THERON (Book I In The Ancients Series) [SAMPLE]

Part One - Taming of the Beast

Blood splatter painted the walls.

At least that's what Theron could recall. It was more likely that crimson also speckled the ceiling but one's memory seems a bit lacking when in the midst of a rage-fueled, semi-murderous—No. Scratch that—mostly murderous and vengeful escape plan. He blamed the trauma and the thousands of years of immortality where he trained himself not to look up. He refused to acknowledge that moon whore and her ever watchful, mostly judgemental, and ironically hypocritical presence. Theron was beyond doubt that the goddess knew of his situation and still chose not to intervene. He expected nothing less.

So while he couldn't specifically remember the ceiling, the amount of violence and ferocity he was still feeling even with miles and miles between him and that underground hell hole guaranteed him that there was no possible way that ceiling was its former pristine white. Oh, the amount of bleach they would need for that clean-up! He mentally noted to check stocks on Clorox when he returned to his human form. Not that he prided himself in being opportunistic but "petty" was not something he was above.

And as the snow fell harder and the wind whipped mightier and his sprint became sluggish, he kept his spirits up by replaying the evening's events in his mind. One more fable to add to a laundry list of myths and legends of Theron the Ancient. Only this time, he hoped it would be written in earnest historical accuracy, unlike the others.

"This is not a drill," he repeated in the same gravely voice that mocked each victim that succumbed to his wrath. The wailing of the alarm still rang in his sensitive ears. They tickled and thrummed, causing him to shake his head often. The constant demands to proceed to the nearest emergency exit was recorded in such a pleasant tone that he almost believed everyone would make it out alive.

Almost.

It was quite humorous to him. By definition, the red lights and shrill, guttural cry of every endless round that demonic alarm made was piercing to his ears, but to humans it was a warning.

A threat.

Time to run.

To flee.

Time to get out because something went wrong.

Because whatever it was that did occur happened to be mysterious enough in its quality of danger that everyone needed to be warned. What an ironic thing when it was his form, his approaching steps, that would be the only alarm they needed to hear.

He licked his blood stained snout as a familiar feeling of euphoria coursed through his veins. The snow that was currently impeding his flight became reminiscent of the red liquid that had seeped outward, past his lycan paws and gushed between his toes. "Please make your way to the nearest exit in an orderly fashion. . ." he sang aloud.

All that sound did was bathe the building in anxiousness and fear. Emotions so thick within these walls that Theron could practically taste it. And if, by some miracle, the humans didn't heed that annoying, repetitive, deafening roar of the anti-Christ, well, then they would know the fury of that which was Theron. Being the generous Ancient he was, he would give them three seconds—only three—to repent before he ripped them limb from limb and sent them prematurely to wherever hell their Lord God created for them.

The metallic taste that still sat on his tongue was not dulled by the white flakes that landed in his panting mouth. The distinct copper hint that lay beneath confirmed to his beast that this blood had been, most unquestionably, human. Not that Theron needed the reassurance. He had two eyes, obviously—two eyes that relished in memorizing every terrorized face, every gurgled sound of throaty horror, every tiny piece of shredded skin that stunk of panic and distress, and every ounce of blood that squirted through his canines and out the sides of his mouth.

Sure, some major players in his plotted retribution had escaped but it bothered him none. He would find them. He had time. Unless by some blessed miracle this floating rock exploded tomorrow, time was all he had. With his luck going much as it had since his curse, it would be unlikely he would die from an apocalyptic catastrophe anyhow. Now that he thought about it, he just might prolong the torture a little longer for the hassle they caused him by having to track them down.

He would leave no survivors. He would show no mercy. Of all the wolves to capture, torture and experiment on, they hadn't considered or hadn't yet been knowledgeable enough to know, that they had, indeed, royally screwed up by picking an Ancient. And not just any Ancient beast, but Theron, the most ruthless, merciless, and feared of all the four Originals.

Too bad they wouldn't live long enough to regret their decision.

He was done being the experiment in their twisted desire for werewolf knowledge. Poked and prodded wasn't his preferred method of a meet and greet but he could handle it. Losing a finger or two, okay, it had happened a couple times throughout the years. All appendages eventually grow back. The dissections were a little tougher. Aside from the pain, open air in an area that wasn't usually open was. . . uncomfortable, to say the very least. But then they crossed a line. A very definitive line any living being would have drawn hard and deep within that metaphorical sand and there was no going back.

Theron's brutality knew no bounds.

They were nothing—less than nothing among the vastness of the realm of supernaturals. They were not worthy of such knowledge, of such a powerful and godly being gracing their presence, and he would spend the rest of his immortal days making them pay for their bad decision. He was a walking, living god, and today they would know for certain the reign of terror that he would bring upon such an insolent species.

Adrenaline, however, is a fickle thing. While it tends to help in most cases by forcing your brain to be more alert, allowing your lungs to take in more oxygen, and making one an all around badass, it has one, tiny downfall. A downfall that even Theron himself could not escape.

So caught up in his hatred and unrelenting thirst for blood, he had not felt, had not realized, nor even thought to check for injuries. The consideration wasn't even an inkling in his mind as his lycan form began to teeter and stumble through the thickening snow. 

And what a curious, serendipitous thing that would end up being. . .