A few months ago...
Earth
Gaia

They were celebrating the twins' fifth birthday at Holly the Bright's house.

Almost all of the Lore's mightiest rulers and warriors of the Vertas were attending. The Valkyries of the NOLA coven were all there. And Phenїx's newest grandnieces were overflowing on sugar and gifts with their bundle of friends.

The House of Witches had opted to bring over their own daughters and nieces. Among them, the red-haired Myst the Coveted was now cradling her own son at her breast.

The rest of the Valkyries had turned into cooing aunts over the newest babe. Meanwhile, the Forebearer vampire Nikolai Wroth took more than a couple ribbings from his brothers. Murdoch and Conrad were laying it in thick on their eldest brother.

But when the ex-ballerina Neomi eyeballed Conrad meaningfully, the former Kapsliga assassin's gaze turned from jovial to thoughtful. The red-eyed vampire, once lost to hate and madness, had returned from the brink, thanks to his Bride.

It was a happy time for all. A respite. The Accession was upon them. Every five hundred years, the factions of the Lore were forced to fight against one another. The faction that lost the fewest of their numbers would be deemed the 'winner'.

Except this Accession was not going according to the myriad plans of the faction leaders.

Instead, alliances had been formed. Multiple marriages had been seeded. These unions and matehoods united some of the most powerful factions in the Lore. Among them, the Lykae, the Valkyries, the House of Witches, several dominant demonarchies, and the Forebearer faction of the vampires.

Not only that, but the House of Dacia, the original home of the vampires, had made a reappearance, after thousands of years of being hidden away from the rest of the Lore. Their King, Lothaire, had found his Bride in a 'lowly' human, and the brunette mountain girl Queen Elizabeth Ann - a.k.a. Ellie to her friends - had forged new relationships with the Valkyries.

For Nїx, the pieces were finally coalescing. She could sense that something was afoot.

Her proposal to become a goddess was finally being heard by Skathi and the pantheon.

Three millennium of toil. Of blood, sweat and tears. Often including those of her friends. Their coven was now homeless as well, since Val Hall had been leveled by a particularly ruthless foe.

Weariness ate at her. Just a little more, Nїxie girl. We're almost there.

She'd been telling herself that for centuries. After all this time, the mantra had been the singular thread that kept her sanity. That, and the driving urge to see the visions of her friends' lives changed.

"Nїx, what are you drawing?"

She startled as though shocked. Who? Regin?

Nїx looked at her little sister a moment, confused, then realized she was holding crayons in her fingers. A sketch was made out on the paper that she'd pulled free from a stack that the twins regularly doodled on.

Eyes. A pair of eyes. Wide open, as if fearful. She didn't recognize them. She'd shaded them green. She blinked, then tore the paper apart.

Who the hell was that?

* * * * *

The shapeshifter went down with scarcely a gurgle of blood.

A dozen tiny reptiles began lapping the warm drops on the wall.

The Lore's garbage clean-up was here. Mostly, they hid in pocket dimensions, awaiting a death.

Then, just as in the surrounding swamps, they'd feast.

Byron lifted back the cowl of his cloak, staring at the corpse. This had gotten a lot easier. It wasn't impersonal like a firearm when he was on the range, or overseas.

Combat in the Lore was vicious, brutal, bloody, and sometimes depraved. The first three months, he'd been careful. Today, he was steeped heavily in his transition and his immortality.

Lift a car? A train? He could lift a Goddamned M1A2 Abrams with the uparmor ERA package when he was in a particularly foul mood.

Granted, he wouldn't be stupid enough to take a 120mm depleted uranium sabot round to the chest, but hey, even immortals could be killed. Like this thricedamned shapeshifter.

He spat on the head.

"Ohgods, yesyesyesyessssss... ohgods, pleeeeaase, deeper! Ohoh, yyyeeesss!"

He straightened, then twitched. "God, help me," he puffed out a sigh, rubbing a hand over his thigh. "Another nymph getting banged..."

He struck his thigh, hard. That was the fourth one tonight. How was a guy supposed to get the good word if all the other Joes were rattling the Janes' teeth out?

Granted, this was the nymph covens' duty within the Lore. To be an ear and a willing partner. But his kind didn't need that kind of attention.

At least, not the ear part. Because the ear led to the mind, the mind to the mouth, and the mouths of nymphs were quick to chatter. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a smartphone.

Modern problems required modern solutions.

He tapped a short text message to another secure phone. There was a swift reply, telling him to meet in ten minutes at their second most used place.

He squinted in consternation. Which place is second most used?

He left the scythe in place under the cloak next to a garbage unit. No one here to snag it yet, and if they did, they'd find it very difficult to pick up.

That, and they would cut themselves and end up dying in a really, truly terrible way.

Of course, he could rescind the death, so long as they vowed to the Lore never to touch the scythe again. He extracted another vow.

They would never speak of his existence until he'd given them permission to do so.

Most of the cowardly ones gave those vows with a swiftness, then got out of Dodge. Still, he had a few reliable informants. Those entities he treated with respect.

And the nymphs' intel was often on point. At least, when they weren't getting banged by another Lorean, or sometimes an occasional unknowingly blessed mortal.

He inhaled slowly. Beyond the rotting garbage and rusty blood, he could smell fresh-baked barbecue, chicken, and various perfumes and colognes. From here or there came a whiff of arousal, and low moans from couples' bedrooms in the distance.

Blessed, that's what they were.

The wyrms told him he would be far more sensitive coming into his immortal prime. They had not explained it would be a sensual, sexual hell. Perhaps the hardest part was his hearing, but he learned to tune that to one side. Mostly.

Byron stepped out of the alleyway, glancing back in time to see a massive wyvern crawling up from out of the wall.

It sniffed, then it took a bite into the shapeshifter. The creature peered at him, tongue tasting the air.

The reptile's red eyes connected with his only a moment, then lowered its head shakily. The beast chuffed a heavy submission, spines lowering.

Animals, whether mortal or Lorean, tended to do that when he met their gaze. Even the creepy-crawlies seemed to give him just enough space to pass by, not wanting to touch him.

No threat there. "Enjoy your meal," he muttered.

His ears caught the meaty crunch when the wyvern got hold of the shapeshifter's skull.

It had been over a year since he'd entered this insane, dark, and primal world. He still found it remarkable that two streets down, a group of young men were talking, laughing, eyeballing folks. They hadn't heard the shapeshifter's last shout of 'hey!'.

Odds were maybe they couldn't, not with that music they had blasting out of the chopshop hot rod they were hanging out on.

"Hey there, pretty, how's them legs feel?"

He checked and noticed one guy walking over to a girl, no more than in her teens. She was clearly terrified.

Byron scented the air and caught the bite of gun oil on the kid. There was also a taint of soot. That was his immortal senses coming online.

Then the guy snatched the girl by the arm. Byron snarled and walked over.

"Come on sexy, I ain't gonna bite, much," the youth was leering down at the girl.

Byron walked up and held out an arm. "You've got three seconds. Choose wisely."

The tatted kid looked him over a second. His hand reached for the semi-auto on his back. "The fuck did you say, bitch?"

He made a quick maneuver. Planted his fist in the youth's stomach. The boy heaved, fell over, then retched up what he had for dinner. The splattering sound interrupted the others' sniggers.

Byron pinned his eyes on the other two. Both had jumped to their feet. Now they were frozen.

A swift kick behind him shattered the punk's jaw.

"Your choice," he growled angrily. "Take your loudmouth bitch of a friend to a hospital, or I call an ambulance and leave all three of you broken."

This pair chose wisely. They threw their groaning friend in the hot rod and took off.

Byron glanced over at the young girl. Couldn't be over twenty.

"You want some help?" he asked.

"Get... just get away, old creep." She fled.

He closed his eyes, shaking his head. Of course, she was terrified. Couldn't be helped.

He winced. And so what? He had some grey in the stubble, damn. Was it really his fault he was going silver this early in life?

He frowned. No rest for the wicked... damn it. What's the second most regular place we meet?

A few blocks further on, he came across yet another hot rod job. Purple, deep, not a lot of chrome. It was tasteful.

And there was a black decal on there, a stylized skull on the side.

He grinned. Now that was some good artistry. These fellas were banging out some kind of rap. It was new stuff, something he didn't recognize immediately. Mehh, not terrible...

While he walked by, one called, "Hey, ain't you lost there, boomer?"

Byron glanced at the young male. African-American, deep brown skin, black t-shirt advertising a car paint shop, a small blunt, some bling on his fingers and necklace.

He couldn't be more than twenty-two or so.

Some of the more youthful were over the top with the attitude. But, he had a feeling about this one. He wasn't pulling the other guy's shtick.

"Nope." He threw a hand in his pocket, casual. "How 'bout you?"

"Can't say I am, man." The younger man plugged his joint back in his lips. "You looking for a score?"

Byron shook his head, grinning, "Nah, I'm just passing through."

"Come on, man!" The second guy hollered. "You got some tail you need to find? I can point you in the right direction!"

"No, but maybe y'all can help me. Any of you see a mocha sister about yay high-" he held his hand at just above his head, "-toned legs, about 32 C, good figure, goes by Koli?"

"Oh, you mean Dark Mocha?" The first fella's face lit up. "Dude! Are you tapping that?"

Byron laughed, glancing to check the street. Then he shook his head at him. "No, man. You don't tap her, she taps you."

"Daaamn, now that's respect," the first nodded appreciatively, then turned pensive. "Wait, ain't she relations with that shopkeeper up the way? Loa?"

Byron nodded with emphasis. "That's her. One and the same, they're cousins."

"Oh, hey, listen," the first raised one palm in a cautionary tamping motion. "Don't know you, man, but fair warning, I wouldn't go too hard with that beauty. There's some burly big bastards up at Loa's. Wayyy too much heat round there."

Byron threw his hand back as if to dismiss the idea. "Ah, I'm not headed that way, man. I just wanna talk to Koli. She borrowed one of my phones the other day."

"One?" The third fella asked. "Why you need more than one?"

"Why not, man? Do I look like I'm hurting?" He raised his eyebrows and arms to indicate the Rubbinaci he was wearing. "Koli needed to borrow one until she got hers replaced. She's a business associate of mine is all."

"Fair enough. I think she's up at that banging jazz-and-classic joint just down the way," the first pointed on down the street. "The Crooner."

Byron liked the guy; friends were okay, too. He nodded, "Awesome, you fellas go easy. Oh, and hey, I wouldn't head down Urquhart, I think I heard something back the way I came around there, about an hour ago."

"Ah, we're just chill where we are, man. Hey, what's your name?"

"Byron," he answered. "You?"

"Mike," the first gave a wave.

"Good to know ya, Mike. And thanks!" He walked on, leaving them to their music.

Not a half-bad beat, after all. But still a little too loud for his tastes. He wasn't all that big on most rap, preferred alternative rock or whatever was popular for his blood to heat up. Then again, there were always the classics...

* * * * *