When the official proceedings began, Madeline felt like she was at an AA meeting. The timid speaker asserted multiple times that they were not monsters, but people with a problem. He congratulated the assembled for seeking help and guidance and quickly opened the floor to the reports and announcements of the various groups. Few came alone, it seemed. Werewolves clung to each other with the deep bondage of a wolf pack, while vampires felt less like families and more in the way of covens. The mixed groups seemed awkwardly attached to one another. These crossed relationships were not at all unacceptable, but they attracted a bit of attention from the purists, who Madeline was able to quickly identify and readily loathe.
"Our clan is prepared for the first wave. The have weapons? Firearms, perhaps? Bring on the battle, we say! Such childish toys are no match for the occult! This is the report of the Living Dead." The man that spoke looked to be in his fifties if not sixties, and brandished his fist at the pitiful man on the podium, as if he were the general charged with orchestrating the great war the "Living Dead" advertised.
"Erm... That's all very well, Murdoch, but what--ahem--exactly are you reporting as cause for violence?" the man got out.
"Death! Destruction! Look around you, Matteo! The whole human race is out to get us! Slayers left and right are spewing propaganda over the city and surrounding suburbia that they are at risk from us! Ha!" Here, this "Murdoch" gave a spurt of bitter laughter, devoid of mirth, saturated with spite. It came with an explosive derision that made Madeline shudder, and become all the more attentive. She took an involuntary step forward, away from the rough wall, to get a better look at the man who now continued his tirade.
"Do you see that woman by the wall? A once-magnificent she-wolf, now whipped and battered by our heartless foes. They care not what they do to children, mothers, budding youth! If we do not strike now, what? I'll tell you!" His face was a snarl that contorted his already dirty and creased visage with rage. "They'll shoot us down in the streets; that's what!" He took a good thirty minutes to finish, and by the end, Madeline was woefully confused. Murdoch claimed that Slayers were spreading anti-supernatural sentiments over the country and world. Before her transformation and rescue by Cyprian and company, she had never heard of vampires and werewolves beyond horror stories and terrible movies. Shadows on the film of legend only, and still he persisted. However, Chicago and her dark alleys, according to this man, were filled with blood-thirsty humans--a poor choice of words, on his part, she thought--who longed for the extermination of their kind. It may be the Slayers hate us, but the casual citizen? She thought this and skeptically furrowed her brow. Around the room, many shook their heads in silent, but vigorous agreement, and a few even shouted their concurrence. Madeline worried. These words were grounded in some fact, but exaggerated. It would be a senseless war that would get them killed.
"Very well, Murdoch. You have stated your position clearly. The floor is now open to further commentary." The young man who had comforted the swollen, beaten mother wolf in the corner before now straightened and looked at her. She nudged his calf with her great head, an act that seemed to take all and drain her of her strength. It fell heavily back to the ground when he had edged forward far enough to be noticed.
"I'm Brent," he said in a clearly British accent. Madeline could not pinpoint exactly what type. "Ashley Brent, husband to Elena. She... She's expecting, you know. Five months into it, see, and Slayers chased her out of town, pursued her even into a wood. Shot at her to frighten her, confuse her... Then they caught up with her, cornered her, and kicked her till she didn't move anymore." His voice shook with deep pain and sorrow, not the blind rage of the previous speaker. An older man beside him put a sympathetic hand on his shoulder in encouragement. You've got to tell 'em. They should know, he seemed to say with that firm, reassuring touch. "They would have killed her if I hadn't caught up with them in time. And..." He looked bleakly through the thickening film of tears on his eyes and cleared his throat. "I'm no hero... It was only 'cause they felt they'd done enough that I got them away. We still don't know if the kids will be all right. We still--
"Well, the point is, I know how bad they can be. They're terrible, terrible people, and I can't forgive them that ever, but--and Elena agrees with me--not all humans are like that. Slayers are a select group of evil. Their attempts to spread anti-werewolf and vampire feelings in the past have been dismissed by most of the sensible public as crackpot theories and mad jokes. To wage war on the defenseless who have done us no wrong is ridiculous, and we're working to fly under the radar, righ'? How is a killing spree going to help our image? And Elena here is living proof I'm not soft on the bastards. I'm as angry as any one else, if not more, but that doesn't mean we should lose our senses. Why not fly even lower? Leave this hell-hole of a city to the dogs and find a new place?"
Much debate was raised over the opposing proposals. Jeers and shouts of support mingled in the air and made the restless crowd giddy with the fresh chance of allegiance. Those who did not belong to a side strained to listen to the discernible bits and pieces of the cacophony. Madeline was pretty sure who she supported, and was getting pretty fired up at the obnoxious statements issued by the newly proclaimed Living Dead supporter at their right. She opened her mouth to loudly state what she thought of him and his warmongering ways, but was interrupted in her preparation for the rant by Leif, who moved closer to mutter discreetly in her ear, "that was Ashley Brent. He's a bit of a newcomer, but he's got the right idea. He's a big deal to the Living Dead because he married a werewolf and they intentionally are having kids. Murdoch and the others have got the idea in their heads that such a thing is wrong, and they don't respect him and his opinions in the slightest."
"The Living Dead being a purist sect of this little coven?" She glared in distaste across the cavern at Murdoch who was forcefully pounding his fist into his opposite palm as if trying to physically drive home a point to anyone who would listen in the confusion.
"Precisely," said Cyprian. "They have reason enough, I suppose, to hate the slayers, but over the years, they've come to hate all humans and their non-supernatural blood. They are the last of us who dare to attack humans for food in this area."
"Most others hunt like us... Or, you know, rob the blood banks and hospitals." Dimitri was now leaning in to contribute.
"Are all meetings like this?" She continued to dislike the Living Dead at a steady rate. She wanted to hear more that would make her hate their morals and principles, and then went back a step and evaluated her subconscious need to take a side on a fully conscious level. I need to belong, she realized, and returned to the discussion of the politics of the supernatural.
"No, actually," said Cyprian, with a hint of apology. "They've never been so keen on war before."
"Yeah, normally they just whine about all of things humans have done to them and expect sympathy, as if the rest of us haven't been through that kind of persecution or worse in the past." Dimitri was also looking peeved at how the proceedings were going. "They never decide anything of importance, it seems."
"That's what you say," said Leif. "If you'd paid attention closely last time, you'd know that some important decisions regarding our boundaries in dealing with humans in their society were made. You've actually broken several of the most crucial rules since."
"Huh. It comes of being too bothered to care, I suppose." Dimitri withdrew and the four stood and waited as the noise settled around them. The meeting continued...
Copyright 2008 C.B. Sanders
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