Sensitive to the Light Immortal Bloodlines I

Sensitive to the Light (Chapter 18)

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Dedicated to Underland.  Why?  Because her book 'The Oceans Daughter' is all kinds of awesomes, and 'Nowhere', well, if I get rescued from the Fog by a lizardy cabbie with a bobble headed doll on his dashboard, then I'll be a very happy and intrigued corpse...

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Callan

“Fucking bastard,” Isaac spat out from in between clenched teeth, a muscle twitching irritably in his jaw.  “The infamous Fext DeValdis falls in love and thinks it’s just fine and dandy to fuck off for almost thirty years and we’re all left carrying the can on top of a fucking hell-hole!”

He was right of course.  I couldn’t help the overwhelming feeling of betrayal at the knowledge that Fext had thrown away four hundred years of camaraderie for a woman and disappeared overnight.

Isaac’s lips pulled into a sneer as he dropped into a mock bow, his every movement reeking of sarcasm as he pulled an imaginary top hat from his head, gesturing it towards Daegan.  

“Welcome to the Saith, Miss DeValdis,” he snarled as he straightened out of the bow before turning on his heel and stalking away down the corridor which lead to the former servant’s quarters.  A moment later the air was filled with the screech of tearing metal as he began to rip apart the iron framed beds in a fit of rage.  

Daegan seemed to be lost in a stunned silence, her eyes glued on the ‘man’ in the photograph.  She didn’t even so much as twitch at the sounds which drifted upwards, made by Isaac’s relentless annihilation of anything he could lay his fists and his boots on.

Ann and Gray started after him but I shook my head. “Just leave him to it, I expect he’ll get it out of his system eventually.”  Running a slightly bloodied hand through my hair, I shook my head and let out a sigh as I began to wander aimlessly towards the sitting room.

Goddamnit, I love Daegan... I really do.  Maybe it’s the blood connection, because I sure as hell never felt like this before.  Not since I died anyway and never ever like this, but if it’s true that shit rolls downhill then she’s at the top of Everest with a giant sack of it.

“Fuck!”  I vented my anger by punching a hole straight through the wall.

“Cal, we need to talk.” Bette said quietly, resting a hand lightly on my shoulder as I retrieved my forearm from the lathe and plaster.

“What now?”

“I think it’s starting.”

“Stop being so fucking cryptic, what’s starting?”

“The Prophecy.”

“Bollocks.”   I resisted the urge to slam my head through the wall as well, in the hope that it would knock some sense into me and I would realize I had actually imagined the last half an hour or so.

No such sodding luck...

I don’t know if I ever really believed this day would actually come, but any doubt in my mind was swiftly pummelled into submission by a howl which rendered all arguments on the matter completely and utterly invalid.  

The sound filled my ears, wrapping around me like a shroud, clutching and clinging at my skin whispering promises of a slow and painful death.  It was horrific and soulless, a wailing cry which stemmed from the pain of eternal damnation, the baying of a creature which ate chainsaws for breakfast before washing out its mouth by gargling with nails and razorblades.