Okay, maybe I should start this over. My name is Samuel Banks but most people just call me Old Sammy. Don’t let that fool you though, I’m not old, I’m only twenty-three. But I’m known to be something of a cynic or something of a dreamer depending on whom you ask. I’ve got a college degree in English literature, but I found out pretty damn quick that that doesn’t amount to much in this world. At the time this was first written I am working at the Washington Post, one of the largest newspapers in the
Now that we’re properly introduced I think I can feel better about telling you what I know via this diary. Last night,
The whole situation was brutal, a world unknown to mankind and yet so close to them. Two races, one hidden from sight, one basking in it; both unknown to man and bitterly angry at each other. The meeting was known as the Townsquare Affair, an attempt by the Golem Council of Elders to loosen the ever-growing control that the Sirens held over mankind. It isn’t known if the Council was acting pre-emptively to stop the turning of tides against them should either race ever be brought into the open, or fear that man kind would find out through the paparazzi exactly what, and for that matter who, the Sirens were.
But it was dreadfully obvious that the precedent setting Townsquare Affair, in which such figures as Jules McCleary, Susan White, Nathan Wilde and George Pruent were all present, that the summer of 2000 and the days to come, would all bring change.
Undisclosed Location
To this day its not known exactly where the Council of Elders meets, but the events of the meeting on
The hall where the meeting was held was less a hall and closer to a generic dockside warehouse. The room was filled with boxes and strewn packaging, and the likes of five elders, a select group of guards, and of course two visitors. The summer night hadn’t quite reached the room, furthering the tension in it with the likes of humid, dusty, stagnant air.
Nathan Wilde knew he didn’t want to be there, but who in his circumstance would? He’d been used by the Council of Elders for a few years now, tasked out on jobs from information gathering to diplomat and both he and his occasional associate had enjoyed the gifts of general success. Now, he exhaled wistfully as he looked at the pocked and aged faces of the elders before him, he’d some news to deliver.
“Nathan Wilde, you are recognized by the Council of Elders. Step forward.” It was the traditional line, heard a score of times by Nathan, and his response heard equally as many. That daring step, a long stride made out of angst and near dread, this news would not be received well.
“Elders, I stand before you Nathan Wilde, and openly bare the answers that you seek.” Openly but not without fear, fear was nibbling away at Nathan and he knew it. The only hope that he felt was that they didn’t see it, not yet, his fear might provoke a response that would prove difficult to deal with, now or in the future.
“George Pruent, you are recognized by the Council of Elders. Step forward.” Nathan didn’t turn his head to look, instead his thoughts remained focused on how to set his spin. He couldn’t lie to himself, he knew that the meeting three nights ago in the Townsquare had been a disaster. It was an attempt that he himself had constructed in order to prevent what could easily become an all out war between races, with mankind stuck in the middle. The others wondered why he cared so much about those people, those humans, a race that would surely destroy the Golems if they were discovered to exist, destroy before understanding. Nathan knew though, that all three races must coincide, it’s just the way things were to be, and so he convinced the Elders to give diplomatic means a chance. They did, and diplomacy failed.
“Elders, I stand before you George Pruent, and openly bare the answers that you seek.”
There was a moment of silence, it was almost as if the five elders were waiting, letting the drama and tension simmer under the two visitors. A leery-eyed elder, Montgomery Davidson, was the first to break the silence, he brushed a thick lock of matted and nasty hair from his view and then folded his hands before his face, the long, bony index fingers raised skyward and touching.
“Gentlemen, what seems to have happened since the meeting?” His question so blunt and to the point it scared Nathan a bit more than he already was, could they possibly know? How far did their network of relays and spies truly delve?
“Elders, it is still early too early to say what truly happened and what will become-,” Nathan began his pitch but was cut off by the visitor next to him.
“Failure,” George broke into the conversation, and destroyed what Nathan had been feebly trying to build. “The ambassadors of the Sirens were unreceptive to the ideas we proposed, of lessening their relations with the human race, and in truth, an armed conflicted was narrowly avoided.”
George was preaching war and everyone in the room knew it. Again, there was silence, this time not a dramatic pause, rather a settling of shock, disbelief giving way to reality at the news that had just been broken. George’s face, all sharp angles and determination, remained solid, keeping the look of sharply chiselled rock, while his eyes shifted slowly from each Elder. Carefully he read each of their responses to the news that he had so openly lay before them.
Armed conflict? The words slammed into Nathan the hardest of all. They were for the most part true, but the remainder of the truth was that it was George Pruent himself who had caused the meeting to take such a turn for the worst. If George hadn’t thrown in such biting and dangerous versions of what the Golem Council wished for the Sirens to do, then perhaps they wouldn’t have perceived the meeting as an ultimatum and Nathan wouldn’t want to shoot George at this very moment.
“I see.” The two word official response was given by one of the elders, a haggard old lady by the name of Elizabeth Dane, and who sat on the far left of the Council.
“Is this all?” It was a third member, the man seated at the centre of the Council, Mathew Summers; a Golem so old his naps had grown patchy and grey, and whose skin bore liver spots and scars of age. “Nathan, have you anything to add to this?”
“No, that is all,” Nathan’s voice was hard, disagreement at this point would appear to be going against the interests of the Golem people, and Nathan already had a large mark against him, better not try for two.
One of the elders shifted his hand and motioned for the visitors to take leave of the Council for a short while. History dictates what the decision was, the first strike. Nathan could almost read it in the white eyes of the Council members and he could surely feel it welling up from within.
Both George and Nathan took their absence near the other end of the warehouse. George lead the way, Nathan pressed after him, seeking at the least an explanation.
The tall Golem known as George Pruent slipped around a corner to the lean against the side of a wall of crates. He already had a cigarette burning when Nathan, now visibly angry, rounded the corner after him.
“What the hell was that back there?” All diplomacy was lost with that question. Any peaceful intent was lost as Nathan’s hand crashed against the crate inches away from George’s resting head. The anger of one was lost upon the other; George didn’t move, his pure white eyes just stared into Nathan’s as he lowered his cigarette and slowly exhaled. Nathan backed away, pulling his threatening hand with him, and attempted to regain his composure. George took another drag off his cigarette before giving the seething Golem an answer.
“I told them what happened.” His answer was so cold and simple that it sent the waves of rage rolling over Nathan once again.
“You told them your version of the truth!” His words were flung back at the model of a cold and heartless nature, which was standing, or rather leaning, before him.
“Then why didn’t you give them yours?” George jabbed his cigarette in Nathan’s direction adding emphasis to his already steely question.
“Because hanging myself is no way to get anything fixed,” Nathan’s anger was missing from his response, his tone had dropped, even his posture had shrunk. George smiled and smoked.
The ruling of the Council of Elders was a tall order. The Writ of the Dead was induced, those named as the Dead were given a target. The Dead will march against a fashionable nightclub located in New York City, owned and visited by a host of Sirens, not to mention some of the more elite, and subconsciously Siren-orientated human socialites.
The Dead moved quickly and the strike was the first of its kind to happen in the modern era.
June 30, 2000
New York City
The evening was hot, especially for New York, with the nighttime air still in the seventies. The club known as the Neon Haze was just picking up. The midnight clubbers were lined already around the block, fanning themselves with their hands and chatting idly between the groups of hoppers. The styles of dress shouted of every trend in the scene at the moment, no sense of flash or flair was forgotten. The night could have been cut out of a television show or movie for the almost too surreal atmosphere.
The Dead were not even noticed at first as they collected in a near by ally. There were twelve, the traditional number, but tonight that is where tradition ends. Efforts were made to disguise the obvious inhuman aspects of appearance. Sun glasses at midnight, clothes that were baggy and long, bandanas held the mess of dread and naps down flat and concealed the jutting ears, and long coats however ragged and tattered, were thrown over their attire to house the least traditional element of all, fire arms. Gone were the robes and shaved heads, gone were the ceremonial swords inscribed with the runes of ancient. No, this was the Dead of the new age.
Human life being spared was not one of the major priorities of the strike, but it was believed more Sirens were in the back rooms and the rear of the club, so it was through the fire exit that the Dead marched. They entered with a bang, the cracks of sub machine guns hid well by the thumping, pulsing beats of the club beyond. The Dead divided, the twelve messengers of the Council of Elders splitting up to, in a sick way, divide and conquer. The affair was brutal, a strong mark against the Sirens, the death of seventeen Sirens and a host of humans. The building was burned, a blazing message to Pretty Ones; that peace shall come, be it through death or flames. The Dead slipped off into the shadows as the wails of human police and fire sirens filled the early morning hours.
June 30, 2000
New York City
It was still early in the morning in New York City when one Susan White received her morning news blotter over latté. Shock spread quickly through her face, her eyes that seemed to shed a little wicked glow in the sun’s rising rays grew wide and a mouth of perfect white teeth gapped open. Her voice, usually a serene tone, was nearly shrill at first, then a shaky sort of calm as she called for her assistant, a human named Jason Brily, over the condo’s intercom.
“Jason, call the California office, get Jules McCleary on the phone.” Ordinarily she would have worried about hiding the distraught quiver that had snuck into her tone, but not now, not with the news of what had happened in the Neon Haze a mere half dozen hours ago.
“Susan, are you sure about that? It’s only two in the morning over in L.A.,” the voice of Jason Brily crackled back over the intercom.
“Call his home residence, if he’s not in, leave a message that I need to get in touch with him as soon as possible.”
“As good as done Susan.”
Jason Brily was a smart man, but not cleaver enough to see through the simple make up jobs that Susan White and countless other Sirens had perfected as a whole. She’d led quite a life as a run way model, many Siren’s do, and it allowed her the ability to blend in with the ilk of mankind as well as have a great deal of control over them. Where would they be without the beautiful people to aspire to be like? If they only knew who they were so often aspiring to be…. Ordinarily this brought a smile to her face, but not this morning, now she waited intently in her home office of the Whitehouse Fashions International Corporation.
Whitehouse, a trendsetter akin to Ralph Lauren, Tommy Hillfiger, and DKNY was the brainchild of Susan White and a few other notable Sirens. It gave them a furthering hand in the fashion business along with a financial comfort and social presence without the trouble of constant paparazzi. And the control that she exhibited in the human world, turned over to a certain amount of control in the Siren world. True enough the two often acted as mirrors of each other. When the Sirens decided upon a new trend it often carried over into mankind, and even vice versa. It had happened enough times; of course sometimes the changes came about through a radical Siren. For example the entire florescent color fad of the late 1980s. That had been a mistake that was hard to recover from and the ensuing grunge fashion was not any easier. But the upper class, the humans who most often came in contact with the Sirens during the who’s who parties on yachts and tall towers, the elitists if you will, they tended to stay true to the Siren ways; all too often unbeknownst to themselves. Susan liked them best, they believed themselves so high and mighty and proved so docile in their attempts to stay current and remain expensive that it was almost too easy. Not that Susan would ever complain about this, who was she to ask for a harder life?
Besides, Susan didn’t have the certain qualities that allow her to be a more public figure, meaning primarily patience. Some had it, most of the entertainment scene, both human and Siren, had “it”, but Susan was not one who could deal with prying eyes and probing photo lenses. True, the over all control was greater and the ability to sway the masses was certainly tempting, but the chance for disaster was very, very, real.
Two quick beeps and then the sharp hiss of static marked the return of the intercom. Susan sat up, putting her still steaming latté down next to her yet untouched croissant.
“Susan?” The voice that peeked through the box was edged with both hesitation and curiosity, but missing the panic that Susan felt.
“Jules?” Of course it was Jules, but she felt the need to ask anyway.
“Yes. And Susan, this better be important, I’ve been pulled out of a very important party to take this call.” It was two in the morning over there, who in their right mind would be sleeping? She should have known prior to making the call.
“I assure you that it is,” that stone cold certainty that Sirens seemed to inherently posses began to once again shine through. “I hope you don’t have any plans of visiting the Neon Haze any time soon, in fact, New York City should get checked off your itinerary for a good while to come.”
“Susan, what on Earth are you talking about? You’re not making any sense.” Jules on the other hand, one of the other primary names in the Whitehouse Corporation, had impatience readily building on that dry English accent he’d picked up some time ago.
“What I’m saying, Mr. McCleary, is that a few hours ago there was some sort of attack on the Neon Haze, an attack on Sirens. The club was burned to the ground.”
“Oh dear.” It sounded almost comical in his dreary English tone.
“What shall we do?” Susan was starting the ball rolling. The city of
“Sit tight for now. I’ll start work on the phone tree and try and beat the networks into action. Do we know who it was for sure?”
Susan looked down at the blotter that had given her so much pain, there on top was a handwritten note paper-clipped to the printed report concerning the fate of the Neon Haze. A hand written note that said in a sickly scrawl, “The Dead are marching”.
“Yes, we do. The Golems have struck.”
“Oh dear.”
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