Excerpt from The Harbinger, The Apocalypse

Beware peeps, this has a fair few swear words in it. PG 13 and whatnot.

Sirus didn’t breathe or move. He simply waited for whatever would come; his death or deliverance.

“Gimme yo paper or this fag is gonna get it,” the adrenaline-instilled skinny white dude holding the gun barked at the terrified clerk.

He gawped back in consternation. “What? I don’t–”

“Yo, are you fuckin’ deaf?” The kid sweated as if he’d run a mile and panted to match. Sirus almost shook his head in contempt. Almost.

Great. Death by skinny wigger, just what the doctor ordered. 50 Cent’s bimbos gyrated in the background.

“I don’t understand.” The clerk was thrown, his blue eyes near popping out of his skull. The wannabe gangster cocked the pistol and shifted his feet. He wiped his sweaty palm down the side of his tracksuit top.

“For fuck’s sake! Give him the money in the register, you jackass.” Exasperated, Sirus winced a little when the sweaty kid prodded him with the gun. It was hard; real. Life and death at the same time.

“Whose stick-up is this, fool?” He was pumped up on more than adrenaline; there might be a little testosterone thrown into the mix. Or maybe it was coke.

“Just trying to help,” Sirus intoned. The clerk clicked and clacked with register.

“Does I look like I need yo motha fuckin’ help, freak?”

And there it was.

Sure, Sirus was black, he wore his hair in a Mohawk, he had gauged earrings and tattoos up his arms, but was the insult necessary? Fuck no. Should he have expected a little courtesy from a thief? Probably not, but the lack still made him go straight up and scatter his shit.

The fury pulsed up his spine, sparking into his brain and charging that same fiery ball with electric energy; the energy he associated with agony. Agony for those around him. The sweaty amateur had crossed the line. He needed a reality check. A real life. He needed to stop imitating his favourite ‘gangsters’ and grow the fuck up.

Sirus turned his head and confronted the gangly teen. The kid clutched the pistol as if it was his last connection to the sanity he’d already mislaid. The gun pressed a circle into the center of Sirus’ forehead, but he ignored it and gave the acne-ridden idiot his best withering look.

“Actually, it does look like you need some help.” Shock flashed across the hood’s pimply mug, and perverse satisfaction fired in Sirus’ chest. “In fact, it looks like you need to grow a pair of balls and get a real fucking job.”

“What did you say?” The wigger had reverted to standard English. Maybe Sirus had shocked the fake out of him.

“I’m sorry, did you misunderstand me?” Sirus made himself speak painfully slow and scathing, “I said you are a loser.”

“You’d better watch your mouth.” The kid glanced between Sirus and the stunned clerk and bobbled up and down on the spot. He rattled the gun in front of Sirus’ head. It was definitely loaded. Sirus snorted contempt and pressed his head against the muzzle of the pistol. Firm, uncaring. Fuck this kid.

“Shoot me, asshole. I dare you.”

The teen swore loudly, his manhood insulted, and squeezed the trigger.

There was a ‘boom’ and a white flash. Then there was silence.

***

Luc sipped his wine lazily and eyed the serving girl. Clad in thin silks, which concealed little, she was a tasty morsel. Round supple buttocks, firm perky breasts, flat stomach.

But he did not have the time or the will for pursuing his desire in that moment. He placed the wine on the tray she extended, and grinned wolfishly when she curtsied and shied back, timorous. Fear was his tool.

Luc stood and paced the short length of the rock room, its enormous granite fireplaces blew flames, throwing flickering shadows at either end. The ceiling was low – he reached out and brushed its rough surface with his fingertips – and the atmosphere was muggy and thick. Yet he was not uncomfortable. He was frustrated, yes, but discomfort was not an emotion in his limited repertoire. There was frustration, anger and lust.

Where was the fool? Years of searching had not conjured up a dim inkling, and Master Kanis would not be pleased if Luc came back empty handed for the hundredth instance.

He did not flinch when the wooden door swung inward – he was too aware for that. The woman who entered was tastier than the serving girl. He would have spared time to caress her raven hair, kiss her generous lips, and scar her pristine skin with his ire. But she avoided him. He sniggered quietly – it was probably best for her.

“Something has happened! Something big.” She glowed, writhing in eagerness. Unusual for her.

“Explain yourself.” His voice was mellow as milk, though his throat tightened with anxiety.

“On Earth. Close to the Infinite.” She was enthusiastic – she didn’t ordinarily clip her sentences off short.

“Go.”

She fled the room, but out of anticipation, not fear or obedience.

He tapped the end of his chin with his finger and pursed his lips. She was personally involved and she was willful. She could compromise the entire Phase. Yet, perhaps she might serve his purposes. He would make use of her reckless abandon and take her down a notch or two whilst doing it. Bend her to his will. He licked his lips.

“More wine,” he commanded coldly and waited. The serving girl poured blood red liquor into his thin, crystal flute.

He did not wait long. And he did not have much longer to wait.