The Chronicles of White Flame : Book one

Prologue: A disturbing letter

There is nothing quite like night in the city. It's just one of those things, you know? Everyone's always about the countryside this, countryside that; But the city, now that was something amazing. I just can't get over it, something so serene, so quiet, and so loud at the same time. Cars buzz by, people shout, the footsteps clatter, but you step onto a side street, and it just becomes a murmur in the background. Not that I'd ever be caught dead on a side street, in this city, in the middle of the night. No way in fucking hell. I'm not afraid of being mugged, oh no, I'm afraid of the shit that uses the serenity as cover. 

A young lady, practically dancing barefoot down a dark street, not a care in the world? Far scarier than any freak pushing a gun in my face. That old man, standing on the street corner in that funeral suit? Scarier than any sort of gang violence. This ground is older than the city it sits on, and it is definitely best that the city doesn't remember that. I know that, and I sure as shit wish I didn't. Probably best if I introduce myself now. I'm Alexander. Alexander J. Carmichael. I was born into an interesting part of society, to say the least. Bad neighborhood, worse neighbors, and a freaky ass family. Ever seen your pop cut a man to pieces with a machete? I have. I carried the bag with his arms in it to the far side of the city and buried it. Far as I know, the old man is still worried that thing is gonna get out of it's hole and come back for him. From what I learned from pop, that's what you call an easy job, you can hit them. They might be stronger than any man can hope to be. However, they bleed. If they bleed enough, they definitely stay down. The hard jobs are things you can't hit. Things you can't touch without hurting yourself. Things so old, and so evil, their names make most people want to leave the room it was uttered in. I never had that luxury. It isn't our job to protect the city, not by any means. Used to be that we could. There were hundreds of us, all over. The Order of White Flame. Now, there are descendants. We can't do jack shit. It goes that we were called the White Flame because we were holy warriors, cleansers of the land -- The fires of God himself. Nowadays, it's illegal to go out in your armor and fight off near-invisible demons with your sword.

Gotta wonder why, don't you?

Any of the Order who stayed 'active' as it is,  basically got locked in a loony bin, and I gotta wonder, from all these stories, from my dad's tales..How many of those guys in the asylum are telling the truth about those demons watching from the corner? I know I see them, but most demons aren't violent. They prefer to feed off of misery, and despair, and hopelessness. They're certainly getting their fair share from me. I'm not writing this to tell you guys that my brother is a madman, that he wants to reignite the flames of old, and burn the land White. I'm writing this to tell you that if he fails, we all are fucked. I've seen it. It showed me. This city's ground is older than most of the stories, and with all the shit that's been happening, I guess I really shouldn't be surprised. Demons snatching babies, the dancing women appearing more and more to your average Joe-Shmoe, those old men just watch me and smile now. It whispered to me after my brother left the city. Horrible shit, what it was going to do as soon as it had fed enough. I have no idea who the people who are feeding it are, but they wanna summon a monster. A big one. The kind that takes you, grinds your tiny bones into dust for a good time, and keeps you alive afterward. There's no way in hell I'm letting that thing get to me, and so... My will is in the safe under the bed, please tell Michael I'm sorry. 
Goodbye.

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The ravings of a madman were hard to read. That's what Madeline thought at least. She'd found her uncle hanging from the fan in his office, a letter on the desk.. Of course she'd immediately thought to call the police. And they were on the way, leaving her to sit in the hallway of the office and contemplate to herself, hoping, just hoping that the insanity wasn't hereditary. She saw the thing, the face, at the end of the hall smile at her, before flicking back into nothing but shadows. She covered her face with her hands, shaking it from one side to the other to clear the shadowy figure from her thoughts. The letter must have just unnerved her. There was no such things as ghosts or demons. And there was certainly no way uncle Mike was out trying to restart some cult. No way grandpa had killed a man. There was just no way in hell.