Path of the Vampire forum

Date: August 9th, 1968
Condition: Human (age 8)

Wendell clung to the large man in the suit standing beside him, despite the blistering heat. This was another one of those places he did not understand: father was "working", but Wendell never quite knew what that meant. Sometimes "working" meant big hotels and halls with lots of people, sometimes working meant late nights in the office, and sometimes working meant long trips on planes to meet with soldiers.

Wendell didn't care for any of it, but father seemed to think it was important for him to see work. To Wendell's young mind, this was simply routine. Today they were in a hot place with almost no trees, and lots of his father's people were unloading trucks. Father himself was talking to a lot of men dressed in green, and Wendell was left with Uncle Dee. Wendell wasn't sure that Dee was his father's brother... Dee might just be another employee the way his father ignored him. Still, Dee was a calming and sometimes-informative presence.

During the convoy trip back to the airport, the vehicles pulled over to the side of the road, and soldiers rushed down the embankment. His father looked concerned for a moment, but then peered out the window of the large car, and just sort of shrugged. Wendell peered out for answers of his own.

Fifty feet away, soldiers had shot some big birds which had gathered around a person. Perhaps it was a sleeping person. The soldiers picked him up and began to move him, and as they approached, Wendell saw a lot of blood. That man wasn't sleeping: he was hurt.

"Dad! He's hurt!" Wendell exclaimed, panicked.

"Not now, Junior," Wendell Sr. sighed. "Get away from there." He made no movement to enforce the statement. Wendell looked to Uncle Dee, who simply nodded.

"I think those birds hurt him," Wendell continued.

"Those are vultures," his father told him. "They eat dead things."

"Dead?" Wendell's gaze turned, terrified, back to the man that the soldiers had set on the roadside. They zipped him into a large black bag; he wouldn't be able to breathe in there! Wendell hit the window, but Dee reached out and took his wrist, shaking his head. If the man was dead, he didn't need to breathe, right? Dee let go of Wendell's wrist and leaned back in the seat next to Wendell Sr.

There was a long pause. "Dad? Why do vur-turs eat dead things?"

His father looked over, some distant darkness glistening in his eyes and burning itself into the child's mind. "Sometimes things -- horrible things -- need to be done, Junior. Those vultures... they do what no one else will."

January 20th, 2012

Theft, as it turned out, was not as profitable as others had indicated. Perhaps he was still clumsy, but it seemed he couldn't sift his way through a desk without alerting half the cops in the city. When badges started coming down the hall with flashlights, the best bet was a window: the alternative was combat. The cops weren't even good sport... he might be a young vampire, but they were mice batting at a wolf.

From what he was reading on CrowNet, most vampires utilized an engage-and-flee strategy; letting someone see his face, however, was a danger which might equal the danger of leaving bodies behind. When three flashlights found him trapped against a fire door, there wasn't a good way out. He heard the guns drawn, and one of the guards shouted, "FREEZE!" His shoulders sank: what a waste.

A waste of anima.

And then Wendell was no longer in the light... he was behind them. The two bullets were in the base of the guard's skull before the physics of the room caught up to Wendell's sudden burst of speed: as the guard crumpled, papers on desks burst into the air, caught in Wendell's massive air-displacing wake.

The two guards -- a man and a woman -- spun and opened fire. He shoved the man aside. Still unaccustomed to his vampire strength, the man was lifted off the ground immediately; crashing through several office dividers and hitting the corner of a desk quite hard. Three bullets already in his chest and shoulder, Wendell used his other hand to return the favor. One bullet probably would have ended the frail human life, but the other two guaranteed it. The woman slumped to the floor.

Wendell paused to listen and heard the man groan. The guard had seen too much: the last bullet in the clip had been carefully saved for him. Stepping across the ruined cubicle, Wendell pointed the gun at the disoriented guard, who cowered and cried. "Please! No!" he shouted. "I'll do anything! Please!" He blocked his face with his arms instinctively as if it would protect him from a bullet.

Wendell considered this desperate offer. Perhaps he could make use of help: there were plenty of skills he lacked, and the Grigori line was somewhat distant. A childe might be of help to him... might provide him with some stability and balance. The guard looked up at Wendell, sensing the pause; Wendell used the opening and pulled the trigger. Without pursuers, he could leave the building unobstructed.

Now he could focus on finding a worthy candidate.

January 1st, 2013

Somewhere a bell tolled midnight, and fireworks launched into the sky. Here, however, Wendell walked alone through the Oldtown Graveyard. Beneath him, his kind plotted and connived and hid away. He was losing interest -- perhaps becoming even more detached -- from their schemes. Chaos... order... none of them effected change in Harper Rock. He was beginning to wonder if anything could. If he became more detached, would anything be left of him? He might melt away into nothing... perhaps figuratively, but as he learned more, the more he believed he might literally.

Perhaps it was such thoughts that brought him here this evening: an instinct to find a connection before he became as solid and effectual as smoke. He wasn't really sure what he was looking for. At first he thought it was a conversation, and then he saw a shadowy image near a familiar structure. Wandering between the headstones without care for walking over graves, he stopped at the monolith. Even with the special attention of the caretaker, he had to focus his eyes through the graffiti: three different gang signs, and the phrase "no more guns" (perhaps written ironically) drew the eye away from the purpose of the gate.


Wendell slipped the lock off of the iron bars as he did in so many factories and offices throughout the city. Inside, Wendell paused to admire the large animal carved into the top half of a large black stone which dominated the gated plot. It stared back at him accusingly; for a moment he would have sworn its head turned, but it was a movement of the light. He turned without drawing a weapon -- a new accomplishment for him. The two men stared at each other for several minutes; Wendell knew this man... but could not name him.

"Who are you?" he asked finally.

The man pointed at one of the plaques one the wall marking the lineage of the Groom Family. Some of these were deceased individuals, but the family a point of plotting the tree well in advance of the need for the urns beneath the plaques: a testament to the family's heritage of playing with life and death. As he followed the gesture, he saw the names:
Curious: it seemed like his father had died a much longer time ago. Perhaps it just seemed a lifetime ago. He followed the lineage downward, wondering what he would find: the cancer had been inoperable, and he had been resigned to die by 2012... but chances were, he had been written off as dead the first time that he missed a call. 2011 or 2012... which would it be?
"What." Wendell stated, turning, and finding himself alone. What could this mean? His mind flashed back through the previous year:
He still lacked a heartbeat, a conscience, aging... but all that was merely semantics. No one ever had to know that. The only thing that needed to be known was that Wendell was alive.

This was going to be an interesting year.

January 7th, 2013

Even tailored, the suit seemed to cling to him; restricting his range of motion. He'd learned long ago that he could literally run through his own shoes if his speed was unchecked, but good boots could handle it. On the other hand, the suit was like glass -- liable to break if treated roughly. For five grand, he wanted a suit that could handle his speed. So far, however, no one in Harper Rock sold Kevlar suits.

A box had arrived an hour ago. Inside were the contents of the office of his former life: the large corner office he had once shared with his human brother, Vincent. Even during his human days, Wendell seldom used that office, and he wasn't particularly attached to anything there. Based on the date inked on the side, Vincent had it cleared out soon after Wendell's disappearance. Wendell began digging inside the box and placing the contents on his new desk: hidden far off the beaten path in Groom Center. This was a place he could work for awhile without being discovered.

These items had practical uses though; he wouldn't bother otherwise. He found a picture of Vincent and him: Christmas when he was 14... he had given Vincent a baseball. It was a rare gift: their father never got them anything. This went on the right corner of the desk. A cup with the emblem of the Royal Canadian Regiment... a set of fine pens... these went on the left; he'd probably want a plant there too. Then the folders of old files went in the center space, ready for review. Wendell surveyed his work. From left to right, it spelled out his work for the next few months.

• Left. Step One. Cups and pens. General desk accessories. Blend in: create the facade you will need to move forward.
• Center. Step Two. Folders. Get work done: build and gather the assets you will need to influence the company.
• Right. Step Three. Portrait of he and his brother. Re-emerge in public: return to work openly with the apparent resources and discipline to make a splash in the company.

Wendell reached into the box and pulled out a letter opener to begin going through the envelopes that had built up after his disappearance. This week was devoted to catching up on his human affairs and making sure he could move forward. He set the device down and glanced at the first line of the memo. He paused, and then looked back to the opener which had been set down at the edge of the desk. The placement had been unintentional, but it completed his "calendar" rather appropriately.

• Far right. Step Four. Kill Vincent.

December 5th, 2012

The hunters of the sewers were, by human standards, professionals. Wendell, however, seemed to see their attacks as if telegraphed minutes before they were made. It was like watching a kitten practicing a pounce: a low crouch, waggle of the rear end, and then a clumsy charge with a fumbling swing of claws. Wendell didn't need to perceive, consider the action, ready a weapon, and act as they did... the four were really just one: action. Human hesitation was gone and taking action was as instinctual as breathing used to be. As another walked by, Wendell pulled the hunter's night-vision goggles down to neck level, spun her around, and strangled her to death with it. There was no thought involved... just the action. This was kill of practicality: choking each of them gave no warning to the next victim.

Tonight, he was looking for one man in the sewers: a gangster he had been tracking for several weeks. This man was moving product between the surface and the sewer... Wendell needed to know more. The gangs of Harper Rock were reckless but resourceful; he had once enjoyed their employment and comradery for a time. In contrast, the hunters down here were cut off from the surface, but skilled and careful. If the two were allowed to come together, there would be chaos.

Down the corridor, an argument was brewing. Even with his enhanced hearing, he couldn't understand the conversation: perhaps it was in another language. He moved only when the conversation ended abruptly with gunfire. Gunfire in the sewers echoed for miles below Harper Rock; it was enough to overwhelm the senses, and probably drive most mortals to their knees. Even a hundred yards away, the sound of each round exploding from the barrel of a gun felt like being bashed in the head with a prybar; stealth was only one of the reasons Wendell preferred to strangle his targets down here.

When he reached the junction, there was no sign of the attackers. The light from streetlamps above streamed down through the still-open manhole, and the dappled light was reflected off the pungent brown and red slime on the floor. Three men, gangsters by their apparel, were dead; among them, his mark. Wendell heard a groan, and oriented towards a fourth man, dragging himself through the filth away from the junction.

Wendell dashed to the man and flipped him over. Besides the cold excrement seeping into his clothing, he had taken a hit to the stomach and leg, but he was not yet beyond saving. "Help me..." he mouthed, trembling from the cold and the loss of blood.

Wendell went to work instinctively: he removed the man's belt and created a tourniquet to stop the bleeding in the leg. Opening the gangster's disgusting shirt, and removing a spare shirt from his own bag, he put pressure on the wound in the abdomen. 'Who were you meeting?" Wendell asked as he worked.

"Seth..." the gangster gasped. "Seth... Agarwal..." He seized once, and his expression turned pitiful. "Am I...?"

Wendell knew the question well, even if it couldn't be finished. Given the early response, and the proximity of the hospital, he could probably save this man, even with the bullet still in his gut. All he needed to do was --

Wait. What?

He had jumped to this man to get information... but to save him? Not only was saving this man unnecessary, he was certain that he didn't have the skills to do so. Unlike building bombs or tracking animals, Wendell couldn't determine the origin of this knowledge. He might have just as suddenly begun speaking in Latin. He tried to focus on the skill, but it slipped away from him as though he was trying to remember a dream.

The gangster reached up for Wendell, and he brushed the hand aside. Standing, Wendell walked back in the direction he came. Behind, he heard the desperate splashing and whimpering of the gangster he was abandoning to his death, but Wendell had more pressing concerns. These anomalies kept cropping up: the Stillness taking over. Wendell was missing something... something fundamental... something right in front of him was escaping his notice.

"Quisnam sum?" he asked aloud. He remained oblivious to having said anything, much less the nature of the question itself.

"Who am I?"

April 13th, 1973
Condition: Human (age 13)

Wendell Jr. collapsed on the couch. The latest tirade from his father did not result in a beating, but he was certain during the thing that it would. Each exclamation: whether he was being called a maggot, told he was disgrace, unworthy of the family name... any could be punctuated with a sudden blow. That constant fear was worse than the man screaming mere inches from his face... the man's stale breath... and Wendell Jr. was expected to remain stoic and unflinching throughout the ordeal. Afterward, however: despair.

The case holding the antique sword had broken, and glass was strewn about the floor. Wendell could easily reflect on the mistake -- playing ball in the house -- but at the time it had seemed innocent enough. Now, he was waiting for his father to come back with punishment decided. This type of judgment was common: he was being left to stew, and it didn't matter how sorry he was... all that mattered was that he was afraid.

He wasn't sure the amount of time that had passed, but he looked up when he sensed a movement of the light from the fireplace. A familiar figure knelt down in front of the hearth, though Wendell was unsure how Uncle Dee had managed to cross the room while avoiding all that crunchy glass. The man was a ghost. Dee looked at Wendell quizzically; he had a gift for conveying a message in few words, if any.

"It's not fair," Wendell demanded, sitting up. "Why does he get so mad over stuff like this?"

Dee cocked his head to the side and pointed upward. Above the mantle, where the sword sat among pieces of shattered glass, and above the large painting of Wendell's late grandfather, was a shield engraved in the frame. Emblazoned on the frame, the Groom Family motto:


Wendell had not taken Latin, but he knew the words, even if he didn't understand their meaning yet.


Dee spoke at length then as he seldom did. He expressed man's desire for immortality, the pursuit of a legacy, and how a man might live on in his son. He told Wendell how his father aimed to shape his sons to carry on his memories after he was killed, and how he would both succeed and fail. Dee's words always had a kind of poetry to them, a mystery wrapped in a thick Italian accent; like the man himself wrapped in his long black coat. He was two parts allusion and three parts illusion.

When Wendell's father returned, he had come up with a particularly creative punishment. He simply glowered at his son and stated, "You are a perpetual disappointment to me." He then departed without even so much as a nod to Dee, who stood stoically by the fireplace.

Wendell Jr. sat for a long time on the couch... long after the servants had cleaned up the glass... long after Uncle Dee had left. He wondered what would be left of him if he became his father. Was carrying his father's legacy even possible, or would the attempt simply destroy him?

He didn't know it yet, but the answer to both questions was "yes".

January 31st, 2013

The pendulum swung north, knocking over one of the dominoes set up to track its moments.

The movement of the Foucault Pendulum was hypnotic. Swinging thirty feet below him in the basement lobby, it charted the progression of the night. It was an extremely elaborate display to illustrate a simple point; it reeked of the Groom Legacy. Ostentatious.

The pendulum swung south.

Wendell had vaguely recalled that a Groom Observatory existed, but when the College Dean somehow came up with his number rather than that of his brother, he had explained that there was no relation, but it was a common mistake. Denying his association with his human family had a sense of finality to it. Even so, he felt compelled to see the structure now that he knew of it.

The pendulum swung north.

And so, three hours later, he was on the Harper Rock West University campus in the lobby of Groom Observatory; it was open at all hours as students stayed up studying or using the telescope upstairs. They gave him a wide berth as he stared over the railing into the basement. On the floor around the pendulum, Latin:
"There is no easy way from the Earth to the stars," he translated, distantly aware that he lacked the knowledge to translate the phrase. His voice was a growl in his chest that drew glances, but wasn't immediately identifiable as a human voice, so the students returned to their studies. He ignored this, more concerned by yet more inexplicable knowledge.

The pendulum swung south.

There was something familiar about the University, but he couldn't place his finger on it. Not just this building; he had even found Guest Parking by apparent luck. Perhaps he had been here before... maybe as a child. His vampire brain seemed to recall every instant of every day of mortal and immortal existences, but they clashed and competed; some were merely visions or dreams, and he was having trouble telling the difference.

The pendulum swung north.

Very soon now, he would be able to act: his work with Groom International was reaching a turning point, which would represent a shift in focus from mere buying and trading of stocks to action. He would be able to create a new image and manipulate human perception from within.

The pendulum swung south.

And sooner still, he would make use of the box he had found in the river almost a year ago.

The pendulum seemed to hesitate in anticipation, as if time slowed in response to the thought of that box. Despite hanging in the air for an extra split-second, it swung north regardless.

In some ways, the pendulum reminded him of himself. It was a slow-moving and relentless. Inevitable. Patient. The result of an unseen force, like the tides. Heading towards change. Heading towards...

The pendulum swung south, knocking over another domino.

August 2nd, 2012

Wendell closed the door of the office behind him. The Blood Thief threat was all but ended and he was temporarily free to resume stalking offices and factories for the funds to put his other plans in action. It was a temporary reprieve: the enemies of vampires would ever be gone permanently. For the moment, they were broken and scattered, but they would rebuild or assume another form. Their enemies would think twice before rising up again: only their best and brightest would have survived, and they would train others. Survival of the fittest. Evolution in action.

He moved between cubicles, scooping up laptops and loading them into the framed pack, but his mind was elsewhere. One couldn't stop producing cures just because bacteria became resistant to antibiotics: you came up with a new, better cure. Wendell's techniques would have to evolve likewise (he doubted his physical form would, if there was such a thing) and he had to invent new means to keep burying threats. To do otherwise risked complacency, and complacency would only hasten the inevitable day someone would beat him.

A movement in the corner drew his attention and he turned his attention that way. Usually the night guards came exploring with flashlights, but there was no light; perhaps another thief or vampire. He pointed his own flashlight in that direction, and a man raised his arms to block the light. He was wearing a guard's uniform; Wendell deftly drew his gun and put a bullet behind the man's eyes.

The guard didn't fall. Perhaps he was a vampire in disguise. Wendell turned his body, narrowing his profile in preparation for a fight. Instead of retaliating, however, the "vampire" looked surprised.

"You... you can see me?" he asked. He looked relieved.

Wendell pointed the flashlight more directly. The light seemed to shine through him to the wall behind, which suggested a Shadow, except that there was a line of darkness across the man's eyes where his arms "blocked" the light.

A spirit? He understood that Necromancers sometimes saw these, but he expected them to be... readily distinguishable. This one wasn't; it looked human. How long had he been seeing spirits and not realized it? He moved in the spirit's direction.

"How did I get back?" he asked. "I was in a dark place and..." he paused when he saw Wendell's approach. "W-wait... what..."

Wendell reached for him, not entirely sure what he was hoping to accomplish. This was instinct, like feeding was, and rightfully so: as his hand contacted the spirit, its energies rushed into his mind, clearing the fog and regenerating him. He felt no conflict about dispersing the spirit; it was merely the food chain.

When your competition begins to gain an edge in your territory, you find a way to infiltrate another niche, and that was usually at the expense of some else. It wasn't malice. It was merely survival of the fittest.

Evolution in action.

December 25th, 2011

Perhaps it was the Christmas lights, or perhaps vampyrism hadn't completely taken hold, but he felt he was slipping in and out of his mind. Part of him was aware that he was doing things -- terrible things -- and it was mortified. The other part of him, however, just didn't care... it sought power without craving it, and it did not bother to justify these actions.

That part was winning out.

From the gate, he could see lights in the main hall of the house; the cars of his mortal family parked along the long arch. If he walked in there, would they recognize him? He had looked for cars in the days surrounding the funeral and seen few. There would be little point in returning... it was not as though he'd be welcome. That he was even at the gates was probably more than they'd have liked (had they known). Chances are, they would be grateful for his absence this holiday.

He felt momentarily resentful and desirous for revenge, but he pushed memories of his father's teachings to the forefront of his mind; something he was generally loathe to do. This type of emotionalism would not serve him going forward... he needed to harden his mind, or sloppy mistakes would see the end of him. As if pulling against the reins of a mad horse, he used this brief moment of consciousness to steer himself south toward the Quarantine Zone... there he could once again lose himself in the unbridled fury against those creatures that had trapped him in this form. As soon as his eyes were off the massive house, it was gone from his mind. His eyes glazed over again and he became the monster.

He did not see that another set of eyes watched him go, left behind at the gate to contemplate the strange figure that walked off in the form of Wendell Groom.

February 8th, 2013

Wendell was incapable of feeling trepidation, but he acknowledged a risk when he was taking it. Ventures to the upper floors of Groom Tower always posed a risk. These were the people he had most closely worked with in his mortal days, and thus, these were the people most liable to recognize him and ruin everything. Dressed as a security guard, he could usually slip through the offices and cubicles to get the files he needed without being questioned, or even glanced at twice. Today, however, the elevator stopped at his destination, and the doors slid aside to reveal the worst case scenario:

Coming towards the elevator, between the cubicles, was Vincent Groom. The current CEO of Groom International was followed by two men: one was an assistant in a suit that he did not recognize.

Wendell rested his hand heavily at his belt; the benefit of dressing as security here meant carrying a firearm openly. Vincent might be his closest living relative, but that might have to change if he were recognized. All three men glanced towards the elevator as it opened. The suit looked back quickly, seeing nothing out of the ordinary.

Vincent's gaze lingered a moment longer: there was curiosity in his eyes, but no recognition. After a pause, he returned to the clipboard the suit was explaining to him. Wendell lowered his hand. Perhaps it was beyond the ability of a human mind to see what it did not expect to see, or perhaps Wendell's Killer form had changed dramatically enough. In either case, his own brother did not recognize him. This was presently a victory, but it posed an obstacle to future plans.

Movement to the left caught Wendell's attention, so he lowered his hand and took the opportunity to drift in the opposite direction. This wasn't his intended destination, but he followed his instincts, and right now his instincts suggested that he not press his luck.

He hadn't recognized it at first, but this was his father's private conference room. The furniture in here was covered and apparently unused for some time. Along the wall, there were pictures and newspaper clippings detailing the history of the company:

1968: Groom Industries Purchases Courthouse Green...
1971: Groom Tower Grand Opening...
1975: Groom Charity Concert seeks...
1978: An Heir to the Groom Legacy?
1980: Thadeus Groom, 81, passes...
1989: Post Cold-War Future uncertain...
1990: The New Direction of Groom...
1992: Groom Observatory opens...
1996: Another Groom Breakthrough...
2000: Groom goes overseas...
2011: Changing of the Guard...

This last one caught Wendell's eye more than the others. On the front, a picture of Vincent, looking solemn; perhaps shortly after Wendell's death. Vincent was interviewed on his "unusual" choice of vocation, and he promised to simply "hold the reins" until a "more invested CEO" could take over. Vincent was, undoubtedly, setting the stage for his sons to take over. They would, however, have to demonstrate their worth to the Board and to the Public, and that would require time.

Those boys didn't know it yet, but they were in a race. Honestly, however, it wouldn't have mattered if they had known it... if it looked like his nephews might wrest control of the company from him, he'd simply have to kill them too.