Chapter 4

It finally happened, they fired me. I was fired from a job that I wasn’t getting paid at and it should be a terrible loss. But the odd thing is it took me a few days for the reality to sink in. I’m a bit angry about it. I should have felt instant remorse at the loss, instead the only thought that crossed was my mind was now I’d have more time to search. More time for my maddening search. But now the anger has swept in and this whole situation has taken me into an angst ridden state. I’m angry at myself for not being angry at losing the job that I worked so hard to get. I’m angry at whatever is driving me onwards in search of names for faces that I can hardly tell if I dreamt or were real. And I’m angry because I’m finding names that could very well be answers.

It’s not getting any better either. The late night wanderings have yet to finish, on the contrary they are becoming more and more frequent. I am passed the first few stages of worry, its amazing how long it takes a man spending his nights looking for dreams to actually grow beyond casual feelings that something might be wrong. If nothing’s out there than I’ve gone mad. If something is out there it better damn well be worth it because I’m rapidly on my way to losing everything for it.

Old Sammy

November 2, 2000

Los Angeles, California

“Look, you just get on the phone and you find this guy.” Jules McCleary slipped the antenna back down and the face shut on his cell phone. A slide sent it across the desk and into the pile of inventories and export sheets that being the West Coast VP is truly all about.

Both hands rose up to wring the sleep from the Siren’s eyes and one fell to next to his chin. Nathan Wilde. He’d approached him with some insane ideas before, wanting Sirens to pull out of this or that “lest mankind find out”. He struck Jules as a whole host of things: intelligent, straightforward, willing, and on his last phone call, desperate. Nathan had always seemed passionate to the point of seemingly foolishness, but never desperate. And then he fell off the face of the Earth.

November 3, 2000

Golem Prison Catacombs

Nathan Wilde’s Cell

Gasping for air Nathan Wilde flailed above the slime and sludge that composed his putrid prison. Work had been going well so far, the prison wasn’t flooding nearly as much as it had been. It was noticeable though; during the low cycles there was little more than ankle deep liquid and mounds of muck and mire. His overly long Golem fingers were raw and in some places bleeding, but they had done good. He was working at the grating, clearing away the refuse that had been building up there for a century or more. This next low cycle should be his time to act, to pry open that grate and flee into the freedom of the sewers.

His informants had been correct about Pruent and Morrison. But Nathan had been too late and he cursed himself for it now and nearly every moment of the past few months. Nathan slumped back against the wall and sank into the knee-deep mess. Time had lost meaning in here and left Nathan feeling simply desperate. If Pruent was going to act he would have to do it soon, but Nathan Wilde was without an exact date. The feeling of helplessness burned at him, he could feel it eating away and he could feel himself growing sicker and sicker. This place was Hell, a watery, cold, putrid Hell. Nathan slipped off into an angry sleep. He’d learned that sleep was both possible and necessary in a mess even as bad as this one.

* * *

The grate was nearly free, so close that he didn’t want to come back to the surface for the air that he knew he needed.

“I think we got a problem here.” The yell was from above, from the roof top grate that led into the rest of the catacombs. Nathan drew in air as quickly as possible and shot below the surface to the nearly free grate. There he sent already raw fingers to working at digging under the rusted metal and into the slimed covered rock that made up the walls and floor of his prison.

Behind him the first guard dropped down into the cell and pulled out an automatic pistol with a rather bright flashlight slung under the barrel.

“You see him?” It was a call from above, from a second Golem guard.

“No, I think he’s escaped,” his dreadlocks shook a bit as he turned those all white eyes up to the ceiling. “There’s barely any water down here.”

A bright beam of light cut through the mire behind Nathan as he frantically dug at the grating. A look over his shoulder at the white bar cutting a searching, knowing path through the sludge and Nathan doubled his already dangerously rapid attempts at escape. It’d only been ten seconds so far but his breath was already beginning to fail him, damn it, he needed to stay calm.

A second pair of legs dropped down into the mire and out came a pistol nearly identical to the first.

“So where’d he go?”

“Beats the hell outta me.”

Both probing streams of light danced a deliberate pattern in the water, scanning for any sight of…

“There!” The light landed on a foot that was hovering just below the surface and it was immediately followed by a gunshot.

The sudden shock was instantly identifiable as a small vortex was cut into the watery mess an inch or so next to the torso of Nathan Wilde. His hands pushed off the grate and he flung himself to the side moving away from those lights. He was panicked and out of air.

“Fuck, find him again!” Both Golems had pistols raised up to eye level and were sending those lights through the mess in dashing, rapid checks, trying to cover as much ground as possible. With his face just barely breaking the water a very desperate, very frightened Nathan Wilde took in a ragged breath and slipped back below the surface. Paranoia plagued him, telling him that they heard that, that his breath was too loud. And all it did was make him want to take another.

One sloshing footstep after another and the guards slowly parted, hoping to cover more ground apart. Nathan crept along the bottom of the cell and with as much of the mire above him as possible, hoping to get back to the grate, yank it up and flee to freedom. His shoulder met with a sudden bump of something solid and suddenly he wasn’t alone beneath the water.

The struggle ensued immediately with Nathan’s hands grabbing a hold of the Golem guard’s neck and the guard caught surprised and shocked, drowning on a mouthful of muck.

“What? Aw hell.” His partner’s disappearance was blatantly obvious, the great deal of splashing tipped him off. But who’s who was a different matter. The flashlight beam fell on the pair of struggling Golems.

Nathan managed to get a knee up and wedge it between himself and the guard and with some amazing reserve of energy he kicked up and sent the guard above the water.

“Get him!”

The flashlight landed on a choking Golem bent on his knees in the water. A pair of gunshots followed.

Below the surface a pair of feet retreated through a hole in the cell, next to which lay a grating.

November 4, 2000

Austin, Texas

His plane had touched down at Dallas/Fort Worth International Airport two days ago and the one called Gabriel, or Gary McManneth to those at the North Dakota DMV, had then purchased a Grey Hound ticket to cover the one hundred and ninety two miles between Dallas and Austin Texas. Under the alias David Simms he had secured a room at a Motel 6 just outside of the city itself, paid in cash, no questions asked. Under the name Joseph Farline he had rented a 1995 Geo Metro, grey in colour, also paid for in cash, he did opt for the insurance package though.

With his transport and lodging taken care of, the man who had taken to calling himself Gabriel began to hunt. His bags were left in the hotel room, the suitcase containing the rifle and telescopic scope, the one containing the large amount of cash he was travelling with, and the clothes that were piled in the tops of each bag. From the driver’s seat of his car Gabriel began his mental checklist. He wasn’t able to bring his own ammunition, but with luck he wouldn’t have trouble finding a store that loads its own ammunition in the great Lone Star State. And he needed to get more of a feel for the city; he needed to know what the killing ground would look like. Cruising down 16^th Street, the grey Geo Metro passed the Texas Cable and Telecommunications building en route to Congress Avenue and the prized State Capital building. It would go down there, in four days when George W. Bush was elected the 43^rd President of the United States of America.

November 5, 2000

Washington, D.C.

Old Sammy was feeling much older than his age. The stress of the situation he found himself in was finally getting to him. It was costing him everything and getting him nowhere that he wanted to be. He’d lost his job and his apartment would be next. He’d given up his car some time ago and left himself at the mercy of the national capital’s public transportation system. Not cabs though, he tried everything in his power to stay away from those.

His hair was greying. At nearly twenty-four years old, Samuel Banks found himself with gray hairs, enough where it was noticeable from a good fifteen feet away. With his collar hitched up on an old weather beaten trench coat Sammy found himself wandering about the streets of Washington, D.C. Some might think that was a dangerous thing to do, at night especially, but Sammy didn’t really care. He was compelled to wander, compelled to find out answers to questions that he still hadn’t discovered yet. Before he had trusted in the drive and not seen the insanity. But that was before his life was being eroded by the situation. Now, oh now, he was beginning to doubt. He was beginning to lose faith in the entire situation, to feel that maybe he was crazy. If he hadn’t lost his job perhaps he could have slid by on their health care package, gotten some sort of sedative or pill or magic fix-all to calm him down, cure his stress, stop the aimless wandering and undeniable search for answers and questions. He’d thought the same drive would have made him a good reporter, now, now, he just didn’t know.

A groan from below and a sloshing drew his eyes, drew his attention, and brought Old Sammy to his knees on the sewer grating. He was blocking his own light source, he couldn’t see what was down there, but he had heard it, it was large.

“Alligators?” No. No, probably a homeless person, this damn city had enough of those; ask anyone who’d ever been on the Mall. “Who’s there? Are you alright?” Sammy shifted back from hovering immediately over the grating, allowing a shaft of light from the street lamp to cleave a path through the darkness and cast a bit of illumination onto a hulking, slime-covered creature below. As the creature attempted to rise Sammy noted the humanoid form: the arch of the back under some sever strain, a pair of arms, some matted and filthy dreadlocks. “Hold on, I’ll be right down.” All doubt forgotten. Sammy nearly jumped to his feet and shot his eyes about looking this way and that for the nearest manhole cover and how to get to where that poor man had fallen. The nearest one lay just to the right of him, on the sidewalk next to the grating. With a bit of a strain Sammy had the cover off and was making his way down the wrought iron rungs and into the sewer below. A pair of battered old Florsheim shoes met with the small concrete maintenance walkway and then plunged into the cold, thick, slow moving muck that the man had fallen into.

Sammy reached out and wrapped both of his arms about the man, heaving him onto the walkway belly up. It was dark, really dark but he didn’t feel right to Sammy. It didn’t bother him at that moment though, Sammy wasn’t prone to holding men and so the relative height and generally thin figure of this one didn’t tip him off as odd. He couldn’t see the white eyes or just how long the fingers were or the small triangle teeth that filled the mouth of this Golem. Sammy didn’t know that what he was picking up out of the sludge of the District of Columbia sewer system was the answer to the questions that he had yet to discover.

“Are you all right? Can you walk?” Sammy bombarded the “man” with questions as he hovered over the fallen figure, casting a shadow and further obscuring those features so clearly not human.

“My legs…so cold…please…” Old Sammy was in one tight spot. Heaving the man up by his armpits Sammy hooked his own belt under the man’s arms and threaded his coat through that. It took nearly all the strength that Sammy had to draw the “man” up through the manhole and onto the street through his makeshift belt/trench coat winch system and with him up and out of the muck the pair both lay there panting. Moments passed and Sammy finally gathered himself up and retrieved his belt (his pants were having a terrible time staying up without it) and put his coat over the “man”, gaining Sammy his first really good look at him.

“Oh my god, what are you?” It probably wasn’t the most tact question but in the waves of shock that rolled over Sammy he was surprised that the question wasn’t at least mildly peppered with profanity.

“You…must…help m…” The creature, for Sammy had made up his mind rather quickly that it wasn’t a man, was soaked, with eyes pure white and barely open and when it spoke it betrayed chiselled features and short, sharp, shark-like teeth. One of its arms rose up grasping at air with long, very long, fingers that still maintained a rather high level of muck in places. It took some effort but Sammy shifted his coat from blanket to proper wear over the creature and brought him to his feet, an arm slung over Sammy’s shoulder and Sammy’s own arms about his waist.

“You’re going to have to walk with me, my apartment is only a few blocks from here but I can’t carry you by myself.” The faintest of nods was issued from his injured companion. The injured creature was lucky, this was one of those rare times when the streets of Washington D.C. weren’t filled with crack slingers or cops or tourists or even a stray dog or homeless vet. The pair limped the five blocks total and the two flights of stairs and into Sammy’s run down and overly expensive apartment.

* * *

Sammy locked the door and hit the lights as he went, bringing the slime covered creature into the living room, the only bit of floor large enough for Sammy to lay him down. There under the lights Sammy was almost as horrified as he was comforted, something deep inside ticked and he knew, he’d found his answer. Through the sludge and muck and slime, the sweat and blood, and the plastered dread locks and scraps of trash that covered this creature, Old Sammy believed he recognized him. He’d seen him those many months ago, in the Townsquare basement.

Sammy wasn’t a medic, he’d had little first aid training, but he was a man, and he had watched his share of Baywatch. He knew he had to be able to identify the problem before he could attempt to help this creature. Sammy set to stripping away the clothing, removing the trench coat and the collection of rags that were soaked in nearly every fluid imaginable and more than a healthy share of slime. And blood, there was a great deal of caked and dried blood located about the lower back. Sammy didn’t realize just how close that was to the creature’s spine, didn’t consider paralysis, rather he heaved the now naked and emaciated body into his arms and carried it to his bath tub where he immersed it the rapidly rising and slightly steaming water. Sammy cut the water off just below the level of the creatures face, and laid him down as best he could, he was a great deal longer than the tub, this creature must have measured a few inches over six and a half feet. With the water working away at the injured one Sammy slipped from the bathroom just long enough to fetch a portable phone and a number he hadn’t dialed in quite some time.

Working in the newspaper business teaches one how to meet people, how to forge contacts in places of importance like police stations…and hospitals. Nicole Kartin. Sammy had taken her out a few times. She was a RN at George Washington Hospital and she had the bad luck of getting stuck working the emergency room often enough to give her a pretty negative outlook of the city. Sammy hadn’t called her in a good while. Jesus, it’d been nearly a year, where the hell had he been? But he had no other choice or so it seemed. It was late too, he was taking one hell of a risk. She’s probably working right now…How the hell do I explain this to her? What do I say? I’ve got some sort of hairless “bigfoot” in my bathtub? But as for ideas on what to do otherwise Sammy was at a loss.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

“Hello?” The voice was distinctly feminine, and sounded very tired.

Sammy choked.

“Hello? Is this some sort of a joke? Don’t you kids every grow up?” Sammy had gotten enough prank phone calls to know that in a few seconds if he didn’t say something the phone was going to be hung up.

“Nicole? It’s Sammy, Sammy Banks.” There was silence on the other end of the line, had she hung up?

“Shit Sammy, do you know what time it is?”

“I’m sorry Nicole, I wouldn’t have called if this weren’t an emergency. I…” The shifting on the other end of the phone sounded a great deal like a woman sitting up in bed. “I’ve got something here, a gun shot wound it looks like.”

“Are you okay?” She was suddenly very awake.

“Yes, yes, it’s not me. I found a…bum, face down in the sewers, I think he was shot in the back.”

“Okay, okay hold on. Did you call the police?” The RN training kicked in and suddenly Nicole Kartin was in control of the situation.

“No. I think that would complicate issues. I don’t know what to do Nicky,” Sammy threw in his pet name for her; it’d been even longer since he’d called her that. The magic that is portable phones had allowed Sammy to drift back into the bathroom where he sat on the John and could keep vigil over the gun shot victim that inhabited his bathtub.

“Alright, we’ll play it your way Sammy. Is he still bleeding? How old is the wound and where exactly is it located?”

Wedging the phone between ear and shoulder Sammy reached down and turned the creature so that his back was in view. The wound was in his back, entering from just above his left hand kidney and lacking an exit wound. The entry hole was swollen and ragged but the water had done wonders cleaning out the caked blood and filth and left a sickly white hole staring up at the ex-intern for the Washington Post. Sammy flexed his reporter skills and informed Nicole of the situation down to the smallest detail.

“Shit.”

“What?”

“Grab a toe nail, push down on it so that it’s white and then see how long it takes to turn back to normal.” Sammy did as instructed and pushed down on the overly long toe, watching as he withdrew pressure it go from white to…it didn’t go back to the reddish pink with any sense of speed, the blood flowed back in after a hand full of seemingly long seconds.

“I was afraid of that.”

“What? What does that mean?”

“You’re gun shot victim probably has spinal damage that has paralysed him from the waist down, maybe a bit higher. Has he had any leg movement, kicked his feet or flexed his knees?”

“When I was carrying him back he would help with his feet every so often but not much. Why?”

“I can’t say for sure Sammy…” She trailed off.

“But?”

“But that bullet is probably still settled next to his spine and it pinching the nerve there. He needs to get to a hospital. Now.”

“Nicky that really really isn’t an option. If you knew what I knew you’d understand.”

“Well goddamn Sammy, it’s two thirty in the morning tell me what you know or let me get the hell off the phone.” The irritation was heavy on her voice. Living as an RN in a city that has held the nation’s highest murder rate had brought the world into black and white for her, it can or it cannot and goddamn it she wasn’t going to waste time on obvious “cannot.”

“Thanks for your help Nicky.” The click was so much louder than it seemed it should have been.

November 6, 2000

Washington, D.C.

Samuel Bank’s Apartment

Shock was probably the first thing to register on Nathan Wilde’s face when he woke up amazingly clean and wrapped in a thick layer of blanket atop a couch in a rather strange place, a rather human place. The shock was caused by both waking up in strange surroundings and that when he kicked his legs over the couch and onto the floor they didn’t move. Just attempting to sit up shot pain through him. His nostrils tingled, alerting him to the presence of food. It’d been some time since Nathan had eaten, escaping in the sewer’s he’d quickly lost even the strength to catch and eat a rat.

“So you’ve come to.” The voice came from somewhere that Nathan couldn’t see, just out of sight, but the footsteps informed him that someone was indeed coming closer. Nathan steadied himself within, trying to bring upon himself all that diplomatic composure that he knew he had hidden away somewhere within. “I took it upon myself to fix you a little something to eat. I hope you don’t mind scrambled eggs to terribly much. I’m not the best cook and I’m not working with the greatest supplies here.”

A human male with hair peppered dark and grey squatted down in front of where the Golem was laying. He wasn’t afraid. Nathan was.

“Can you sit up?”

“I…no…” The human reached out and very gently raised the Golem to a sitting position; the wing of the couch compensating for the support his legs wouldn’t give him.

“How about your arms? Do they still work?” Both did, as Nathan demonstrated. The plate was placed on his lap then, with a rather large spoon, the kind used to serve salads. The eggs, scrambled and still a bit runny, were nearly pounced upon by Nathan, who discovered that residing in a state of delirium for days at a time does leave someone rather hungry.

The human pulled up a chair and sat and watched. But neither seemed content with the uncomfortable silence and so the human spoke.

“My name’s Samuel, but most people just call me Old Sammy. I…I found you last night and brought you to my apartment. You’re safe here from who ever was chasing you.” His comment made Nathan stop in mid bite, from which he calmly swallowed and replied.

“What makes you think I was being chased?”

“You’ve a bullet lodged in your back, up against your spine that’s paralyzing you from the lower back down. You were running when you were shot. That seems to hint at being chased.” His reply was actually amazingly calm, especially for a human. Nathan decided to attempt to take control of the situation; he continued to eat. As he finished the plate, wiping up all the leftover bits with a piece of white bread he sat the plate down onto the coffee table arranged in front of the couch.

“How did you know I’d speak English?” Nathan popped the question out to the human, to Old Sammy.

“You were speaking in your delirium.” The matter-of-fact nature with which this human treated the situation was unsettling to Nathan. The man should want to know, should be afraid or angry or something. He wasn’t acting human; he was acting civilized and rational.

“My name is Nathan Wilde, I’m what is called a Golem and a great deal of what I’m about to tell you will be difficult to believe but I promise you it is all true.”

November 7, 2000

Location Undisclosed

It was the big day, Election Day, and tomorrow George W. Bush would be given the title of the most powerful elected official in the world. Joanna knew this too, she could feel it in the air, her too perfect ears could hear it, and her too perfect nose could smell it. Her skin, powdered to hide the glimmer, powdered to look human, could feel it dancing across like electricity. With George Bush in office things would be much better for Siren-kind thanks to Ken Morrison. Golems everywhere beware.

“How are the polls looking Jo?” She hated the pet name he had for her, but turning in a wash of brunette locks Joanna turned to face the Republican Party official immediately above her in the party chain of command.

“It’s close Roger, but our man is still on top.”

“On top, just how I like it.”

“Roger…what’s that supposed to mean?” She gave him a seductive grin and he just smiled at her and walked off, a hand stylishly resting in his pocket. No one would ever be able to say that Joanna didn’t know how to play the game. The quite attractive woman with the thick, lush brown hair went back to work.

November 7, 2000

Austin, Texas

The man who’d taken to calling himself Gabriel had a firm grip on the situation in the capital of the Lone Star State. He’d secured himself a box of 20 hand loaded 30.06 rifle rounds and even gone to a rifle range to check the zero on his scope. He was dead on for five hundred meters, which was the approximate distance from the roof of the John H. Regan building to where the grandstands were being erected at the state Capital building.

He’d secured a position from where he could fire. A spot from the Regan building where the massive and majestic looking granite capital building with it’s dome that stretched to over three hundred feet tall splayed out before him. He’d checked with a portable laser the exact range and had everything ready to go. One shot and no more Ken Morrison. The man who called himself Gabriel chuckled as he walked around the capital green, and it’s a good thing that Bush was a Republican or there might be a second shot tomorrow.

The door to his gray 1995 Geo Metro clicking shut behind him and turning back on to Colorado Street the man who called himself Gabriel retreated to his Motel 6 for some much needed sleep.

November 7, 2000

Washington, DC

Nathan Wilde hung up the telephone and looked over at the human named Old Sammy who had been kind enough to let him make a cross country call, not to mention save his life.

“I’ve informed my Siren contact of my current state and of my former partner’s intentions for tomorrow. I guess now we’re left to sit and wait.”

“Bah, I’m unbelievably hungry.”

“I know what you mean. I could certainly go for a good steak.” The Golem’s wish got Sammy to cock an eyebrow in surprise.

“Steak?”

“Oh yes. You don’t think that is a taste limited only to humans do you?”

“No, no. I didn’t really give much thought to what Golems eat, or Sirens for that matter.”

“Remember Ol’ Sammy, we’re not animals, we’re sentient beings just like you.” Sammy just nodded.

“I’m going to run down to the corner deli and bring us back some food, try and keep the fort while I’m gone.”

“Not a problem.”

November 7, 2000

Los Angeles, California

Jules McCleary had a weary look on his face as he once again found himself closing his cell phone and setting it down on his desktop. He’d gotten wind of one Ken Morrison some time ago; he’d had his ear and part of his body in a scheme that was in place to put Mr. Morrison into a place of power. For Jules it wasn’t that he particularly wanted a human with either anti-Golem or pro-Siren views in power, but for him it was a small investment. It didn’t have a terrible chance of blowing up in his face and he did have a shot of it panning out rather nicely. For Jules McCleary seeing Ken Morrison into power had been a chance investment, nothing more, nothing less.

He’d been approached sometime ago and introduced into a small group that was tracking the political movers and shakers of the next election. The group was very secretive, very cloak and dagger. No one knew who was who but they did know that there were others and they did know that someone was pulling the strings behind all of this.

And then the rumours of “Joanna” had begun. A traitor amongst the group, and a Siren that no one had ever heard of. But tonight Jules’s web of contacts and informants had paid off. “Joanna” was a Siren in cahoots with George Pruent, and that was bad. Pruent was an old school Golem, or so Jules had gathered. He wanted the Siren’s gone, removed and he would take some rather extreme positions to do so. And for the world at this point that was bad. George Pruent had hired an assassin and planned to have Ken Morrison killed tomorrow.

Damn it! Jules slammed a fist down and managed to bounce his phone off the desk’s surface nearly an inch. That wasn’t enough time. Saving Ken Morrison’s life would take a miracle.

November 8, 2000

Austin, Texas

“It’s the morning after Election Day and America is left without a President Elect. The state of Florida came to a tie vote in the Electoral College and so neither George W. Bush or Al Gore have enough electoral votes to capture the victory…”

The man who called himself Gabriel cursed as he watched the television in his Motel 6 room. Recounts, recounts, recounts. All they kept talking about was recounts. He didn’t have time for this, he had a man to kill.

Chapter 3

I don’t know for how much longer I can keep working for the Post. A lot of odd things have been happening lately, the strange vibes that I’ve been getting since that night a few months ago when I was in the Townsquare haven’t been going away. Not completely. They’ll slip off and life will return to normal for a little while, and then it’ll go back to weird sights and feelings that make the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

I don’t know how I know, but I’m now quite certain that I’ve seen a few of the faces from that night before and since then. These sightings are not just out of the corner of my eye, not glimpses or flashes taking place in the churning sea of bodies of a crowded street. Some I swear I’ve seen in the media, pictures that have come across of the AP Wire from the oddest of places, Milan, Paris, New York; the fashion scene.

And if this isn’t all crazy enough, I saw two people, one from the meeting, the other who could quite easily have been there. I was jogging down one of the paths that line the Potomac River, it was late one night, but with my hours that’s when I get to run. The pair didn’t notice me, there were a few others out and about, others whose careers only let them exercise when normal people are asleep and dreaming. I’d seen too many spy movies to not investigate. With all the sleep I’d been losing over this whole thing I pretty much figured I owed it myself to eavesdrop. I bent down and pretended to tie my shoe, I wasn’t too close but I heard enough of the hushed and sarcastic tones to know that something was up, something was being planned, and the name Ken Morrison was one that I was familiar with, one that they kept mentioning.

I think I’m going to start seeing a shrink about this. I need to get some sleep again.

Old Sammy

August 19, 2000

Location Undisclosed

The warehouse and the prestigious members within all had their attention focused on one George Pruent. The traditional formalities had all been dispensed with, in fact, the shark grinned golem was already working into his plan. He slowly walked before the Council of Elders, something similar to a lawyer addressing a television courtroom. With those overly long hands clutched behind his back, one set of overlong long fingers in a ball and the other clutching the wrist of his arm he turned his pure white eyes to each of the members in turn.

“The human’s name,” George slipped in a dramatic pause, “is Ken Morrison. And he is the enemy.” Cutting to the point, George was lethal when given the opportunity to spin events in his favor, and this was all in his favor. Nathan Wilde, a brother in the game of deception, eyes, ears, and mouth for the Council, but soft at heart, was no where to be seen, disappear from the sight of the Golem community for nearly a month and a half now. That was plenty of time for George to write away all the weak and desperate acts that Nathan had tried, well, write away what he couldn’t capitalize himself on. “Kenneth M. Morrison, a human by birth; born May 23, 1954 just outside of Chicago Illinois. He was a graduate with honors from the University of Iowa with a BA in Philosophy in 1973. And then a Masters in Business Economics from Bentley College, city of Boston, in 1979. Mr. Morrison became involved with one George W. Bush during his time as Governor of Texas and is a major advisor on his run for the 2000 Presidential election. Ken Morrison has been gifted with a silver tongue, and it is rumored, that he is capable of near control over Bush. The real problem does not arise here, or rather does not simply arise here. Ken Morrison is nearly totally under the control of the Sirens.” George Pruent sat back, a brief, dramatic pause as he watched as the expressionless eyes of the Golem Council members took in this rather frightening information. And then he led back into his speech, continuing that slow pacing before them, now it was something closer to a lion pacing before his prey, because at this point, the deal was done and the Council was sitting nicely in the palm of George Pruent’s hand. “I know that the esteemed members of this Council do not need the importance of this situation explained to them.” George paused, he wanted them to ask, he wanted the Council to admit that with Nathan Wilde no longer in the picture that George Pruent was in charge. And they did, George smiled as he leaned forward, his arms spread wide causing him to gather a bit of an intimidating stance over the table.

“What do we do about this you ask? Well, its very simple, the Writ of the Dead has just been giving their second target. The elimination of this man will show the Sirens that their attempts at controlling the White House will not only not be tolerated by the Golems, but that it will not be allowed to even come about.” George was smiling at this point. He couldn’t help it, these Council members, they were old, there was nearly no way for them to compete with him. He had them right where he wanted them. “The elections are but a few months away and for this to work, to prove to those Siren bastards that we are serious, this needs to happen before then. And lastly, it needs to be public.” His last statement was a risk, but in the pure white eyes of George, it was a crucial aspect. He was playing the Siren’s game. A job in the dark could be overlooked, simply denied by choice. But if the play was done publicly, then there was no denial available. Admittance was the only route and that was precisely what George was looking for.

One of the Council members was opening his mouth, ready to speak out in doubt or defiance, either of which were not suitable. Instead George just cut him off, “I ask for three weeks and I will devise a suitable plan for a date in the future. That plan, I will lay before the Council for approval. It is a plan, that I give my word, will not fail nor expose the Golem people to the human race.” His assurance, with the illusion of Council control, put a seal on the night’s events, at least for George. The official dismissal was being granted when a voice called from the past. Perhaps it wasn’t the voice that was the calling from the past, perhaps it was the name that the voiced called out.

The Crier Guard rang out amongst the formalities of the meeting ending. “Nathan Wilde begs recognition by the Golem Council of Elders.” The sure, loud voice of the blind Golem caused all to turn towards the door and the ever-remarkable feat of the blind recognition. The blind amongst the Golems are blessed in one manner or another, no sight for them confers rewards nearly unimaginable, and with the Crier Guard, the inability to see proved unimportant in the recognition of anyone, friend, foe, or stranger.

“Nathan Wilde, you are recognized by the Council of Elders, step forward.”

“Elders, I stand before you Nathan Wilde, and openly bare the answers that you seek.”

The cruel twist of fate that had just been admitted into the Council meeting became the focus of its every occupant and as the shock waves of his arrival wore off George Pruent began to plot. Nathan’s arrival was a shock, and was no doubt one that would be explained shortly. His absence had been a blessing but a poor or even damaging reception here could prove all the more valuable for the shark grinned Golem.

“It would please the Council for a recollection of your last month and a half’s events.” The white eyes seemed to gleam down with their pure and unblinking judgment. Nathan had visibly steeled himself up for this. He was a hard Golem, but no one was this hard; he had a tidal wave of hellish consequences barrelling down upon him. It was not a situation that George Pruent would like to find himself in, though he wasn’t a traitor to his own race.

“The Writ of the Dead has been enacted, further procession is still in order.” It wasn’t much of a foundation, even Nathan knew that, but it was one that with the right spin he could work on. Behind clamped lips George’s teeth were born together, Nathan did have a way with words, ever the manipulator but ever naive. Inside George wanted to call him out, wanted to challenge him in accord with the old ways, wanted to betray him a liar in front of the highest court, highest council, most sacred bit of Golem society. He couldn’t though; his own fate’s path was comfortably buffered by playing the moral higher. He, of course, wasn’t a traitor to his own race.

“And I suppose that you’ve, as well, selected a suitable target for the next enacting?” There was doubt and sarcasm held amongst those words, it would seem that George’s feelings were mutual.

From the vantage point of Nathan Wilde the room had not only already deemed him personally guilty, but that bastard Pruent had decided that the war with the Sirens was to be continued. Control over the situation was rapidly slipping through the horrifically long fingers of Nathan and it was not a confidence-building situation. Digging down, so to find a steady purchase to speak from Nathan again raised his voice, one that contained a clear and calm sound that he didn’t know how he managed but didn’t stop to contemplate.

“I immersed myself in the center of the Siren Empire. I scoured through the city of Los Angeles and begun mapping out a series of targets and individuals with which to mount an offense of unprecedented tenacity.” It was a half-truth and perhaps that’s where the confidence sprung. Nathan Wilde had been in L.A. but his research had not been for the Writ of the Dead.

A leering and unbelieving pair of eyes from the Council table set another question, “And where does your proposed campaign begin?”

“With the Siren Jules McCleary.” That tone was the closest that Nathan ever found himself to sounding like a cold hearted killer. He named a name, and it was the name with which his own research had indeed churned up, a name with which he’d even taken a leap of faith and attempted to make contact with.

“It seems then that we have a choice to make amongst us. Perhaps first the human, as a message, or even a threat?” George spoke up with a carnivorous grin shifted Nathan’s way, it was a question designed to draw out Nathan’s weak side. It was a question designed to inspire Nathan to provoke his own demise. George honestly didn’t know why Nathan even bothered to show up, his life would have been so much more…secure…had he just remained out of sight. The corners of the hunter’s mouth twisted upwards ever so slightly as the unknown prey nearly chocked.

“I seriously believe that it would not be in the best interest of the Council nor the Golem people to target a human being.” Nathan had locked his jaw a moment before speaking and his words came out as clenched as the pair of fists balled at his sides.

“Oh, but Ken Morrison is no simple human, he possess a genuine threat to the Golem people as a whole. Possible genocide condoned by the government of the United States.” With his arms crossed at his wrists and positioned behind his back, it was quite obvious that George knew that he had won, no longer would Nathan Wilde be a thorn in his side.

“Its still interference; its still something that we can’t afford to do. The risk is so severe that it might spark the same or greater results…” Nathan Wilde stopped himself and took a good look around. His temper had been sparked and a brief tempest of emotion had ridden any sense of political subterfuge from his tongue, and landed him under the glares of far too many, and far too important, all white eyes.

* * *

‘Keep him alive’ they said. ‘We might want his plan later’ they said. It’d saved his life but not by much, not by the muck that was over knee high and the steady drip, drip, dripping of water. A modern catacomb tunnelled over many years into the marshland that Washington D.C. was built upon and that served as a secret network for the Golems, and a jail. Nathan found himself using it as the latter. The thin shafts of light that penetrated down through the thickly barred grate that served as a cell door and they set a small, but very depressing, cloud to hang over Nathan’s head.

What that minimal lighting showed was as close to Hell as the Golem had ever seen. The water was only knee high at the moment, but at some point, actually at regular intervals it would flood to above waist high and Nathan could just feel himself floating up with the odd subterranean tide and having his face pressed up to the grating. Eating, oh, now that was another joyous task altogether; Nathan had been on the other side of that grating and knew that when the guards got about to feeding, the food wasn’t even worth being noted as of poor quality. Nathan shivered and turned towards the darkness. Oh, he shouldn’t have come back but Nathan Wilde had a moral compass sparked in him some time ago and the damn thing wouldn’t kick out.

The first few sloshing footsteps led Nathan’s searching hands to the grotesque, slimed surface that served as a wall. He was using the wall as some sort of guide. It was an attempt at terrain association in a tunnel that lost all light after a very short distance. The murky water was steadily rising in depth that lead Nathan to believe that there had to be an exit submerged below. Finding the exit though would prove to be quite difficult, and very easily fatal.

It was going to take some time and some research to determine the exact flooding cycles and from them Nathan could determine where the murky mess was seeping in from, and from there he could figure some way out. That was a great deal of variables for a Golem trapped in a perpetually flooding cell. Time. It would take time, but time was something he had plenty of. He would need help though when time ran out. Damn that moral compass.

Nathan retreated from the waist deep region; back to the dimly lit and merely knee deep spot under the grate. Escape did seem his only option. Jules McCleary, the trail to him would be suspected, but if peace were ever to be had Nathan knew he would have to arrange it on his own. And he would need a connection with Jules McCleary to do so. Yes, escape was a must, a definite, his only option.

September 12, 2000

Washington, D.C.

Sammy was doing it again, out walking the streets late at night. Tragic thoughts played across his mind as he realized that this would be another sleepless night. It would be another in a long line. Sleep would come to the insightful intern, come in bits and pieces, it would come in the form of a dream in which he would be wishing that he were asleep. To say that not sleeping was affecting his work would be an understatement. The life and long hours of an intern at one of the nation’s largest newspapers, at a morning publication, didn’t allow for much sleep. Come lately though, his superiors had been noting that Sammy’s performance was dropping as fast as the bags under his eyes were building.

The late night meanderings had been going on long enough that a pattern was beginning to develop. It was not as much a pattern of occurrences related to time, but rather was came forth was a pattern of destinations. Sammy found himself back along the banks of the Potomac, wandering around the concrete maze below the Townsquare, or rifling through the microfiche history at the Washington Post reference library.

Sammy knew he was working on spent time and every night that he didn’t sleep made the following day a potentially unemployed one. But on the same token, Sammy knew he was onto something, something big. With a sigh Sammy just kept walking. His destination tonight was the photo file buried deep within the Post building. The flash of his intern badge and the usual bull shit research story was given to the night guard. Accompanied by the clicking of his footsteps and the jumble of his own thoughts Sammy twisted his way instinctively to the banks of microfiche. Guided by instinct and a drive that could easily be called compulsive, Sammy situated himself before a screen and started making his way through past stories. Photos were the key, names to go with faces; Sammy wanted identities.

* * *

The rule facilitated by a noble government has not always been for everyone. The cut throat system of noble houses possessing power deemed largely from money and land, of countries divided into fiefdoms has long since been seen as an archaic, old fashioned, nearly barbaric system of governing. But for a race such as the Sirens this type of rule was ideal. For the beautiful people of the world, the ideal city was Paris. For the beautifully damned their capital of the world was Paris.

In regards to mankind, the Sirens viewed themselves as a noble race. Towards the Golems they swore nobility with twice the fever. But amongst the Sirens themselves there were those who’s position put them that much further along the power curve. Susan white was defiantly one of those.

September 18, 2000

Paris, France

The Paris night seemed to magnify the Siren situation. There was something of a divide amongst the power scheme in the world of the beautifully damned. Here Old and New were in constant contrast. The established system of noble house, old money, old lands were in competition with the flashing lights and fast nights that seemed to be the Siren version of the American Dream. All of this could have been quelled with relative ease if it weren’t for one outstanding factor, the lack of a sole governing figure. It had nearly been three years since the Siren’s had been in possession of a single leader. Since then the rapid scheming and power shifts that predominated the Siren noble government had allowed the situation with the “New Worlders” to escalate to areas viewed as taboo.

The pair, Susan White and Jason Brily, had arrived in France, in Paris itself nearly a day prior. Despite her grip on the western fashion scene, her position as one of the younger “Old Worlders” allowed for a measure of anonymity here. The European papers and fashion magazines rarely ran her picture and the general aloof nature of Europeans made her passing that much easier. True, the city wasn’t New York, but it did have an interesting opera at the moment and the dinning scene was some of the best in the world according to Jason, so the two made a day and night out of it.

That was yesterday though; much of today had been spent in the back seat of a provided luxury sedan that wound its way out to a chateau in the French countryside. The expansive villa had been about for long enough that the owner’s identity was merely assumed as being an anonymous aristocrat by the general public or that the home and lands were something of a family heirloom. No one saw it for what it was, a capital building seated a comfortable distance from a secret, private capital. But as the estate owned vehicles drove the check listed guests to the front steps and individuals dressed for power passed through the oversized double doorway and into the entryway without the luxury of a host it became obvious that this was no party; no simple social gathering. This was the second of a twice annual meeting in which the movers and shakers who bore the title “Old Worlders” got together and attempted to collectively guide the destiny of the race as a whole…that and a great deal of personal agendas were drafted, revised and put into action within these very halls. It would be a bold faced lie to say that every Siren in the room didn’t have their eye on the brass ring of becoming the Lord. These people didn’t get here without a great deal of cutthroat ambition and a more than generous helping of common sense.

The elite’s elite drifted towards the large central room. Doubt was rolling about Susan’s mind, doubt about anything-circumstantial coming out of this meeting. She honestly only foresaw more highbrow bickering and clique forming. Yet some sort of responsibility had drawn her here…ah to be young and able to shrug off life’s responsibilities.

October 1, 2000

Golem Prison Catacombs

Nathan Wilde’s Cell

Nathan burst to the surface of the muck that flowed about his prison cell his lungs gasping for breath. He’d been searching for the better part of every day he’d been locked away in his own personal slime filled Hell, searching for the source of the routine flooding. It seemed like it would be easy, he’d long learned that the flooding came to what appeared to be twice a day to the remnants of his biological clock. Of course the water wasn’t salted which meant that it wasn’t part of the Chesapeake Bay and the Potomac River didn’t have flood regularly except when a Nor-Easter was hitting the District which gave Nathan a bit of hope. Twice a day, spread out roughly half a day apart was shower time, and Nathan swore that somewhere, somehow the catacombs were connected to the District of Columbia sewer system. That did however give a rather unsatisfactory explanation to the slime and muck that was so prevalent, so overpowering, but that was grossly outshined by thoughts of escape. The tide was at its lowest now and still the mire that filled his cell was deep at the end, and the utterly total darkness didn’t help, nor the slime that was so heavy at the bottom, but as Nathan regained his breath he composed himself for another go around. He was smiling too; he thought he might have found a grating below a finger’s depth of filth. He edged in deeper and then with a gasp for breath he disappeared down below the surface, leaving barely a wave behind in the near sludge.

October 4, 2000

Southern California Coast

Southern California, while it was no longer the center of classy glamour that it once was, it still provided enough of the glitz and the high life to satisfy the Siren who epitomized the “California Girl”. It’s true that there are great many songs which could have been written about Beth Meyers and as she was cruising top down in her convertible it was only fitting that one be playing. The sun setting in the background added the final detail and provided for a picturesque, nearly scripted, end to her day.

The house that she pulled into possessed a face of large windows that allowed the orange and pink skyline to spill an almost heavenly glow into its interior. It had been another one of those days; with a large part of this one spent taping the latest episode of her trendy, weekly night opera. Beth gave her head a shake as she dropped her bag off, if the viewing public only knew what kind of hours a hard working actress was forced to slave simply in order to produce forty five minutes of actual episode…

A trail of lights being flipped on marked her progress through the rapidly darkening house. The trail ended in her rather spacious, albeit under used, kitchen where a glass of Chardonnay worked its way nicely into her hand and her arms crossed over her chest; that glass dancing delicately at lips still painted from the day’s work. Her eyes, an awesome hue of blue, had drifted to the glass doorway to the patio when she noticed the shadow in the reflection. Her stone facial expression slipped on and trapped inside the shock that threatened to escape. Instead a composed and clouded blue-eyed beauty turned to face the lurking shadows.

Whoever the intruder was, he, for it was obviously a male, had taken to leaning against one of the rounded, door less archways that could be found throughout the house. Watching her turn, the unannounced guest leaned away from the wall, shifting his weight to both feet and with both hands in his pockets the squared shoulders and jaw line of Brian Corbin came into view.

“You’ve got a hell of a knock.” There was more than a hint of ice in the blonde’s tone as a toss of her drink chased the words away.

“You’re Joanna aren’t you?” There were no chess games tonight. This Siren instead, chose to be brash.

“I’m who?” One of Beth’s brows arced up adding accompaniment to her question.

“Joanna. The informant. You found out about the plans and you gave them to the Golems didn’t you?” Despite the three or four steps between the two the stench of liquored breath was no surprise to Beth. It was totally unlike Brian to betray himself like this.

“Plan? Brian you’re drunk and not making any sense.” Beth didn’t back down, instead to give credit to her acting skills a look of compassion leaked across her face.

“Oh my…you really don’t know do you?” Fear crossed the normally healthy face as he discovered his normally cleaver shroud had been lost to scotch. “I gotta go…” That fear seemed to slip into a state of near panic as the Adonis turned and started for the door. Despite her glass being held to her lips, Beth Meyers was smiling. Maybe Brian hadn’t been so drunk, but whatever he was, he’d given her a great deal of digging to do.

October 10, 2000

Location Undisclosed

There couldn’t be a Golem anywhere who was more pleased with themselves than George Pruent was at the moment. He found himself sitting before the glowing screen of a computer pouring over mountains of information and waiting for the tone of contact, waiting for his second in command, and only half of his mind on the task. No more Nathan Wilde, he’d done himself in and given George Pruent not only a higher standing in the eyes of the Council of Elders, but a name, and nearly an unhindered working environment. George Pruent was on top and he knew he was here to stay. Amidst the windows open on the screen there was a vast array of information, the schedule for the next few weeks of the Republican candidate himself, the NRA homepage, tourist information for a dozen or so different cities, and a box with a steadily blinking cursor.

George had been a busy bastard over the past month and change. Every resource available to him he’d been working through, arranging meetings, setting up orders, ensuring his web of contacts was surefire, and travel, travel, travel. George had canvassed the United States personally inspecting more than a dozen cities where he carefully weighted their advantages and disadvantages for a killing zone. Assassination, he smiled at the term, that’s what this was, he was assassinating someone that the Siren’s held dear. George Pruent was securing the future for the Golem people, even if he had to pull the trigger himself one shot at a time and leave a river of blood and bodies…

His train of though snapped out as the cursor snapped into glowing text. Gabriel logged on.

A few keystrokes and George was smiling himself as the words themselves scrolled on.

Tempest: The race is close, but my sources are assuring a victory fo the Millionaire.

Gabriel: …

Tempest: Their security will wane just after the election, and the touring will slow, I’m scheduling our contact as close to the Three Hour Tour as possible.

Gabriel: The Proefessor will be there?

Tempest: Most defiantly, a victory for the Millionaire means that the crew of SS Minnow will all be present.

Gabriel: Excellent. The storm is brewing and soon the tiny ship shall be tossed.

Despite the obvious lunacy of the coded conversation George smiled. Gabriel was an asset that he was glad to have forged. If the NRA knew how beneficial their membership lists were perhaps they’d make access to them a bit harder. Bless the Freedom of Information Act. Of course he could do without the Gilligan’s Isle references but Gabriel was good, very good.

October 12, 2000

New York, New York

10:37 pm EST

Jason hadn’t been catching on to just what had Susan White so antsy, but then it was probably better that he hadn’t. Susan knew it wasn’t good, she knew the entire situation was going to get out of hand and very fast. It had nearly been a month since she’d left Paris, and still five months till the spring meeting for the year 2001, but Susan wondered if the situation would snowball its way into an early meeting. On top of that it was fiscal 2001 and she had a great deal of work scheduled for the quarter.

The woman, who could have been a poster child for the elegance of a woman’s forties, looked over the room and its halogen lit interior. The new designs were plastered about, stacks and stacks of designs that she would have to sort through for fashion shows, mass production, and personal design. Pacing about the room and randomly considering a design it was rather evident that she wasn’t even there. No her mind was elsewhere.

She had been right, as she found she usually was, and that no good had come from that meeting. In fact, in her situation ignorance would perhaps have been bliss. It wasn’t outright apparent, but the theme had been there and Susan had long ago developed her ability to read between the lines. The word was whispered amongst the cliques that formed rather quickly and it reminded her of a term she had picked up during her history class in college, war hawks. Those people were all so full of themselves, so self-assured of their ability to manipulate the world as if it were a pie simply waiting to be sliced and handed out. But what scared Susan, the notion that had her up and pacing 22 nights later was that these people probably could do just what they were promising.

On the surface no leader had been chosen yet. The bickering was often as childish as ever, hidden behind smiles some of the time, blatantly thrust about like a cat in heat others. Every time she attended a meeting like that Susan felt as if she was trapped between two worlds. Here amongst the new generation she was a big fish, almost too big. There she was a babe thrown into a pack of wolves. And what’s worse was she knew she could take both of them, that given the opportunity to work her spider ways she could take the Lordship, become the Duchess White and when not watching for the all too frequent assassination she could impose her will on the New Worlders. She associated with enough of them on a regular basis. But first she’d have to stop a civil war from brewing, and she didn’t think that she could get much help there, not even from Jules McCleary. From here on everything that Susan White did would have to be thoroughly contemplated, the simplest of mistake could betray her position, betray her chances of leadership and an aspiring and motivated rival could capitalized upon her death.

But she had a tremendous first hurtle; did she want the world? The New Worlders did have some valid points, mankind would probably discover them soon enough, and their image, their rule had to be intact, concrete before then or the results could be grave. It’s all the media’s fault… And then there was the problem of the Golems. Before they had been a nuisance but now they were a rabid dog trapped in a corner and trying to bite its way out. This whole Writ of the Dead thing might have been still for a while but history dictates that there was more to come, much more, and how the hell was Susan supposed to counter that? How the hell was she going to control it or even know where the next strike would be? For all she knew they could burn a city, like Chicago or even the fabled destruction of Sodom. No one knew for certain about that second one, but history says the Sirens took life a bit too far and the Writ had been enacted. They were getting dangerous of late; Los Alamos had left no doubt in her mind about that.

Los Alamos, she knew more of that story than perhaps most of the people involved simply because she was a master of public relations, and thus not much went down that she couldn’t get the accurate story on. Who knew the Golems had some sort of holy reservation out there? The whole situation had been perverse. Some Sirens were running a high profile swim wear shoot out there, models in bikinis out amidst the desert, typical stuff and they snapped some pictures with back grounds that the Golems deemed as important, not to be seen by the general public, something about the area remaining private for their own protection. Susan grimaced, if she looked like that she’d want to remain private too, but that was as much empathy as she gave the situation. It had taken a rocket’s level of escalation, with the Golems trying to take the film and security getting in the way, guns had been drawn and shooting had commenced. One thing led to another and a massive fire had ensued, destroying pretty much everything and everyone. She’d lost a few good models in that shoot, it was a pity really. And the question that even she couldn’t answer was what were they protecting?

But all that was what? Proof, that the situation was perhaps beyond her control. Alone in her office Susan White shook her head and headed out onto the balcony. The cool night air and her rather scenic view of the city of New York would perhaps sooth better than pacing.

October 18, 2000

Los Angeles, California

They never actually met but Brian Corbin had a pretty good idea of whom he was working with, and for. It was something of their own secret order, they made the rules and they enforced them, moving the world, their world at least, in whatever direction they desired. And their sphere of influence was rising like a comet! Brian Corbin was on his way to greatness past anything he’d ever dreamed of, and this November, this election, would prove that he had a hand in changing the world. Damn he felt good.

The good feeling wasn’t going away for Brian Corbin anytime soon, he’d been paying attention all along and now it was paying off. He was performing a one-man celebration, him and a bottle of Makers Mark Bourbon, as the election news was rolling along. It was still a few weeks away, but Brian felt good about all of this, Bush had been edging out Gore in all the polls and that was good, good, and good.

Brian was alone on the couch when the phone rang. While one large hand remained around the neck of the bottle the other turned down the news volume via remote and snagged the portable phone.

“Corbin,” It was his typical larger than life greeting.

“We might have a problem…”

* * *

“I don’t believe what I’m hearing. How could I be Joanna? That’s a woman’s name. I’ve never told a soul about Morrison. You’ve got to believe me.”

“Ordinarily I would, but a witness has come forward with some rather incriminating evidence to the contrary.”

“What?!” the question was soaked in shock. “That’s impossible, no one could claim it was me. There’s no way. If they say so their lying. I’m clean.”

“You think you’re clean.”

“God damn it, I know I’m clean.”

Click.

“What the hell was that?” There was no answer to his question though, only dial tone. “Shit.” Up tipped the bottle.

October 21, 2000

Location Undisclosed

Outside of the Council’s meeting room George Pruent was mentally rehearsing his speech. He knew all of what he had to go over; it was his plan, his baby. He’d spent too much of the past two months going over what he had to, he’d perfected the art of the perfect assassination with this plan. With this plan he would secure his spot in history and from this plan things could only look better. He smiled to himself, Nathan Wilde would soil himself if he had this lain before him.

It was one hell of plan set to spark a wildfire in Austin Texas on November 8^th. George W. Bush, as the official President Elect would address the nation that day and his entire crew would be there. From a distance away, as Bush spoke on the steps of the Texas State Capital Building the man calling himself Gabriel would make what he was convinced was a shot vital to stop the conspiracy of big government. From there a 30-06 round would strike down Kenneth M. Morrison and the man calling himself Gabriel would slip off into the countryside of Texas before returning to wherever it was that he managed to come out of. It didn’t matter to George Pruent what happened to him after that, what mattered to the Golem was that this strike would show every Siren around the world that the Golems wouldn’t take their manipulation and their intolerance would be shown through force.

In the room behind the Crier Guard called out, “George Pruent begs recognition by the Council of Elders.” George stepped boldly into the Council Hall.

Chapter 2

So much has been turning the wheels at work recently. There’s still a lot of talk about the whole Los Alamos incident. It seems to be more of a rash really, break-ins, fires, nuclear secrets missing, the whole thing is enough to make someone paranoid.

The world does seem pretty primed right now. There’s a lot of tension, a pretty popular night club was looted and torched in New York City and between the Mexican Presidential Election results and the millennial Independence Day here, Washington D.C. has been a bustle. It does seem like a lot is building up, or maybe I’m just a bit paranoid. I’ve been feeling pretty odd since that late night run in at the Townsquare. I swear I’ve seen a few of those faces before. I’m actually starting to convince myself it was all a dream.

Besides all this stress is nothing that a few firecrackers won’t fix on the Fourth.

Old Sammy

July 4, 2000

Los Angeles

The plane had touched down a few hours ago into Los Angeles International Airport and spilled out in somewhat of a holiday rush. Her ever-cool mixture of mask and makeup in place, Susan White waded into the crowd, her human shadow in tow. New York itself had calmed down, but any business drawing the Siren away, even off to California, was good business. Good business despite that it was a party that under other circumstances she’d do her damnedest to avoid.

A dignified sigh escaped her lips as that human shadow, one Jason Brily, came to walk at her side. The crowds in the airport had faded away rather quickly. Being that the pair hadn’t brought any baggage they needn’t discover the hassle of the baggage carousel and found the exit and their waiting limousine that much faster.

Susan was vaguely aware of Jason opening the door to the slick back luxury statement on wheels. And had she not been the stone cold figure that she was a murmur of thanks might have been in order for the stretched Mercedes’ ample air-conditioned interior. The murmur in respect to the harsh pairing of July sun and Californian heat didn’t come though, an iron mask hid all but a prim smile and slight greeting towards the other passenger.

“Jules.”

“So good of you to make it Susan. Especially,” Jules tossed a glance towards the form of Jason entering and shutting the door behind him, “…considering the situation in New York.” That English charm that made him such a socialite was amplified by his appearance. He wasn’t a large man, with a rather intellectual, perhaps even a predatorial cut to his nose and jaw. His hair was parted smartly, a GQ-ish mixture of blonds and browns. His dress carried that semi-casual GQ quality in grays and white, they were, after all, this season’s colors.

“Its those conditions that won’t allow me to says its good to be here.” The car carried them forward and Susan let her eyes drift passed Jules and come to play through the richly tinted window and onto the rapidly passing city of Angels. “Will it be a typical party tonight?” The question came after a few seconds of silence that was nowhere close to serene.

“Oh, I do think I’ve outdone myself this time.”

July 4, 2000

New York City

It wasn’t uncommon to see someone like him, not in this kind of neighbourhood, hell, not in all of New York City. Nathan Wilde, outfitted in wrap around mirrored sunglasses, a bandana, a loose, dark and long sleeved shirt, and baggy overalls (hands thrust into the pockets of course) could easily have passed as a well off bum or perhaps a member of the college crowd’s darker side. Either or worked perfectly fine for him, besides a place to live he couldn’t really see much of a difference between the two.

This trip wasn’t a mission by the Golem Council, but as Nathan’s eyes feel on the police taped ruins of the Neon Haze he begun to wish it had been. They didn’t know he was here, right now he wasn’t sure if they knew where he was at all. A brief smirk passed his lips at the thought of himself, the Nathan Wilde, being considered a rogue right now.

It was all one big mistake though. And it was going to get bigger, much bigger. And how long would it all go on for? Would the Council ever see the light? Or would the Sirens? Or would the war between these two races spark a fire that would carry some very grave consequences. Inside his pockets those fists clenched a step tighter. Nathan had some work ahead of him.

The Golem turned away from the massacre scene and started his slow long gaited strides away from it. Mankind was all about him, but even with his minimal disguise they failed to put him as out of place. The three races were all so close, and it was all so dangerous. Sharply angled teeth gritted down behind clamped lips, mankind would find out about the Golems and the Sirens and the current ambassadors accompanying the Writ of the Dead would not be met with a good response.

Yes, Nathan Wilde had some work ahead of him.

July 4, 2000

Los Angeles, California

Evening

They began to arrive shortly after dark. The trick with the gatherings of the social elite, the trick with the gatherings of the Sirens, is to be late enough to make an entrance but not late enough to appear late. The entrance was just the first of the calculated and cutthroat maneuvers of the ordeal. To the uneducated in its arts the party was a task akin to cutting yourself with a razor just short of the mortal range. Of course, for others it was as natural as breathing.

At first there was only a trickle of the unaware, those who felt privileged enough to arrive at the party on time, how trite. Then came the bulk of the fashionably faceless crowd in a veritable caravan of sports coupes and limousines, all decked out in summer tuxes and evening gowns whose price tags danced in the four and five digit range. The horde of society’s upper crust filtered about the lavishly Californicated estate. The place wasn’t too large, not Beverly Hills, but big enough and shrouded with bushes well groomed enough, to strike envy into the eyes of the beholder.

The foyer held a chandelier and sweeping stairway, a few doorways and a cluster of greetings, cheek-peckings, blacker than black Italian designs and plunging necklines. And if one was to look carefully, knew what to look for, or rather knew what to look through, there were the powdered faces, set hair, and contact shielded eyes of the beautifully damned.

Circles and cliques seemed to form instantly as the razor-born self mutilation moved from the opening entrance and the worn, tired first impressions to the acts of congregating and conversation. Bobbing and weaving through the labyrinth of expensive perfumes and personally designed wears, allowed one to trespass the hall where a small group had formed, cackling and crowing over champagne glasses that tipped at beautifully painted lips or rested in charmingly real hands.

That Crucible passed into the open and spacious living room. The room was dimly lit, the lights themselves hidden from view by the likes of modern art-deco moldings or shining from beneath the lip of the bar. The lighting was minimal so to say, and added to the black leather, bare and dark metal, and tanned, earth-toned fashion of the slightly Stucco walls that crept into a beige carpet, it all gave the room a soft dusk-like atmosphere. It also made the makeup that more convincing.

It was on the black leather furniture, furniture that boasted of a heavy price tag, that the movers and shakers sat. They were the real movers and shakers, more so than any human in the room, building, maybe even the world, could imagine, and they were engaging in a bit of harsh conversation. To the untrained, casual ears of all those clutching their razors it was nothing more than idle chatter; their tones were not clipped; the sarcasm was cleverly contained behind charmed smiles and eyebrows that arched wittily. But, these people weren’t clutching razors, the Sirens invented the game of social politics. Hyperbole, they didn’t invent it, but they did bring it to near mythical proportions.

And to the casual ear the conversation required a little bit of translation. The word “Siren” passed through none of those perfect and carnivorous smiles, instead it was “us”, “we”, and “our”. “Golems” and “mankind” were both “they” and “them” but everyone in the clique knew the difference, and everyone who didn’t wasn’t worth the time taken for an explanation.

“It is rather amazing how far she has gotten with fortune, and to think she began in country music.” It was a pawn in the verbal chess game, the lass with the bobbed dark hair and creamed English styling pushed it out with a casual cunning and followed up with a half-minded sip of her champagne.

“Yes, Miss Shania certainly has done us marvellously well in that area.” Brian Corbin, a Siren with the build of a professionally athlete met the draw of the pawn and sent a knight out in response.

“And to think years ago some of us said she’d never make it,” the English Vixen knocked his knight out from beneath him. Her bishop had been unexpected.

“I believe you said the same thing about our Latin friend, Ricky. I hear he’s quite the scourge of the Miami scene.” That bishop snatched from a wicked and mocking English smile the thick jawed Mr. Corbin looked to drag the conversation elsewhere.

“Better he’s the scourge of Miami than New York.” Jules put his first comment into the conversation as he turned his attention from where his hand rested on the thigh of the red headed model beside him. The model was new, she was human, she was even below the level of putty in his hands.

“A shame that was, the Neon Haze wasn’t a half bad club, especially considering that part of the country…” A West coast beauty, blond hair, blue eyes, long legs that peeked of out the dangerously high slit along her dress, and skin that even powdered, still shown with a healthy, tanned glow. Beth Meyers; she was a stone of a woman, caring little for people and far less for those who disagreed with her. She might have lost an acquaintance in the Neon Haze, but chances are she lost an enemy or three as well.

“Going to wait for it to happen out here?” Susan White, she’d turned briefly to the conversation, tossing in her own playful jab as her attention shifted from her human shadow and the two young “women” whose attentions and then some he occupied.

“After the fiasco in Los Alamos I’d be surprised if they venture west again.” Beth Meyer’s comment brought a small round of laughter from the group.

Los Alamos was nearly an open war between the two Hidden Races. Not much was known, or not much would be talked about (they were essentially the same thing with these types). It had taken a bit of pull by the Siren tops, spilling the story under their own spin to the press, a series of wildfires and nuclear breeches. The fires had happened, but the only thing wild about them was the evidence that they removed so adequately. Laughter drifted back into conversation, the politics of the Hidden had led into the politics of man.

“We should manage to keep control over Washington this year.” They didn’t much like to mention Clinton. He was their first, an attempt to move Siren control out of the massive, but fickle area of public opinion and into the official, into the Executive, into the Oval Office. It hadn’t been pretty, a clever someone or someones had come up with some rather clever and creative series of news leaks. It had led to official and undeniable proof of failure in huge, bold, one-word headlines; “Impeached!”

“I’m going to agree with you there. Bush is our man this year. Our man for the next eight hopefully.”

“Once he picks up Cheeny as his running mate it will be an avalanche election.”

“As if anyone could vote for Gore, the man hardly even blinks,” another short chorus of laughter and Jules turned back to that model and Susan noticed that Jason and his two lady companions had slipped off together.

July 21, 2000

Seattle, Washington

The four of them were packed into the slick black Lexus. They were young, they were rich, and they were intoxicated. Four Sirens out on the prowl through the streets of Seattle, four Sirens on the look out for those filthy, lower than Human, Golems bastards.

“There one of ‘em now! One of those fucking sewer rats!” A grab and a point, it made the driver jerk his attention and the wheel at first away from and then dead onto where the finger was directing. Devilishly perfect lips curved into hellish smiles and terminally harsh fits of laughter as the engine slid into a higher gear and the already speeding car kicked it up a notch.

The body was tossed against the windshield but the car had enough momentum behind it to allow it a complete path over the roof. The spoiler proved a nasty hang up, catching a hand, a human hand, but allowing the body to fall to the ground behind the vehicle. It didn’t kill him though, no, this bum had a worse time coming for him.

Out spilled the laughing, jesting foursome, and one of them, happened to hold in his hand, a nice, wooden, Louisville Slugger. They all walked to the back of the car, the one with the bat whistling a happy little tune as he spun it around in a circle similar to a majorette in a parade.

The first one came in with a kick to the ribs of the dangling homeless man, then the second and third, each breaking in with a tirade of profanity and a flurry of snapping, bone crunching blows. A voice of reason spoke out.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” The three turned to the fourth, turned with quizzically intoxicated eyes to the one with the bat. “Please, allow me.” He nudged a very accepting Siren to the side with the end of the bat and launched himself in with a double handed downward swing.

August 1, 2000

Washington, D.C.

George Pruent had been in capital of the world for nearly two weeks now, on a research mission. His contacts here hadn’t led him astray before, and for various reasons he hoped that they wouldn’t do so now. The Council of Elders was plotting the next movement for the Dead and he was their man now. Nathan had proved himself to be the weak link that George had always believed him to be, right down to his disappearance nearly a month ago.

But all that wasn’t George’s problem, what did seem to matter now was that his bench on the bank of the Potomac River was still only occupied by himself and that his contact person, a very willing recipient of money, or closer to the truth bribes was late. The scuff of a shoe sole on the stone path leading to the bench drew the attention of George. Up walked a woman of striking beauty; up walked his contact.

She slipped into the circle of light, dressed in closes that were quite conservative, especially considering her position as political aid in a city with this magnitude of power. The lady in a set of tan slacks, and a navy blue shell whose matching sweater would have completed the outfit nicely. Instead she looked like a woman who was more than wishing that the day was over. A Siren by the named of Joanna, that was all she would give George, and considering how much of a favor she’d been to him he didn’t really press for much more.

“Sunglasses at night? How 1980s.” It was something of her usual greeting, she knew about his eyes, just as he knew about her. So instead of offering up an equally biting eighties reference he simply smiled, those harsh, shark-like teeth up at her and put a cigarette between his lips. And as the glare from the lighter slipped from his face and the first drag of cigarette smoke blew the way of the Judas of her race George Pruent began on his work of information probing.