House Of Bones: Cast In Shadow, #1

One

I learned a long time ago that if you think a person's art is bad—for God's sake don't tell them. Especially when the artist is a Banshee. They're not known for taking criticism very well. And I sure as hell didn't want her to start her soul-curdling wail. Not in a crowded room.

Especially since she was my date.

We were at the High Museum in Atlanta, Georgia. One of my favorite buildings in this city. Born and raised in Portland, Oregon, I'd come to appreciate the aesthetic blending of architecture in the Southern capitol, though after ten years in this town…I was never going to appreciate the weather. The drastic changes from hot to cold to hotter than freak'n hell were something I just couldn't get used to.

The High was a marvel of modern engineering, with an almost futuristic look at what could be possible with creative ambitions in mind. It stuck out. Which I liked. Just like Jazzi stuck out. That was my date, the Banshee. Jazzi Fitzpatrick. Fiery red hair, skin like bleached bone, and lips as red as ripe apples. She was beautiful. And deadly. And she'd hired me for the night.

Hired me as a photographer. And she wanted me to not only look good on her arm, but to make her work look fantastic for magazines and online promotion. Making Jazzi look good was easy…

Uh…making her work look good…

If there was something nice I could say about her paintings, it would be…er…unique. Because no one else would paint with her ass the way Jazzi did.

Yes. You read that right. She paints with her butt cheeks. And though they were a nice pair to look at…I didn't think they made the most promising of brushes. So every garish, color-splashed canvas hanging in one of the most elegant buildings in Atlanta had the impression of her ass on them. The local writer for the Atlanta Journal-Constitution had mumbled something about the art being reminiscent of the sixties.

My, my…how art had come full circle. When I was young, art had a more psychedelic surrealism to it.

I didn't appreciate it in the sixties and seventies, and I didn't appreciate it now. Even if you used your butt.

I came into this world on October 14th, 1939 as William Renwick Grainger. And for the first twenty-five years of my life I was called Will. For the two and a half decades that followed a foul night in June of '64, I was called many things. Dog, boy, servant, slave, and sometimes…William. From 1984 until I was reborn on paper in 1989, I went by a series of names. But for now, in this chapter of my life, I go by Ren.

I'm a local photographer who makes his living taking pictures at weddings, events, and sometimes crime scenes. I wasn't fully employed by the Georgia Bureau of Investigations, but I was certified by them, so they could call on me when I was needed.

Though, as known by only a few in the Atlanta Police Department, if I was called in to shoot pictures, it meant the crime was something a little outside of the norm.

No. I take that back. A lot outside of the norm. It meant the team of detectives I worked with weren't sure where to go, and my…talent…could point them in the right direction. I'd closed all five cases I'd worked with them on. But no one knew I existed in that capacity. I would never take the credit, and frankly, I didn't want it.

Anonymity was good for me. It kept me alive. Was I running from something? You could say that. My past. What I was.

And what I am.

Ren? Jazzi said in her lilting Irish accent. You like this one?

I hadn't realized I was staring at one of her more hideous pieces and immediately plastered a smile on my face. I was thinking of how to frame it— I held up my camera. For a shot.

Oh. She didn't frown, but I could hear her disappointment in her tone. She wanted praise. Banshees craved praise. And they usually got it. I'll be in the other room while you work. Come see me when you're done. She kissed my cheek and I watched her walk away.

Me and about five other men…and a few women.

I was sure she'd sell most everything tonight. The thought of that ass nude on these canvases? It spoke to the pervert in most of the males in this room.

So I set about doing my job. I had one of my modern cameras with me tonight. A Canon I'd purchased a month ago. Good zoom, high resolution, lots of buttons I didn't use, but it did have access to my Cloud. I liked that since I'd had a few cameras stolen over the years, and lost rolls of film.

People moved out of the way as I positioned and clicked, zoomed and drew back, and made a path around the room. The feel of the place was mostly jovial. People having a good time, lots of alcohol (something I don't touch), and it was Friday night. I'd made it nearly a month without a call from the police and my life had ground into a routine. Normalcy.

I wasn't complaining. I loved feeling normal. It was something that'd been taken away from me over fifty years ago, so I took it where I could get it.

Then something brushed past my peripheral senses. A part of me was always on the prowl, always watching, cautious, listening, paying attention to the shadows. It was the animalistic nature of what I was and manifested itself in the shape of a raven I called Occam. Though she (yes, she) was a part of me, she also had a mind of her own and represented my link to the paranormal world. I could see through her eyes and she could see through mine. She was good at warning me when something was out of sync with that normalcy.

Hearing her caw from a great distance and feeling the rustle of her wings against my subconscious, I walked out of the event and looked down the long spiral walkway around the atrium, up from the front of the building. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, I refocused my attention outside, through the glass walls to Occam. She showed me the night and the wind as it blew the orange, yellow and red fall leaves across the street and over the shrubbery.

She also directed my attention to something disturbing below. Standing there on the sidewalk, on the other side of the street, were three men. Each dressed in black. Possibly leather. Occam's vision had a fishbowl quality to it. My own eyesight was better than a human's, but not as good as a Night Walker's. And that's exactly what these three were. I knew this because I could feel them, their power, their age, their serene sense of justice.

And they sensed me.

All Night Walkers would know me by sight, sound, smell, and feel. Because I was something each of them craved to have but were forbidden to create. A knight. A body guard. A servant dedicated to attending their every need and whim.

A Chevalier.

Here I was. A prize roaming free. Unfettered and unmarked by any Night Walker.

I was also something they detested. A rogue. An abomination.

A Ghoul.

After tossing my camera into the trunk of my car, I approached the three of them as Occam landed on my left shoulder. She could be seen by others who had the sight for the paranormal, or ultra-normal. That was the term my maker used. The three moved away from the High when I stepped out. Since I didn't know why they were there and I felt them calling, I figured answering that call was better than putting every human in the museum in jeopardy. Jazzi? Well…she could take care of herself against Night Walkers.

They wouldn't put a fang on her.

As a Ghoul, I'm sensitive to all things Night Walker. We share the same origination, from that of another Night Walker's blood. I was faster than the average human. Had better eyesight, smell, and I was much stronger. But all those abilities paled in comparison to what an enraged Night Walker could do. And even though I was technically immortal, I could still be killed if one of them ripped off my head.

I'd been trained as a Chevalier in my youth as a Ghoul. A protector and benefactor of a powerful Night Walker. So as I approached, I stopped, put my right hand over my heart and went down on one knee before them, my head bent as I felt Occam flutter her wings. I didn't speak, and I didn't move until one of them spoke.

You still practice the origins of your maker, Ghoul, one of them said. You may rise.

I stood as fluidly as possible and faced them, my arms at my sides. I'm pretty sure it was an interesting sight. Me in a tux, and the three of them dressed like players in a goth industrial band from the nineties. They each had pale hair, which spoke of their age. The legends and Hollywood always talked about Vampires as if they were stagnant at the age they were made. That just wasn't the truth. They did change. And the older they became, the paler their hair turned. This designated age.

And demanded respect.

Night Walkers, as they preferred to be called, though sometimes I still called them Vampires, formed Families throughout the world. Units that centered around a common matriarch or patriarch, depending on the original blood donor. I recognized these three as belonging to the oldest of the Vampire Families in the Southeast. The Talmadge Family. Begun long before the Civil War, they were the only Family to survive the fighting by living on the corpses in Gettysburg.

They were proud and genteel, and I'd made it my purpose to stay out of their way since moving to Atlanta. But of course, as a Ghoul, they'd sensed my presence and run me through a rigorous month of torture as they searched to find my bloodline. I think their Grand Inquisitor, aka Torturer, Phillip Angevine, had been very disappointed to learn my Master had been destroyed, and with no other Childe left alive, that left me free.

They respected the rules of the game…they just didn't like them.

I knew one of the Night Walkers standing in front of me. The one in the middle, the one that spoke. Jedediah Talmadge. Grand Patriarch of the Talmadge Family. He wore his white hair back in a ponytail, neat and tidy. And his clothing wasn't as leather-bad-ass, like the two Night Walkers flanking him.

I gave Jedediah another bow. I was trained by the best, Grand Patriarch.

Let's dispense with the pleasantries, Jedediah said in a less than patient voice. He approached me and I stood my ground. Never let them see you sweat. With Night Walkers it was always a game of dominance. And I had no plans to ever be dominated by them again. We have a problem, Ren. And it's going to take your talents to repair this problem.

I pursed my lips. What can I do for you…Jedediah?

You will address the Grand Patriarch as Mr. Talmadge! said the Night Walker on my left. He stepped forward, his eyes red and his hands balled into fists. Since I could feel his power, I was pretty sure his claws were out, stabbing into the palms of his hands.

That is enough, Aubrey, Jedediah barked, but kept his brilliant blue eyes focused on me. I said to dispense with the pleasantries. Weren't you listening?

I stared back at Aubrey. No flinch.

Ren Grainger won his freedom fairly. The Talmadge Family respects his position, and you will do as you are told. Jedediah looked away from me and to his right. Or you can go.

Aubrey might not have liked it…but he did as he was told and piped down. His hair was dark and streaked with white. Though he was old in years (older than humans ever lived to be), he was pretty young by the Talmadge standards. I assumed he was in training with Jedediah as an aid. The other Night Walker remained obediently silent.

Ren, Jedediah said and his voice lowered, but still