Hidden in a shadowed nook on the master suite’s balcony, Whiskey caught his breath as the whiplash ebbed.
A breeze tugged at his coat as his gaze swept across Bayshore, Hunter’s Point, and the vast darkness of the Bay beyond. The lights of Alameda and Oakland glittered like scattered jewels over an endless abyss, and from below came the restless symphony of a world still turning.
The moment stirred memories of quiet nights atop the monastery walls, staring at lights just like these. Back then, he’d wondered what lay beyond them.
Now…
“You gotta hand it to Isaiah,” Passenger said, tone almost wistful. “He picked a spot with one crackerjack of a view.”
Whiskey shook his head and looked away.
“Not worth it.”
Passenger gave the mental equivalent of an eye roll.
“At least admit the view’s pretty, Kinichiro,” it chided, followed by a long sigh. “Views like this prove that night isn’t just the absence of light. It’s a time for passion. For desire. For action.”
It let out a low chuckle.
“Speaking of which…”
A teasing sensation—like the faint trace of perfume on skin—brushed Whiskey’s senses. He turned toward the glass door, where a thick curtain veiled the room beyond, and triggered Vigilance.
The dulcet tones of Ella Fitzgerald’s Someone to Watch Over Me drifted through the air, accompanied by the rustle of sheets.
And a not-so-subtle moan.
He crept forward, breath steadying as he tested the handle. The sharp edge of whiplash had dulled. The anima he’d spent on entry wasn’t monumental, but it left an ache blooming behind his temples.
The handle gave with a soft click, and the corner of his mouth twitched.
Keeping low, careful to minimize the spill of light, he slipped inside and was immediately hit by a wave of thick, heady lust.
His pulse quickened as Vigilance adjusted his vision, revealing a well-appointed sitting area. Bright orange, green, and yellow furniture clashed with expensive-looking artwork. Ella’s voice crooned from a crystal-powered record player, spinning lazily beside a coffee table lined with neat rows of white powder.
His smile deepened, twisting and sharpening as the latent lust flooded his senses like blood in the water to a shark.
With Passion, he could—
No.
That would move him off The Way.
He forced himself to look aside. He was here to talk to Isaiah. To find Hallie.
Drawing a steadying breath, he tuned out the rising moans and moved past the bar, heading toward the faint orange glow spilling from the open doorway ahead.
Glancing inside, he saw a massive four-poster bed dominate the adjoining bedroom. From beneath the silk sheets, a shapely leg had slipped free, draping over the edge.
He confirmed the room was empty aside from its preoccupied inhabitants, then stepped forward.
The instant he crossed the threshold, a scent rose through the cloying mix of perfume, booze, and cigarettes.
“Watch out!”
Reflex overrode thought.
He called Ambition, flooding his limbs with a surge of anima, and blurred—ducking, spinning, arm whipping around as he triggered Wrath. Rage and fear burst from him in a crackling purple cord, searing through fabric and flesh alike, wrapping around the pistol and the hand holding it.
Whiskey dismissed Wrath, halting the energy before it severed the hand, and dove forward. His attacker cried out as the gun slipped free.
Whiskey caught it midair, turned the dive into a roll, and came up with the muzzle leveled at the man’s forehead.
“Hello… Mr. Scott,” Whiskey panted.
If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
The entire exchange had happened in near silence. Though it lasted less than a second, the whiplash left him breathless. His hand trembled briefly, but years of practice had built calluses over his soul, and the weapon steadied.
Isaiah Scott—heir to the Saints of Samedi, leader of the Hunter’s Point Liberated Saints, and Hallie Baptiste’s father—cradled his burned hand.
“They sent you?”
Only then did the two women in the bed seem to register what was happening. Sheets rustled as they sat up, flawless and very naked.
“Oh my,” Passenger purred. “Treats.”
The half-elves—an expensive rarity of mahogany skin and pointed ears—scrambled, forgoing modesty as they tried to put distance between themselves and the man with the gun. Their auras radiated a potent mix of lust and fear strong enough that Whiskey had to grit his teeth just to stay focused.
Which was why he was just a little slow when one of them opened her mouth to scream.
Without thinking, he triggered Passion.
Unlike someone like Gilgamesh, whose training and tenacity had forged his aura into a fortress of will, their defenses were paper thin—eroded by chemicals and undisciplined minds. His will surged toward them like a starving man at a feast, but he caught it just in time. Rather than overwhelm, it struck with the surgical precision of a syringe.
Their defenses shattered instantly, both recoiling as if slapped, and the one about to scream snapped her mouth shut with an audible clack.
Anima surged into Whiskey as their drug-addled wills burst like balloons. His breath caught. A shudder rolled through him, but he was ready for it and didn’t allow himself to linger on the sensation.
They are not The Way.
The effect was like ice water on fevered skin. He released Passion.
“What?” Passenger demanded. “That’s it?”
Ignoring its complaints, Whiskey stepped forward, pressed the barrel of the gun to Isaiah’s forehead, and thumbed back the hammer. Isaiah’s eyes bulged, nostrils flaring as his pulse hammered at the base of his throat.
“It would be…” Whiskey rasped, still catching his breath, “…most beneficial… for you to remain quiet.”
For a moment, no one moved. The only sound was Ella’s dulcet tones drifting through the stillness.
Whiskey studied the man he hadn’t seen in years.
Time had taken its toll.
Isaiah was only in his mid-forties, but the gray threading his stubble and the deepening recession of his hairline aged him by at least a decade. He was still tall, still broad-shouldered, but what had once been lean muscle had withered into stringy gristle. A noticeable paunch pressed against silk robes strained at the seams.
Swirling tattoos, once vivid and sharp, now blurred across aging skin, disappearing beneath folds of fabric. A thick gold chain hung around his neck, its medallion shaped like a snarling tiger resting over his chest.
Yet it wasn’t Isaiah’s body that caught Whiskey’s attention—it was his eyes.
Bloodshot. Gray-green. Fever-bright.
They twitched, unable to hold focus, darting away, snapping back again and again.
It reminded Whiskey of a jaguar he’d once seen at the San Francisco Zoo. The animal had paced the edge of its enclosure without rest, wearing a trench in the dirt. Entranced, he’d watched it for over an hour—long enough for a bored zookeeper to explain that the cat walked that same narrow circuit every day, stopping only at feeding times.
A few weeks later, Whiskey read in the Chronicle that the same jaguar had gone berserk, killing a handler and mauling another before being put down.
Whiskey exhaled the last trace of whiplash from his limbs.
“Who do you think sent me, Mr. Scott?”
Isaiah blinked and glanced toward the balcony.
“Security said I should post a man there,” he muttered. “Told ’em no. Said my glyphs were warning enough. How’d you know I was there?”
Whiskey shrugged.
“Your cologne. Cedarwood and sage.”
Isaiah chuckled, shaking his head.
“I must be gettin’ old. Would’ve caught you five years ago.” He giggled, then winced, cradling his scorched hand. “So, what brings the Mo’s very own private investigator all the way to my bedside, hmm?”
Whiskey let a small smile touch his lips.
“I’m looking for Hallie. Did you take her?”
Isaiah started to wave his good hand, then froze mid-motion. His face and aura flickered with shock, followed by a flash of fear.
“You think I took Hallie?”
Whiskey kept his expression neutral.
“Is it so surprising? With the bad blood between you and George—and all this extra security—someone might suspect you’re hiding something. Or someone.”
Isaiah’s jaw dropped. Then he burst into hysterical laughter.
When it subsided, his bloodshot eyes locked onto Whiskey’s.
“I swear upon all my power and the power granted to me by the Baron hisself that I, Isaiah Rupert Scott, did not abduct my own daughter.”
The tattoos across his chest and neck flared red.
“Happy now?” he asked, sticking his burned hand back in his mouth.
“Passenger?” Whiskey thought.
“Hmmm?” it answered distractedly, still focused on the women.
“Focus. Was that what I think it was? Did he just bind his magic with an Oath?”
Passenger made a disgruntled sound.
“Hard to say. His aura’s about as stable as a stick of dynamite. But if I had to guess? Yes. That was an Oath. If he’d lied, his anima would’ve torn itself apart. Since that didn’t happen… he’s probably telling the truth.”
It pulsed a shrug.
“That said, Oaths only bind the letter of the words, not the spirit. Creative liars can get around them easily enough, if they word it right.”
Whiskey nodded. At best, Isaiah hadn’t abducted Hallie himself—but that still left a whole lot of questions.
He was about to say as much when one of the women shifted in bed.
Isaiah flinched like a startled cat.
“Get out!” he snapped.
The women hesitated, confused.
“I said get out you gods-damned whores!”
They sprang like startled deer, scrambling off the bed and fleeing into the hall in a flurry of sheets and terrified cries.
A guard appeared in the doorway, wide-eyed. His expression only worsened when he saw Whiskey holding a gun to Isaiah’s head.
“Oh, now you notice?” Isaiah screamed. “Shut the gods-damned door! I’m in a meeting!”
The guard blinked, frozen.
With an exasperated growl, Isaiah stormed across the room.
“What the fuck am I paying you for?” he barked, shoving the man aside and slamming the door in his face.
Straightening his robe, Isaiah gathered his composure, turned back toward Whiskey, and smiled.
“You were saying?”
Whiskey studied the man—the twitching eyes, the sweat-slicked hands, the restless spark of something he couldn’t quite place burning just beneath the surface.
From deep within his mind came a low, knowing chuckle.
“It would seem,” said Passenger, “that some cages don’t need bars to keep the animal inside.” It made a thoughtful sound before adding, “It might be time to put this one down as well.”
ARK by Ark-7.
Superhero ? Action ? Drama
ARK — Volume 1
Who does an old soldier follow when he's left without direction?
What does the world's first superhero do when his biggest obstacle is his own family?
Where can a boy be safe when there's nowhere left to hide?
Earth has always been a nexus of incredible power—dormant too long. Devils, aliens, superpowers, and energies beyond comprehension: the world is overdue, and it's about to become everyone's problem.
Series focus
ARK Volume 1 follows the origins of a diverse cast fighting to grow, learn, and survive as an expansive superhero universe erupts around—and because of—them.
Readers can expect
- Multiple POVs destined to collide
- Drama, tragedy, action, comedy, and slice-of-life
- A steady burn of ever-escalating conflict as the mundane becomes extraordinary