Chapter 7: A Risky Game

There were flashes. Visions blinking in rapid succession. Each vivid impression was as short as the next. Their abrupt glimmers delivered only a glimpse of detail until the blinking images grew horrid. It was then that Zamson opened his eyes and lifted from the bed that he had no idea as to how he got here and why.

But one thing was certain, Zamson did recall every single incident that unfolded before him and his friend Logan. As well as the monstrous cat-woman creature that Zamson swore was a singing vampyrial backbiter with a frightening set of rosy red dreadlocks.

Reading a ‘Harles Davi’ magazine, Logan bent the edge of the magazine to find Zamson awakening as if he had risen from the grave. Logan sat across the way, where the couch and the table and its lit lamp complemented the colorful collection of natural plants providing that cozy atmosphere often associated with hospitals. Only it wasn't like a hospital, but an extravagant suite.

That explained the different wall paintings, the fantastically-sized windowpane showing off another lovely angle of Twilight City's nightlife, and every other expensive furnishing to be present here. Zamson reached for his neck the second that spark of pain made itself known. To his and Logan's surprise, the pain persisted, pulsating as if thrashed by a thousand metal bats; no, a thousand mythril silver bats would do nicely.

The bite mark was oddly gruesome.

No matter the dire similarities, the pain reminded him that Naia's bite was more than a b*tch. And how could he forget Naia's fangs? Of all of his prior conflicts with vampires in the streets, not one bite felt like two. To add insult to injury, no vampire ever had the fortunate luxury of biting his neck.

Doubling that, Logan never had the unfortunate encounter of hearing Zamson howl his life away. Until last night. "Morning, old yeller."

Without overthinking Logan's slick greeting, Zamson simply took the joke with a struggling smirk. Forgetting the sound of his own death howl was impossible. None were fortunate to catch their own dying scream, for they were already dead. There was nothing favorable in remembering it.

He rubbed the angry-looking bite mark persistently.

Logan continued wisecracking him. "That shit looks infected."

Zamson checked his hand. The bite mark, the wound, it didn't leak. The bruised skin was raw, but no pus drained from the four bite marks he now sported. "Where are we?" Zamson began to say before he stopped stroking his neck and took a suddenly quick whiff of the air occupying the room. He and Logan soon darted their attention to the door.

It was more than just one. Noctavion Vladimir and his two ever-watching keepers, the ones who accompanied Zamson and Logan, appeared as quick as their scent and appearance had stolen their awareness. Noctavion stared at them both, smiling. "You've awakened," he gracefully told Zamson. "Good. I was hoping you would before my attention is pressed for other matters."

A cold glare marked Zamson's eyes. Logan's firm scowl was just as bad. Noctavion encountered similar eyes before, preferably when they first met. His dark eyes of feral death hit an all-new kind of scorn after his encounter with Naia. "I hope she was worth it," said Zamson. He wasn't serious.

Noctavion didn't know that or care. "Tremendously! I was informed that you faced the primal head-on and survived. While I did not anticipate that event, my faith in your talents did not disappoint. Your services will be greatly compensated."

Logan's brow grooved with thought; Noctavion's clever-sounding voice uneased him. "Compensation aside... Just what is she, and why were we not told exactly what that thing was?"

"Of course, a male of your stature is well-versed in the records of the first darkbloods, the primals, correct?" Noctavion arched a well-groomed brow. "Are you two not familiarized with your ancestors?"

Logan couldn't resist. With a frown, he gave Zamson a quick look before staying his gaze on Noctavion. Expecting the cunning-looking crime lord in a suit to burst into a bat for humor-sake. "What f*ck kind of question is that?"

"I've given you the essential details during your pursuit," said Noctavion. "Now that I have what I want, there is no certain requirement for us to venture further into semantics." He gestured with an easy hand. Peace was his main gain. A strategy. Keeping the werewolf at bay. He turned to take his leave. "The funds have been wired to your personal accounts. Spend it how you will." He paused at the door, looking back at them one last time. "I expect to hear more about your exploits in the streets. Outrunners worth their mettle are quite entertaining."

The keepers stayed behind. Waiting. Zamson and Logan studied them for only a brief second before Zamson found his jacket. They were escorted out of Obsidian Keep, strolling down the same open path they hoped to never venture again.

"What the f*ck he means by semantics?" Logan slipped inside the passenger side of Pandemona. Zamson somewhat groaned. That bite to the neck bothered him as he settled in the driver's seat. "If I'm running a job," Logan protested, "I would want all the details, the whole plate. Not some half-assed appetizer."

Of course, Noctavion's choice of words paled in comparison to the up close and personal truth. It was that very truth triggering those vague visions. Questionable as those visions were, Zamson wished for them to end, like the pain in his neck.

But then he remembered. Just as he tried to find his keys. He recalled a vision that stayed still just enough for Zamson's brain to absorb its timeworn detail. "That vault was from the old world," he said. Remembering as if those thoughts were his own. He knew better than to believe that. "I've seen it before. Humans explored tombs filled with them. Naia is a part of that time."

"Naia, huh?" The name drove another one of those tight and engaging grooves in Logan's brow. "Sh*t. We're on a first-name basis now?"

Retrieving his key from inside his jacket. Zamson slipped the key into the ignition. Pandemona's engine grumbled awake. "Long story."

Logan humbly replied. "I got time."

***

"Please tell me that you were aware of this!"

Noctavion pulled the glass cap from the decanter and poured himself a half glass of noble blood, a pricey pitcher of blood wine famous for its gold flakes. If any time was an excellent time to drink, it was now, especially with how Lady Countessa moved lips to question him—among other trying matters.

His business with the werewolf annoyed her. This sort of misery was leagues different from most of her objections, which were far between when such issues emerged. The Lady was fixed upon something. Beyond the glass and into the city. And she frowned her dirtiest of looks, scowling down her nose as her dagger-sharp eyes burned through the wall of windows with hatred. Zamson and Logan riding off into the neon city's deep.

"Easy now.” He warned her. "We must not disturb our guest. She’s still feeding."

"These walls are layered with ebonwood.” Countessa reminded him. "Not even she can hear us.”

"If I was not properly informed…" Noctavion lightly rocked his wine glass. "Then I would not have deemed that wulvyn street urchin a perfect fit for the job. As you can see, he delivered." A second later and his brow arched. He remembered how unsettled Countessa was. "Are you nervous?"

She answered in her own way. "What if there's more of them?"

The question amused Noctavion. What was she so afraid of that he so casually ignored? To him, Countessa's concerns were nothing more than petty fears. Vampyrials did not concern themselves with the matters of lesser darkbloods. There was a catch when it came to vampyrial supremacy. If a vampire claimed no house, then the unclaimed vampyrials were treated like dirt in a trashy gutter.

"We now have our own." He lifted the glass to his nose. Savoring the pungent aroma before taking that first sip. "One of the Bloodmother's first kin." He licked his lips in a savoring satisfaction. "As designed."

Countessa tensely inhaled. "You're running a risky game, Noctavion!" She turned to him. The unsettling clack of her heels beat the floor like claws. Her temper had risen. "Do not play so foolishly with powers that not even you can—!"

"Do not lecture me about the primals," he snapped at her. A calm yet abrupt moment of response demanding she shut her mouth and listen, for her sake. "When they rose from the black earth spitting forth their primordial fury, I was one of the Bloodmother's chosen!"

Lady Countessa froze in her spot. She didn't give Noctavion the satisfaction of consuming her need to submit. The vampyrial overlord of corruption displayed a hint of demanding gold burning bright in his eyes, and she stood still, calm, and collected. Eyeing his immediate authority calmly riding his voice. His tone seeking her out, to cut her down if she dared risk criticizing him.

She was very wise not to risk her neck.

Noctavion turned his sight from her and to everything else that decorated his rather expansive living room. He was nursing his glass of fancy blood wine. "Not a single warring night ensued where we did not encounter the scent of burning wood threatening our senses. Burning wood and spilled vampyrial blood. But do not worry. My escorts declare that the outrunner does not possess any speck of genesis blood."

"Fortunate for us," said the lady. "As for him... it doesn't explain her."

Noctavion shut his eyes and grinned. Countessa and her self-conflicting logic. "We went over this before. You dare question my motives?"

"I question your methods." Her face of disdain was never-ending; she obviously ignored Noctavion's forceful demand. Wise to keep silent, bold in her moment of reigning her venom back into focus. "The city is already ours to control. The humans and their petty laws mean sh*t to us. Why do you insist on advancing your jurisdiction? What is there to gain from such greed? You will only incite a war that we both know you cannot win—"

Her words collapsed under the loud bang of Noctavion's fist hitting his desk. The shatter of glass and thick splats of blood stole the silence. He faced her, his bloody fist slithering with veins in seconds.