The following is the first part of a short story (yep, turns out my relationship with prose is even more confusing than previously stated) based in the same world as Aphelion. This introduces brand new characters who exist adjacent to Albion Winter. This way I can write the story without revealing any spoilers for Aphelion, which is still in production and not ready for release at the time of writing this. Enjoy, Troy.
Shikari: a hunter, or tracker, especially in the Indian sub-continent.
Burke: to suppress or extinguish quietly.
The Shikari Burkers were a long line of uniquely trained individuals. It was commonly accepted that they originated in ancient Persia, around the time of Roman occupation of Mauritania. However, some reports suggest there were similar groups on virtually every continent throughout the history of human civilization, and that the Shikari Burkers had absorbed methods and knowledge from each of those cultures over the centuries. Whatever the facts truly were, most modern Burkers were believed to share a common lineage. Family history aside, there was no doubting that they had one thing in common.
A blood oath to dedicate their lives to the destruction of all Sanguisuga - the children of The Elder.
On the surface, the modern world seemed relatively straight forward. Corporations and banks controlled the wealth, influencing the governments in order to continue hoarding the wealth and maintain influence over the labour force. A class system in which there really was only two classes, the corporate elite, and everyone else. The truth, however, was far more sinister.
The world was at war, a covert war that never made the headlines. Unlike the conflicts that dominated the news, or the so-called culture wars that pulsated across social media and kept everyone looking in the wrong direction, this war had real stakes - the very existence of the human race! On one side, the Sanguisuga, the sinister beings who lurked in the shadows silently casting their influence over the corporations, banks and governments. On the other side of this generational conflict was a resistance network of enlightened humans. The Shikari Burkers were their attack dogs.
A studio apartment in a Central London tower block, the motley aroma of body odour, stale alcohol and halitosis filled the air. Bass-heavy music resonated from the Bluetooth speakers blaring UK Grime and Drill. The same online playlist that had been on loop for at least 36-hours now, much to the annoyance of the neighbours. Slumped facedown on the sofa, dribble dried around her mouth, one arm draped down to the rug that desperately needed cleaning and surrounded by empty bottles of vodka, cheap brandy and several half eaten takeaway food containers lay Xorlali Dela (Kor-La-Lee). Wearing only a cropped tee shirt and pair of panties, her breathing shallow and rapid like a sleeping dog, occasionally spluttering into an erratic snore. Things had been quiet of late, Xorlali did not much appreciate the quiet times, they gave her pause for thought, time to dwell. So, naturally she numbed the pain with alcohol. Something that always led her to take it out on her long suffering boyfriend, Derek. Derek was a nice guy and put up with more from her than anyone deserved.
Their most recent, public disagreement, was the reason for her current state. She hated herself for hurting him, she just couldn’t help it. So after telling him, in no uncertain terms to “Go fuck yourself!” in ear shot of everyone in the pub, she felt compelled to punish her liver and drink herself into a coma.
That was two days ago. The coma was, so-far, five hours long.
The battery of her mobile phone was dead and she had unplugged the landline so that she didn’t have to answer Derek's pleas for peace talks. She knew she was out of order, but this was all very on-brand for her, she knew she was a bitch.
It was at that point that she snorted, inhaled and then stopped breathing. Had anyone been watching they would have been concerned for her life. Moments later she snorted and coughed, waking herself up with a start. A sudden and overwhelming anxiety attack causing her to convulse and fall from the sofa with a thud.
“Fuck!” She swore, reflexively. Her heart pounded in her chest as her senses began to return to her. She took a deep, slow inhale and then attempted to open her eyes, “fuck!” It felt like someone was trying to prize her cranium apart with a rusty hatchet.
After a couple of minutes Xorlali painfully rose to her feet and then slumped back down onto the sofa. She rubbed her eyes and then reached for the nearest bottle of vodka that was laying on its side by her foot. It was empty. She cursed again.
“Fuck it,” she croaked under her breathing, realising that she was in considerable discomfort, caused by the bender. She sniffed an armpit and almost threw-up.
She allowed herself a couple more minutes of self-loathing and then headed for the shower, once again swearing loudly as she stubbed her toe on one of the empty bottles.
The suds ran down her light mahogany coloured skin. She removed the shower cap covering the not inconsiderable afro that she had previously prepped with coconut oil, before massaging the shampoo in.
Thirty minutes later a fresher Xorlali emerged from the shower feeling ever so slightly less disgusting. She wrapped a towel around her toned torso and exited the bathroom.
“I’ve been in crack dens that smelled better than this place.” The deep voice, with the judgemental tone came from a hard looking black man with a greying beard leaning, arms folded, against the kitchen work surface. The coffee percolator gurgled next to him.
Xorlali tensed up, her combat instincts taking over as she adopted a fighting stance upon hearing the voice.
“I’ve been calling for two days, Lee,” he used the commonly adopted short version of her name, “thought we had got past the whole, unplugging the phone thing.”
Xorlali relaxed a little and lowered her fists once she had determined the home invasion was not a threat to her wellbeing, “fuck off Nesta.”
“That’s no way to talk to your mentor.” He poured some freshly made coffee into a porcelain mug, “here. This'll liven you up!” He said, holding out the mug as Xorlali approached.
“I needed some time to… decompress.” Xorlali admitted as she took the mug of black coffee from Nesta’s hand.
“By ‘decompress’ I assume you mean, get so fucked up you couldn’t remember your name?”
“That’s how I decompress.” She took a sip. “What d’you want?”
“Got a new target for ya. Drink up, an’ get dressed and I’ll fill you in..”
Her headache started to dampen as the adrenalin began to kick in, she always felt that rush before a mission. Nesta stood by the doorway, having briefed Xorlali on her target. He paused and watched as she zipped up the leather motorbike jacket over her cropped sports top. The jacket was yellow with black stripes - in the same style as the Bruce Lee jumpsuit from Game of Death, the tight leather biker pants were the polar opposite - black with a yellow stripe. Xorlali might have been a tough bitch with a zeppelin sized chip on her shoulder, but there was no denying she was as cool as she was mean. Had she looked up at her mentor she might have noticed a hint of something approaching pride in his face. She was twenty five, Nesta had known her since she was a kid. He started training her from the age of twelve. She was the best he had ever seen. She had always had an attitude problem, but in combat she channelled her rage in a way no other Burker could. By the age of fifteen he had her training alongside men in their twenties. She took a lot of beatings, but she always gave as good as she got… and then some. He knew she was special.
Xorlali picked up the sheathed Katana from the sideboard and partially slid the blade out, the Persian steel glistened in the sunlight that broke through the window, revealing the rune inscribed on the perfect blade.
“Keep your phone on this time, Lee.” Said Nesta as he turned the latch on her front door. “Call me when it’s done.”
“Don’t let the door hit you on the arse on the way out.”
Nesta allowed himself a wry grin at her petulance as he opened the door, “Be safe, Lee. I mean it!”
She didn’t reply, she just glared at him, her face saying more than her words ever could. Their relationship was complicated. She hated her life, it hadn't been her choice, but it was all she knew and Nesta, like it or not, was a big part of it. Despite everything, he was the closest thing she had to a father.
The door clicked shut and she stood for a moment, long enough for Nesta to have made his way to the lift, a moment of meditation, or quiet contemplation. Then she took a deep breath, grabbed the helmet from the side and exited through the same door.
Thirty minutes later, Xorlali was pulling up into a deserted car park in the backlot of an old industrial site. The roar of her Yamaha ZF-R1M died as she cut the engine and placed the full face helmet on the handlebars in front of her.
This is the place, she thought to herself. She looked around. Deserted. Why did Neophytes always hang out in these kinds of places? She asked herself. She scanned the area, making a mental note of every CCTV camera she saw.
Neophytes, the animated corpses of slain humans. Their bodies a temporary shelter for one of the many lost souls of Sanguisuga. These were the foot soldiers, the expendable minions who answered to a Pureblood Sanguisuga. According to Nesta, there was a new sheriff in town and it was Xorlali’s job to find out who and where.
But first, she would have to deal with the help.
A thud echoed from behind her as she dismounted her motorcycle. Without even looking she pulled the katana out from under the back of her jacket. She had always favoured the Japanese weapon. Of all the hand-to-hand weapons she was an expert in, the katana felt like an extension of her own arm. She was an artist with the katana and anyone who got in her way would experience the precision of her craft.
“So you are the great Xorlali Dela!”
The voice came from behind her. She turned to see the man standing there. He wore a black suit and tie, with a white shirt and dark, Ray Ban sunglasses. The typical uniform of a Neophyte. They were like a 90s film cliche.
Her heart pounded in her chest, oxygen and adrenalin surged through her bloodstream clearing any residual negative effects of the hangover. Xorlali never had time for a soliloquy in these instances. Words are cheap, actions say more than a hundred words.
The Neophyte’s eyes glowed, his face twisted into a snarl, distorting his features he bared his fanged teeth. Unlike Sanguisuga, Neophytes were closer to the Vampires of folklore that most humans were familiar with. Xorlali adopted a fighting stance, sword at the ready in her right hand. She fixed his evil eyes with hers and merely beckoned him forward with her left hand.
Game on, she thought.
To be continued.