streaming down her face.

Like magic… she’d thought as she watched Estella once again turn away from them and start away from the ramshackle shelter the remains of her husband’s work had been crammed within.

Nodding to Zane, she’d moved to follow. Her own husband, needing no further prompting, was beside her a moment later with Zoey and Isaac in stride with them.

Estella’s sisters and Xander’s bros took to the night on the simple-yet-impossible mission. Three other search parties set out, as well, tracked and organized by Zoey and her auric prowess; among them, Sawyer and his human lover in one and a cat-like nejin who was cozied up beside another therion female (who looked too much like the one coupled with the anapriek medic to not be related) in another. Both of these groups were accompanied by a few of the clan’s more loyal members, and several others, whose names Serena couldn’t have been expected to remember, forming a fourth search party. With Estella and the rest of them starting out heading east, Serena watched Zoey’s aura snake out and instruct the other groups to spread outward accordingly.

Serena wasn’t sure how true to the direction Estella would stay, but there was no denying it was the best tactic given the circumstances.

Assuming that the worst hasn’t already happened…

If Estella knew what was being orchestrated around her, she gave no sign of it. Her aura had long since been withdrawn into her body—a trait that only two things shared: auric vampires and corpses; Serena found herself shuddering at the correlation—and more and more she’d withdrawn into a darkness that Serena could feel like a winter chill.

I’m going to find Xander.

It was the last thing that anybody had heard her say for hours. In that time, the four of them had tried to get her to say more, suggesting possible options or offering random reassurances, but, like the plans being orchestrated around her, she gave no sign of hearing them. Seeing her like that hurt Serena’s heart. Though their friendship was still quite young—surprisingly only a few days old despite all they’d experienced in that time—there was a kinship that was shared between them that felt right. They were all like some sort of cosmic puzzle that had finally come together: Serena and Zane; Zoey and Isaac; Estella and Xander. But now Xander had gone and gotten himself… well, gone.

And, lo and behold, the world seemed to be ending because of it.

This, Serena figured, was more a thought conceived and birthed more because of her worry for her friend than any real belief. She’d never been the spiritual sort—never really been the think deep on it-sort, in fact—but Estella was a different story. Estella was magic, both figuratively and literally. After all, on top of casting some of the most incredible spells Serena had ever seen, the petite, raven-haired babe had somehow managed to not only find the deep-seeded warmth of Xander Stryker, but actually share it with the rest of them. All that magic and splendor had vanished from her eyes, though; the compassion and hope—hell, the sheer essence of Estella—was just as gone from her as Xander.

Serena was desperate to help.

Desperate!

But her normal fallback persona, vulgar and perverted and—let’s face it—ditzy, didn’t just seem pointless at breaking the depression Estella had fallen into, it felt like the sort of thing that might break what little hold Estella still had to the here-and-now.

So, feeling suddenly dirty for not being more sincere in the past and guilty for what she was about to do, Serena snuck a purple tendril of her aura into Estella’s mind, probing for some insight to the torment her friend was silently suffering through:

… fault, all my… baby! He doesn’t even know… be…

Xander…

… can’t be… can’t… DON’T

… Stryker

Where are you? Where…?

Xander…

NO! DON’T DIE!

… Stryker

… be! CAN’T BE! please… CAN’T…

Xander…

please… don’t die… back to me, Xander; come…

… Stryker

Can’t find him. Why can’t I…? No… If he’s gone, then—

Serena, I know you’re there.

Serena yanked her aura back as fast as she could, but not before the sob was out and resonating through the vacant streets. Zoey had been doing a great job of keeping the mayhem of the rioters, the hunters (both new and preexisting), and the overall desperate masses clear, an easy enough trick for an auric of her caliber. Entering the minds of any in the surrounding area and steering them anywhere but across their path was a good way to avoid any unnecessary risks, but it made for very quiet streets…

Which apparently made for an excellent echo chamber for startled cries from the lips of those with prying minds.

Despite having been seemingly oblivious to everything else up until that moment, Estella stopped at the sound. Slowly, so slowly it made Serena’s labored breathing drag within her aching chest, the raven-hair shifted and those bright blue eyes came to focus on her.

Her tears had finally begun to fall.

Estella knew that the prying thread of Serena’s aura was meant to be stealthy, just as she knew that the invasion was one committed out of concern. It neither eluded her nor reassured her. She had nothing against Serena. Hours earlier she’d have gone so far as to say she loved her like a sister. Hours earlier she’d have said she loved all of them. Hours earlier felt like an eternity ago, however, and she was feeling evermore certain that she’d never be able to say she loved anybody ever again.

Especially since…

She stopped herself in mid-thought and shook her head. This was a thought path she knew all too well, not because she’d traveled it before but because she’d watched Xander travel it over and over and over again. It was a cold and lonely journey, perilous and wrought with traps to snare even the most adept of mental wanderers and keep them held in that dark place. Possibly forever. It was on this path that Xander had set out each night for years to commit his ritual, journeying under his bed and into an old wooden box with a Yin-Yang carved onto its surface; trudging its winding depths in the hopes that one of eight trails might end in a sudden drop into nothingness. Depression was a dense forest filled with dead brier patches and wide-limbed, hollow trees disguised as shelter that blocked out all light, and it was in that shadowy place that her husband used to cling to hope that a loaded gun might make the pain go away.

And she’d been stumbling deeper and deeper into that dreaded thicket.

If Serena hadn’t stolen into her mind and pulled her out…

Taking in the sight of the four, each wearing identical masks of concern, she was suddenly very aware of them; their own thoughts and even the thoughts of the panic-stricken masses scattered about the city floating about like the balloons hovering over the characters depicted in a comic book. She marveled at this, once again reminded of the pinhole view that depression condensed reality down to and how, so many times in the past, Xander had had to be reminded of the most basic truths.

Like how much he was loved, or how many were out there to support him.

How easy it is to be blinded in that forest, she mused to herself before offering a forced but in no way insincere smile to the others.

They were owed an explanation.

I… I can’t find him, she confessed.

The four heard these words and Estella, whose psychic awareness seemed amplified since being dragged back from the haze of depression, saw them coping with it in their own way. With Serena’s jackhammering heart and labored breathing holding back her words and Zane and Isaac sharing uncertain glances, it was Zoey who said what they were all thinking:

We haven’t been looking for that long. I’m sure he’s—

Estella was already shaking her head, and the blue-haired auric trailed off in mid-sentence.

Y-you… Serena heaved in a fresh lungful of air, and her aura told Estella that she was thankful for the first solid inhale since the sob that had robbed her of her breath. Clarity and understanding rippled like beckoning waves of neon in the semitransparent purple mass surrounding her. "You don’t mean finding him out here, do you?" she asked, and Estella could see her recalling the vacant look in her eyes and the ongoing chant—Xander… Stryker… Xander… Stryker—that she had seen woven throughout her thoughts. If I didn’t know any better—and, who knows, maybe I don’t—I’d say that you’re not out here because you’re looking for him, but because you’re not finding him.

"The fuck is that supposed to mean: ‘not finding him’?" Zane demanded, making a face as though he’d bitten into something sour and folding his arms across his chest.

Serena, knowing that Zane had come to bond with Xander just as closely as she and Estella and, despite all pretenses, was just as eager to see him found and brought home, forgave his tone with a casual backhand to his chest. Estella, who understood this just as much as his wife but was less inclined to beat on him for it, offered him a solemn nod.

In the past, though it hasn’t always been pleasant, I’ve been able to… um, connect with Xander, she explained. I’d focus on ‘finding’ him—she punctuated the word finding with a light tap to her temple—and, once I did, I’d be able to see through his eyes. Frowning, dissatisfied with the way that sounded, she shook her head and corrected, "More than just seeing; I’d… I’d live through him. His thoughts, his senses… everything would be mine, as well. In those instances, I was Xander. She felt her lip quiver and looked down, not wanting to see her friends’ faces as they processed this information. Unlike with a comic book, however, removing the characters from sight did nothing to conceal the contents of the balloons that would normally hang over their heads; their thoughts—uncertainty from both of the non-psychic males and pity from both of the psychic females; neither pleasant as far as Estella was concerned—were still crystal clear. I wound up sharing in some of his worst experiences as him, her voice broke and she shivered. I… I could never really blame him for all the times he tried to kill himself—having lived through those few moments and knowing there was so much more I hadn’t seen; hadn’t experienced—b-but… but I had to be strong, right? Had to pretend not to understand so that he’d see how foolish it was to believe it was ever okay to… she whimpered and clapped her hands over her eyes. I hate thinking that I could ever understand that sort of thing, but that damned spell put me right there—right fucking there!—and made it impossible not to." Her arms seemed to grow heavy then, too heavy to hold up any longer, and they dropped to her sides. Then, feeling another strong pull but unable to do more than crawl her hands along her hips, she cupped the sides of her still-flat stomach—too early in her pregnancy to call it a bump but real enough to feel something beneath her palms all the same—and let her blurring gaze aim itself down at what her hands now framed. But I can’t… I could never think that— She sighed, the exhale catching and coming