The Law of Beasts BOOK 1 - ACT 3: SARCONIA

Once upon a time….

The multi-trillionaire, Vultorian, came upon shifter ghouls made of crystals in a church closed for the evening after his plans were dismantled by Alicia, with Khovahsh protecting her from behind the velvet curtain. He always knew that Khovahsh had a soft spot for the vagabond Queen that bore Armona, Queen Mother's body and her face. A generic, generated Queen that really thought she earned the respect Armona once had.

The only thing real about Alicia was her Soul wearing Armona's body like a bride gushed over her over-the-top wedding dress. By now the lion-gorilla strain was supposed to be unleashed through zombies in Denver and quickly spread through fourteen states before the powers that be could warn the public. Fourteen states of infected vampires were supposed to put the world on notice that a new regime was about to rule the world.

Only those that took the cure via Don Sharps’s pill during a secret meeting on a Helipad atop a building with fifty stories would have been spared. As he burned with rage, all he could think about was destroying Khovahsh.

VULTORIAN:

I quietly attended Khovahsh’s church, seated in the very back, the day Khovahsh bought it when the church was under foreclosure many moons ago. Well, before I encountered Kowumba Jah, before that race car event that ended with Alicia battling Le'Krock'Kah, a demi-shifting reptile that possessed Kowumba'sbody for decades, even before he became one of the world's godtier scientists.

I was an undercover assassin going by my alias, Zhivargo. I knew now that my host body was born Zhivargo, but later changed his name when I came into possession of him. I have possessed him since birth. Moving in and out of him at my leisure, and only when I hid Vultorian from the world at large. Well, until my wings gave me away. They had minds of their own.

After busying myself with something in secret, I closed my eyes and opened them in my alternate life as Zhivargo, thinking about Greg and my past, a past that was just as bloody as my supernatural life.

CONTINUED FROM BOOK 1 - ACT 2: VULTORIAN

VULTORIAN IN DISGUISE:

On the news it was reported that I was running late to my own black-tie event, because of a problem with my limo. I hadn't arrived yet, according to the Paparazzi, I was already on my grounds. I made previous plans for my escape, and everything was going smoothly. I hired three stunt men. They were the spitting image of me. Each of them wore the same suit that I wore, and thick shades...shiny black gator loafers.

Breaking my train of thought, Greg found his way to the stage and staggered to walk up the stairs. There were seven stairs...representing each year I put into his firm, even before I started officially working for him, even before I started college. I had to live, breathe and become the Firm. I had to let them degrade me and treat me like a puppet.

Doctoring cases and kidnapping witnesses to keep up my conviction rate for imaging purposes. I didn't ask for it, but controlling my destiny, giving myself the life my father never did, validated me. It felt good to cheat, the way life cheated me when my first love burned to death in her car while pregnant with my child. I was still locked deep within my inner rage about that. It happened on my graduation day from college.

I eyed Gregory...He held on...inhaling at a fast rate. Air was useless when you didn't appreciate it. In the face of death, perspective changed.

"You no longer have to worry about your Firm. I never planned on resigning or going pro bono. Do you think I was going to let you black mail me all those years, treating me like shit, just to come be your slave at this dismal Firm?"

"I...I...loved you...like a fucking...son! What have you done you ignorant bastard?"

"Nice choice of words for someone that won't live to see the sunrise, don't you think?"

"I was like a father to you!" A series of coughs shut him up. I guessed they didn't want to hear the bullshit, either. His eyes turned to a purplish color. Watching his soul slowly disintegrate into nothingness gave me joy. And I took pride in it.

"Like a father? Speak up! You're not going to be here for long."

"How could you poison..."

"Come on, Greg, the Party Pooper! You're not the only one dying. I killed the judge, the doctor and the others, too! A nigger will never become a partner in your firm. Those were your words, and the sentiment from all of the undercover racists that helped build the Firm. All of you saltine crackers smiled in my face, sat at my dinner table, ate my food, drank my alcohol, accepted my money yet viewed me as a nigger the entire time. Well...looks like this nigger will be the sole owner!"

"Rot in..."

"Rot? The way you rigged my woman's brakes and she burned to death with my child, when I was in college? You think I don't know about that? You wanted my soul, and you got it when it died with my wife to be, and our unborn child was sacrificed. And you want sympathy? Now you rot in hell!"

"Die, nigger!"

"There he is! Your authentic self! Fathers don't call their children hateful things like nigger. That'll be the last time you call me one."

I punched him, pulled out both Desert Eagles, and aimed at his head. "When you perish, I will be the proud owner of your Firm. I promise to take your business into heights you never dreamed of, Gregory! Consider this your payment!"

The bullets tore through his body and internal organs without a care in the world. The smell of free-flowing blood and flesh intermingled with the smoke from the barrels of my Desert Eagles gave me crazed eyes. It didn't hurt to peck away at his organs, since they were exposed. His lungs, brain and his heart tasted quite scrumptious. I was no Hannibal Lector, but I'd silence his lambs if he crossed me as well. Success, right now, didn't fulfill me.

Everything I hoped to gain from their murders had missed the mark. My so-called "father" was now a bloody skeletal figure. I licked the bones clean of blood, briefly morphing into Vultorian.

After a delicious meal, I slumped a bit in agony. I gripped the microphone stand, looking out at all the dead bodies. I stepped over the Emcee and made my way down the stairs, running my hands over my un-feathered bald head. Into the sea of bodies I strolled, like a long day at the office, sliding my hands in my pockets, fighting my buzzard side to stay contained. With all this death around me, I had to forget that I was a carrion eater. I ate death.

I rose my hands and all the dead bodies began to levitate. I chopped off one of their heads. Flapping my wings, I approached the last man standing as held the head above my open beak and squeezed the contents into my mouth. It was one hell of a delicious protein shake. I seemed to be Einstein right now.

He stared at me, shaking like a blind hooker in church with no idea she was royally fucked. Maybe my best friend was right. I should have gone back to church, repented and given my hurt and pain to God, let him deal with it, since he made us all, but the need to survive, the need to make it on my own without a caring father drove me to the brink of destruction. I believed in nothing, not even in myself.

My body swirled back into Zhivargo, the Assassin. I grew up in the paradise of the slaughterhouse blues. My parents were multi-billionaires that didn't care about life, love or liberty.

They pissed on the American Dream and dove into the black market and built a slaughterhouse business that turned enormous profits when they started cutting up dead bodies for tons of mafia types all around the world, including the governments within the United Nations umbrella.

My wealthy father was dead now, surely looking down at the broken man standing on the stage before the dead. All of his money, stocks and assets were mine now. My mother didn't care. She had her own wealth and never cared too much about me anyway.

I paused in front of Bryant, holding a bottle of water to wash Greg's sour aftertaste away. "Now you see why I told you to drink water, and not the Verde?"

He swallowed the lump in his throat. My wings wrapped around him, pulling him to both barrels of my weapons. I put the metal to his head. "Are you with me or against me?"

He raised his hands and pushed the guns from his face. He smiled, and then hugged me. "Hell yea, baby! I'm with you! Vultorian and Grumble Associates coming up!"

I wasn't too fond of a grown man calling me baby, but I knew he didn't mean it in the LGBT sense. Maybe he should meet Khovahsh. I was sure he dabbled along the same sex waters at some point in his life, especially when he encountered a mortal named Felix. I knew Felix quite well back in the crack epidemic 1980s. I knew him because he was possessed and under my control a few hours before he encountered Khovahsh. I'd been watching Khovahsh for centuries, unnoticed. I was also present when he faced the Chain of Command. He betrayed them by breaking the Oath of Silence to his loving wife. Every time he gazed into her eyes, we gazed back--his wife and I from within her beautiful body.

"Now for the final part of the plan. We're about to leave this place before the authorities get here. When we arrive Downtown, the both of us disguised as older men, we're going into one of the dressing rooms, where two of my stuntmen are waiting. We are going to switch clothing. We are going to arrive at my event, together..."

I handed him my guns. "Take care of the stuntmen, all of them." I said, patting his shoulder, wondering if I was the devil. No, I wasn't. I was Zhivargo, the Assassin. Vultorian for short.

"I can't believe we are owners of one of the most influential Firms in the country."

"Patience...not yet. We play it cool. When the Feds get involved things are going to get a little...bumpy, but we will pull through. Our plan is air sealed tight."

About ten minutes after I got rid of my disguise, with my cohort, I brushed off my suit and looked myself over in the mirror of an abandoned store a few miles from the downtown area. It was dark and quiet. I wasn't worried about anyone being around. I was dressed as an old man, so was my friend, with our suits under our clothes. Accordion doors were sealed tight.

I had a key for the back doors. I used a remote control to kill the cameras a few hours ago. I was Downtown when my publicist called, and she informed me of what went on. I acted as if I was stunned, and even shed a few tears (publicly, for the cameras), while walking to an awaiting limo with my cohort and we played the part, arriving at the party...both panicked and shocked.

Even though I gave...what I call The Drink of Death, my heart refused to have an ounce of remorse. It didn't have a pinch of empathy for the dead. If my life depended on that pinch of hope I'd be a dead man.

When my cohort and I arrived at my establishment, the place was burned to the ground. Smoke snaked into the darkened air. Only the stars shined down at that moment, the only true act of light. Red and blue police lights seemed to invade that moment, spinning, circling and spiraling along with thoughts of confusion wrinkled across the official's foreheads.

I wanted to hold onto this moment for life. The moment of having the government in the palms of my hands and they didn't even know I was the perpetrator. I was the assassinator of assassinators; they didn't talk about my kind in any book, until now and that was becauseI was telling my storyand controlling the narrative like it was my bitch. I was a lead prosecuting attorney, now proud owner of Gregory (Vultorian) and Hammond, one of the biggest law firms in the world. And on the side I was a deranged, blind assassin. I saw nothing and no one when it came to assassinating any and every one that knew of my secrets to success or threatened anything I loved.

I had to make sure my secrets were safe. As well as keeping my Vultorian identity a secret as well, even from myself. A few cops questioned me when I arrived, ensuring that I was safe and well. A top notch Federal agent bristled over to me with a natural, concerned look and said, "Are you all right, Zhivargo?"

I shook his hand and I looked away. As he unzipped his blazer, I squeezed my eyes with my thumbs and shook with phony pain. He gave a fond squeeze and patted my shoulder a few times, saying, "What a way to make an entrance."

"Tell...me about it," I said, making my voice crack. "This place looks like a war zone," I went on, looking up into his misty eyes and he nodded, lowering his head. I studied him, without making it obvious, for any sign that the cops and Feds were on to me or had me in mind as a suspect. Wrinkles didn't form on his forehead, which was an indication I was still in the clear.

I studied his posture, it was very relaxed, not stiff and ice cold. His fingers dangled with his arms. He shook his head a few times and sighed. Ah, it was then I realized his judge wife, who died in the blast, was no more, an invisible shade of memories now clouding his unrealistic life. I didn't show sympathy.

My eyes briefly darted around as I took in the scene before me, and behind him, since he was facing me, without turning my head. The place was completely burned to the ground. I guessed this was the part where I admitted that I had set bombs throughout my establishment and odorless Cuban gasoline in huge ceramic pots surrounding the stage area.

When the place ignited with a disastrous BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM...each heart-exploding blast 3 seconds after each other, this place was rubble and ash in 18 seconds flat. Even though my friend and I were Downtown, signing a few autographs for my fans around million-dollar stores, the dial of my watch was in direct cadence with the booming blasts. The detonator was on the small corkscrew on the side of my designer Rolex.

The Maker and I did big business together. And I killed him to keep that secret.