Inside the Mind of a Vampire: Volume Three

By

L. A. Banks

Immediately after the sun…

Liquefied bones, evaporated soft tissues, retinas first scorched then melted away. Beyond pain to a place where his screams had abated to shudders, then even that transitioned into the trembling ooze of what was left of his body. Primordial essence hardened and dried by the glare of the sun’s torch. There had been no mercy, and yet, the insistent solar torment would not relent.

The Chairman’s bitter laugh echoed through his charred remains. That bastard’s voice would live on within him forever. Torture till the end of time. There was no escape. Each tear that dropped upon his fragile pile of ashes felt like rolling thunder… Damali, mi corazon, please don’t cry… I have enough tears in my soul for us both. Just live. A stab. White hot searing silver… she was trying to end the misery that could not be ended. Her Isis plunged into nothingness; there was no heart left for it to pierce. I would have done the same for you. Te quiero! But her wails… vibrations that wracked agonized regret through ashen cells. Por Dios! Make it stop! 

Hands, too many hands, causing more pain, lifting… thinning him out, drifting, then a sudden pull to a lit gold obelisk that split his consciousness like a lightening strike in the darkness. Confusion. Suction into the object. Cold thud. His head hit marble. His hands and feet were bound, spread eagle. Opalescent swirls. No true light, no true darkness. Seven massive figures, all male, peered down at him, each a varying hue from near onyx to copper.

Woven beads connected by gold filaments covered their massive chests, turquoise, amber, coral; colors hit the back of his skull. Thick, sculpted abdomens defined by each muscle hidden beneath taunt, gleaming skin surrounded him. Biceps and forearms laden with quiet, dangerous strength waited in repose folded over barrel torsos. Short skirts of sheer gold fabric left no illusion that they were potent males. Tree trunk thighs seemingly carved from granite stood wide legged in battle preparedness.
He was blind but could see from his mind’s eye. They were gonna kick his ass…

Then immediate clarity came to him as an eighth entity parted the seven and stepped forward with a hooked, silver gleaming dagger in his fist.

The torture had only begun.

Placid, dark brown eyes stared at him with serene expressions, then began to slowly evolve into glittering silver-gold that eclipsed first their irises and finally overtook the whites of their eyes. He studied their chiseled features, determined to remember each of his tormentors, should they ever meet again. Strong jaw lines pulsed. Chins lifted, held high with thick plaited, kinky beards wrapped in gold thread. Dreadlocks in gold bands held back black and silver locks. A sculpted, pattern shaved natural cut made the hair of the knife bearer sit high like a crown. Hands like sledge hammers made tents before poised, thick mouths, deciding his fate.

The one holding the dagger cocked his head to the side. Another nodded.
“Mark him.”

Carlos braced himself, his nails futilely digging into the marble to try to staunch the eminent pain. He glanced at the knife, and then quickly down at his wrists. He was bound by nothing but their wills—there were no chains. His eyes immediately sought the blade as a strong hand grasped the hair at the crown of his skull and yanked his head to the side, exposing the original mark Nuit and The Chairman had simultaneously made on his throat long ago.

“Rites of passage,” a deep, resonant voice murmured, blending into indecipherable, low intoned chants coming from the other seven entities standing around the one holding the dagger.

A blinding blade strike. Liquid silver burn ignited his skin. He could feel his jugular vein fill with heat and begin to send the excruciating sensation into every connecting capillary and artery in his neck. Heat from the cut was being dragged zigzag along his throat like a box-shaped serpent. The hand was cutting slowly, carefully, calmly as he cried out, extending the torture, sending more silver heat into his bloodstream to burn him from the inside out. Then the hand pulled back.

Panting and drenched with sweat, Carlos looked at his torturer.

The entity smiled a sly half smile. “Choose.”

Again, confusion entered his mind with the pain, but instantly, a rough, massive hand had grabbed his member, pulled hard and raised the blade.

“Oh, shit, oh shit, oh shit, take the fangs!”

Another swift strike scored his base, went through the major vein down to muscle and contracted his scrotum with sudden agony. It hurt so badly, he couldn’t even cry out, could only arch and convulse as the blade made the same lazy, zigzag pattern that it had on his neck, and then the hand released him.

The feel of warm wetness oozed from him, the scent of his own blood scored his nostrils making him need to vomit from the trauma.
What had they done to him! This was so fucked up that, if he ever got topside he would put a hallowed earth shell to his own skull. No problem. He couldn’t even look down to witness the extent of the damage, didn’t wanna know. No matter, at least as a Councilman he deserved a hearing, a trial, some shit, Por Dios, not this… not a freakin’ outright neuter! He didn’t even do Nuit’s foul ass like this! He took the SOB’s fangs, but damn… he let him go to ash as a man!

All resistance left him. After what they’d done, why even try to escape? Go back to Damali like this, hell no. This was the Sea of Perpetual Agony, just knowing. Sobs so hard that he thought his Adam’s apple would crack rang out as his body began to slowly knit back together just so they could probably do it all over again.

“It is done,” a deep, baritone voice thundered. “You are marked by Ausar.”

As soon as the voice had spoken, the pain in his groin went to his upper jaw and his could feel his incisors burning within his mouth, sending shards of pain up into his gum line, behind his eyeballs, and into his very skull. Visceral liquid silver was eating him up internally. Sweat poured from his body creating seizures, and then everything went black.

“Conceal him,” a distant voice said.

“Forget,” another booming voice thundered.

Forget? Oh, bullshit. Not ever.

From a distant place in his mind, he could hear wings, feathered flight not the flapping of thick skin like those of the Harpies. Warmth… light… peace… no pain…. Blinding light that didn’t burn. It called out to him. The restraints that had bound him dissolved and he sat up and stared at the bright beacon.

“Yeah… all right,” Carlos muttered, resigned. “Might as well.”