A sense of malice hung in the London air. This unholy ambience felt like a second form of night, hidden behind the visible one like a carbon copy behind an original—you couldn’t see it, but you could feel it. Something was hiding. The power of pure evil is its ability to cloak itself until it’s too late.
Five creatures giving the appearance of men stood outside a club in London, sensing the evil. The club, Domas, got its share of strange creatures, but these creatures were a first for the club. Dressed in black, from their silk shirts to their leather trench coats, they waited in the VIP line. They were not from this area of the world. They did not look like the regular club-goers with loud short-sleeved shirts with print on them and short, spiked, gelled hair. Their hair was long, and most of them had it pulled back into ponytails.
Their eyes beheld the landscape of the London Borough of Tower Hamlets. This area had been redeveloped since they were last here over fifty years ago. This was the Docklands, and now the stores were closed, and the clubs were open. A lot of history was in this city, and these five creatures had a lot of history in them also. It was a still night, no wind, and a full moon illuminated the shadows of the city where the street lights missed. They didn’t need the light to see, but it helped. They searched for anything out of the ordinary. They did not want to be surprised by anyone they knew. They knew few people in this part of the world and fewer of them were friends.
Jericho was the tallest of the five and held the most respect. He was the de facto leader. He had a thin build, a pair of deep blue, threatening eyes, and pale skin. His blonde hair was pulled in a ponytail with a few bangs dangling in front of his face that stopped a little before his chin. His leather trench coat ended at his knees. He took a strong pull from his cigarette and looked at Michael—a dark, brown-haired man, a few inches shorter than Jericho. Michael’s long hair was slicked back, but not in a ponytail, and he wore three gold loop earrings in each ear. He stood behind Jericho in line.
“You think this is cool?” Michael asked Jericho.
“I don’t see anything that seems funny,” Jericho responded. “It’s been quiet for a little while now. These times happen, they come—then it’s going to be hell again.”
“It may sound fucked up, but I’m starting to miss the hell.”
“That’s because we know nothing else.”
From pages 6-7 of "Bloodlines."
Vlad stood up in the convertible turning around toward the SUV. Vlad held a small machine gun, an HK MP5K, and shot at the front windshield of the truck. Ash and the driver—the other Raduson—ducked under the dashboard as he shot. Victor hung outside the back shotgun window and Radu hung out the back driver’s side, shooting at Vlad with their Uzis.
“This isn’t going to work,” Vlad said.
“What do you want to do?”
Vlad looked at the emergency brake and then looked back at Jericho. Jericho understood. Jericho slowed the car slightly to allow the truck catch up to them.
Jericho pulled the e-brake.
The two flew up out of their seats.
Vlad dropped a grenade from his belt as he took off.
Radu knew what was coming next and so did Ash and Victor. They jumped out of the SUV, but the driver did not think fast enough. The SUV crashed into the Ferrari that was stopped in the middle of the road. Both cars blew up and the driver was no more.
Vlad and Jericho transformed into bats and flew to safety.
The three Radusons rolled in the dirt for a good distance. Radu dislocated his shoulder and broke his leg, but the injuries would heal within moments. Victor and Ash also suffered brief injuries. The three of them stood up with their bones healing as they moved.
“Fuck, we were so close,” Vcitor said.
“I want Jericho,” said Ash.
“It’s okay men,” Radu told them. “There will be another chance.”
From pages 284-285 of "Bloodlines."
We can only learn, though. There is no butterfly effect. We are just observers, nothing more. That is the answer to the Grandfather paradox. You can’t go back and kill your grandfather because you can’t go back and kill your grandfather. Time travel is not like what countless science-fiction writers have written over the years. It is not some weird adventure where we can change the course of history. It is more accurate to call it time-viewing, instead of time traveling, but still the power is near limitless.
From page 4 of "Open to Interpreation."
He watched from his window as Mrs. Cassandra, the last faculty member aside from himself, made her way to her Cadillac out front. The room suddenly felt cold. It was time to have a little palaver with his new friends from the astral plane.
He initiated the conversation.
Why me?
This time he saw white chalk appear on the blackboard under his question. The W came first, written like someone on the other side of the blackboard was writing it, but writing it in reverse for his sake.
WHY US
It was an astute question. If he couldn’t answer why those eight out of over a hundred kids died, why should they have to answer for why they could talk to him? Fate, destiny, divine intervention. Whatever was the case he was here, and it was self-centered to wonder about this mystery in regards to him, and not to those children.
Who killed you? He wrote back.
BESSIE
From pages 88-89 of "Open to Interpretation."
How did it get this bad? Bad, I can’t think of anything worse. I never thought in my life I would kill a kid. Kill, but you did not murder; it was self-defense. Still, to see someone’s lights go out because of your actions brings so much guilt, the circumstances are insignificant—Well, you can’t think of that now. You got to think about what you’re going to do now. Try to get out of here alive. How, by wallowing in guilt? No. Will you kill again, if you must? If I must. Then you’re ready, now get going. And if you live the rest of your days with remorse for what you did today, than you were lucky.
From page 6 of "Social Studies."
I don’t need to go into more detail about the rest of the school day. The kids took turns asking us more about the incident and we told them as little as possible. Girls cried, and boys started to act like men and comforted them. Barry went home for obvious reasons. I heard he was a mess, which was understandable. The rest of the day, we staff members struggled to hold back our tears as the kids let out theirs. The Yale counselors came, but with only ten minutes of school left. Some kids stayed to talk to them, but most of them just wanted to go home. They would be back the next day and the teachers were instructed not to try to teach any form of a lesson tomorrow.
Bobbi came over and cried in my arms for what seemed a century that night, and yet not long enough. Not enough to get everything out. No sex that day. We couldn’t even think of it. I needed more from her than just sex. She had the power to give me that. We just talked. She even asked me to roll a joint to help lighten her up. It helped a little, but not much. That sense of helplessness actually felt magnified. She kept asking why he did it, the question a lot of people were asking that day. But I was her man and she looked to me for some kind of guidance, or support. I tried to explain it as best I could.
“Love destroys perception.”
From page 327 of "Social Studies"
Billy had a tough time falling asleep that night. After rolling around in his bed a few times he caught his red digital alarm clock and saw that is was 1:32 a.m., officially the next day. He got out of bed and went to his computer and logged into his Facebook account.
As expected he did not see much mention of Jude’s birthday. For his status message he typed something he felt appropriate:
Happy Birthday Jude, going to throw you a birthday party tomorrow no one will forget.