Young Writers Society

This is the very beginning of a novel I've started. I don't know if this really is going to be the start actually, I may change it and put something in at the beginning, but this is it so far.

**

Dagan spat on the earth. He was bored, tired, and hungry, seeing as he hadn't had a decent meal in a few days now. His stomach growled embarrassingly loud.

"We been here long enough yet boss?" Lance - one of the many followers of Dagan - was huddled by the dead apple tree, the ridiculous magician's top hat he wore tucked under one gangly arm. Dagan rolled his eyes up to glare at him, letting a heady snarl curl from the back of his throat. Lance recoiled a little, and squeezed the top hat closer to him. No words were needed to be exchanged after that. Dagan wasn't going to move a muscle until he wanted to. The idea had been his, the plan had been his, this whole venture had been because of Dagan. And not many were willing to interfere with something like that.

The evening was starting to turn cool, the last smudges of the sun making the light to see by limey and hazy. It was Dagan's favourite part of the day, and he would have preferred to be skulking in an alleyway or lying stretched out on the roof that still radiated heat from the sticky, sickly hot day. The heat waves had eased away from the tarmac and middle-distance, leaving the surrounding suburb clearly visible. What remained of the neighbourhood anyway. The houses were broken and crumbling; roofs and garages splintered and crushed. White-washed wooden benches on the white-washed wooden porches were slowly turning grey, being reclaimed by the earth that sent sprawling roots and green moss over their scratched and charred frames. It looked to have been a nice, pleasant neighbourhood. Where the man of the family came back from work at half past five and everyone dined at six o' clock in their dining rooms. Where the children played dutifully on their swings and jungle gyms, or on their front lawns with friends who owned basketballs and skipping ropes. Nowadays, it was void of people, and everything was quiet and still. Even in the City at the bottom of the hill - where Dagan and his crew had come from - things were especially quiet. It was unusual, seeing as the City usually began to shudder as the dark drew in. Dagan's ears rang with the silence and he had to resist the urge to cradle his head in his hands.

"Cooey!" someone's voice warbled over the still air.

"Oh for the love of-"

"It's your sister, Dagan," Lance said, trying desperately to be helpful, pointing down the road to where a figure was sashaying up towards them, a smirk on her pretty, pale face. Dagan simply growled at Lance, and folded his arms across his chest with a heavy sigh. He would have looked like a petulant child with no toys, if he hadn't had had such a murderous look in his dark, heavy eyes.

"Keaira," he said, with an acid smile, cocking his head to one side as she slid up to the graveside where he stood, "What are you doing here? Aren't you supposed to be watching the club? And staying out of my business?"

It was more of a statement than a question, but he turned his voice up at the end nonetheless, knowing she probably wouldn't reply if he just boldly told her outright that she shouldn't be there.

"And miss a depressing visit to the grave of our undead brother? Are you kidding?"

Dagan's right hand lashed out and his fingers snapped around a fistful of Keaira's long mahogany hair. She flapped her hand futilely against his chest and squealed, "Don't hit me!"

His grip tightened and he rolled his eyes. All he had to do was lay a hand on his sister and she'd scream like a child, yet when he had his back turned she would come up behind him and slit his throat, something she had a penchant for doing. She was a skiving, thieving, cheating, cunning, clever young woman. She rarely got past Dagan but there were many others that had fallen for her charm and her innocent act. He let go of her hair and said, in a low tone, "You told me you wanted nothing more to do with this,"

"Yeah, well, that was yesterday,"

She'd completely regained her composure and was busy fluffing her hair, in case Dagan's cold, vice grip had flattened it somehow. Keaira hated flat hair. Half of the reason why Dagan shaved most of his off; because he couldn't stand her hands all over him trying to give it 'volume'.

"Now," she continued, smoothing the creases in her long-sleeved red top that clashed with the green leather pants she wore, "I feel like joining in again. It's fun. You know, making up a prophecy-"

"This isn't made up!" Dagan hissed, trying to keep his own composure in tact, "Our parents handed it down to us Keaira, it's all true. It's an Armaya family legacy, it's our…our deathright!"

"Yeah, if you've got the right things to do it with. Dagan, we were meant to bury a young warrior. Our brother isn't a warrior, he's the most sensitive vampire I've ever known. He was meant to be born with those tattoos on his back. You gave our brother his. And when 'the warrior son' was whipped on his 90th birthday, he was meant to feel no pain. When you did that to him," she pointed at the earth at their feet, "he cussed and screamed so loud I think my eardrum made like a City parliament building and blew up!"

"You've got little faith in me?"

"Dagan, you want a prophecy that's not going to happen. I have no faith in you,"

She dabbed at her lips with her forefinger, and was obviously displeased with what she found, "I have to get home. I want to see if the hunting trip brought back something to eat. How long are you going to be out here anyway?"

Dagan refused to say anything more to her. He was annoyed, tired, and hungry. He didn't want to talk to her.

"Fine. I'm going back to the club. See you later brother,"

She patted him on the back, and he bristled visibly, before she stalked back down the road, a few of their crew stumbling along after her.

Lance, who had been studying the grave intently throughout the entirety of Keaira's visit, suddenly spoke, "There's something wrong with this picture,"

He made a square out of his two forefingers and thumbs and peered through it at the grave. The lackeys around him gave him a long sideways look, as if trying to ascertain whether his statement was based on something remotely intelligent. Lance wasn't the most bright being on the face of God's green earth, but he wanted to impress his boss. Considering Dagan Armaya was his boss, that was going to be tricky. Nothing got past Dagan Armaya very easily.

Dagan himself was beginning to tire. Lance was right, there was something wrong with the picture, but it was only a crisp packet that had blown onto the grave in the wind.

"You're more stupid than I thought Lance," Dagan said blandly, kicking the crisp packet away. The grave was still and intact, and he had little patience to wait any longer. His stomach was still growling testily, the roof of his mouth itched, and his fangs stung. He needed the warm punch of blood in his mouth, then he was going to be Ok.

"We're going back,"

He curled a finger at Lance, and the sidekick threw himself over the grave to draw up with his boss. Dagan got very close to Lance's face and said, in a whisper, "You come back here at midnight and you check the grave again. Got that?"

Lance nodded, quaking in his biker boots.

"Good,"

Dagan stalked away, his crew in tow, and they moved away, back towards the heart of the City. Whilst Dagan moved on auto-pilot in a haze of questions that tripped about in his head, his crew circled carefully. They wanted to keep their boss safe at all costs. Dagan Armaya, the head of the Armaya family of vampires, was not someone they could lose in one of the many ambushes their kind suffered.

**

I had to cut it off a bit short, and I've got the next few parts all done that might actually make this make a little more sense...