PROLOGUE
Darkness – A Parlay in Paulus Hook
Howling, biting November winds rip down the roofline from the Hudson River. Standing in frigid Jersey City, he marvels at the cold canyons of Manhattan and briefly ponders how quickly the churning, forbidding river water can turn the climate of Paulus Hook into an arctic tundra this time of year. The inky blackness of the rooftop is a stark contrast to the blazing panoramic skyline of Manhattan, where millions of lights and colors bedazzle the hostile, almost malevolent stillness of the late-night hour.
Something wicked tonight comes. An evil he and Longinus have locked weapons with before.
Simon Magus reflects back on those long, bitter Winters on the Dnieper – and the relentless shearing of the North Wind as it battered Onion-domed Cathedrals and the imposing administrative longhouses of Rurik, Hetman of the Kievan Rus.
He recalls staggering through waist-deep snow drifts in Kiev with wild, skin-clad Varangian Guards to attend Court and strategize with the famous Norseman Rurik who ruled the second most powerful City in Eastern Europe. Of course, nothing approached the glory and splendor of the Byzantine Capital, Constantinople. There, the military strength of the Eastern Roman Empire made possible explosive flourishing of Asian Silk Road wealth and the Persian silver trade. Byzantium was the cultural bedrock of stability and mercantile civilization that propelled every Mediterranean kingdom into unprecedented, historic levels of prosperity. Even Egyptian galleys regularly traded at the markets of the Holy City of Constantinople earning for their Pharaohs obscene hauls of lucre – more than they dreamed possible. Greek merchants, Venetian Bankers – everyone profited from investing at the epicenter of Christian Orthodoxy on God’s Earth.
But it was Kievan Rus in 877AD where the first Great Vampire Wars were fought. It was Kievan Rus that suffered the most death and destruction – ultimately emerging triumphant, but only after terrible and epochal travail. The souls of mankind literally hung in the balance in those trying days. Simon Magus and Longinus barely survived the devastation. The Great Hetman of the Keivan Rus did not. Rurik was martyred for his faith – and even today is revered as the direct ancestor of Saint Vladimir in the Eastern Byzantine Canon.
So many memories. So many places. So many battles.
Simon Magus has come full circle. A foreboding, weighty sadness this night bears down on him. He knows what’s coming. An old nemesis from Hell once again stalks his world.
“It’s happening again – isn’t it? Lucifer’s brother – Azazel – is behind it! The Father of all Vampyres is going to War again!”
Simon Magus hears the gruff, gravelly rasp from Longinus behind him. His large figure silently moves out of the shadows, buffeted by the now gale-force winds. Hard, frozen bullets of rain now pelt them, making the temperature and weather conditions even more miserable.
Longinus is wrapped in a full-length hooded cloak, his arms securely hidden inside. In this sparse, greenish moonlight, his hideous facial scar is amplified, bisecting his right eye socket down to his mouth – and making his face even more viciously canine than usual. His burned forehead and eye socket glows iridescent, lending an infernal aspect to the man. If God almighty designed a Slayer – it would be him. He’s huge. A brick wall of compressed mayhem who is impervious to the elements and indifferent to pain.
Simon Magus wearily responds to his friend.
“Cassius – we are called to serve. And serve we will until we are relieved of duty.”
Cassius Gaius Longinus reacts in a classic military reflex, thrusting his battered, burned and splayed face into the wind.
“Deus Vult. Deus Gratia.”
Simon Magus pulls his own hooded cloak tighter against the savage elements. He’s ready to wage battle – in tactical the gear of Kievan Rus. Black, fitted animal skin leggings and breastworks, crisscrossed by leather belts secured by blackened silver fasteners. Suspended from these braces is a exquisitely forged – and angelically consecrated – Seax blade in a greased sheathe. His boots are Stygian Calfskin with chain gaiters – his gages, or combat gloves, are heavily scaled and chain reinforced African snakeskin. He’s outfitted in the Persian Assassanid fashion, a fighting “kit” meant to enhance and complement the muscles of a feline, predatory warrior such as himself.
Cassius Gaius Longinus is wearing his own version of ultimate fighting gear, more adapted to his large frame and powerful anatomy. His body is protected by tried and true – albeit updated – versions of Roman Centurian armor. A tunic interwoven with “Lorica Hamata” chain mail armor, micro carbon and titanium-weaved “Braccae” or leggings. A formidable “Baldric” sheathe drapes his torso, within which nests his ultimate weapon – a Roman Gladius consecrated by the same Heavenly presence who blessed his Master’s Seax blade – Archangel Gabriel.
The minutes pass agonizingly slow, each made longer by the degenerating weather conditions.
Suddenly, blaring electronic pulse alarms shatter the night and mix into the gales howling all around the two warriors. Longinus instinctively plants his feet firm in a warrior’s posture and draws his Gladius, the wind now wildly whipping his cloak about his oversized body. Simon Magus doesn’t move a muscle – he stands like granite, tightly wrapped in his raiment and hood. A hidden right hand grips his angelic Seax. He’s ready to disappear – then reappear within seconds while cutting the throat of his attacker. It’s what he does.
He’s Defiant. He cancels the roof alarms by voice command. His lack of fear further sharpens his senses. Both men have faced this moment before. This is, quite literally, their raison d’etre.
Then…shadows, murky and indistinct.
Longinus calls out first.
“NORTHEAST CORNER – THEY’VE WORKED THEIR WAY UP THE ELECTRICAL CONDUIT….THREE HEME-SUCKERS….PIECE OF CAKE!!!”
Simon Magus sees the dark, caped and hooded figures shambling forward…displaying that weird, creeping gait that afflicts male Vampyres after years of ingesting questionable blood, promiscuously sucking in cellular contaminants that degrade joint muscles and sap their neurological synaptic connectivity. They look rubbery – almost comedic. A wicked, evil pantomime – a danse macabre dangereuse.
The Vampyres stop about twenty feet away, their partially obscured faces leering a demented grimace – proudly showcasing their rapacious canine fangs like Victoria’s Secret models hawking their lingerie on a spotlighted runway.
Then…in the rear…another shadow. Taller. Striding slowly to the front of the others. Confident. Male. A Coven leader. His manner announces his purpose for setting foot on the rooftop of a consecrated structure.
A Parlay.
His voice echoes above the wailing wind gusts and heavy ice projectiles all around them.
“PEACE BE TO YOU, SIMON MAGUS!”
His voice is thick, viscous like raw crude spewing from a burst pumpjack. Its oily tenor masks all transparency, efficiently killing any veneer of truth like an aborted fetus.
Simon Magus knows this particular Demon. He’s a practiced liar. A Prince of the Dark Realm. A Captain of the Satanic Host. The Magus responds.
“AND MAY HELL BE WITH YOU, ARCHON ALIUS!
DUTIFULLY BEARING MESSAGES FROM YOUR MASTER, I SEE….
IS AZAZEL STILL LICKING HIS WOUNDS AFTER OUR LAST ENGAGEMENT IN KIEV?”
The Archon flashes a snake-like grin in Simon Magus’ direction.
“I COME NOT TO RE-WRITE HISTORY. YOU HAVE YOUR VERSION OF IT- AND WE HAVE OURS.
I SEEK PARLAY.
AN EXISTENTIAL MATTER HAS ARISEN FOR BOTH OUR KIND. TASTE THE EXQUISITE IRONY OF IT ALL, SIMON MAGUS……YOUR SWORN ADVERSARY IS SOON TO BECOME YOUR ALLY….
THE ENEMY OF ALL THAT WE ARE HAS REARED IT’S UGLY HEAD.”
Simon Magus is not impressed – lies ofttimes are more convincing than most truths.
“WHAT EXISTENTIAL ENEMY CAN POSSIBLY COMPEL OUR KIND TO JOIN FORCES WITH YOU, ARCHON? WHAT LIES CAN PREVAIL AGAINST OUR CHRIST ALMIGHTY?”
Archon Alias responds with one word.
“SCIENCE”.
Warren, NJ
Heinlein awakes with a start about seven o’clock on this Saturday morning. Leeds is gently tapping his exposed shoulder and whispering.
“Heyyyy…sleepy head. Phone….”
He grabs his cell from the nightstand. It’s instinctive. Cops always position their phones on their nightstands so they can grab them without waking their mates – but this time…lately he’s been sleeping like he’s a bag of cement. Leeds has lent a measure of security and solidity to the rhythm of his life. She’s dependable, reliable and – surprisingly – a lot of fun. And she’s good in the sack. It’s an unlikely matchup, but a fulfilling one.
The phone reads “Unidentified caller”. North Jersey area code.
“Hello….Heinlein here….”
He sounds like he just woke up. Jesus...he mutters to himself. It’s seven o’clock on a Saturday morning…
“Hello? Detective Heinlein? It’s Brother Dimitrios….”
Heinlein doesn’t respond. He just stares at the stump of his missing finger on his southpaw.
“The Master has need of you. He asks that you attend him at table tonight at Seven in Paulus Hook – if it’s not too inconvenient. I trust you will bring Madame Leeds. Agreed? Good. Thank you so very much. Goodbye.”
Leeds rolls over and studies him sitting on the edge of the bed staring at his left hand.
Heinlein deadpans his best W.C. Fields impersonation.
“We’ve been summoned by The Master. Dinner at Seven. Paulus Hook. Put on your best Bib and Tucker.”
Leeds says out loud what he’s thinking.
“A command appearance…. Interesting. We get great food and wine for free. Winner-winner-chicken-dinner? Pack your Glock just in case. I’m takin’ mine. Simon Magus runs with bad company. “
Copyright, 2025 Jon Croft
www.bogironslav.com
Email: vlchek1@gmail.com
