tagSci-Fi & FantasyTo Protect and Serve Ch. 01

To Protect and Serve Ch. 01

byEvil Alpaca©

Proofread by FernieLyn

This story is a bit wordy and fairly long, so if you are looking for immediate gratification, you might want to look elsewhere.

The following story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance between these character and events and any real person or events is strictly coincidental . . . and pretty darn impressive seeing as it is a science fiction story. Do not reproduce or copy this story without the consent of the author.

This story is based in an alternative universe, where history took a different course than the one we are used to. In this world, the creatures which we now believe to be legends have walked alongside man for the duration of our existence. Vampires, werewolves, wizards, witches, sorcerers, and a host of other beings share our world.

The following story contains, in one chapter or another, lesbian, homosexual, heterosexual, anal, group, sci-fi/fantasy, non-human, and BDSM sexual activity. There may be some erotic horror in there somewhere as well, but I haven't made up my mind.


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"Ouch!" Officer Shamira Carswell of the Atlanta Police Department had just bashed her head against something harder than itself, something both she, her immediate family, and fellow officers would have claimed was impossible. She had awoken with a start in this darkened little bit of nowhere and instinctively tried to sit up. She had about five inches of clearance. In her addled state, she confirmed her first finding by trying again, increasing the ache in her forehead.

'Yep,' she thought. 'Five inches.' Stretching out with her arms, she actually found less room there, barely able to move her massive arms. The problem with having competed as a female bodybuilder was that she took up more space than she should. Her shoulders were brushing up against the edges of . . . whatever the hell it was she was in. 'Trunk of a car? No way. If it was, then it is, then I've got to get me one because its really . . . comfortable?' Yes, it was comfortable. It felt like padded silk, cool against her skin.

"Okay," she said, trying to calm her suddenly electric nerves. "What were you doing?" She couldn't remember. "No, I can. I was . . . damn, I was down off of Commerce Drive," she said, remembering the landmarks flashing past her police cruiser. "Got out to get a drink . . . stopped and talked to that homeless girl. She was too damn young to be on the streets."

Shamira didn't think the girl could be a day over eighteen, but she had a look about her that made her seem older. Slim girl . . . looked like a Native American. Must be what life is like for her. She seemed awfully nervous, even though Shamira wasn't the type to hassle someone for being down on their luck. She'd told the girl how to find a shelter and even gave her five bucks to buy something to eat. Her mother always told her that was one of her problems and why she still lived at home. Charity was all well and good, but "throwing her money away on those good-for-nothing dregs" was something else. Finally she just left the girl alone.

She was almost back in her car when the call came in that gunshots had been reported at the Casa De Sade, a club of "interesting" repute. She was easily going to be the first officer on the scene.

She had shown up at the club (it was right next door) and had marveled at the interior. Probably not appropriate for what she should be doing, but she couldn't really help it. Everything in the place was black. Black leather sofas, black hardwood floor, black curtains, a black bar, black leather . . . a lot of black leather. It looked like an office party in hell. But there were some things that weren't black. The cages were gold. The chains and shackles hanging from the walls appeared to be gold as well. There were people in black leather chained to black walls with gold chains.

Her attention had been pulled back to what was important, namely the five men and women with guns who had drawn down on a small group of revelers. The intended victims looked strangely defiant. One of them, a far-too-handsome man with blond hair and frigid blue eyes stood in front of the others, almost daring the would-be assailants. For a moment, she had looked at him and he looked back. He smiled. Then her attention was back on the guys with guns.

Five of them, one of her; no backup for considerably longer than it would them to pull all their triggers at least once. She had told them to freeze, told them to drop their weapons, put their hands on the wall. She got their attention anyway. They didn't freeze. They didn't drop their weapons. Guess what they did when she told them to put their hands on the wall? They didn't do that either. They did shoot at her though. That was nice of them. Nice because it gave everyone else a chance to run while she dove for cover.

She glanced around the sofa she had taken shelter behind and saw that all the intended victims had vanished without a trace. Other patrons of the club were cowering or sneaking out the front door. Shamira got a look at the face of a big guy holding a 44-caliber revolver. He really didn't look happy.

He had said something about "taking care of the witnesses" and that had turned Shamira's blood to ice. And to make matters worse, she had noticed that there was a girl chained to the wall who was so scared she'd pissed herself. Whoever was supposed to be responsible for her was nowhere to be seen.

Shamira was a crack shot. She'd actually qualified for S.W.A.T., but that glass ceiling was as solid for her as whatever she'd just nailed her head against. Her bosses were intent that the overly muscled female stayed writing parking tickets and breaking up keggers for the remainder of her natural life. But accolades didn't mean as much as skill at that moment, so she'd rolled and blasted the chains off the wall. The girl ducked. The bad guys saw Shamira. The bad guys shot Shamira.

"No," she whispered. "They had to have missed." But they hadn't missed. Shoulder . . . face . . . both arms . . . finally, a chunk of her neck. Then the darkness had come, but not just for Shamira Carswell. Darkness came down from the ceiling and ate most of the bad guys, but the big one made a run for it. He paused long enough to point his gun straight down at what was left of Shamira's head. Something had tackled him . . . something that smelled of dirt and whiskey . . . something street. The last bad guy was gone, but Shamira's last gaze fell on an old-young face. She had given that girl five dollars . . . why was she there in the club? The girl looked towards something out of view, then smiled. She pulled out of sight as the darkness caressed Shamira's eyes. Then her neck shifted . . . started to tingle.

"Crap," she said, her brain swimming as memories returned. She kicked out, her foot striking a sternly unforgiving surface. Her hands pounded on the roof. She was lying down in a silk lined box in total darkness after being shot multiple times. "A fucking coffin?!" She tried to steady her breathing. They had buried her alive? How had she lived through that? How is it that no one noticed?

She wanted to cry, but nothing came. She wasn't normally the crying type, but being buried alive made for a convenient excuse. She had survived all of that just to die down here? Her parents and her brother and her sister hadn't noticed she wasn't dead? She'd miss watching football on Sunday?!

'Calm down,' she thought. 'Need to get out of here. Brute strength probably won't work.' She felt around the coffin, trying to find anything that might help. 'Damn it, they should build these things like car trunks with convenient escape hatches. What now? Break through somehow? Tunnel to the surface?' She was so thirsty, which shouldn't be too surprising. How long had she been down there?

*skrik skrik skirk*

'What the hell is that?' She placed her ear to the coffin lid. It sounded like scratching, scraping.

*skrik skrik skrik*

Muffled voices. Then the coffin lurched. Someone had found out . . . someone knew. She was going to get out! The coffin was lifted upward and then . . . no one opened it. She tried the lid again, but it was latched shut. She banged against it with both hands.

"I'm in here! I'm alive! Someone let me out!"

She felt the coffin slide over something and then stop suddenly. Next came a low rumbling, and the coffin slid again. She'd been loaded into a truck and was getting moved? Why? Her heart seemed caught in her throat. She'd never been this terrified in her life. She'd been more comfortable when she was back under the earth.

There was an eerie quiet in the coffin, despite the distant murmurs and low rumbling of tires on asphalt. She couldn't put her finger on it. Then she realized that her blood should be pounding in her ears but it wasn't. She put her fingers up to her neck to get a pulse. Nothing. To be more specific, it was nothing over nothing. 'Not possible. This isn't possible.'

After what seemed like an eternity, the vehicle stopped and the coffin was moved again. She heard metal twisting and some wood splintering. Then the coffin lid popped open and staring down at her was --

"Homeless girl?" Shamira whispered.

Sure enough, it was that angelic face with a sly expression looking down from above. Then another face appeared: she'd seen that face before too. He had looked right at her at the club. He had smiled. Shamira took that opportunity to pass out.

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Some time later . . .

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Shamira absolutely did not want to open her eyes. She was still surrounded by silk so she figured that she was still in that coffin. Except that her eyelids seemed warm. She remembered seeing someone or someones . . . a beautiful Native American homeless girl and a lip-bitingly gorgeous blond haired guy.

'Wait. The silk, it's against my skin!' She opened her eyes and saw a lovely crystal chandelier-looking thing. She was in a bedroom the size of her parents' whole house, and it seemed decorated in the same black and gold scheme that the club had been. She was in some superfreak's bedroom. And she was naked. That fact just caught up with her. She was naked between black silk sheets in a strange room.

She yipped and pulled the sheets up around her artificially large bosom. One of the problems when becoming a bodybuilder was loss of breast mass, so she had compensated with fake tits when she turned twenty-one. That left her with a set of measurements that one would think would garner her more attention, namely 38DD-26-34. During competition, she had gotten her body fat down to nine-percent, but otherwise she kept it up at twelve percent.

She had 15-inch arms, 16-inch calves, and 23-inch legs, and she could bench press more than most of the guys she had worked with. When she had been younger, she had encountered a need to grow stronger. She'd admired the way those women looked and how they seemed strong enough to take on anything. Women like that could stand up to anyone; they might have been able to help Jimmy Fisk.

But boys, apparently, didn't like a woman who could out arm wrestle them. They didn't like "barbarian" women. It was not that she was ugly or an eyesore. Not at all. Put a face picture up on the dating website, and she got plenty of responses. She had the high cheekbones, perfect skin, and big amber eyes that got people's attention. She had long black hair that she kept in a single braid most of the time. Her mom thought she was pretty. But getting that second date just never seemed to happen.

She felt something cool against her arm. No, not against . . . IN her arm. She was hooked up to an IV that was dripping some red liquid. She felt vomit trying to build up inside her. 'That's not --'

"Blood?" asked a voice from the door. It was that Native American girl, but she hardly seemed homeless. She was slim but not emaciated, standing just a bit taller than Shamira's five-foot-seven-inch frame, she seemed mostly leg. And those legs were exposed. She wore a loin-cloth of leather that hung down to her knees, but wasn't more than four inches wide. It covered her privates on the way down, but her toned legs and hips were on display. She wore leather moccasins that reached up to just below the knee, and a strange semi-circular neck dress made of strips of wood and beads. She wore black lipstick and heavy black eye-liner.

'Okay, I get it. You're some kind of weird goth babe,' Shamira thought. 'A delicious looking --' She stopped that train of thought. She preferred guys, she had to remind herself. She'd had thoughts about what it would be like to be with a woman all her life, but she'd always managed to push that part of her down somewhere and tried to drown it. She was enough of a freak without worrying about that. Or the many other dreams and fantasies that had graced those secret parts of her mind that she never shared with anyone.

The girl strode forward, a sway in her hips that demanded attention.

"Where the fuck am I?" Shamira said, looking around instinctively for a weapon of some kind. She didn't want to start a knife fight with this woman, though she wasn't behaving particularly hostile. Actually, she was smirking a bit. She sat on the edge of the bed, and Shamira was pretty convinced the girl wasn't wearing a damn thing under that loincloth.

"You," the girl said, "have the most unfortunate timing of anyone I've ever seen. And I've seen a lot."

"Who . . . the fuck . . . are you?"

"Watch it, potty mouth. A little decorum wouldn't hurt, seeing as we just saved your life. Okay, technically you saved one of ours first and maybe saved Shane too, but that doesn't change the fact --"

"Who . . . the . . . heck . . are you?!"

"That's better I suppose," the woman said. "My name is Clara Yellowtail, and I've volunteered to be your guide into your new life.

Shamira blinked. She blinked again. "Oh-kay," she muttered. "I'm drugged. That's gotta be it. What the hell is this?" she asked, looking at the IV.

"Blood."

Shamira blinked. "Blood?"

"You're going to freak out on me aren't you?"

"Blood?!"

"You lost a lot when you died, and we weren't able to give you anything extra until after your funeral."

"Died?"

"You're good with the one-word responses thing." The girl smiled. "Can't say I blame you. You've gone through a lot this week. It was a lovely funeral, by the way."

"DIED?!" Shamira pulled the IV out, applying pressure so she didn't start bleeding all over the place. This was too wrong, and she wanted out. She wanted to go find her parents and her siblings and her nephews and tell them everything was okay and that there was a misunderstanding. She hadn't died. So why had she been in a coffin, and why hadn't she had a pulse?

Clara sighed. She wasn't doing this right. Shane had offered to guide the girl, but she HAD to volunteer. Something about the way she had been so kind when most people wouldn't have been, even though she didn't have any idea of what had really been going on. And she had done her job, even though it had cost her her life. Compassion, pride, loyalty, and she was smoking hot. Some people might get turned off by a build like hers, but not those that dwelt in this house. The strength in that body and the skill and dedication it took to sculpt it were both admirable.

"Do you remember what happened?" Clara asked. "Before waking up here? Let's start with that."

"Uhm . . . okay. Can I have some clothes first?"

"Why?" Clara cocked her head. "With a body like that, why would you ever WANT to wear clothes? You're certainly not obligated to, at least not around here."

"Hey, I don't know what you and whoever else is around here like, but I'd really feel more comfortable with something to wear."

The other woman shrugged. "We can find you something." She walked over to an intercom unit, pushing a button. "Monique?"

"Yes?" (click) came a new voice.

"Our new guest was looking for something to wear."

"Why?" (click)

"I asked her that. She seems to think she should be clothed."

"Wait . . . do I get to measure her now?" (click) The woman on the other end sounded eager.

"Measure? For what?" Shamira asked.

"I don't think she's ready for that quite yet," Clara said, sounding amused.

"Damn! I have some good ideas for that body!" (click)

"Don't we all."

"Hey, I'm sitting right here!" Shamira said. She felt like she was blushing a bit, and no less confused than she had been earlier.

"Okay. Sweats it is," (click) the other girl replied, sounding quite down.

"Measure for what?"

"Oh and Monique, when you arrive I expect that you will show me the respect I deserve."

The girl at the other end spoke again, and this time she sounded demure. Shamira hadn't known what that sounded like, but this was it. "Yes, Mistress Clara."

Clara turned and sat back down. "We have a slightly unusual dress code around here." She paused, looked Shamira in the eyes, and asked again what the woman remembered.

Shamira decided there was really no reason to lie or withhold information, so she recited what she could. Everything from seeing Clara on the street to seeing faces staring down at her from outside her coffin.

Clara went over to the dresser and grabbed a handheld mirror. "You were shot in the face, correct? And the neck? Your vest protected your chest, but not anything else." She handed Shamira the mirror. "Where are the wounds?"

Shamira was confused, but took a look regardless. There was a light indention in her neck that she hadn't seen before, but that was it. Her skin was flawless and smooth everywhere. "That's not right. It should take months to heal from stuff like that."

"You died four days ago. You were buried yesterday. That's fast healing, even for us," Clara explained.

"Us?"

Clara smiled. "You have risen from the dead and have healed all your wounds. You have no pulse. You do not breathe, and we've been giving you blood so that you can survive. And the last thing you can remember is a tingling in your neck before you died." She clasped her hands together. "I've read your personnel file, Shamira. I know you're not stupid, even if your former bosses thought you were. You can figure this --"

"Vampire? You're kidding, right? You have to --"

"Wanna go ahead and say 'But there's no such thing as vampires' so we can get that out of the way?"

"There's no such things as vampires!"

"Thanks. Vampires do exist. So do werewolves and other lycanthropes, and magic and all that stuff. Not everything you've heard is correct, but there are blood-sucking creatures of the night that inhabit this world. I'm one of them and now so are you. And don't start looking around for hidden cameras or anything like that. Here, maybe this will help." She opened her mouth, pointed to her perfect pearly whites, then her canine teeth extended into sharp pointed fangs.

"Jesus Christ!" Naked or not, she scrambled backwards off the bed, rolling over backwards and colliding with a nightstand, almost depositing a glass lamp onto her already damaged noggin.

"Not exactly." She rolled her eyes when Shamira formed her fingers into the shape of a cross. "Shamira, I'm not even a Christian. I'm Native American. Why do you think that would work?"

Shamira felt a little embarrassed. "Dunno. Works in the movies."

"Well, the movies are wrong on that one. Okay, Vampire 101. The strengths and weaknesses of a vampire depend greatly on how old he or she is. There are five categories of vamps. You and me are fledglings, and we will be until a century after we were created. Then we become shadows for the next century. For a century after that, you're a full vampire, followed by master vampire, and then vampire lord. If you survive that long, then you're doing pretty damn well, because there aren't a lot of them."

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