The Sons of Satrina: A Sons of Satrina Novel Read Online Free PDF Page A

for once. The community was experiencing more peace than it had seen for several decades. The Mortuorum were lying low, which meant that finally, their warriors were starting to win their never ending batt le against their mortal enemy.
    The Lamia Mortuorum had plagued this eart h since the beginning of time.
    Bartholomew took great pride in his race and took great pleasure in leading them onto bigger and better times. The Matris were purebred, dating back to the time of Creation. They were not half breeds, tainted with impure and insipid human blood like the Mortuorum. Those creatures had been bitten, created. They were made out of weak, uninspiring flesh.  Th ey were incomplete.
    The Lamia Matris were supe rior in every conceivable way.
    All except for their numbers.
    The Mortuorum had to prey on fragile humans, the only source available to them in their struggle for dominance, turning them into bloodthirsty monsters. They were always hunting humans and battling the Matris for supremacy. The Matris battled back with directed aggression, speed, strength and discipline. The warriors that protected the race worked endlessly to cut the lives of the monsters short. It was a never ending cycle – the Mortuorum creating new lives and the warriors ending them. The battle had been ongoing for centuries.
    Sitting back in the chair that could have passed for a throne it was that huge, Bartholomew paused for a moment.  He turned to stare absentmindedly at the Kandinsky print that was hanging on the wall in his office. He couldn’t help but smile to himself. This was something that visitors to the luxury town house often commented on. Firstly, because the piece was so ardently sought after and second, it was in stark contrast to the rest of the décor in the house. Everything else was elaborate, lavish and traditional, with blood red brocade on the walls, highly polished wooden flooring throughout scattered with the occasion Persian rug, ornate gold decoration and gilding adorning the walls and ceilings.
    Then, there was that Kandinsky. It was an abstract piece in a world dominated by organisation. Bartholomew loved it with a passion. It was that small bit of chaos that he was completely comfortable with. A piece of madness that he could call his own.
    In addition, Bartholomew was a little like the painting in some aspects. He did not look like he belonged in a home like this. It appeared to be something a grandfather should have resided in.  Yet again, looks could be deceptive. The whole place and his lifestyle suited him down to a tee. Bartholomew was ve ry old school and traditional.
    “Sire?”
    With an audible sigh, Bartholomew turned and glanced at the man standing in the doorway, dressed from head to toe in smart livery. The ageing process was starting to show rapidly on the old man, but he still managed to maintain the distinct stiffness of an English butler, although he spoke with an indefinable accent. It was easy to unwittingly lose one’s accent over the years. Living through so many different times and in different places can confuse a person’s original identity.
    The ageing process for the Lamia progressed at different rates. Once they reach physical maturity, the process halts. It could be decades or centuries before the ageing resumes, looking etern ally young until that time came. For Bartholomew himself, he had appeared to be in his prime for over a millennia now. He had lived so long that he had finally stopped counting the years. Birthdays came and went without a second glance. Rinse and repeat, same old, same old.
    “What is it now, Marshall?” Bartholomew’s tone was tired and drawn. He did not like to be interrupted.  Marshall had worked for him for long enough to understand all of his little foibles. They had spent was seemed like an eternity together.
    “Apologies for the interruption, Sire. There is an urgent telephone call for you.”
    With another exaggerated sigh, Bartholomew nodded and Marshall