NIGHTWORLD

Epilogue

Nightworld, 2007

Sleet rain assaulted the ruin walls, thousands of tiny needles bursting as they were dashed upon the ancient stone. The weather was thick enough you could hardly see in front of your face, the ground all turned to mud, the animals scampered back to their nests. The word for the atmosphere was oppressive, but for the two men sent out to work, their Lord did not care – he had little time for mortal squeamishness.

“Should we? You heard what they are saying about this place, no? Haunted, strange things coming from inside." 

“You will be telling them we were too frightened to obey? Stupid. Shut your mouth and help me get this open." The deer asked, frozen fingers throbbing as he pulled on the stone. His tongue was black, his coat pulled up tight around his neck. His muscles ached and his throat burned, but he threw himself into the work alongside his fox companion. Dracula would not care that they were tired.

“The trick," the fox said, sidling up next to the deer and jamming his own fingers alongside the deer's. “Is to be grabbing deep." 

“I am grabbing deep!"

“Tch, not deep enough." 

The deer huffed. “Can he not be doing this himself? He is strong, no?"

“Will you be telling him that? Come now, one more heave." 

With a pained grunt, breath misting in the chilled air, the two Black Tongue servants ripped the door open. Stone pieces argued back at them as it was ground together, dust crumbling away as dead plants fell into the mud. The two heaved until the gap was wide enough for a man to comfortably step through, and then they collapsed, huffing and puffing from the effort. The vampire blood they drank regularly kept them stronger than any ordinary man, but whoever built this old rock obviously never wanted anyone getting into it.

“Done not a moment too soon, he is coming!" The fox said between pained breaths, pointing into the distance. 

The deer followed his finger, staring out to the hazy trails. His eyesight wasn't as sharp as the fox, and after a moment the dark splotch in the distance began to take shape. A great stage coach approached, wide wheels pulled by four black horses, steaming through the mud. It was made of black iron and dark wood, the tiny red stained-glass window the only drop of colour on its razor-sharp body. 

The two Black Tongues watched with trepidation as Dracula's carriage slowed to a halt at the end of the little path leading up to ruins. For a moment it stood silent, the horses breath fogging before their snouts.

“Are you supposing he is truly in there?" The deer asked.

“Why else would it come?" 

“I don't know, but I… I did not think he'd come himself." 

The horses whinnied, settling down as the driver shushed them. Each of the Black Tongues flinched as the coach door cracked open, swinging open.

A tall grey wolf slid from the carriage like shadows creeping across a field. He wore a long cloak that obscured his frame, a hood pulled low over his angular face, crimson eyes piercing through the rain. Lord Dracula, also known as the Kingkiller, undisputed ruler of Nightworld. 

The two Black Tongues shivered as he approached, not daring to let their eyes stray from the mud as he approached. They could feel him, feel the weight of his presence squeezing inside their own minds, pushing on them. His blood kept them sane, kept them strong and alive, as if it knew that their organs seemed to pulse sickeningly within their bodies.

“Well done," said Dracula, pausing before the doorway. He did not breathe, he did not shift his weight, and instead stood perfectly still, as unmoving as the ancient stone before him. “Did you encounter any trouble?" 

The deer fell to his knee, bowing his head. He'd only seen their great Lord once before, but if even half the stories were true… “No, none at all, Great One." 

“Good. It's wet, you two should wait in the carriage." 

The two men gasped, lower lips trembling as they stared back at his wagon. “Y-your… your own personal… N-no my Lord, we could n-never–"

“Are you cold?"

Should they lie? He'd know.

“Yes." 

“This is not a trick, obedient and peaceful men are not made meals in my realm." The vampire eyed them once more, fangs flashing as he spoke, his words like velvet. “Unless you think me a liar?" 

“Never, my Lord!" The two men gasped simultaneously, practically slipping in the mud as they scrambled to make back for the carriage. 

Jaroslav Tamasi reached up, pushing his hood back and letting it fall. The rain did not bother him. In fact, nothing did anymore. The cold, the dark, the wet – of everything the world had to throw at him, nothing but the sun could harm him anymore. Some would call it a blessing, perhaps, but by the same merit he never felt warm, or comfortable, or the pleasure of anything soft. He simply existed. 

Alone.

“Must you always play with them?" Jaro glanced across at his driver. Cedric, the pudgy fox that had once played as Zakhar's herald, stood in the rain beneath a makeshift umbrella. He was familiar with Jaro, and one of the only people that ever dared to actually speak back at him. It reminded him of his old friends, nobody else joked with the Lord of Darkness. Frankie would have. Imagine. “I sometimes wonder why you keep them around, my Lord. Does it amuse you to use Dracula's former servants as doormen?" 

Jaro shrugged, turning back to the tomb. “They were desperate men once, they're loyal now. What would you suggest, Cedric? That I slaughter every man fed with vampire blood? Break all of the Impaler's toys simply on principle?"

“Merely send them away," Cedric replied, wrinkling his nose. 

“There are few wild vampires left roaming free in these parts," Jaro said. “Certainly none brave enough to stick their heads up and feed some errant Black Tongues. Without me, they'd go mad and eat each other. Better this way, don't you think?" 

“I… suppose. All these years, your mercy still takes getting used to." 

Jaro rolled his eyes. “Wait out here, I'll be back soon." Cedric gave him a short bow, stepping back to give him the tomb. 

Jaro smelled old bodies. If the maps were right, this was an ancient hold of Zakhar's design, a kind of prototype for the New Vampire silos Jaro had spent years eradicating. There had been hundreds of them, and for the first two years after he ended the Dracul Reign Jaro's time had been spent in near-constant war. Sleeping abominations tucked away, each batch uniquely disfigured, all of them furless and sickly. They woke up slowly, but as they crawled and flailed from their coffins they came hungry, and it had been difficult for Jaro to manage to protect all of his new mortal villages. Without me, they would have been devoured, this whole world could have fallen. 

They were not true vampires, just thinly-sliced effigies of Vlad Tepes, the Impaler. That didn't make them much less dangerous, however. 

Strength in the horde. Besides, true or not, they could still make new ones. The small, one-man wars he'd waged had been a pleasant distraction, such that he almost missed hunting the creatures now. Nightworld was safe, most of the powerful wild vampires had been killed or fled the area. There was nothing left to do but wait.

The sound of rain and wind fell away as Jaro entered the tomb. It was quiet inside, resonant from the insulating stone. While this one was particularly aged, he'd seen plenty of Zakhar's discarded bunkers over the years. There was no need to waste time examining the desiccated work spaces, ignoring the rusted vats and empty tubes – everything truly useful had been moved to Orobos and the Godhead's Lament. Instead his mind stretched out, flooding throughout the old ruins, hunting for any signs of life. 

Empty.

Jaro descended further, spiralling down the steps, past floors of rotting coffins. The first of Zakhar's New Vampires had been grown here, and promptly killed. It had taken time for him to perfect his formula, if the research was to be believed.

He didn't know what to expect. So long searching, his days spent simultaneously focused and empty. Vampire existence wreaked havoc on perception, and the longer time stretched on the more keenly Jaro felt it, the less mortal he became. There was no end in sight, and time was immaterial. Few people wished to be friends with Dracula, and even if they did it was painfully difficult for Jaro to focus on anything a mortal person was doing. Multiple times he'd found himself staring listlessly out the top of the Godhead's Lament for weeks at a time, only realising how much time had passed by Cedric's snide comments. 

A dead kingdom. What joy. No wonder Dracula had ended up deciding to invade Europe, if not the starvation he must have done it to escape the boredom. Maybe I should build my own court of Vampire Lords, have them all fight for intrigue and favour. At least it could be entertaining. 

The stairs finally ended in a narrow cellar. Old runic patterns covered the walls, circling cryptically. Most of them had been smeared away with time, but Jaro saw some of the remnants remained. The last twelve months he'd filled his days by studying Zakhar's notes. Mad vampire scientist or not, what he'd accomplished was impressive. The cobra had opened the first portal to Earth, he'd lobotomised Jaro's parasite, and he'd grown whatever the fuck the Homunculus was. Part of Jaro wished that Ashani hadn't killed him, a mind like that was useful, and it would take centuries before Jaro could even hope to make those kinds of breakthroughs. 

At least I have his notes, he thought, tugging a small tattered leaflet from his pocket, flipping through the pages. If he was right, it should be here… 

Jaro stepped forward, pushing deeper into the ruins. It was dark even to him, the runes closing in, the stone isolating him from the rest of Nightworld. He was aware of how much weight laid above him, crushing down. What if it trapped him? He pushed the thoughts from his mind. Fear was a waste of time. 

His paw stretched out into the darkness, meeting nothing, passing into oblivion. Where? Where is it? He refused to let himself feel desperate, or worse – hopeful. He'd chosen to stay in Nightworld, to keep the monsters where they belonged, there was no point agonising over it now.

Still, he kept going. Energy pulsed through his organs, vestigial though they were. He blinked, stone and dust warping around him, shifting and changing. Slowly, the stone melted away, the world twisted and bent, and Jaro stepped through the portal and out into a dark forest. 

A half-dozen spotlights clanged as they were trained on him, a team of heavily-armed soldiers suddenly rushing to arms, rifle slides racking as guns were raised. An alarm sounded somewhere. 

“Stop! Stop right there!" 

“A fucking vampire!"

“They're real?" 

“Shoot it!"

“Orders are hold, hold!" 

The words felt strange to Jaro. He understood them, but it had been nearly four years since he switched almost exclusively to Wallachian. The mixture of English and French felt… unnatural, the words were too wide and long, crammed full of unnecessary vowels. A massive UV light switched on loudly behind them, and he held up an arm to shield his face. Heat began to burn, spreading up his wrist and wrapping around his shoulders, steam rising from his body. The instinct was to attack, to kill, to rip apart every piece of them.  

“Shut that shit off! Now! Shut it the fuck off!" A familiar voice, screaming in French, then in English, and finally in Turkish. “Stop, idiots!"

Really? 

The UV spotlight died, relief flooding across Jaro's body as the dark enveloped him once more. Although, it had felt almost good to be in pain again, he'd spent so long numbly disconnected from the world he had almost forgotten what it was like to hurt. 

“Lower your God-damned guns! You do not want to disobey me Captain!" 

“What are the chances of this happening? Is that him?" 

“Let me suggest you use your fuckin' eyes, doctor." 

Jaro lowered his arm, blinking away the brightness. The soldiers all stood warily, guns held ready but barrels aimed at the ground, their boots shifting anxiously in the mud. The sky was hidden beneath a thick veil of trees and storm clouds.

But none of that mattered, because they were there.

Jaro's heart ached as he saw Kristian and Kadir once more. The two men stood side-by-side, Kadir's right arm replaced with a grey prosthetic, a customary scowl on his face. The marten wore a practical field researchers' outfit, while Kadir was dressed in his customary khakis and military wear.

Kristian took a hesitant step forward, blinking furiously, as if he couldn't believe it. “I am amazed it actually worked," he said. His voice was soothing. Jaro cracked first, tears welling in his lifeless eyes. Feeling flooded through his system, wiping away the crushing loneliness he'd refused to let himself feel. 

“Kristian?" He croaked, the English words tasting even worse than they sounded. “Kadir?"

“Jaro?" Kadir asked, craning his neck. “That is you, right?" 

“It's good to see you." He laughed, wiping the tears from his eyes. “I've been…" The sobs hit harder. “I…" 

Kristian rushed forwards, ignoring the warnings from the team of soldiers, taking Jaro's arm and pulling it close, a wide smile lighting up his narrow features. Kadir approached slower, warily, brows furrowed. 

“When we heard word of a new Source opening up, we didn't know what to think," Kristian explained. “We were preparing to enter it when…"

“Here you are," Kadir finished for him. “You found your way back to us." 

“I've been so alone," Jaro said, sniffing back the sobs. He reached out, seizing both of their shoulders and pulling them in. “God. It's so good to have you both back." 

“I… ugh…" Kadir growled. “Yes."

“We kept searching for another," Kristian said. “We've built up the team. Ioana learned English. I'm… so happy that we actually found you again. Part of me thought we could never manage it."

“Yes," Jaro said. “Yes, just please… don't go." The choice to stay behind had been the right one, at the time. Jaro knew that, someone had to protect Nightworld from the horde of New Vampires, and make sure it never spilled back into Earth again. But as the last of Dracula's army died, and the remaining powerful vampires fell or fled… the reality of forever had begun to sink in.

Forever alone, doomed to never know what became of the two men he loved.

He pulled them even tighter, still crying. “Just don't go."

“Shut up," Kadir said. “We won't, you're the one that left us, remember?" 

Kristian laughed into Jaro's neck, seemingly unphased by the wet fur. “But we came back, we were never going to give up on seeing you again." 

“I ain't gonna forgive you for that easily, Tamasi." 

“I'm sorry," Jaro said, pulling back. “I had to. Or at least, I thought so at the time. I still… I'm not sure this world has a place for me." Jaro's insides hurt, so much emotion was bubbling up. He'd been so closed off, so far away for so very long now, that opening the tap let forth an unstoppable flood. He'd cried without them, alone in his gigantic stolen castle, and wondered every day if leaving was the right decision. He still wasn't sure. Earth was a world of mortals and short lives, Nightworld was where the monsters belonged, and there were still plenty of them left there.

“You're here now," Kadir replied, squirming free of his grip. “So are we. You can stop crying already, because here or there, it doesn't matter."

Kristian inhaled deep, elated. “As long as you are with us." 

The End

Afterword

Thank you for reading NIGHTWORLD. It has all these chapters, took a year to write, ages to upload, and has 194,605 words. It's pretty huge, haha, my longest story to date, on SoFurry or anything. 

I'm gonna write a journal soon, basically outlining some of my own thoughts about the series, what worked / what didn't, etcetera. 

But I can say if you read this far, thank you so much. It's really nice to know that people actually enjoyed my weird little story, haha. I felt really good about this, had a blast writing it, lovely to be able to share it with you. Please, if you've read the whole thing (or not even), I would LOVE to hear your thoughts. I am really keen for any kind of review/critique/whatever. As a writer, it's pretty hard to get some distance from your own work, difficult to be objective, you know? 

Anyway. If you're sad about Nightworld ending, don't be too down, I'm already 90k words into the next story. It's a kind of French-Napoleonic-War-Necromancer thing. It's called NONE SO VILE, and while it's pretty different to Nightworld, I think it's interesting. 

Also I do NOT know why SoFurry always fucks up my formatting and thumbnails, but if you want to hear me yell about that, Ridley Scott, and retweet some yiff and story thoughts, come follow on twitter or whatever. @DingoNoir 

Until then, stay real, thanks all.