A Journey of Black and Red #100
Author: Mecanimus
Date: 2021-03-29T00:00:00+00:00
Publisher: anonymous

Table Of Contents

- Table Of Contents -
1. Cruel Genesis
2. Jimena
3. False Haven
4. The seed of Discord
5. The Reveal
6. Uprooted
7. Servitude
8. Outside
9. A casual visit
10. No rest for the wicked
11. The Gauntlet
12. Acte I, scène finale
13. Homeward
14. Roadside snacks
15. Reap what you sow
16. Marsh March
17. Loth of Skoragg's offer.
18. Six Months Later
19. A gentleman and a scholar
20. The Pursuer and the Pursued
21. Murder of Crows
22. The Waiting Maw
23. Into the Heart
24. Valor
25. The Source
26. Self-Discovery
27. Coming of Age
28. Like Herding Cats pt. 1
29. Like Herding Cats Pt. 2
30. Charm
31. Winternight
32. Old Money
33. The science of the Hunt
34. Ring Breaker
35. Blood Ties
36. Cloaks and Daggers
37. 1812, Overture.
38. Learning curve.
39. The Righteous One
40. Masquerade
41. Stand your ground.
42. The Cruel Seas
43. Confluence
44. Daydreaming
45. Embracing Modernity
46. The Eternal Game
47. Nemesis
48. Pyre of Dreams
49. The shadow over Marquette.
50. Under the Skin
51. Prince of Azure and Gold
52. Fate and Absurdity
??. Black and Red Healer
53. Three is a Crowd
54. Night-Owned Town
55. Sins. And explosions!
56. Preparations
57. The Beacon
58. The First Queen
59. Omen of the end.
60. Big Game Hunting
61. Before the Storm
62. Eneru
63. Reign of Blood
64. Knight Takes Queen.
65. Sur les Bords du Mississippi...
66. ... un alligator se tapit.
67. Expect the unexpected.
68. Dies Irae
69. Trial
70. Painful hearing.
Glossary.
71. House Nirari
72. All that Glitters
73. Mise en Abyme
74. Vernissage
75. Oh, the Binglery!
76. Finale
77. Wilhelm's Task
78. The Secret Task
79. Reception
80. Smoke and Mirrors
81. The Test
82. Pact.
83. Divide and Conquer
84. Bloody Games
85. The Library of Alexandria
86. Et tu, Brute?
87. State of Affairs
87.5 Unhinged
88. The Gathering Tide
89. Council
90. Northern Wind.
91. Horde
92. Call of Blood and Bone
93. The Smell of Victory.
94. The Die is Cast
95. Curtains
96. The Cubs
97. Takeover
98. Schooled
99. The Vampire's Best Tools.
100. Surprise!
101. Tempus Fugit
102. Home
103. Down she goes.
104. Warrens of the World

1. Cruel Genesis

Where… where am I?

I take a deep breath in, which promptly turns into a coughing fit as I spit… something on the ground. Agh! Disgusting. This is entirely too disgraceful. I hope there is no one around to witness my shame!

The thought is born and dies in an instant. I struggle to remain calm, but I can already feel the onset of panic.

I smell dampness, old stones, and rust.

This is not my bedroom, nor is it any hospital I would be sent to.

What has happened?

I am lost.

The stone bricks I can see through my waterfall of blonde hair are oddly well-defined, as if the distance did not affect my sight. Darkness is now just deeper shade instead of an impenetrable veil. I can hear individual sounds of dripping water and groaning wood with perfect clarity instead of as background noise.

The air smells of dampness and iron and the taste on my tongue is as cloying as it is distracting. Every sensation is magnified, and each one catches my attention briefly before another one takes over in a disorienting dance. Soon, the sensory overload grows into a stabbing pain just behind my eyes.

I feel sick.

I need to understand.

I take stock of my situation and shiver in fright.

My wrists are shackled. My legs are on the floor, the skin scraped raw. I feel the coarse fabric of a simple tunic on my shoulders and… Oh, I am not wearing undergarments! Someone may have seen me without... I cannot bear the thought.

I twist a bit and feel wet hair plastered to my skull, falling to my shoulders. I see my legs, coming out of a rough piece of fabric. They are even paler than usual and dotted with red spots, which I realize is blood. The very same blood I spat earlier.

I breathe deeper to control my fear. I shall not break down. I shall not scream. I am no tender flower from Charleston to faint at the mere sight of the crimson liquid. I am made from sterner stock!

My fear does not recede, yet I am once more in control of myself. I do not know exactly the predicament I find myself in but I know that panic shall not help. I will not succumb to it.

Wary, I continue my inspection.

Bare walls of the ubiquitous grey stone and a single massive door with a barred window. Is this a farce? I am in a dungeon! I must be dreaming. Yes, this is a dream and I am still asleep. Or perhaps I am quite mad, and this is one of those “hospices” I have heard so much about, and what is this? I am wearing rags! Even slaves would not wear such a thing! I swear, I will get to the bottom of this, or my name isn’t… My name isn’t…

I am…

Cannot focus. My thoughts are a jumble of impressions and emotions, of needs I do not understand. They slip away before I can grasp them fully. I shake my head and bite my lips to clear them, to no effect. Nothing works.

I cannot recall my name. I must recall my name. Unbidden, my mouth opens and the sound escapes.

“A…Ariane”

The pain!

I bend forward as much as I can while my throat burns me. Soon, the agony extends to my stomach and tears me from inside. My mind blanks from the sheer intensity. This is a hundred times worse than anything I have ever felt. God please, make it stop. Make it stop! Someone, anyone!

And it seems someone listened to my prayer. I can hear the clang of a door open far in front of me. Three sets of footsteps approach. Faster, I beg you!

“Told ya I heard something. Sun just set, so it’s possible.”

“Hmmm.”

Despite the lack of any light source, I can see with great clarity the face of my would-be savior, and now I know for sure that I am doomed.

This man looks like a highwayman. Why, if I met him in the street, I would immediately flee and call for the nearest guard. He has unkempt black hair and a greasy beard that he must not have trimmed in months! Yet even then I could take him for a laborer were it not for a pair of insane blue eyes that freeze my very soul.

The man smiles and displays a full set of uneven teeth. How very chilling. And yet I know with certainty that this man could help me, were I not stopped by a strange feeling.

This man already belongs to… someone else. And I would be better off not touching him. I know I should be curious, but the pain is making me dizzy.

The second man is not white. He is not unlike some of the coolies who help dig the train tracks, with the same golden skin and slanted eyes, and yet to compare them is to compare a Pomeranian with a wolf. His arms bulge with muscles and his expression is fierce indeed. I can tell from his posture that he is a fencer, or a pugilist of sorts.

He moves with the grace of a predator, and once again a strange feeling washes over me. I know with certainty that this man is dangerous beyond his appearance. He has a cold aura to him, and he cannot help me.

The third man can.

I feel joy and warmth fill my chest. Yes! This man is a captive like me, an adolescent with a lost look. He wears the clothes of a smith, or perhaps a cooper, and a thin chain hangs from his neck. He can make the pain stop; I just know it in my heart.

And so, I move.

And I stop. I look in confusion at my stretched arms but of course, silly me. I am still in chains! Heavy locks of a silvery metal join my wrists to the wall in two taut lines. I am trapped.

“Wow! A feisty one heh? Come on, give her the boy.”

The Asian man frowns. Our eyes meet and there is a hint of sympathy in his rugged features. He pushes the young man towards me.

My left hand brushes the boy’s collar. Yes! Yes, finally, I am saved! I drag my hero closer and breathe in his neck. Oh, this delicate bouquet, like an exquisite wine from a perfect year, so rich and intoxicating. I am losing my mind. My canines brush his skin, pierce the flesh. Something thick and sweet brushes my tongue.

The world explodes in ecstasy.

I have no words.

For an eternity, nothing exists. Nothing but heavenly pleasure that rolls and roils and boils and drowns. I die and I live again, and I die once more. The wave of felicity ravages my very being and shatters my psyche.

If this is half as good as lovemaking, I understand women who find themselves with child out of wedlock. This is good enough to sell one’s soul.

I love it.

Love it, love it, love it.

I wish it never stopped.

Alas, at some point, it does. I do not know how long it takes but when the tide recedes, I know peace and the certainty that all is right in the world. How peculiar. No amount of prayer has ever brought me to such heights. I am touching on the realm of the divine!

I release the young man who flops on the ground. He can no longer help me and worse, he smells terrible!

The creepy man chuckles and drags the adolescent’s chain to pull him out of my reach, as if I were an animal. How rude! I frown in disapproval.

“What…” my voice croaks “What is the meaning of this?”

How I wish I could convey my outrage at being held like this! Not even a bucket of water, or a chamber pot! Am I to live like a beast? I do not want to think about it. I do not want to think about a great many things.

The smaller, white man jumps in surprise and even the Asian guardian lifts an eyebrow. What is wrong with them? Did they expect me to cower, to beg?

“Well,  Milady. Forgive this humble Baudouin, heh? Did not expect ya to be so…”

I huff with impatience and address his companion.

“How about you, warrior, care to explain why I am being held so?”

While Baudouin is flustered, this one seems barely amused.

“It is for your own safety.”

“My safety? I will be secure when I am unbound and at home, you rogue! What will it take for you to release me?”

Baudouin interrupts me, apparently miffed at being ignored.

“Don’t ya worry your cute little head, Lady, you’ll be released soon enough.”

“I… I…”

I want to go on, I want to extract information from the reluctant duo, but I feel so tired, so very exhausted. Torpor invades my limbs and makes everything so heavy. My eyelids slide down with the weight of an executioner’s axe.

It is summer at the plantation. Sugar canes raise from the red earth, lush and green, as far as my eyes can see. The relentless sun beats down on my shoulders with a weight that is almost physical. It would be unbearable but for a light breeze and the smell of the river.

A massive blond man kneels in front of me. His knife slices into the flesh of the sugar cane until only a dripping sliver remains. His face is rugged and red and there are tangles in his blond beard, but I do not care. His shining blue eyes, which I inherited, look at me with all the warmth in the world.

“Try this, mon ange”

“I don’t wanna! It’s dirty!”

“Try it to make Papa happy. Allez!”

“D’accord.”

I take it with a tiny hand and bring it through my lips. It is strangely fibrous and at the same time, sweet and juicy.

“’Mmm!”

“See? Your Papa knows best. That’s why you should have listened, mon ange.”

“Hm?”

“I told you to always wear your hat outside because it is so hot when the sun is out. But did you listen? Oh no, you didn’t. And now, you burn.”

Flames erupt from the flesh of my hand, I scream and scream, and I try to stop them, but my other arm catches fire and it spreads all over me. It hurts, it hurts so much. Blackened meat cracks to reveal tarnished bones. My hair combusts. Nothing stops the raging inferno. I beg the darkness to take me and eventually, it does.

I awaken in the same grey cell. There is no sign of the captors or anyone else. I feel odd. There is a part of me that fights and rebels and tries to make me question my circumstances. I am aware that there have been inconsistencies in, well, everything, and yet I find it hard to focus.

Like a patient in the claws of high fever, my grasp on reality is tenuous and uncertain. No matter how hard I try to focus, I am only afforded bits of lucidity. I remember a nightmare. I remember yesterday. I remember my name. What was it again? Ariane. Yes, my name is Ariane, although I must be honest and state that it is merely a praenomen.

Using my voice helped.

I shall endeavour to do so again.

“My name… is Ariane… I am… nineteen.”

I am of age to be married. I have… suitors. I think?

“I… come from…”

Two city names come to mind, one is Baton Rouge, and it gives a homey feeling. The other is New-Orleans and it feels more exciting but also tainted.

I cannot finish the sentence. I feel myself drifting into apathy and I cannot let that happen, so I force myself to press on.

“I…”

I what?

“I have… a family.”

Yes, I know this is right. I try to recall the man from my dream, his smile, and happy looks but his image blurs and another one replaces him. The second man is terrifying. I remember a cruel smile and doll-like eyes that mirror a soul as black as the night.

My musings stop when the same craving comes over me. My throat is parched. It is only natural as people need to drink quite a bit of water every day.

I remember stories of sailors going mad when deprived of it, their sanity robbed as they suffer surrounded by a liquid they cannot ingest. I am sure someone will come. If they wanted me dead, it would have already happened.

Time passes with agonizing slowness. My thirst grows so much that I start moaning. My teeth bite painfully into increasingly dry lips. The only saving grace is that after two days I haven’t had to go to the... Well, this is embarrassing and queer. How come I have had no need to visit the... the what?

A distant clang interrupts my thoughts, whatever they were. I have already forgotten. Three sets of footsteps again. I wonder how I can tell with such accuracy but, well, it does not truly matter.

They soon stop and yesterday’s Asian man gives me a passing glance before opening the door. He steps in and stands aside with the dignity of a British Royal Guard.

The second visitor is a woman out of a fairy tale. Truly, if anyone had described her to me, I would have called them a liar, and yet here she stands.

Tall and lithe, her slender body is clad in a blue gown that would be the envy of King William’s court. It suits her form perfectly and manages to be enticing without being vulgar which, given her silhouette, is quite an achievement.

Her skin is as white as alabaster and her face is the very image of grace and majesty. Black curls fall with restraint from an elaborate hairdo and encase two striking green eyes, bright as emeralds. Why, if my mouth were not so dry, I would be gawping like some country bumpkin right about now.

The same cold aura that encases the Asian man also comes from her and yet I hesitate to compare them as she seems in a class of her own. If the man’s is a drum, the woman’s is an orchestra. The pressure it gives off terrifies me to my core and I do not think that demanding anything of her would be a good idea.

I turn to the last to enter, a man, and I am immediately in love.

He is tall and incredibly handsome, like a legendary king of old. Brown curls and brown hair adorn a skin lightly kissed by the sun. His build is powerful, but it is not the solid weight of the farmer. It is the deadly grace of the duelist.

I feel like I am kneeling before Achilles, or Romulus, such is the presence of this man. I just know he is the one for me. His aura is less cold and somehow familiar, so powerful and yet restrained. I bask in his presence as a strange warmth grows in my belly.

Oh, the shame! Am I to be swayed so easily by somebody I just met? I must not! And yet I know that if this man touches me, I will be undone. I forget my thirst; I forget my discomfort. If he but takes me in his arms, I can die with no regrets.

“… his spawn could communicate, Ogotai, and yet…”

I blink and realize that the noble Lady is talking to the Asian man, Ogotai apparently. What is most curious is that they do not speak English. This language of theirs is mostly sing-song vowels and soft consonants with the occasional guttural sound. I am sure I have never heard anything quite like it and yet I can understand it.

“I assure you that she spoke, Lady Moor.”

I must have day-dreamed again. This lack of attention is so taxing, and now my love must think me daft! I must give my best impression so that he becomes mine forever. I turn to him and use a lull in the conversation, or should I say the harsh reprimand, to address him.

“Greetings.”

All eyes fall on me. No that is not quite right. If I speak English now, they will not think of me as worldly.

“Greetings lady, and gentlemen. My name is Ariane. May I ask yours?”

There, concise and polite. My voice cracked mid-sentence, I am filthy and dressed in rags that an orphanage would not take but my manners remain impeccable.

The woman scowls and displays such intense disgust, one would think I am drenched in manure. Without a word, she turns around and leaves the room while covering her nose with a perfumed handkerchief. I would blush in shame and anger if it were not for the man.

He kneels in front of me and I lose myself in the intensity of his liquid eyes. He is smiling, he must be. He is proud of me, I think.

No, hE is SmUg.

No, he is proud of me. He loves me and only wants the best. I love him!

I do nOt. He huRt me.

I love him, and he will be mine forever. The comfortable blanket settles on my mind until only adoration remains. I wait with bated breath for a sentence, a word, anything until I can’t anymore.

I move.

Once more, the chains block me, my face only a few fingers away from the golden skin of his neck. I strain and stretch and the metal moans but, of course, I am too weak to break free. I am only human after all. I cannot bend metal.

Can I?

The man captures my attention and the thirst fades away for a while. The fragrance of his perfume makes me dizzy and at the same time, safe. I am where I belong. By his side. Yes. No. Yes.

He places a single finger under my chin to raise my head until our eyes are level. The touch of his skin sends tiny shivers down my back.

“You will address us as Master.”

“Yes, Master.”

“You will speak only when spoken to.”

I nod in silence. Of course, I will do as he asks.

“You will obey the woman known as Jimena in all things. You will behave properly. Do so, and in three days you may draw our essence, and live.”

I nod frantically. I want to say that I will be good, but I hesitate to talk. The man is done and stands back up before turning to Ogotai. Oh, how I loved it when he was so close. It was everything I expected. It is everything I could dream for.

“Why is my fledgling still in a drone cell, Warden?”

Ogotai’s bow is almost servile, which should be odd on such a man, and yet how can I blame him? Who could stand before this man and call themselves his equal? Surely, even Alexander and Scipio Africanus would find themselves wanting.

The man exits the cell without a look back.

Why did he leave me so? I love him so much, surely, he must see it plainly! I am the one for him! Or am I simply not good enough? Is a landed Lady from Louisiana perhaps too rustic for his tastes?

Perhaps I should GUT THAT GREEN-EYED PAINTED HARLOT AND STRANGLE HER WITH HER OWN ENTRAILS.

Wait.

What was I thinking again?

I can hear a keening whine and soon realize it is coming from my throat. Augh! I need to get a hold of myself. What is wrong with me?

A strange Asian man approaches me with a silver key. Ah yes, Ogotai. He was here earlier. He is to take me out of the cell and… Do what?

Ah yes, I finally remember. I am to obey that wonderful man. My love. No, AboMinAtion. Love. I remember his orders. I am to remain silent unless spoken to. I am to obey Jimena in all things. I am to behave properly.

I will do so, since he asked this of me, and he is so irresistible. I just hope there will be something to drink. I am dying of thirst.

“Ah!” I cry.

The manacles drop on the ground with a surprisingly loud clang and take with them a layer of skin. I look at my now free wrists. The horror! I am flayed! The flesh is raw and thick with black blood!

Convinced I am about to retch I move forward and yet, nothing happens. I do not feel nauseous at the sight of those unsightly wounds. They are most certainly infected and will quite likely scar!

Oh, the humanity! Shall I have to bear the stigma of my captivity for the rest of my life?

“Come out, slowly.”

I take a staggering step forward. I feel weak and light-headed. I pray they have water somewhere.

2. Jimena

I seethe.

The Asian man stares at me with a mixture of disgust and caution, and I cannot help but feel offended. Of course, I would not look proper dressed in rags and filthy like a coal merchant! The audacity of my captors is simply incredible.

I finally leave my cell to the sight of a short corridor of the same stone. A single torch provides enough illumination to see everything clearly, which surprises me a bit. The passage is dotted with what I believe to be murder holes. How very quaint. I must have collapsed and been magically transported to some Scotsman’s demesne.

Ogotai locks the door behind me and I move forward, quite eager to be away from this dreary place. As I am about to reach the second door, the naked blade of a saber taps my shoulder.

“Hold. Move to the side.”

I turn around with outrage, although I remain silent. How dare he draw a blade on me? The master said I was to obey Jimena and he is not her.

HE HAS NO RIGHT TO GIVE ME ORDERS, I WILL TEACH HIM THE MEANING OF PAIN AND…

A hand grabs my raggedy shirt and propels me into the wall.

He threw me like a doll!

My back hits the rock and explodes in blinding pain. My head follows suit and my teeth rattle from the impact. Agony radiates in every bone, only exacerbating the discomfort I am already in.

“Ah!”

His hand drills my chest in the wall. My bones creak and groan under his abuse. I frantically scratch his arms so that he lets me go but I stop when I feel a metallic cold against my neck.

“Agh!”

“I will have no attitude from you, fledgling.”

There are red spots on his sleeve. It seems that, in my panic, I scratched him bloody. My nails are dark as black pearls, and quite sharp to boot. When did that happen?

The blade of his weapon leaves my neck and its tip buries under my chin until I start yelling. Oh God, what have I done to deserve such treatment? Why must they be so cruel? It hurts!

“Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes!” I whimper.

How I hate to debase myself, but what can one do against such wanton brutality?

Slowly, the man lets me go, although his blade remains drawn. I stay still and massage my poor chest. Terror starts creeping into my mind and awakens primal instincts. I want to run, but I cannot. The door is locked. I do not even know where to go.

Ogotai patiently works his set of keys and I finally walk out to another stone tunnel. This one, however, is different.

It appears that my jail is but one of many. Several blocks made with thick walls cover most of the area, lit by the occasional torch. Each cell has four walls and a passage that would allow the wardens to circle it completely.

The murder holes I noticed let visitors look inside the corridor and, I assume, shoot through them as well. I do not know what manner of beast is normally held here, but I would complain about being treated that way, were it in my power to do so.

The Asian man guides me through the labyrinth of passages to a massive door made of the same silvery metal as my shackles. He pushes it open with little effort. How strong can this man be?

I walk up a set of stairs to several landings with more doors, but Ogotai does not let me stop. Eventually, we cross one last metal gate and finally emerge into a proper building.

And what a building it is.

I want to take a deep breath and celebrate being out of this accursed hole in the ground, yet I find myself at a loss. Who in their right mind would spend the fortune required for something like this?

A hallway spreads to my right and left to an intersection and a dead-end, respectively.

Closed doors alternate with subdued alcoves supported by Doric columns. The ground is made of marble and the walls of pink granite. Tapestries and paintings hang everywhere, leaving an impression of subdued elegance.

Never in a thousand years would I suspect that such a place exists in the Americas! I believe I would need to cross the Atlantic, to Buckingham or Versailles, to find a match for this gaudy display.

And the owners of this place have me at their mercy.

I shiver once more. I thought I had seen wealth, how naïve I was! These people are no rakes and outlaws out for a quick ransom and a ride West. Why, were I to escape and come across a lawman, who would he believe? A filthy waif or the masters of this place? My testimony would be the ramblings of a madwoman.

What have I gotten myself into?

The excitement offered me a moment of clarity, as if external stimulus could lift the veil upon my mind but soon enough, I find it hard to focus again. Why did I want to escape? I want to see that man again; it is my heart’s fondest desire.

Ogotai leads me up another set of stairs and down another corridor. We come across a man in a suit that would leave him drenched in sweat if he were to step outside, a pair of women in maid outfits who exude a pleasant smell, and a slip of a girl in a white dress.

Every time we pass someone, Ogotai holds my neck and forces my head down so that I cannot meet their eyes, not that I need much encouragement. My embarrassment is reason enough.

Finally, the warden leaves those endless alleys and forces me into a bedroom. Before I can even start to panic, he bids me to get cleaned and slams the door shut.

Once again, I take stock. The room itself is rather small, which is only sensible as there are so many of them. It is also lavishly decorated in shades of red and gold. Whoever designed the baroque hallways clearly extended his influence on my new lodgings.

The bed has four posters and takes the entire middle of the room with a writing desk and a chair lining the side wall. The living space is partitioned by white panels and I find a copper tub on the other side, as well as amenities and another surprise. This place has hot running water.

I prepare a bath and rid myself of that vile potato bag I was wearing to slide in the bath with a sigh of pleasure.

I do not know if I should attribute how I feel to my previous ordeals or the state of my body, but the very act of washing myself has never been so pleasant.

Water caresses my skin with its silky touch as the heat of the liquid seeps into me, to my delight. I could almost forget how thirsty I am. Oh, how silly, there is now water to be found! What was I waiting for?

I bring the warm liquid from the tap to my lips and take in a hasty gulp and I know without a doubt that, unfortunately, it will not do. How strange! Is it the symptom of some disorder? Well, I will think upon it later.

When did my skin turn so white?

Summer reached Louisiana a few weeks ago and I remember a light, but distinct tan, and yet now I look as pale as a Canuck. My nails are also black and quite sharp, which I cannot explain. One more mystery to add upon the pile.

Or perhaps I should realize whAt I haVe beCome why I do not feel hunger?

Wait, there are more urgent matters to attend. I must be presentable. If that warden comes in while I am still undressed, I shall surely die of embarrassment. There is only so much humiliation a proper lady can tolerate in a single day.

I scrub myself vigorously and enjoy every moment of it. After drying myself, I find undergarments and a simple linen dress on the desk, which I promptly don. They do not fit me, exactly and are a bit tight around the waist, and yet I find I care little.

It feels so nice to be decent again, and the sensation of soft fabric on my skin is simply divine. I luxuriate in it until I am disturbed by an insistent knock.

I open the door to see two men outside. Ogotai stares me down without emotion, the other man is younger and dressed as a servant.

My thirst surges at the scent of him. Such an intoxicating perfume! Before I can lean forward, Ogotai’s hand grabs my neck once more. Ah! Must this man irritate me so! I want to CLAW HIM APART LIKE THE CUR HE IS!

“Fledgling.”

I force myself to swallow. I do not want a repeat of the cell scene. Those ruffians made it clear they would resort to violence given the opportunity. Except that handsome gentleman of course.

“You will cease when ordered.”

The servant looks at me with undisguised fear. His chocolate eyes are fixed on my smile as he starts blabbering in some unknown language I care not about. His attempt at retreating is stopped by the Warden’s steel grip on his neck and only serves to whet my maddening Thirst. It bites into my chest and drills into my mind, demanding satisfaction. Nothing matters but that merciless craving.

How peculiar, the sight of a terrified man makes me… giddy? And even more thirsty? This abduction has made me a moNster. What? No, this ordeal made me a little bit hysterical. Yes. Just a little tense. Nothing to it.

I chuckle as I grab the man firmly between my arms, and then as he vainly tries to push me away. I am still laughing when his eyes meet mine and grow unfocused.

I sigh as I take in the musk of his terror, with just a touch of desire. Scrumptious. I smile as my fangs puncture the skin of his neck and I can finally, FINALLY, slake this godforsaken Thirst.

Rapture, again.

I am transported, I am ravished, I am undone.

If there is one way to transcend time and space, this is it. No dervish and no prophet, no shaman and no mage would come close to this divine experience. Not with all the incense and prayers of the world.

I love it, love it, love it.

A piercing pain brings me back into the real world. The warden’s clawed fingers dig into the muscles of my neck, forcing my jaw open inch by inch. The young servant is dragged away, still mesmerized by God knows what.

“NooOooOoo.”

“Fledgling.”

I swallow as the pain turns my vision white. I stop moving. This is just too much.

“You will lick the wound closed. Do it now.”

With the tip of my tongue, I manage to clean the precious nectar from the young man’s skin even as the trickle stops. I waste not a drop. Eventually, Ogotai pulls him away further and he collapses against the wall in a daze. The expression on his face is content, for some unknown reason. I, however, am not. I need more. MUCH MORE.

“Aaaiiii!” I cry.

Ogotai’s hand does not relent. His other arm, now free, forces my own in a lock behind my back. I arch myself to prevent the agony from becoming too much. I barely struggle against his hold. My frustration is no match for the constant pain and the prospect of dislocation.

The horrible Thirst finally abates. It retreats into the recess of my mind like a wary tiger, pacified but not gone.

I am myself again.

Wait, what just occurred?

I cannot recall.

Something to do with nourishment.

Ogotai pushes me away and I fall on the bed. With a yelp and scramble, I am upright again. I am not so innocent as to not understand the implication of being in a bedroom with a man and the Warden makes me wary.

Fortunately, my apprehension was unfounded this time. Ogotai bends to the servant to, I assume, check on his well-being. Apparently satisfied, he stands back up and bids me follow him.

We leave the room, and I do my best to keep up with the tall stranger. Torpor once more makes my limbs heavy and my mind weary, yet I refuse to yield.

We descend back to what I assume is the ground floor, and shortly reach a thick set of gates made out an essence of wood I do not recognize. Ogotai opens one with ease and shoves me in.

The room I find myself in is, without a doubt, a training room. It is an extremely wide rectangle surrounded by an unadorned wall of grey stone. Racks of weapons line my left, targets my right and the far wall is adorned with benches.

I am surprised to see that the ground is stone covered by a layer of sand, reminding me of this illustration of the Colosseum I once saw in a book. Why, if a lion and a gladiator were to strut in to the sound of a brass horn, I wouldn’t even bat an eye.

The only person present besides us is a woman with black curls tied in a bun. I cannot decide whether she shocks me or impresses me more.

Her face is handsome, rather than beautiful due to an unfortunately squarish jaw and yet she exudes an aura of gentle grace that is only enhanced by a scandalously fitting leather armor. Her appearance makes me once again question my sanity.

I know that Napoleon’s “Cuirassiers” would ride into battle with a steel breastplate, but she looks more like a poacher than a soldier and besides, the gentler sex should not dress so, it is just not proper.

She ignores us as we approach until there can be no doubt that we come to address her. With a frown, she sheathes a blade she had been cleaning and turns to us.

Her cold aura is as strong as Ogotai’s yet more refined, and I believe she’S oNe of thEm, I mean I believe it is the source of her self-confidence. Is she an Amazon, to stand here before that man without fear? I surmise that some horrible accident befell me, and I am now in the thrall of some potent concoction that causes me to hallucinate.

“Squire.”

“Courtier”, she replies with a sneer.

There is a flash of anger on Ogotai’s twisted face, quickly hidden.

“You are to induct this fledgling while her master attends to the important matter of the conclave.”

“What kind of master would bring a fledgling here? Is she so flawed that she cannot be left unattended?”

“You may relay your concerns to Lord Nirari. I am sure he will be delighted to hear your objections, squire. The order is passed. I bid you farewell.”

And with this, Ogotai turns around and leaves us both stranded. I harbor some hope that this person would take pity in my plight, but those expectations are too soon dashed.

The disgust on her face reminds me of Lady Moor’s, only hers is laced with fury. I instinctively take a step back.

A sense of danger dissipates my lethargy and I realize that the Warden set the stage masterfully so that there is no chance that I would find a friend here.

I still do not understand what is happening. My mind is barely working. I am a woman playing an intricate card game without having been taught its rules and I am even forbidden from asking for help.

The woman seems to resolve herself to the situation and gestures me to join her next to a rack. I gaze at rows upon rows of medieval weapons, including some that must have come from barbarian kingdoms.

Never have I laid my eyes on so many bladed, pointy and blunt instruments, coming in all shapes and sizes. One is just a chain, with a blade at the end, and I simply cannot fathom how that could be a sensible weapon.

We both stop and she looks at me expectantly.

I have no idea what to do.

Does she expect me to pick a weapon myself?

“Well?”

I feel panic rising in my chest. Eager not to displease the harridan, I desperately look for something to defend myself and I find it. I grab it and hold it protectively before me.

“That is a shield.”

I nod in approval. Obviously, it is.

“Are you provoking me, fledging? Can you even talk?”

“Yes, sorry, yes I can talk, and no I am not trying to provoke you.”

“And what, pray tell, can you wield?”

I do not remember much, but I do know for sure that my… father? Yes, my father, whose very face I cannot recall, would have never allowed me to take up fencing. Wielding a blade is so unladylike.

Louisiana is already the dumping ground for France’s debtors, whores, and scoundrels. There is no need for us landowners to act as savages as well.

With that said, I did hunt for fur and meat, and there are enough escaped slaves to make leaving the plantation without weapon a foolish endeavor.

“I am a good shot with a flintlock rif -agh!”

The woman’s face turns into a mask of rage. She grabs me by the collar and in a seamless gesture, throws me across the room.

My mind blanks.

The world turns and twists before my eyes. I land, painfully, on my shoulder, and still I slide on the ground.

Eventually, I stop against a machine.

A second later, I hear the crash of my shield against a distant wall.

Pain steals my breath away. I cannot think.

It.

Hurts.

“AaaAAAaa…”

I do not know how much time I spend here, sobbing hunched on myself. Everything hurts, I am so tired, and I am still thirsty.

Why?

Why why why why why?

Something cold pokes my ribs painfully. I open an eye to see that evil hag looking down. She uses a dull training sword as a poker. Oh, why, why must she be so cruel?

“Well, fledgeling, let me see you fire that rifle of yours.”

“I…”

“What are you waiting for?”

And she stabs me.

The tip of the sword pierces into my chest, not enough to kill me but enough to hurt.

This new agony only adds to the old one and I go over the edge. I cannot do this anymore. Their cruel games, their pointless aggression, their cold demeanor.

I did not ask to be here, ridiculed and humiliated at every turn. Abused. Tortured. And for what? What sinister game are they all playing, that they do not deem me even worthy of knowing the rules? I just want it to be over, I just want to die.

Papa, please come save me, I can’t take this anymore.

And so, I bawl like a baby. Sobs wrack my body and tears stream down my face.

I wait for the armored hellion to continue her abuse, crying all the while, and yet it does not come.

A pair of hands picks me up gently and sets me against the stupid mannequin. I keep my eyes closed in terror.

A finger brushes my chin and holds my face up.

After a few seconds, I dare open my eyes.

The woman’s face is frighteningly close to mine. She stares at my cheeks with wonder.

“Fledgling, I have a request.”

“Huh?”

“Can I please lick your tears?”

“W… Wha?”

Is this woman entirely insane? This request is completely senseless! And yet, there is suddenly a longing on her face so powerful and so pure that my breath catches in my chest.

“Please… Please, I beg you.”

My instincts tell me that she speaks the truth, as unlikely as it seems. It is all so very surreal that I find myself speechless. Is this the same person who tossed me across the room like a ragdoll?

I must decide, and against my better judgement, I agree.

I close my eyes as she slowly leans forward. A cold slip moves across my skin and I force myself not to yelp. This new sensation is so strange, and yet so intimate that I dare not move.

The cold tongue traces the other side of my face. Immediately, I hear a gasp and a sob. I open my eyes once more to witness a spectacle that defies common sense.

The woman, whose posture had been so flawless before is now sobbing before me. A pink tinge colors her and as I watch she slowly collapses forward.

A protective impulse guides my left hand to the back of her head. I pat it in a soothing gesture. Her black curls are the softest thing I have ever touched.

She tenses, at first, but soon she leans into my gesture and for a moment, we just lie here.

My pain fades away quickly. Was I wounded? No, probably not.

I let my arm fall. This feels so delightful. I believe I may just fall asleep right now.

I blink. The Amazon is looking at me with her usual frigid mask. Have I dreamt the whole encounter? Surely not! Why, her skin is still rosy.

“Fledgling.”

I gulp in fear.

“Do you know who I am?”

I shake my head, too scared to cause another bout of mindless rage.

“I am Jimena, squire of clan Cadiz and quartermaster for this underkeep.”

“…”

“Can you understand anything I said?”

“You are Jimena.”

She sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose.

“How old are you, exactly?”

“I am nineteen.”

She frowns.

“I had not heard about Lord Nirari siring a fledgling, especially not one that could talk. What has he taught you then?”

“Who?”

“Lord Nirari, your master.”

“I do not know that man.”

“What do you mean? You are his, I saw your fangs.”

I silently gape at the woman. Fangs? Master? I am dealing with a raving lunatic!

“Unless… No!"

Jimena looks at me in utter disbelief.

“Did you happen to meet a tall man with brown eyes and brown hair recently? Dark, imposing?”

“And incredibly handsome,” I reply with a dreamy voice. “Yes, and he did tell me to call him master. Is his name Nirari?”

“Yes, and when, exactly, did you see him first?”

“Why, this very morning, in my cell!”

Jimena appears increasingly agitated, and I still cannot say whether I am mad, or she is. At the very least I learnt the name of my kiLl… my master. Nirari. Such an exotic name. Perhaps one day it can be mine as well.

“Fledgling?”

“Hmm?”

“I need you to tell me the truth.”

“Oh I will, the master told me to obey you in all things.”

“I see. Well, please do tell, is your earliest memory of that very same cell?”

“Yes! Oh my G…” I cough, my throat suddenly obstructed. Jimena winces in sympathy.

“Yes. I woke up there yesterday. Or at least I think it was yesterday. It is hard to tell the passing of the time without sun or the clock.”

“Yesterday? YESTERDAY!?”

“Yes?”

“And you feel as if your mind fails you, as if your memories were hidden behind a veil?”

“Yes!” Finally, someone who understands my plight! Oh, I could cry in relief!

Instead of answers though, Jimena just stands and starts pacing.

“Is it some sort of affliction?”

“Yes. Yes, it is. You will also notice the paleness, the sharp nails. And the Thirst.”

“Does it get better?”

Jimena stops pacing and stares into the distance.

“No… no, it does not.”

I wait patiently for her to elaborate. I can learn more about my circumstances from her, provided I do not agitate her further. I hope she hurries, as I find myself more and more eager to return to my bedroom. Perhaps there I shall find something to drink.

“What is your name, do you remember?”

“Yes. Ariane.”

“Well met, Ariane. Has Lord Nirari mentioned a ceremony?”

“He said that if I do well, I may draw his essence in three days and live.”

Jimena mutters to herself, and I unfortunately manage to hear what she says. The woman can swear like a sailor!

“Well, young Ariane, you find yourself in a delicate situation. However, you gave me something quite rare, and something that can only be gifted, not taken. Powerful emotions are such a precious thing. For that, I am grateful and shall endeavor to assist you.”

She helps me up.

“You are afflicted, yes, and I am sorry to say that there is no cure.”

“What? I… I have never heard of such a disease! And is that why I am your captive? Because of this condition?”

“Indeed. You may consider the veil over your mind as a sort of anesthetic that will shield it during the transition.”

“But… I don’t want to-”

“Shh,” she says, “'tis a terrible thing, I know, yet you are still Ariane. Always remember, that you are still your own.”

“Y-yes, I am Ariane. I am my own.”

I stagger forward.

“Ah, you must be exhausted. Rest on my shoulder, that I may guide you to a room.”

3. False Haven

My best friend locks arms with me as we walk the streets of New-Orleans. Already the sun creeps past the horizon and the dying light paints the cobblestone red. How daring we are, two young women, out with no chaperones!

“It is so good that you came amiga, for alone I would never have dared!”

“Think nothing of it, Constanza. I have a good reason to attend this ball as well. It is said that Lady Le Moyne opened a distillery in Haiti and has an eye for business. It is truly fortuitous that she is there tonight, and I would be unwise to miss such an occasion.”

Blond locks brush my shoulder and I find myself staring in a pair of laughing chestnut eyes.

“Ah my poor Ariane, is it always business with you? You should keep an eye open for a husband instead. Then he can open that distillery you crave, while we spend our days in merriment!”

“Psssh! Licentious woman, you shall not tempt me so! And besides, men cannot be trusted. Even Papa said so.”

“Ah amiga, your Papa is not here tonight, and truly I understand now, that I have to find you suitors of a more mature kind.”

“Whatever do you mean?!”

“Hahaha, fret not amiga, and look! Here is a new contender!”

I follow my best friend’s direction to the entrance of the manse, only to recoil in terror. In front of the double door stands a monster out of the grisliest tale.

It stands taller than any man. Its skin is white as the moon and it is completely hairless. Eyes the color of the abyss drill into my soul. I want to run; I try to run but I am paralyzed. My best friend holds my arm in a death grip. A deep gash mars her pretty face and her eyes take on a mad glint.

“No, do not leave, he is the one just for you. A perfect match, for one who tries to reach above her station.”

I cannot move, I cannot even blink. I am forced to watch as the monster steps closer. It grabs my head and exposes my throat. The last thing I see are eight merciless fangs.

I wake up in a bedroom that is not my own. Memories slowly come back to me and I find myself in a turmoil. I have some hope now that I found an ally in Jimena, and yet I have little doubt that she speaks the truth.

I am indeed afflicted by some unknown condition. The realization almost crushes my spirit and for a while, I sit under the velvet canopy, too stunned to move. It does not last though for Jimena bids me join her and I must obey.

I stand and make myself ready. The ill-fitting dress I wore yesterday is still clinging to my body. A few drops of blood have stained the front and back, yet I do not recall being wounded. Curious.

This specific guestroom is similarly equipped as the previous one, so I quickly take another bath after making sure the door is locked. It takes all my willpower not to luxuriate in the sensual feeling of warm water on my skin, despite how thirsty I am.

After drying myself, I find that someone left a strange looking grey ensemble by the entrance. I put it on. To my surprise, it is extremely comfortable, with the notable exception of the area around my, hmm, posterior, which is too tight.

Nevertheless, it does not limit my range of movement in any way. What a great find! Oh, if only I could wear this in polite society, but it has trousers, and this simply will not do.

Difficulty strikes when I try to sort the bird's nest that my hair has become. There is not a mirror in sight! How do they expect a lady to show her best without a mirror to attend to herself I wonder? Does Lady Moor… oh. She probably has servants of some sort.

Fortunately, my hair easily parts under my tAloNs fingers, and I believe I am at least somewhat presentable. They do not expect me to appear in polite society in any case!

With everything done, I leave.

Fortunately, it does not take me long to find the training room. I take the stairs down and wander a bit until I find the double doors.

During this, I only come across one maid who avoids my eyes as she rushes by. She has an enticing scent, but I do not let it distract me. I am, after all, expected. I only hope that Jimena has something to drink, this Thirst is killing me.

I find her at a table, cleaning an elaborate fencing foil. Next to her is a short and stocky woman in a peasant dress. She has short black hair and stares at me with a frown and worried black eyes.

As I come closer, I realize she smells divine, why, I just cannot stop myself-

Jimena halts me with a hand on my shoulder.

“Oh, sorry, where are my manners! Good morning Jimena, and you as well madam. Hmm, it is morning, isn’t it?”

Jimena returns my greeting with a nod and a smile.

“Not quite. This is Aintza, she is a retainer for the Cadiz clan.”

“Oh, greetings Aintza.”

The woman does not answer. Instead, she nervously swallows, and I find myself fascinated by the movement of her neck. Such a pretty neck, so very fetching.

“Ariane.”

“Hm?”

“I need your attention. Look at me.”

I turn to her and realize she is much closer than I am comfortable with. She takes my hands in hers. Her skin is soft and cool.

“Do you want to get closer to Aintza?”

“Yes.”

“Are you feeling thirsty?”

“Yes, quite so. It is almost unbearable.”

“Close your eyes. Good. Now, I want you to think about a place where you are safe. The safest place you know.”

“But I do not remember my past…”

“Your mind does not, but your heart can. Do you remember what I told you yesterday?”

“I am mine. I will always be mine.”

“Good. Let your heart speak, Ariane. You are safe. You can see around you. What do you see?”

“I-I don’t know. I am so very thirsty. I just NEED A FEW DROPS FROM--”

“No! Stop! Good. It will work better because you are thirsty. Now, try again.”

At first, I find the entire exercise silly.

Why, it feels like one of these hogwash meditation exercises those charlatans claim can cure blindness? Jimena, however, does not relent. She guides me with a soothing voice.

When the Thirst becomes too much, she grabs my neck in a firm hold and it helps me remain in control.

Eventually, I feel it.

On the edge of the sugar cane fields stands a log cabin. It is barely large enough for a single bed, a chest and a small fire pit. It was never meant to be lived in. It is merely a shelter, unadorned and unpolished. The only thing that matters is that it is safe.

I drag myself up on the straw mattress. It smells like soap and sunshine and I know I can wait here for him to return. A cool wind rustles the trees outside and carries the smell of rain on fresh soil.

Now that the weather is better, he will come back shortly and hopefully bring me something to drink. In the meanwhile, I will just hug Mr. Scruffybear. Mr. Scruffybear is such a gentleman.

“Good. Now, does it not smell so nice?”

“Yes.”

“Good, now lick it.”

I lick something exquisite. It must be the world’s very best bonbon. Someone moans in pleasure, and I know I should be shocked but cannot make myself care.

“Good, it will turn the pain to pleasure, and now, just follow your instincts.”

I bit down delicately. Something soft and warm parts under my teeth like the sweetest of fruits, and once again the delicious nectar comes to sate the Thirst.

Rapture.

It is so good, so very good.

And yet, it feels duller, somehow. It does not compare to before.

There is a partition between the feeling and me. I am enjoying myself, but part of me also sits in the bed of my cabin with Mr. Scruffybear.

“Slow down and listen.”

I can hear mostly two things. The first is a woman moaning most shamefully. I am not too naïve not to understand that she…

Hah, I cannot even make myself finish the thought.

The second is a heartbeat, and it has been beating increasingly faster.

“The heartbeat is too fast. When it is so, you must stop. Stop now.”

I do so immediately. The Thirst has abated enough that the urge is no longer so pressing. I also remember my master’s instructions. I must obey Jimena in all things.

“Excellent. Now lick the wound clean.”

I do so. I am overcome by a feeling of strong intimacy and were it not for my strange state, I believe I would be blushing.

A moment later, I open my eyes. Jimena is holding Aintza in a princess carry. I dare not mention how inappropriate this all is, not to mention Aintza’s rosy cheeks! Why, if someone were to come right now, I would surely die of embarrassment!

“Ariane.”

“Yes? Hrm.”

“Do you know what just happened?”

“Hmm, you told me to find a safe place, which I did, and then…”

I frown in confusion. What happened then? I cannot seem to recall.

“I do not remember. Is it this accursed affliction?”

“Yes. Do not worry, the veil in your mind will be lifted when you next meet your master, or so he said.”

“Oh, this cannot come soon enough…” I reply in a dreamy voice. Before I can embarrass myself further, Jimena turns around with a sad smile.

“You should not be too hasty. Not all knowledge is good to take. Ah, I am not good at this. Stay here while I bring Aintza to safety. As you wait, I want you to remember that safe place you found. When you suffer from the Thirst, or when you quench it, you may find it again. This is important Ariane. If you must remember but one thing, remember this.”

“I understand.”

“Good.”

Jimena leaves and I am left alone. I can already feel that call of torpor even though I must have awakened not an hour ago. To distract myself, I inspect the training dummies.

I am simply astonished when I realize that some of those are automatons! How wealthy must those lords and ladies be, that they can afford such intricate machinery for such a trivial task? I can only assume that they are from Europe, for duels are still a way to resolve a dispute among nobles.

My musings are interrupted by the sound of the door opening and closing behind me. I turn from my inspection to greet a returning Jimena and instead recoil in surprise.

There are now two people in the room, only a few steps from me, and I have never seen them in my life.

How can they already be so close?! It is impossible! Unless…

I blink.

What was I thinking about? Hmmm. It matters not. There are people in front of me and I haven’t greeted them yet.

I curtsy, even though I do not wear a dress. Master told me to sTop RunNing to behave, and I shall do so.

And I wait.

The woman on the left is wearing a richly embroidered cream gown with green eyes and shockingly red hair. She is extremely beautiful, and both her aura and her posture remind me of Lady Moor. A younger Lady Moor at least. Perhaps a relative?

The black-haired man on the right is dressed in an assorted cream jacket that went out of fashion a century ago, and yet I would never call him on it.

With his chiseled jaw and handsome face, he would be at home as a Shakespearian actor in the fanciest theaters of London. His own aura is blander, yet similar to that of his companion. While she is sneering, he appears to be a victim of the most dire form of boredom. His blue eyes dismiss me almost immediately.

I have not grown to the age of nineteen without learning how to spot trouble. Whatever they want, I must delay it until Jimena returns without drawing their ire. And so, I remain silent.

Time is on my side, and the newcomers know it too. The woman’s sneer turns into a scowl as the first round goes to me.

“We came to see the latest spawn. Tell me, spawn, do you even speak?”

Jimena, I beseech you, wherever you are, come back with all haste!

“Are you referring to me?”

“Obviously! Who else do you see in this pathetic hovel?”

I must thread the needle between aggression and passivity. Too meek, and she will escalate. Too witty, and she will retaliate. I let silence draw as long as I dare before continuing.

“In case you were still waiting for an answer, yes, I can speak. Is that so surprising?”

“It is. Lord Nirari seldom chooses them sharp, you see, he prefers to go for… other attributes.”

What is it with everyone expecting me to be a simpleton!?

“Although this time he may have made an exception.” She says, eyeing me critically.

Does she expect me to lose my composure so easily?

“Are you perhaps related to Lady Moor?”

It appears that I hit the mark. Her face freezes and her eyes turn calculating.

The man’s head turns to the door and he voices a warning.

“Melusine…”

She continues, unfazed.

“And why do you believe that?”

“You have all the bark but none of the class.”

I COULD NOT RESIST, HAHAHAHA. Oops.

“You DARE!”

She was just waiting for an excuse. She moves, and I can see it. Something sings in my veins like the leftover of a good dream, and so, I move as well. I go to grab her backhand and manage to catch her fist.

This was a terrible idea.

She is not quite fast, but the strength behind her strike is unthinkable. I am launched through the air as if I weighed nothing.

By chance, I manage to roll on the ground without hurting myself too much. Her power is truly inhuman! If her backhand had landed, I would have had to collect my molars from the farthest door. How can a slip of a girl like her…

Wait, what was I thinking? I do not know; I know however that I am in danger.

I grunt and pull myself on my knees. I somehow ended up between two of those automatons.

“Time is short, Melusine.” Says the man, as impassive as ever.

Melusine strides towards me, wearing on her face the promise of pain. Their urgency must come from Jimena’s imminent return; therefore, I only need to stall for a few moments.

I am, however, spent.

This affliction has sapped my strength. My limbs are heavier than they were a minute ago. I will not be able to fight her. I will not be able to escape. In desperation, I do something that I can only attribute to my addled mind. I catch the side of the nearest automaton and pull its lever.

At best, I was expecting the dummy to rotate and buy me a few moments. Instead, the unthinkable happens.

A complex imprint flashes in the automaton’s chest and basks it in crimson. It shudders and steps down from its wooden support, and then it stretches four arms ending in wicked blades. Its eyeless head finds the closest moving target, Melusine.

I am too stunned to move. Sorcery! Sorcery of the vilest sort!

I barely notice the man pulling his astonished companion behind himself, when a voice sweeps the room in one mighty roar.

“HOLD!”

Jimena walks in with the confidence of a lioness. Her eyes find the dummy, which moved a bit forward for some reason and then settles on Melusine with an amused sneer.

“It is good to see clan Lancaster attempt to remedy their abysmal lack of martial prowess. With that said, you could just have asked me instead of scurrying around the proving grounds like rats.”

“Watch your mouth, Squire.”

I jump as both doors shut without any visible intervention.

“You should take your own advice.”

A heavy silence falls in the room as Jimena closes the distance with the two outsiders. Before she can reach them, the man takes a step forward and offers a formal bow.

“Squire Jimena, it appears that we have come here by mistake. Perhaps you would consent to open the door?”

Jimena stops and considers for a while.

“You will leave the fledgling alone while she is in my care.”

“Very well.”

Is that all? After all of this, they are free to leave?

WE SHOULD CUT THEIR LEGS AT THE KNEES AND MAKE THEM CRAWL ON THEIR STUMPS!

No, it is a perfectly reasonable outcome for this farce, and I am delighted to see the back of them.

They leave without a word.

“I suppose I should start to train you to defend yourself.” The woman sighs after the gates close.

“With all due respect, Jimena, I think not” I respectfully disagree. “I need to understand who those people are, and the reason for their animosity. Why, when we first met, were you not goaded into attacking me by Ogotai?”

Jimena flinches.

“You are correct, young Ariane. Ah, but I am bad at this. Where should I even begin?”

“You could start by telling me why I am a fledgling and you a Squire, and why does Lady Moor despise me so.”

Jimena stops to consider, then quickly nods in assent.

“Very well, but please bear in mind that I will remain intentionally vague, lest your mind obfuscates some of the information.”

“I assumed that I would be unable to learn more about the affliction until I meet my master once more.”

“Indeed. Now, to begin. Newly turned… Afflicted, start off as drones. They are mindless and pitiful creatures who only react to obey their master’s voices. Most remain in that sorry state for a few weeks at most. Others never move past it.”

I shiver in disgust, what a dreadful fate!

“When drones recover enough of a sense of self, they receive, ahem, their master assists them, and they become fledgling, as you are. A fledgling is essentially a young afflicted.”

“Jimena, my dear, are you not mistaken? I have not yet received that help you mentioned! Am I still a drone?”

“Yes, and no. Someone who has reconstituted a sense of self is always treated as a fledgling. Receiving help is but a formality.”

“What if--”

“No, Ariane, do not think of it. Your master will assist you when the time has come."

“He told me to behave… And I--”

“Did not roll over and bend to Lancaster curs. Worry not, Ariane.”

“Thank you, Jimena.”

She graces me with one of her rare smiles.

“Ah, what a refreshing young lady, but let us continue. Once a Fledgling is deemed an adult, after a few dec-- after some time--”

Did Jimena almost say decades? Surely my ears deceive me, I would not want to wait until my hair grows grey to emancipate! Not that it matters, as soon as I may, I shall go home.

“--they become Courtiers. This title is earned by the grace of their clan and is universally recognized by the others. Those two from before, Melusine and Lambert, are Courtiers.

Those who, ah, master their affliction become masters. Masters do not need the recognition of their clans. Their rank is obvious.

Masters who control a territory are often called Lords. Above them are the clan sovereigns and their councils, and we will address this later.”

“What about Squires?”

“Ah yes. Knights are the military arms of the clans. They are trained and deployed by a separate Order and enjoy some measure of autonomy. Squires are Knights in Training, as well as disgraced Knights.”

Jimena looks at me expectantly. I can tell this is a test of my personality. I have known the woman for only two days, and I can already tell that she is honest and straightforward, perhaps a bit too straightforward.

“When Ogotai, and later Melusine addressed you as Squire, they meant it as a slight, did they not?”

“Correct. They riled me up on purpose and I fell for it.”

She steps forward and I recoil. My reaction hurts her, I can tell.

“Jimena, I am sorry, I…”

“Do not apologize, Ariane. I raised my hand against you yesterday. I only have myself to blame for your apprehension. I shall now explain to you why your situation is so precarious. Ah, where to begin. Hm. We are currently in Louisiana.”

I have not been moved to a forsaken corner of the earth, at least.

“This region has changed hands quite a few times. As a result, a smattering of people now live here: the original Chitimacha, Choctaw and Coushatta, the French and Canadian French, the Spaniards, Africans and now the Anglos.

Usually, clans do not mix, and those unique circumstances have required some level of adjustment. You see, clans are quite territorial.”

I almost scoff at the thought. Why would diseased people be territorial, and why include savages and slaves in the decision process? Unthinkable.

“The clans who call this place theirs have gathered to negotiate spheres of influence. There were to be four: the Cadiz, the Lancaster, the Roland and the Ekon clans of Spanish, English, French and Guinean Gulf origin, respectively.”

“You include slaves in your discussions?” I scoff.

Something flashes in Jimena’s expression.

“Ah yes, I forgot to mention. We… Afflicted, do not care for each other’s skin color. You would be well to remember it.”

“Well! How very… progressive of you.”

“You will understand why, in due time. For now, I expect you to treat others with respect, no matter their race and gender. It is for your own good.”

“Understood Jimena.”

I will do as she asks; I am to obey her in all things.

“The issue comes from your master. Lord Nirari is your sponsor, so to speak. You are affiliated with him no matter what.”

Jimena leads me to a comfortable bench and holds my hands. I find the gesture quite touching coming from the Amazon woman.

“Lord Nirari is not unlike the sovereign of a clan. He is a bit of a rogue, and his arrival was unexpected. Nevertheless, he was welcomed with utmost courtesy. You see, insulting him is considered an exotic form of suicide.”

My face must reflect my astonishment, for Jimena decides to explain a bit more.

“Your master’s way is that of the ancients. He deems the rules of hospitality sacred, yet every slight is met with ruthless vengeance. He is universally feared and reviled, and his reputation reflects on you.”

“What!” I interrupt, scandalized, “He is A bEasT the very soul of kindness! A gentleman of refinement! How dare they slander him so?”

Jimena does not interrupt my ranting; instead she looks at me with pity. How I wish I could convince her.

“Nevertheless, his reputation is well established, and he is known for, ah, not caring about the fate of his protégés.”

“Jimena, I am so confused. Does he have a clan, or not? Do I?”

“He, well, he is just known as the Devourer, and to my knowledge only one of his Spawns, besides you, still lives. You are the third member of his line."

I… What?

“I am sorry Ariane, your legacy will always be known, Lord Nirari’s afflicted are quite distinctive.”

Her attention flickers to my mouth.

“I do not understand! This makes no sense at all!”

“You will, in time. I am sorry.”

I am too astonished to reply. None of this makes sense. A mysterious disease? Clans and politics? A clan of three?

“Jimena, please, tell me the truth. Am I hysterical? Is this some asylum where the mad are left to live their insanity?”

“Ariane, believe me, you are not insane.”

I am not insane.

“This is a difficult time for you, yet if you are tenacious, and if you display a better political acumen than my own, I am confident that you will thrive.”

“Thrive? I do not want to thrive! I want to go home! I just want to go home…”

I try to hold it but despite my best efforts I start crying.

“Ariane?”

“Yes?”

“May I… may I please drink your tears?”

Nothing that happens in this madhouse can surprise me anymore. I nod in assent, then yelp as Jimena pulls me in her embrace. Before I can react, she licks my cheeks! How daring!

We stay there. I would be otherwise offended at her familiarity and yet I realize how much I owe her.

If what she says is true, and I have no reasons to doubt her words, then my master is a bit of a pariah. Our acquaintance taints her reputation.

Her honesty and loyalty are costing her and yet she defended me. I can only be thankful that I met her.

“For an afflicted, you cry a lot.”

“Oh, shush!”

I feel so comfortable in her arms. I was already tired before my confrontation with that horrible harridan and now my entire body feels so heavy. I believe I shall take a quick nap.

Just a few minutes.

4. The seed of Discord

The last harmonies of the hymn wash over the pews and the many attendants. The mass is in full swing now, and I can feel that I am a part of something greater than myself as people from all origins unite with one purpose.

I take a deep breath. The church smells like dust and incense, and a unique mix of perfume and sweat that humanity brought here.

The morning sun kisses the little skin I show. I am, after all, in my Sunday best.

Vanity might be a sin, but how I do love that blue dress I wear. It suits me so much. Papa stands next to me, and I can tell he is looking at the others, acting as my guard.

The young men who stare will be noted and he will tell me of it. Those who stare too much will be reprimanded later.

A smiling old man in the black cassock of the Catholic priests steps in front of us. His genuine smile makes my heart lighter.

Father Armand’s homilies are always so wise and pertinent, much better than that priest from Mobile. What a bore that man was, always screaming about eternal damnation and witches.

“Welcome, everyone, welcome to Mass. I am so pleased to see all of you today. With Easter coming soon, I was about to make my sermon about the dangers of gluttony and over-indulgence. Alas, I received yesterday a meat pie from Mrs. Cantrel and you all know how I abhor hypocrisy!”

I chuckle, like most people present.

“So, I will talk instead about something far less pleasant I’m afraid. It has come to my attention that there have been some scuffles with Mr. Sutton’s parish members. Over the question of religion.”

The mood turns grim.

“Why, I can barely blame you for being confused. I remember myself a loyal subject of King Louis the XVth going out to hunt a pesky snapdragon and when I came back, I was Spanish!”

Once more, we chuckle, the old priest playing us like a fiddle. I do not mind terribly; he is a good man.

“I go make some tea, and I am French again, muchas gracias!”

The Spanish members of the congregation laugh harder, possibly due to father Armand’s atrocious pronunciation.

“And now we have been sold to the United States of America by Napoleon himself. Why, it is no wonder we are all at a loss. I now own more flags than shirts and have considered turning ones into the others. Hehe. Yes. And so it is that our Parish now harbors quite a few Protestants.”

There are more than a few grumbles at the mention of those heretics.

“And yet I ask you this. When Jesus debated with the Pharisees or the Sadducees, did he punch them in the face? Did he throw manure at their women?”

The grumble dies on the spot and quite a few faces redden in shame.

“No, he did not, for he knew that all should have a chance to hear the word of God. We must all remember that we are Christians not because of who we oppose, but because of who we love. I will have no more of this.

Instead, you will love thy neighbor as is ordered in the Holy Scriptures, for the Protestants are not your enemies, merely people who walk a different path. Nay, the true enemies are demon-worshipping sluts like Ariane here.”

“W…What!?”

“You moaned and squirmed under the Beast like a wanton whore. He took you on the first night and you enjoyed every second of it. Neither Sodom not Gomorrah ever witnessed such a shameful display of lust!”

“What?! No! You’re mistaken. Papa! Tell them!”

“I should have drowned you the day you were born. Look at what you’ve become. You cannot even stand here.”

Smoke erupts from my now blood-stained gown and fire soon follows. I try to run but I am blinded. I fall against a wooden bench and the contact sears my hand. It hurts so much. I roll on the ground, screaming in agony. Angry whispers surround me as the congregation watches me die.

“Here, catin, this should help.”

Father Armand throws water on me but it does not stop the fire. I vanish in a flash of blue light and an ear-piercing shriek.

I open my eyes to green sheets and a bedpost made out of a reddish wood I have never seen before. Another day, another room, and I remember that this is no home. I am, at best, an unwilling guest in a gilded cage.

I still savor the moment. I only have a few minutes of lucidity, of peace, before it comes.

The Thirst.

I do not know much about this affliction. I feel that every time I am told more, the ideas flee through my mind like through a sieve.

Jimena told me that all will be made clear tomorrow when I meet Him again and I do hope it will be so. It cannot be healthy to remain in such a fugue state for an extended period.

I go through my new morning ritual while the craving grows in me. It is a strange thing. The Thirst is not limited to the throat and mouth.

It digs in my chest, my belly, and my mind with its needy claws. Every line of thought is derailed, and my feet carry me to the door whenever my attention fails.

No, this cannot last.

I find another grey set, the same as yesterday. It is again quite tight around the hips, and I suspect I am wearing one of Jimena’s spare sets.

As I finish, someone knocks on my door.

As I move to unlock it, I pause. What if it is not my improvised tutor, but the Lancaster shrew and her stooge?

They promised to leave me be. They also did not strike me as people of their words, and they are not the only ones who would do me harm.

It is at this moment that I notice that there is a tiny glass window, no bigger than a thumbnail at the door. I look through it and lo and behold! I can see who is outside with all clarity!

It must be some sort of magnifying glass, or a short telescope, mayhap? I thought running water in every room was a luxury, until now. Why, if their lavatories were encrusted with diamonds I would not be surprised. Speaking of lavatories, why have I not… Hm?

What was I thinking about?

Another knock on the door, more insistent this time, wakes me up from my reverie. I unlock it and greet Jimena.

“Forgive me, dear friend, for my mind is as muddled as ever, and I do pray you brought something to drink. I am parched!”

“And a good day to you too, Ariane,” she replies with a smile, “this is Ricardo, another retainer for clan Cadiz.” She says, and only now do I notice another man.

He is dressed well but soberly. He is tall, with brown eyes and curly brown hair and looks at me not unkindly. I greet him politely, which he returns.

“Buenas tardes, señorita.”

Jimena then bids me let them both in, which is I suppose acceptable since Jimena could be considered a chaperone.

After that comes some more meditation and when we leave, Ricardo stays behind. I feel refreshed and the Thirst releases its hold on me.

“Lord Ceron requested your presence. He is the local head of clan Cadiz and we should attend him now.”

“What? Jimena, surely you jest! This attire…”

I dare not criticize too much since she gave it to me so graciously, however, trousers are indecent, particularly those that are, well, so very tight around the hips.

Jimena notices my discomfort and smiles knowingly while addressing my concerns.

“Fret not, young one. Grey is the color of the knight order and by wearing it you are distancing yourself from the Court. You are claiming neutrality and impartiality, and this can only help you.”

I ponder her words in silence.

“You surprise me Jimena, this is a well-thought statement.”

“Well, I am not so oblivious to the vicissitudes of v… afflicted politics. I usually ignore them. Recent events have forced me to reassess my priorities.”

I suspect that it has to do with her fall from grace and tactfully refrain from asking. In short order, we reach the edge of the many apartments to another set of doors.

It appears that each level contains a square of individual living quarters surrounded on each side by waiting rooms where visitors may gather.

“How many floors does this building have? And why are there no windows?” I ask.

“Only five floors if you count the basement as one. That said, you have seen but one wing of the fortress, there is more on this level than you have had the opportunity to visit. As for the lack of windows, it is for the sake of safety.”

“Hmm.”

“You will…”

“Yes, yes, I will understand in time.”

“One more night and all will be made clear.”

She opens the door to a large boudoir. Comfortable seats are gathered in small groups and other afflicted in fineries mingle there.

We ignore them and reach yet another door. Jimena knocks and, without waiting for an answer, gets in.

We enter an antechamber of modest size. The furniture and decorations are of the same Baroque style as everything else I have seen since leaving the dungeon.

This place has been designed for people to stay, not to live. An oaken chest in a corner convinces me that the sole occupant of this place shares my status as a guest, although he might be doing it willingly.

A man sits at a work desk facing the entrance. He calmly puts down his pen and rises to welcome us.

He is, without a doubt, on the same level as Lady Moor. His aura pressures my mind and while it lacks sophistication, there is a solidity to it that reflects his physique.

The Cadiz clan lord has cornflower blue eyes, like my own, and black curls that reach his muscular shoulders.

His facial features are virile and elegant and complemented by a roguish beard and mustache.

Why, he must have stepped out of some pirate tale, ready to plunder and ravish! I am pleased to see, however, that his gaze is calculating as opposed to overly hostile. Once he reaches us, I curtsy, partly to hide my surprise.

This man is muscular beyond compare! I believe Ogotai has nothing on him, and that he could bend metal with his bare hands. Are all Cadiz clan members so dedicated to physical prowess?

“Rise.”

I do so and stay silent as the man takes my measure.

“Greetings Ariane. I am Lord Ceron of clan Cadiz and I welcome you to my humble abode.”

“The pleasure is mine, Lord Ceron.”

The man smiles wryly and turns to Jimena.

“It is as you said, Squire.”

In his mouth, the rank of Squire becomes praise for past achievements rather than an insult and I can tell that Jimena is grateful.

“Tell me Ariane, has my quartermaster explained the situation to you?”

“She told me of the council and my Master’s unexpected arrival.”

“I see. Has she explained your role in this?”

“My role?”

Lord Ceron just chuckles.

“As expected of our Jimena. I wager her first answer was to put a blade in your hand.”

Jimena hisses playfully and crosses her arm under his teasing rebuke.

“Lord Nirari always holds his word and respects a few rules with unerring consistency, yet he is otherwise quite infamous.”

“You make it sound like he has committed atrocities, yet I do believe I would have heard of them in the news as he looks barely a day above forty!”

Lord Ceron’s eyes flicker to Jimena before he continues.

“You would be surprised, young Ariane. He is much older than he looks, and he has traveled extensively over the mill--over the years.

I think you have realized that our world is apart from the mundane one. Afflicted are kept secret and in our society, he has earned quite the reputation, which makes his visit even more unusual.

This land is remote. We who reside here have not come, we have been sent. For someone of his stature to be here and to make his presence known, he must be after something.

This conclave started three days ago and is set to conclude tomorrow. Yes, I am aware of Lord Nirari’s promise. I quite assure you, that no nascent fledgling is ever left without receiving their Master's blessing. You can look forward to the ceremony without trepidation.”

I was not worried, but I certainly am now!

“What happens if I do not?”

Lord Ceron seems temporarily at a loss so Jimena takes my hand and continues in a reassuring voice.

“Eventually the stress on the fledgling’s mind becomes too much and they revert to drones. Rest assured though, barring a major catastrophe it shall certainly not occur.”

“Yes, Ariane, all will be fine. I should not even have mentioned it. Let us focus on the main topic if you will, and the reason for your presence here.

“You see, Lord Nirari requested our hospitality and we granted it. On the second night, he spent quite some time with Lady Moor, and we suspect she is the reason for his presence or rather, her property is.

“Lady Moor manages the local ship trading for the Lancaster and to our knowledge, she is the only one with the means to provide him with passage back to the Middle-East, or wherever it is he wants to travel to.”

“Can he not arm his own ship? Surely a man of his stature would not be without coin?”

“That is not the issue. Transporting us across vast distances requires specific logistics. It is both easier and safer to reach an agreement with Lady Moor, rather than create a way by oneself.”

“I have so many questions…”

“I know,” he says with a smile, “And I am sorry. Now, as I mentioned, Lord Nirari is our guest and as such he will not force Lady Moor into serving him, and so he needed a bargaining chip. You.”

“Me?”

“Yes. As the only person able to help him, Lady Moor has a monopoly and finds herself under no obligation to hasten the discussions. Quite the contrary. Lord Nirari is believed to be affluent. Very, very affluent. She could use it to leverage her position and that is where you come in.”

“I do not follow.”

“What do you know about your Master’s other protégés?”

“Everyone expects me to be some raving lunatic with barely the ability to speak?”

Both Cadiz chuckle before my outraged face. Ah, but it is good to be with polite company, although I would not call Lord Ceron a friend.

“Quite so. The Devourer has, hmm, had quite a few protégés in the past. He cares little for them and has used them as tools more often than not.”

They were not me. As soon as we get acquainted, my Master will have no choice but to see that I am the one wHo should rUn away for him.

“When needed, he reared them into psychopathic maniacs who he then let loose. They ravaged entire parishes before they could be stopped.”

“W..What?!”

No, they must be wrong. This is nonsense! An individual alone would never be able to… I would have heard about… He would NEVER…

What was I thinking about?

I blink. Jimena signals to Lord Ceron and he graces me with an apologetic smile.

“Forgive me, I forgot myself. Suffice to say that you are a sword of Damocles that hangs over Lady Moor’s head and leave it at that.”

“I don’t see how?”

Jimena clasps my hand between hers. I forgot how cool and soft they could be.

“Trust me on this, he is saying the truth.”

I am a sword of Damocles hanging over Lady Moor’s head.

“I see.”

“Good. Lord Nirari uses your existence as an incentive to push the negotiation forward. He is under no obligation to limit the damages you could inflict according to his own twisted sense of honor.”

Lord Ceron sits back and spreads his hands.

“The implications for you are twofold. The first is that you will be under intense scrutiny while here, and most opinions will be, ah, hostile. The second one is, that should everything proceed as we think it will, you will be left at clan Lancaster’s mercy.”

“What, but, this is horrible! They hate me! Can you… I am ashamed to beg you thus, but can you do something?”

“Alas, no. We have no justifiable way to claim you. The best outcome for you is to serve under them.”

“Best outcome?! Surely you jest, or you underestimate their scorn! They attacked me ruthlessly… And with little provocation! I would be a fool to put myself at their mercy!” I answer, dejected.

“It was a test of your character. Melusine and Lambert are Lady Moor’s only competent subordinates, they were sent there to assess you while someone else was delaying Jimena.

“Thankfully, they were quite bad, and she saw through their awkward attempt. The short time they had to see you should work in your favor. Melusine will want to keep you alive out of curiosity if nothing else.”

They leave me a few seconds to gather my thoughts.

“So, my Master will not take me with him?”

“There is not a chance, although I know you will try anyway. If you wish to live, you will plan accordingly, and I know the way to do so. Tell me, Ariane, what is it that you want?”

I want this to never have happened, but I know it is wishful thinking. Jimena told me to believe her, and that this disease has no cure. Then, what I desire most is…

“I want to go home to my friends and family. I want to walk along the fields of sugar cane in the morning light with whatever pet I have that I cannot remember.

I want to open a distillery and bring wealth to my family. I want to bag an egret in one shot and eat its meat grilled over charcoal.

I just want this insanity to stop.”

I am too close to crying again, and I refuse to do so in front of the local head of the Cadiz clan. My passionate declamation only stuns my hosts into silence. I hope they do not find me whiny and pathetic, but I comfort myself in the certitude that I have cause to be a little dramatic!

Some unspoken message passes between them until Lord Ceron finally returns his focus on our conversation.

“If going home is your fondest wish, we will do our best to grant you the opportunity to do so. This will be a difficult task, however, and you will need to make it worth our while.”

“How mercenary of you!” I reply, scandalized.

“I have obligations towards my own clan, and one of them is to protect its members and make sure its resources are well used. You ask me to risk people and funds to rescue a stranger.”

“I thought I was asking a personal request.”

“It will take more than the two of us Ariane. I am sorry.”

I hold my head between my hands, trying to come to terms with my circumstances. Eventually, I calm down enough to ask the Lord his terms.

“Very well, then what would you ask of me?”

“While you are with them, look for information on their business activities. Inventories, deeds and titles, we can use the information.”

“You expect me to spy for you?!”

“Yes. I assure you that those mongrels do not deserve your loyalty.”

“It is not that! Spying is just so…”

“Distasteful?”

“Precisely.”

“Trust me, after tomorrow, you will change your perspective on the matter.”

“Very well, I shall do what I can even though I fear you may be overestimating me.”

After a few pleasantries, Jimena and I leave the Cadiz enclave and she drags me to her proving grounds to teach me the basics of fencing, including posture and how to hold a blade.

I successfully learn a few things before sleep takes me.

5. The Reveal

“Aunt Catherine!”

“Ma petite chérie, I am so glad to see you!”

I rush down the stairs and embrace her. She returns the hug, then steps back and inspects me with a serious face and smiling eyes.

“Mhhh but how you have grown! Any bigger and we shall have to trim you a bit.”

“Not funny!” I reply laughing. “I am thirteen, and when I turn twenty all of you will have to look up to me! I shall overcome even Papa!”

“Perish the thought!” She answers. “Your appetite would bankrupt us all.”

We chuckle for a while until her expression grows serious. I feel extremely awkward as I am now convinced of the reason for her presence, even more so because she left my cousins at home.

“We need to have a talk goddaughter, one that requires privacy. Should we retire to your room?”

“Very well.”

I would like to pout and protest, but I’m a woman now and need to show patience and restraint. I lead her up the stairs to my room and claim the bed while she takes a chair.

“How I wish Diana could see you now, she would be so proud.”

I am instantly saddened.

“I am sorry ma chérie, I did not mean to make you sad.”

“It is fine, we both miss her.”

“Yes, and this makes it even worse. How I regret it, what I have to do…”

“Dear aunt, you exaggerate. I know discussing lady issues are a tad delicate…”

“Not that, this.”

Her hands grip my throat and she pushes me into the mattress. I cannot breathe! I struggle and fight but she is so much bigger and stronger.

My sharp nails dig into her arms to no avail. Red tears of regret mar her cheeks and her mouth distends to show serrated fangs.

Oh my God! I panic even more but already darkness creeps upon my sight.

“I am sorry chérie, this is the only way! He will claim your soul otherwise! I am so sorry, ma Cherie. So sorry…”

I grow more frantic in my struggle. Her fingers dig into my skin, draw blood until the pressure is too much. The pain becomes intolerable and with one grisly crack, my cervical bones shatter.

Something is wrong. I… What… Who? I cannot think properly, everything seems distended and cloudy. I feel the urge to just stay there, and wait, but I know something is wrong.

It smells like fire.

The thought of fire horrifies me, a visceral reaction of such intensity that it forces me up.

I…

I don’t know what to do.

No, focus, this has happened before.

“My… name is… Ariane… I… Am my… Own.”

Slowly, painfully, my psyche stitches itself back together, fraying at the edge. Holding my mind together is like holding sand, and I know I need something. I desperately need it.

The Thirst hits me like a rock.

I bend forward and grip my stomach. Oh God, it hurts… I need it. I need it. I need it.

I NEED IT!

I need to find my master.

He promised…

Then we will leave this forsaken place together.

Yes.

But first I need to FIND HIM NOW.

I pull myself together and just walk to the door, carefully opening it. The smells hit me first.

Woodsmoke. Gun powder. Blood. Excrements.

The corridor is deserted but for two unmoving forms. The first one is a servant in a maid outfit. Her hands clasp a deep wound in her chest. They are so coated in red that she looks like she is wearing scarlet gloves. She is also quite dead. Tears trail down her face from half-lidded eyes.

The other one is a man in a black leather overcoat. His clothes are military without being a uniform I recognize. I see no wound on him but he is lying in a pool of his own blood, also dead.

I feel nothing.

A distant part of me screams that this is not right, that I have seen bodies before but never like this.

I care not.

The man is holding a gun, a pistol of good make with silver embroidery. I get closer and see that it is discharged. A basic inspection yields silvery bullets and a powder horn, which I take. I reload the weapon and cock it.

The woman took a bullet wound.

Whoever attacked this place, they care not for unarmed women. They did not even have the grace to give her mercy, instead choosing to let her suffer atrociously before she drew her last breath. I will not have the same fate. I have not come this far to fall to some brutish lout.

I need to flee the building. The smell of fire worries me. I dare not find Jimena, for if I know the woman, she will be in the heart of the battle if she still lives.

Fortunately, I know where to go. We are in one of the wings of the fortress and the exit should be on the “ground” level of the wing, quite close to the entrance to the dungeon.

I am quite certain that there are hidden ways given the builder’s strange tastes, but I am not inclined to look for them. I would rather risk a blockade.

The Thirst is killing me.

I go down one floor with all the patience I can manage and stop when something peculiar hits me. This is the floor where I first slept and the door to my first room has been broken open. Only one other room had its entrance forced.

Are they hunting the residents? If so, how did they know where to find me?

I reach the ground level and slow down. If the mysterious assailants are still around, this is where I will find them. As I finish this thought, a few footsteps echo from a nearby hallway and I hear Ogotai’s distinctive voice.

“…incompetent, I would never have agreed to this! How many men do you need to…”

Relieved, I step out of an alcove as Ogotai comes into view, taking care to hide my pistol at my back in case he proves himself to be too nervous. A gravelly voice retorts but I barely pay attention until his two companions step into view.

Both of them look like hard men. The older one has deep claw scars on one side of his face, barely missing his black eyes. The second one is much younger, with red hair and a sharp look.

Both of them wear the black overcoat of the intruders, enough weapons to start a small conflict and unexplainably, silver crosses.

We all freeze at the sight of each other.

I understand immediately.

Traitor.

I turn to run and Ogotai moves.

I will never make it in time.

And that is fine. A part of me that I do not recognize rises to the surface of my being. There is barely enough of me left to direct it and yet it is enough.

I move as well.

Just as the edge of his blade kisses my neck I lift the firearm and pull the trigger.

Point-blank range. A child could not miss.

Ogotai is so surprised at the sight of the muzzle, that I see his mouth form an “O” an instant before it is blown away.

I am not done.

The two men instantly pulled guns and are now firing.

I grab Ogotai’s body and use it as a shield. Two dull impacts make his chest shiver as I rush forward. I am barely thinking, something is taking over and I let it. I will live.

I will live.

And so they must die.

Ogotai’s body flies through the air to the older man who tries to dodge to the side. A pointless endeavor. The warrior’s body is too massive and the corridor too tight. With a grunt, he falls.

So thirsty.

With a high pitched scream, I rush at the redhead until a flash of silver makes me dodge. Something flies over my shoulder. The corridor’s tightness now plays against me and I move to avoid another one.

My foe anticipates it and a third something stabs into my arm with a flash of blinding pain. A knife!? I hiss and barely manage to endure it. He is close, so close!

Something glows white and I am propelled backward by an implacable force. Swatted like an insect I bounce on the floor. No! No, this cannot be. I am too thirsty. I need it.

I NEED IT!

I manage to stagger back up in time to find the young man taking out another pistol from a recess in his vest and aim it at me.

As he fires it, I throw my own discharged firearm. It impacts his shoulder as he shoots and a massive hole opens in the wall next to me. I need to get closer, but I can’t! What to do!

Oh. Of course.

I rush forward once more as the man takes out a smaller pistol from yet another pocket. How many does he even have? This time he waits calmly for me to approach.

When I am but a few feet away I pull the knife from my arm and throw it at him. I care not about the pain. I only care about the deliverance he will offer me.

My awkward throw sends the flat of the blade to impact his nose and it breaks his concentration. As he recoils from the pain. I manage to move around him. I grab his neck with two fingers and push him down. At the same time, I bring one of his arms back and bite.

Ah, yes!

Or no.

This isn’t close to what I had before! It simply will not do! I cannot take it in. It barely dulls the edge. I need more. I need him.

I NEED IT FROM HIM!

I… what? Nothing makes sense anymore!

Somebody cackles like a madwoman.

Me.

I stand up and grab a dagger. Ignoring everything else, I follow my nose to a draft of fresh air I feel. The air is tainted by smoke but this is the way out. I know it.

I will live.

In a daze, I leave the three bodies behind and walk past corpses of servants and soldiers as well as one inexplicable pile of ash to the scene from a battlefield.

A broken down barricade stands not ten meters from a half-collapsed wall. I count more than a dozen bodies of both sides strewn about, including a few women and quite the assortment of weapons.

It looks like the invaders stormed it and left no one alive. As I pass the barricade, the reason for their anger lies before me.

The entrance to this wing of the fortress has been blown open, yet the wall partly collapsed, creating a chokepoint and corpses of the invaders litter the ground.

Even in my dazed state, I am stunned by the extent of the destruction I am witnessing. What manner of fanatics would throw their lives away like this? What would justify such determination, or such hatred?

I cross the door and find trails of drying blood. Recent. Someone dragged their wounded out.

So thirsty.

I stumble forward and find myself in a massive hall the size of a cathedral. The walls are natural. Is this some sort of cave?

Another set of doors faces me. The cave goes up to my left but the draft comes from my right. I walk in that direction.

This place is empty but for the dead. A handful of oil lamps provides enough illumination to see clearly.

This hall is barren and its sole purpose seems to be to instill a sense of majesty or dread. I cannot tell.

I quickly reach a set of massive stairs when two forms step down from it. I did not hear them at all!

The first one is a bearded blond man with pale grey eyes in a blue overcoat who frowns at my sight. The second one elicits a gasp of surprise from me.

I have seen many slaves and freemen, hailing from Haiti or the continent. They always have something about them while in the presence of many white folks.

Sometimes it is fear, sometimes, respect and quite often, it is defiance, but what they all have in common is that they never let their guard down.

Not this man.

Dressed in a beige leather ensemble and quite visibly armed, he has a sarcastic smirk on his face that shows that he fears no one.

Bar Master and my father, he is also the tallest man I have ever seen.

The two newcomers are followed by brown haired twin men and a black woman, respectively.

All of them exude the same cold aura I now attribute to afflicted, with the first two men being on par with Lady Moor and Lord Ceron.

I need to go up.

I NEED TO BREAK THROUGH.

No. They are stronger, I cannot leave.

The blond man steps towards me and before I can react, he moves faster than I can think and my vision turns white.

“Ah!”

One moment I am looking forward, the next I am held above ground by five sharp things digging in my stomach. The pain is unbearable and the tenuous hold I had on my mind finally breaks.

It is too much.

I stay there, unmoving. I don’t have to struggle. I don’t have to breathe. Moving just means more pain. Better to stay and wait. Focus on fighting the fog. The last dregs of consciousness I can hold to. If I let go, it is over. I know it in my soul.

As I drift in and out I can hear fragments of conversation.

“…clear as day! Someone betrayed us and we know it cannot be a cattle!”

“… raving imbecile. She has been one of us for four days while this raid is weeks in the making.”

“…cannot trust his spawn! I knew it was a mistake to…”

“Bring her back up or we will never know. She fed and is still degenerating; she’s almost too far gone.”

Somehow, we are going up. We reach another grand entrance, this one made of wood. We walk through the burnt husk of a mansion. We walk through a garden. We are outside.

Finally, something shakes me from my torpor and I let out a weak moan.

It’s Him! My salvation!

His mere presence stitches more of me back together. Enough to follow what happens.

The blond man throws me on the ground. I curl up around my belly. I fight off the pain. I can do nothing else.

I will live.

I just need a few more minutes, and Master will save me. Just a little bit longer…

“Back so soon?”

“Don’t play coy, Lord Nirari, I am wise to your schemes!”

“I really doubt that little Gaspard, you do not even have enough fingers to count them all.”

“You! So you admit that this is your doing?!”

“What is?”

“This attack on us! You come here and not a week goes by and we are assaulted?! You expect me to believe this is a coincidence?!”

“Or it could be because of the long-awaited conclave. I would explain Occam’s razor and confirmation bias to you, Gaspard, but I lack the patience and crayons to do so.”

“Oh!”

“Enough Lord Gaspard. If we want to know more we have but to ask the lass. Lord Nirari?”

“I admit that I am curious as well.”

Master grabs my neck. I do not need to see him to know it. His touch makes my body lax. Even the pain and the Thirst fade.

I find myself looking into his face.

Ah, those handsome features! This kingly presence! His noble beard! HiS eIghT fanGs.

“Ariane.”

Oh, my name on his lips! I am undone. I find myself smiling like a witless maiden. I love him so much!

“Answer me.”

The world gradually disappears as my body relaxes completely. The world fades away and at the same time, I regain perfect clarity.

Never since my awakening in this dark cell have I felt so focused.

“What did I ask of you when we first met?”

“Do not speak unless spoken to, address you as master, behave, obey Jimena in all things.”

“Have you spoken without leave?”

“No, Master.”

“Have you addressed me as anything but Master?”

“No, Master.”

“Have you obeyed Jimena in all things?”

“Yes, master.”

“Have you behaved?”

“I… I think so? Yes, Master.”

“We shall see. Ask your questions Lord Ekon, and I shall relay them to her.”

His attention goes to someone else. No! Look at me! He turns back to me. Yes!

“When did you wake up?”

“ I do not know, maybe fifteen minutes ago?”

“At sunset then. Do you know of the raid on our fortress?”

“Yes.”

“Did you help the assailants in any way, at any time?"

“No.”

There is some commotion outside, after a while, He asks me more.

“Little Gaspard here thinks we were betrayed. What do you think, little one?”

“I agree.”

Another commotion. Master looks pleasantly surprised.

“Oh? And why do you think so?”

“I saw Ogotai walk with two of the invaders. They were talking”

This time the commotion is quite loud.

“Tell us about it.”

As I relay the encounter to master, his smile grows wider and more malevolent until he laughs. The sinister sound sets my stomach aflutter.

“Ah, young Ariane, you have brought me something I would not have expected to find in this forsaken corner of the world: entertainment. Jimena, did my spawn behave properly?”

A pause.

“Very well then, I declare that you upheld your end of the bargain. I am pleasantly surprised by this outcome! It is not every decade that someone manages to elate me so. As promised, you may draw my essence. May it be everything you hoped for.”

He slowly drags me up to the crook of his neck. I do not understand what he wants until he places my mouth against his soft skin. My mouth instinctively opens and he lets himself be touched.

I feel something thick and syrupy pass through my parted lips.

Time stops.

Even if one day I forget my name, even if I live a thousand years, even if I am robbed of every last shred of sanity I have, I shall never forget the moment I taste this essence.

I will go on blessed by the experience and cursed by the knowledge that nothing will ever compare.

Words escape me.

I die of pleasure a thousand times. The wave of agony and bliss burns through me again and again, lasting both an instant and an eternity, and I am carried on it helplessly.

After a while, visions like fleeting dreams appear to me.

I am in a chariot pulled by two horses. I let loose an arrow that flies true and buries itself in a man’s throat. My first kill, one of many.

A foreign princess prostrates herself before me, the blood of her brother still staining her dress. I utter a few words. With tears of humiliation rolling on her face, she unclasps the gown. It smoothly falls from her golden shoulders. I stand up.

An older woman sits at the heart of an intricate garden. Her beauty and wisdom are legends. She is writing an intricate spell on a square of tanned human skin. When she hears me, she looks up and smiles.

I lie on a bed stained with my sweat and blood. My hands grip the hole in my gut. The stench is nauseating. The same woman leans against me with a sad smile. She tenderly brushes my hair back. Her other hand brings a vial of black liquid to my lips and I swallow it.

I pull away with a gasp before the blazing potency makes me burn from within. My fraying mind is reforged at its sharpest and coldest. The power courses through me and invades every organ. I absorb it like a woman dying of thirst.

I remember.

My name is Ariane Lucille Beatrice Reynaud. I have a father and an older brother. Family, friends, hopes and dreams. I came to New Orleans with my best friend for a short stay. I intended to talk to an acquaintance at a ball and met Master here. He…

No.

No.

No no nonononoNONONONO

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ME, YOU! YOU!”

The monster laughs, he is filled with mirth! NO!  This cannot be, it is a nightmare! No. I refuse to…

No. It’s…

“What hAve yOu done? What am I? Why?”

“So much anger little one, do you hate me? Do you?”

How can I hate him when I love him so much and I hate him so much and love him so much and…..

“No, MasTeR…”

“No? Then are you happy?”

“HAAAAAGH”

“Tears? How very precious! No? Was it not your desire?”

“HOW! HOW DARE YOU! YOU VIOLATED ME, KILLED ME, TURNED ME INTO THIS!”

His hand slides from my neck to my throat.

“Urgh!”

“Tut tut, I will have no mouth from you little one. After everything I have done for you.”

He smiles disarmingly.

“You were so precious, a little peasant girl who dared approach me, as if we were equal. You even addressed me first, introduced yourself freely. I wanted to tear you apart limb by limb for your insolence, but then you started talking.

So many projects, so many dreams. This drive, this passion, I was so touched. You reminded me of someone I knew long ago. Like you, she reached above her station, however, she succeeded. Her deeds inspired a whole civilization. You were like her. You wanted it all, and you even wanted me! You asked me if I was married. Such presumption, such hubris. I had to see it through.

So here you are, little one, like me, a vampire. Free of the constraints of this barely civilized corner of the world. You can live forever. Time will not wither your beauty, nor will it dull your wit. You can get it all, and you can even get me. Show me how far you can overreach, little Ariane. Show me that I did not waste my blood and my seed on yet another failure.”

“You will not get away with this, Guh…!”

“God? Did you want to say God? There is only one God left for us. Look up.”

Despite my best efforts, I raise my eyes to the sky above.

So beautiful.

A canopy of light and darkness. A canvas where some divine artist threw lights and shades of colors in some unfathomable pattern. I never knew the heavens could be so breathtaking, and I would stare in wonder were it not for a new celestial body.

Twisted clouds and roots of baleful purple enshrine an eye of black sclera and a slitted red pupil. It is absolutely massive. It dwarfs even the moon.

The sky has a gigantic eye. A demonic cat eye in a purple crown.

I stare, speechless.

It stares back.

I want to close my eyes but I cannot for Master bid me look. Sheer terror courses through my mind. It is alive. I feel a presence.

“Welcome to your journey of Black and Red little one,” Master says, “may it be everything you hoped for.”

6. Uprooted

The man throws me on the ground.

“As agreed, she is yours,” he says without a care.

I can barely lift my eyes to see the hem of a blue dress.

This is all too much.

I finally understand.

I remember dying.

I am now a monster.

I have been a monster for four days.

I drink blood.

I am damned, an abomination. And the people in the corridor, they were priests.

I killed a priest.

That boy on the first night, I killed him too.

And before that, my last nights as a normal person, I… He…did things to me.

This is not a nightmare, I know it with perfect clarity, just as I know that I should feel hysterical but cannot, I should wish for death but I do not. Something in me is broken.

Old age may have robbed me of my mind, eventually, but what streams my consciousness, what moves my heart now is not the spirit of a person. It is much colder.

Already, the tears I shed have dried on my cheeks. Panic has receded, replaced by cold certainty. I am no longer the Ariane that danced and drank fine wine on that night, the one who suffered, fought and begged for freedom then for a quick death. I am not her. Not entirely.

I am a vampire, and I want to live.

I may have been robbed of the future I envisioned but I will not throw away this pathetic excuse of a life until I fulfill this promise to myself. I am Ariane. I am my own. I will live, and I will go home. They cannot take this from me. I will not let them. Never. As Jimena said, patience and determination will carry me.

Jimena.

She helped me. She showed compassion, kindness, honor. Are they not all monsters? I turn my head left. There she is, her armor reddened by blood but otherwise unharmed. She looks forward like a soldier at a parade. As I look, she turns to me briefly.

Long enough to see the pity in her eyes.

I need to think, to evaluate. I need time.

“Not so fast you old monster. You think me daft? You would have me believe Moor’s servant betrayed us all and you had nothing to do with it? Both of you plotted our demise!”

“Those are preposterous accusations Gaspard, and you should know better,” Lord Ceron answers.

“All of you are too blind to see it but I will not be made a fool!”

“Careful,” says Master, and the clearing goes deathly still. “It sounds like you insulted me twice.”

“And what would you know of honor? You hide behind a false code and vile sorceries!”

“Oh? You believe me weak of arm, young Gaspard? Would you wager your eternity on it?”

“You will regret those words you decrepit husk! I accept your challenge. No magic, only our blades and us.”

I turn my head in disbelief to the blond bearded man. Gaspard, the representative for clan Roland. Is he serious?! Can he not tell how utterly outclassed he is?

“Witnessed by Clan Ekon,” the tall black man declares in a low rumble.

“Witnessed by Clan Cadiz,” Lord Ceron adds.

“Witnessed by Clan Lancaster. Farewell Gaspard, I cannot say that I will miss you,” Lady Moor continues with a voice as cold as it is uncaring.

The group moves away and I push myself up to Lady Moor’s icy eyes.

“Well, are you going to hug the dirt like a scullery maid for much longer?”

I stand up before her and grind my teeth in silence. I do not know the rules that regulate vampires and therefore I do not know how freely she can kill me. I need to make her believe that keeping me alive will be more beneficial than finishing me off.

“You serve me now.”

“Yes, Lady Moor.”

“Will I have to discipline you?”

“No, Lady Moor.”

“Humph! At least you know your place now. Even monkeys can be taught, it seems.”

That trollop, I so want to WRENCH OFF HER HEAD.

Ah.

So this is what it is.

I can feel my own mind, twisted and corrupted like the surface of a lake, and there is something else, something deeper. When I was alive, I was prone to feeling anger, but this is different.

It is like a twisted thing that prowls beneath the surface, pitiless and predatory. It is the part of me that fought those priests and took Ogotai by surprise, and if I release it, it will not throw harsh words.

Right now, it is of no use to me. Any resistance on my part will be met swiftly and mercilessly.

Mistaking my silence for complacency, Lady Moor smirks and moves away.

“Follow.”

I do, and finally take the time to check around me.

We stand in the middle of an exquisite garden. The mansion dominating it might have been a sight at some point. Now, only blackened beams and collapsed walls remain. Somebody dug a path from the outside to the massive steel door at its heart.

Bodies of those battle priests litter the grass although most seem to have died in some sort of defensive line. Collapsed tents and slain beasts form a grisly spectacle somewhere at the edge of the property. I can spot servants packing belongings in coaches in the distance, so it seems some of them survived.

Vampires gather around a flat circle in silence. It seems that each lord has between two and five followers who stand behind them. I want to join Master, yet I place myself behind the Lancasters. Melusine turns in my direction and smiles cruelly. I do not react.

The two combatants enter the arena. Lady Moor takes a white band and releases it without ceremony. I can see every detail on the Roland Lord’s arrogant face: his pride, his disdain, the certainty of his victory.

I shall never be so utterly brainless, and thus I promise to myself to keep the beast in check.

What follows is a lesson, and this lesson is not for Gaspard. It is for the rest of us.

One moment the Lord stands at the edge of the circle, the next moment he is right next to Master in a perfect lunge. His black bladed sword kisses the edge of Master’s deep blue coat without touching it. Master has one hand on Gaspard's sword arm and the second deep within his chest.

Gaspard's expression turns from triumph, to surprise, to pain, to horror. A torrent of black blood rains on the ground and the Roland clan representative staggers and lurches, only kept standing by Master’s steel grip.

With deliberate slowness, Master ignores the man’s pleading eyes and releases the blade, which falls on the ground. He then grabs his throat.

What follows is a moment I shall never forget.

The sound of flesh tearing and bone breaking, the suction noise as the head is pulled minutely, the vertebrae revealed to the world with agonizing slowness.

It takes the man ten seconds to die in a flash of blue fire. Ten seconds during which Master reveals his true colors: he is utterly bored.

This is nothing to him, just another insect that needs its wings pulled so that the other vermin know better than to provoke him.

The local master did not even warrant the satisfaction of the kill. He was such easy a prey.

Master turns to the silent assembly with one raised eyebrow. Lady Moor bows to him.

“Melusine will show you to your ship, my Lord.”

I derive a small amount of satisfaction from the abject terror shown on the little harlot’s face.

Unfortunately, when Master turns to leave, I take a step forward despite myself.

“Master…”

I know I shouldn’t, yet I must try. He ignores me, completely. He leaves without a word, without even a look. I don’t understand. I have been a good girl. I did everything he asked… I did my best! So why, why…

The other vampires are perfectly silent, so my outburst and the following shame are witnessed by all. When I think it could not possibly get worse, I feel two claws grab my neck. Lady Moor’s cold breath on my ear makes me shiver.

“Not ten minutes in my service and you already embarrass me in front of my peers. It looks like you need discipline after all. Undress.”

“What?”

Her vicious claws draw blood and I convulse in answer. Ah! This really hurts!

“Do not make me repeat myself.”

I can only be grateful that most other vampires leave to attend to other business as I slowly take off my gown, gritting my teeth. In short order, I stand in my smallclothes in the middle of the clearing, grateful that the view of my disrobed body remains hidden behind a curtain of green. This is the most indecent thing I have been forced to do.

I wince as a memory worms itself to the forefront of my mind. It is, in fact, the second most indecent thing I have ever been submitted to.

God, why did I have to die like this? What have I ever done to deserve such treatment?

Why have you forsaken me?

I do not receive an answer, not that I expect one.

I do not wait long. A bearded man soon reaches us. I recognize the insane blue eyes that greeted me in my cell back on the first day. He leers at me shamelessly! I try to cover myself as best as I can.

“Hehe, looks like Nirari knows how to pick ‘em…”

I hiss in outrage and he recoils.

“Enough Baudouin, she is more than you can tame.”

The man looks at me thoughtfully then throws me another dress, a humble apparel of white linen. I would never have let one of our estate’s servants walk around in this rag, and yet I treasure it for it is the only material thing I possess now.

I do believe that Lady Moor did not want me naked only so that the unspoken threat of this condition deters me from opposing her will.

As soon as I am covered, we leave to join the procession of coaches and carriages leaving the fortress ground. The remaining Roland clan members precede us as I recognize the twins. It appears that the death of their leader has not affected them in the slightest. I am horrified when I see where I am led.

Lady Moor turns to me, expecting a reaction, yet this time I manage to remain silent.

A cage.

They are going to transport me in a cage like a circus animal. Oh, I so wish to make them SUFFER, but I need to exert patience.

Baudouin has a pair of manacles hanging from his shoulder, massive objects of cruel metal, and I have no intention of letting him come anywhere near me if I can help it.

Lady Moor gestures to the door and I get in wordlessly. It is a testament to my circumstances that I am grateful that the cage is clean.

Lambert silently rides a horse to my side. He pointedly ignores me and I am only too happy to return the favor.

Clan Lancaster is the last to leave the fortress grounds. Only a dozen servants are left to clean up the battlefield. Our little procession is made of six coaches and four carts including my own, and we depart in silence.

Despite my circumstances, I cannot help but look around me in wonder.

For the first time, I truly appreciate night in the bayou. The oppressing wet heat of summer is mercifully subdued at night, or perhaps I am no longer so afflicted by it.

Sounds and smells form a vast harmony and I spend quite a bit of time looking at strange arrangements in the leaves and barks of the cypresses, and ripples on ponds of brackish waters.

Every insect and every plant hold a new fascination for me as if I had never seen them before. I suspect that vampire vision is highly superior to that of humans to help us perform some foul deeds, and it brings me some consolation that my new senses can be used for more than just evil.

It is also my luck that the path is quite muddy, else I would be swallowing the entire caravan’s dust. We are in July and night is the only time when the weather is tolerable.

So, I am a vampire.

I have no idea what that means. Never have I heard of such a thing. I have difficulties admitting that monsters could live among humans, moving faster than the eye can see and digging into people’s chest at will without it being common knowledge.

Surely, people would ask questions upon having their blood consumed? If those battle priests know of us, why not call the colonial militia and give us the cannons? I am simply baffled. There are so many things I do not understand. Truly, I am a toddler once more.

Thinking on it, can I still bear children?

Would I even want to? Would they not be twisted things, just like me?

I abandon this line of thought. I will not give Lambert the satisfaction of seeing me cry a second time in a single night. I would also not want to ask questions. It appears that talking without leave is not looked upon kindly.

My cart is at the very tail of the procession and we advance at a snail’s pace, so much that we eventually lose sight of the rest. I assume that so many carts together in the middle of the night would attract undue attention, so I am only left with a human driver and the ever-taciturn Lambert.

Fortunately, the new experience of the night entertains me until we come across a patrol of three armed militia. They look at me questioningly.

I do not wish to resist at this point. Jimena’s promise is still clear in my mind and I do not doubt that Lambert could disable them in an instant, should I try to force a rescue.

I am therefore compelled to hear him explain how I am the wanton daughter of a tailor, who ran away from home after finding out I was with child, from an unknown father, no less.

I apparently murdered the babe as he was born so I could continue with my depravity. The faces of the men turn from wariness, to shock and eventually, to disgust as Lambert spins his tale. He is as good an actor as I took him for, and I note to myself that I shall never trust a word he says.

We leave the patrol behind us and cross a small village. The night comes alive with the smell of humanity. Under the stench of sweat and unwashed bodies, there is a perfume of vitality that makes my jaw ache. I pass my tongue over my fangs, only to find out that there are eight of them.

They have replaced all my canines, and the outermost incisive as well. Jimena mentioned that my bloodline’s appearance was unmistakable. This is certainly why. Now that my memory is clearer, the other vampires all have four.

This is grave news. It means that I must absolutely keep the sight of my teeth to myself lest my lineage is immediately found.

As I ruminate, we leave the village and come upon another patrol. This time, Lambert entertains them with a tale of my murder of the old man who welcomed me to his hearth, how I poisoned him and seduced his son to steal the family’s fortune.

Again, the looks of horror on their face are striking and I wonder why Lambert lies with such aplomb when there is no benefit to it. He is not even having fun.

After a while, the land gradually changes and we find ourselves next to a colonial house of massive proportions. For a while now, I have smelled the barest hint of brine in the wind and I remember that clan Lancaster has an interest in sea trade. I suspect that we may not be far from New Orleans.

The place of my demise.

Lambert opens the cage and lets me out. I follow him in silence across a grand entrance and a series of corridors. We walk past tastefully decorated rooms and a few submissive servants in blue uniform to a closed door. Lambert knocks and we go in.

The room is a boudoir of good size illuminated by candles. A handful of vampires lounge lazily on comfortable couches.

I am horrified, not by their number, but by their immobility. There is not a whisper of moving fabric, not a sigh. They are not even breathing. Shocked, I begin holding my breath.

I am still holding it as Lambert leads me to the forefront. I am still holding it as Lady Moor stands up from a throne-like seat to address the crowd.

The vampires shift their postures to show attention. I feel like I am watching a puppet show, so unnatural their movements are. I count seven in total.

Besides Lady Moor, Melusine, and Lambert, there are also a weasel-faced scoundrel, a bovine toad of a woman, a witless looking slip of a girl with crooked teeth, and a balding brute.

It finally occurs to me that Louisiana is not a land of exiles just for the humans.

“My esteemed clan kin, the conclave has reached a favorable conclusion and once more, Lancaster has risen to the top. The successful negotiations I conducted solidified our hold on New Orleans and its boon of treasure and cattle. Our success is assured.”

The grisly automatons clap politely, like the obedient curs they are.

“This victory did not come without its share of disappointment, however. As you know, we lost Caytlinn and were betrayed by Ogotai, may his soul burn forever.”

The assembly does not betray any sort of reaction. I do not believe that such a sorry lot would harbor any kind of sympathy for each other.

“We have received a new member as payment for service rendered by Lord Nirari himself. As the foremost clan in this land, the Devourer has favored us with his business and we will reap the benefits for years to come.”

Not if I can help it.

“Please welcome Ariane to our loving family.”

I feel like a piece of meat dangled before a pack of bloodhounds.

“She is yet very young, so it will be up to Melusine to rear her into a valuable and productive member of our community, for the good of all.

I notice the vilest and cruel of smiles on the red-headed harridan. Ah, truly, I will need every scrap of self-control I can salvage.

“And with this, I shall retire for the evening. There is much for me to do.”

The rest of them stand as she leaves. Melusine reaches my side and grabs my arms as if we were the best of friends before dragging me out of the room. I am surprised to see that I am quite a bit taller than her but it matters not. She has me, and she knows it. This will be difficult.

7. Servitude

I open my eyes to total darkness. The pantry sized room they call mine greets me in all its misery. In truth, it is a cell, for what bedroom has a lock on the outside?

No nightmare tonight. A pleasant change.

I hear footsteps coming. I do not even have the luxury of privacy.

I have learned much in a week.

Vampires “die” at dawn and wake up at sunset or before. During that time, we are utterly defenseless. Sunlight kills us. Silver blades cut us deep. Fire will turn us into torches faster than one can say “arson”.

Our mind is prone to distractions unless we hunt. In return, our body is superior in all accounts and can heal even the most grievous of wounds, given enough time and nourishment.

We do not have to breathe, poison cannot hurt us and we cannot drown. Only the destruction of our head and heart spells a certain end. This implies that Ogotai may have survived his wounds if one of the priests supplied him with blood.

Blood.

It is the Red of the Journey, the energy we need to consume to sustain the parody of life that animates us. It cannot be stored. It must be consumed from the source and without it, the predatory part of us will take over until it tastes the crimson nectar.

Vampires who lose control, sometimes fail to get it back. They must be hunted down like beasts.

The Thirst drives us. It taints every aspect of our existence. It can never be completely overcome, and it will never be truly sated. For fledglings like me, it is a daily struggle to control it, and then another struggle not to fall into torpor after we slake it.

For this, we have a few tools. Vampire saliva can make the bite extremely pleasurable, and then closes the wound so that it fades at record speed. Bitten individuals will develop an unnatural loyalty for the vampire, despite themselves.

Our eyes can confuse memory, though I am sure there is more to it than I was told.

I have not been allowed to leave the building so far, and every night a new human is brought to me. Using Jimena’s method, I have been able to stop feeding without Melusine hurting me too much. I can tell that she is disappointed, and the death of cattle would have been a good excuse for her to belittle me.

The logistics used in feeding eight vampires must be truly staggering.

That is probably how the battle priests usually find us. We have a few distinctive features, such as the claws and pallor but our fangs are usually hidden unless the grasp of the Thirst gets too strong.

We are not reflected by mirrors either, which I find quite silly. All in all, it seems that whoever created us meant for us to infiltrate the human world. Hunting us must be quite difficult.

When I asked about the priests, Melusine became unusually tight lipped and I had to drop the topic.

I hear soft gasps. Joan is gathering enough courage to knock on my door. She does not have the submissive behavior of servants who have bowed to vampires for a long time. There is a fire in her that they have not managed to extinguish. Melusine knows this, and that is why she is charged with being the first I see in the morning. I mean, evening.

If I drink her dry, Melusine has killed two birds with one stone. She is quite petty like that.

So far, I have managed to control myself, but it is becoming difficult. Melusine is stopping my feedings just a little bit early. Every night, I find my self-control eroding a bit more.

There is a knock on my door.

“Come in.”

The courtesy is a joke and we both know it, yet I cling to any appearance of control and every scrap of manners to keep the Thirst at bay.

“Mistress Melusine requests your presence, Miss Ariane.”

I nod, not trusting myself to speak and she leaves promptly.

The scent of vitality caresses my nostrils and the Thirst punches me in the gut. I feel like someone scooped my innards with a frozen axe. Nobody has fed from Joan for a long time. So it would be fine if I had a taste. Just a taste. Melusine can punish me later. I need just a tiny, tiny mouthful. Just a few droplets.

No. I must not.

When I come to, my hand is on the handle of the door and Joan is standing still with her back to the wood. She is perfectly silent, her eyes closed and her face lax but I can smell the fear in her perspiration, hear it in the beat of her heart.

She is doing her best not to struggle, knowing that a mere move will set me off.

So close.

So very, very close.

Finger by finger, I release my hold and open the door for her. Only when I turn around does she leave.

That was the closest call, BUT I SHOULD RUN AFTER HER AND TACKLE HER TO THE GROUND! THEN--

No.

I will not.

I get changed, mechanically, and reach Melusine’s office. She is in deep conversation with a richly dressed man with a fetching appearance. He does not know what he is in for. I can see it from his flushed face and the scent of his arousal. To be alone with a woman like Melusine is titillating him. His mind has yet to be tainted by one of us.

Prey.

Melusine plays us both with a lengthy introduction. His initial frustration at being interrupted turns to pure lust at the sight of two beautiful women.

I can imagine the lewd pictures his twisted mind must provide. How many indignities must I be subjected to before it is over? I have only been here for a week; a week of constant battle against myself and Melusine’s petty humiliations.

Finally, I am given an opportunity to embrace him under some ridiculous pretext. My hands reach around his shoulders and I nuzzle his neck.

I am in the wooden cabin.

One lick, one bite.

Finally.

I drank two more swallows than I was granted by enduring the pain of the hussy’s claws in my neck. She drew blood.

After I am done, she carries him to parts unknown while I attempt to scrub the memory of his erect manhood against my belly. How I wish padded pants were in fashion.

With a knock, two other vampires join us and Melusine resumes her “lessons”.

What follows is what makes my predicament border on the intolerable. I have already been robbed of my humanity, now the Lancaster princess is after my sanity as well.

Her teachings are a tragedy in two acts and four participants. First, she will demonstrate her knowledge of a specific topic, like the superiority of the Lancaster philosophy, with as much arrogance and derision as she can muster.

While she does so, my fellow students, the bovine Charlotte and witless Sophie will gush at Melusine’s intellect and overall superiority.

Praises must be properly heaped on and the princess will select a different favorite every day, who will receive her benevolence while the two others accumulate scathing remarks and disparaging comments.

Suffice to say, I only participate enough not to be punished.

After a while, she will test our understanding with tricky questions. She has a way to slide cutting remarks and casual humiliations in every sentence that is designed to leave the rest of us ashamed.

She expertly divides and conquers us, constantly pulling our group down but distributing just enough encouragement to foster a nasty form of competition. She gives her favor as easily as she takes it and does her best to keep us on our toes.

I can only grit my teeth. I am less insulted by her numerous slights and more by the fact that she thinks herself smart. She can only do this because my two companions have the intellect of a shrivelled turnip between the two of them.

I do not know who turned those two brainless twits into creatures of the night. I think they should have stabbed themselves in the groin instead.

“And so our numbers are limited due to the difficulty involved in creating a spawn. Ariane dear, can you tell me why?”

“Only a master can create a spawn and it takes a century on average to become one. The process itself is also taxing and will leave the Master weakened for years.”

“I am sure that you will be a master very soon, Mistress, I can already feel a presence,” Charlotte gushes, that sow.

“Quite so! Sometimes I cannot tell if you are passing by, or if it is Lady Moor!”

If battle priests were to bust the door open right now and set us all ablaze, I believe I would let them, and be grateful to boot.

“Of course, we Lancaster are always picked from the best stock.”

How can she say that with a straight face?

I see the malevolent glint in Melusine’s eyes and I can tell that I should have nodded along with the two stooges. Now I must endure her for a bit longer before she switches targets.

“Yes, and it is our duty to share the blessing of our good breeding with other bloodlines, don’t you agree Ariane?”

“Of course mistress and I will forever be grateful for the privilege of your presence. I consider myself lucky to be taught by no other than you.”

I can feel two baleful glares directed at me as I apparently overtake the two simpletons in the pecking order.

“Quite so, and surely you would feel grateful to be shown such favor, yes?”

I nod in assent. I do not like where this is going but I must play along. Whatever Melusine wants me to do, I will be compelled to do. My only hope is that she loses interest to pick on another.

“With the tragic betrayal of the ungrateful savage, we are in dire need of helping hands to manage the city. Surely you would consent to assist us, yes?”

I freeze. With no heartbeat and no need to breathe, we vampires can reach a state of perfect immobility, which I am displaying right now.

I absolutely need to show a hint of fear, and then submission. If she guesses the truth she might withdraw her offer just to see me suffer.

I pretend to swallow nervously and flinch, before giving her a nervous smile.

“Of course mistress Melusine, I would be delighted to repay the debt of gratitude I owe you.”

Please, I beg you, accept this lie. I would do anything to get out of this farce of a tea party if only for a few days. I will shovel horse dung by the cartload. I will crawl in the mud and catch frogs with my bare hands. Please, let me go.

Three sadistic smiles inform me of the success of my little facade.

“Then I shall begin private lessons tomorrow in order to prepare you! We would not want you to bring shame to your benefactors with your poor performance, after all.”

I barely manage to contain my excitement the next hour. I compel myself to look suitably worried and act more submissive than usual.

Finally.

I may be able to go out.

OoO

I wake up to the whispers of gossip.

Cattle are a strange sort. They are unusually obedient and unerringly loyal, yet their other flaws feel exacerbated. They backstab, plot and slander to earn the favor of creatures that will never see them as more than blood sources and bed warmers.

They have their use, though.

After a week of being harmless, they have started to treat me with indifference.

They do not seek my favors due to my status as an outsider and rumors about my bloodline, and my lack of reaction means that they have lowered their guard when around me.

And so, I have picked up quite a bit of information.

Most of it disgusts me.

The Lancaster vampires are a petty, vicious and promiscuous lot. Each one has their flaws, their twisted desires, and vile habits. They are all detestable, each in their own special way.

Melusine enjoys breaking couples. She will track them for days, seduce and have her way with the fiancé and then arrange a public confrontation. The more violent the breakup, the better for her.

Lambert is a compulsive liar who preys after young and ambitious merchants. He will deceive and scam them until they are ruined. It is only at the moment of their fall that he will display something more than his usual apathy.

Charlotte is a violent bully with an inferiority complex. She enjoys breaking servants and I am convinced she used to be one.

Sophie has the wit of a boiled potato and half the charm. She does not behave too cruelly because she lacks the cunning to do so. It could be an act, of course, and I never let my guard down around her.

The weasel man answers to Wilburn and he is a serial rapist. Only his fear of Melusine has protected me from his attention. I surmise that he tried something on her, and she made the following lesson unforgettable.

The burly, bald man is named Harold and he has a chip on his shoulder. Every perceived slight against him eventually turns into physical punishment and no amount of pleading and promises changes his belief that everyone is insulting him behind his back.

If their continued existence is not proof that God has abandoned this world, I do not know what is.

“My name is Ariane, I am my own. I will live, escape, then go home.”

I repeat this sentence every twilight, in that small moment of peace before the Thirst turns me into a fiend masquerading as a person.

I say it in the tongue of Akkad, the language of vampires. I was surprised to learn that the others had to study it. I have no idea how the knowledge just slithered in my mind, and I would rather not ask.

Joan knocks on my door shortly after the Thirst hits. This time, I do not ask her in. Instead, I quickly send her away. I don one of my four outfits and get out.

All my clothes look shabby and out of fashion while being functional. I look like the daughter of a family that fell on hard times, all of this to feed the image of the world as it exists in Melusine’s twisted psyche.

They are not even comfortable, especially around my, well…

They are just too tight.

The rotund form of Charlotte blocks the passage.

“Yes?”

“Mistress Melusine bids you join her in the training room. It is time that you made yourself useful, stray. You cannot just keep living off of our generosity.”

“Clan Lancaster certainly does welcome low-born in its ranks. It is such a shame some of us will never rise above their previous station," I reply.

Her fat jowls quiver with fury at my rebuke. Ah, but her master must have loved Rubenesque women, and been short-sighted and deaf besides. Perhaps he lived in some remote corner of Finland and she was the only woman within a month of travel. I can think of no other explanation.

Instead of leaving, her scowl turns to a smirk and I brace myself for the next inanity to be born from her addled brain.

“The Mistress will instruct you in the way of battle. Perhaps a correction will force some manners into you.”

“And perhaps I will need a partner to practice?” I insinuate.

I smile.

I am Thirsty and this stupid sow is in my way. Let her see the fangs. Let her remember what my vampiric siblings are famous for.

She flinches and steps back when I pass her by.

I may be weak, like all fledglings, but she is even weaker. She is the dreg at the bottom of the barrel. I will make every encounter a slap to her pride until she learns to leave me be.

The Lancaster training room is on the first floor. If there is a basement, I have never seen it. Melusine is waiting. She is dressed in a strange outfit that bridges the gap between travel dress and armor. She is also holding a fencing sword. Sophie is already sitting on the side and Charlotte enters shortly after me.

No humans.

This is not very auspicious. If Melusine invited spectators, it means that she intends to humiliate me. She gives me a training sword and demonstrates proper handling and some basic moves while the two clueless twits fawn over her “grace and elegance”.

Still no humans.

I am so Thirsty.

I return my attention to the little princess. Watching her reminds me of Jimena’s comment on the Lancaster clan. She mentioned their lack of prowess on the field of battle and I can tell from comparing the two women that it is accurate.

Melusine may have had some formal training, but she is no master. Her movements are too mechanical. She lacks the deadly grace and seamless ease of the Cadiz squire. Jimena had made every demonstration natural and effortless.

After a while, she orders me to copy her gestures and I do my best to learn. This is the most constructive activity I have taken part in since reaching this den of depravity. No amount of poorly-veiled insults will ruin my enjoyment.

The physicality of the activity even manages to distract me from the Thirst. Since I am not talking, or thinking, life is simple. I lunge, I cut, I move. I let my body and the monster within guide me. It already knows how to do it. I have but to listen and follow.

“Well, your posture is still awkward, but I suppose I should not expect too much from the likes of you.”

It seems my enjoyment was too obvious.

“We shall now start with a light spar and today’s most important lesson!”

Ah, it is time for the inevitable humiliation. I just hope it will be brief, and not too painful. Melusine retrieves an engraved glove of strange design. It is pretty enough to wear at a ball, I suppose, yet the amount of metal involved makes it look like some knight gauntlet.

“Now, attack me.” She says with supreme confidence.

Should I go faster? It will make me even more Thirsty.

In the end, my pride will not allow me to roll over and grant her an easy triumph. I move.

When I reach her, she lifts her gauntleted hand and speaks calmly.

“Blast.”

I dodge left. Something smacks against my waist and leg. I am sent flying and spinning.

How?

I smack against the weapon rack. Steel beams punch my side and I collapse on the floor.

My head is spinning, and the pain clouds my mind.

“Aaa!”

It hurts. Why fight this one? Cannot consuMe. Too stRong. DoOr. Out. PREY.

“And that is why no matter your efforts, you will never be able to surpass me Ariane. You were taken from mundane stock. You were never a warrior. You were, at best, a glorified peasant. I was chosen from a noble mage family and spawned by Lady Lancaster herself. No amount of time and no personal efforts will ever bridge that gap. The sooner you accept this, the better.”

“M… MagE?”

“Yes, a mage. You are still an ignorant little thing, but don’t worry. I will let you witness my ascension, so long as you remember your place.”

I need the sweet nectar now. Need it, need it, nEed it.

The red-haired woman sees something in my face and grabs my neck. She takes me out. I do not resist, this time. She is leading me to blood. I know it.

We reach a black-haired woman. Cute. Delicious smell of terror. She knows. I smile. Tears. Beautiful.

Wait no, need to remember.

The log cabin.

Maybe not this time? Maybe this time I can just let myself go?

Joan.

No, this is a trick. The red-haired woman hurt me.

I sit in the log cabin. Outside, the wind rustles the sugar canes and carries the smell of wet earth. I am safe. This is a good place. My name is Ariane. Melusine is a trollop.

Something is thumping. The rhythm is too fast and--

I pull out and lick the wound clean. Joan is unconscious and white as a sheet, but it looks like I managed to stop in time.

I will not give that harlot satisfaction. If I kill cattle, it will be because I decided it.

“Ah finally. Under my guidance, it appears that your self-control has improved! Even the spawn of the Devourer can account for something if they are guided by a stern hand.”

It occurs to me that her entire misbegotten farce of a clan is so twisted that she might actually mean it. In a few decades, I shall attempt to revisit the question while skinning her alive with a rusty letter opener.

“And now you can finally repay us for our kindness.”

Ah yes, I should show my appreciation for their precious gifts. The glorified wardrobe they call a bedroom and all four of my outfits.

I follow Melusine to the entrance. Apparently, twenty minutes of training qualify me for a soldier role. I spent that much time listening to Papa before he would even let me hold an unloaded pistol.

My mind wanders. I wonder how my family is doing. They must think me dead. I remember waking up in a hospital after…the first night.

I was in too much pain to remember much. I think Father was there. Then that man took me from the room and dragged me to a basement. I died there, on the third night. I push back unwanted memories.

If they see me again, they will know. There was too much damage. I would have born the scars my whole life.

Should I even attempt it?

I must. I want closure. I need to say farewell to what I used to be. Bury human Ariane’s hopes and plans. Grieve.

We reach the main hall and turn left to what I know is Baudoin’s office. I know he is mortal, but he is not cattle. I smell Lady Moor on him.

“You will assist Baudoin in whatever way he sees fit. I am a busy woman and shall return to more worthwhile pursuits while you run his errands.”

She turns around and leaves.

Curious.

I knock on the door and a bored voice bids me come in. I close the door behind me and catch Baudoin staring at my backside as I turn around. I hiss softly, which is enough to remind him that I do not play.

“Yes? What do you want with old Baudoin?”

His accent is quite strange, and I cannot place it, even after hearing English spoken from Acadian and Choctaw mouths.

“I was sent to assist you.”

“I do not want help from a fledgling of less than a year! This will require a delicate hand. Lady Moor herself said I could have Melusine for this task.”

I need to add sloth to Melusine’s long list of flaws.

“She did mention not wanting to run your errands.”

“Is that so? Well, you tell her to get back here, lest I tell the Lady, heh?”

“Of course Baudouin, I shall convey your message.”

“No, wait.” He says as my hand grasps the handle. He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. Baudouin’s office says a lot about the man himself.

I am suitably impressed by the organized stacks of documents, the cleanliness and the stress on function over form. Under his appearance of a perverted and deviant highwayman, he is, in fact, a perverted and deviant businessman.

Which is infinitely more dangerous.

“Perhaps, you will do.”

I can understand the pain of forcing the little princess to do anything productive.

“What is it that you need?” I ask him.

The man sits back in his comfortable chair.

“A young rogue by the name of Andre Villemain had the audacity of taking over one of our warehouses. Yesterday, he and his merry band broke in and set up camp among crates of our finest china.”

Baudouin waits to see if I react. I gesture for him to continue. If he needed Melusine, it means the situation needs to be resolved with a scalpel, not a hammer.

“Normally I would sicc the boys on them and be done with it. Unfortunately, Villemain is the son of two rather important people and killing him would sour our professional relationships.”

“I assume they cannot rein him in?”

“Unfortunately, Villemain is at the age where one rebels against authority. Due to his lineage, he believes himself untouchable and flaunts his status to all who would listen. Worse, he attracted a gathering of children from good families and any bloodbath could impact our bottom line for years to come.”

“You need someone to convince them to get out without resorting to violence?”

“Not too much violence at least. He is quick to anger and your, ah, fellow immortals tend to be heavy-handed. I need a delicate touch. I also need to send a clear warning. We simply cannot be trodden upon. That is why I cannot bribe him.”

“This will require a delicate balance.”

“And now you know why old Baudouin is troubled, lass. What can an artist like me do without proper agents to carry my will?”

I scoff.

“I am willing to try, but I require something in exchange,”

The cunning negotiator’s eyes suddenly turn cold.

“And what would that be?”

“Only general questions about the world. Despite my lessons, there is still much for me to learn.”

“And Melusine’s choice of materials is not to your liking? Let me guess, you know everything about clan Lancaster’s noble history?”

“Since the war of the Two Roses, decade by decade.”

He laughs softly.

“Very well, as long as it is nothing too serious. You would not try to turn on old Baudouin now, would you?”

“Of course not.”

I smile. He swallows nervously.

I believe I shall never tire of the effect the eight fangs have on people.

“Before we leave, there is a small matter of security. I am sure you understand.”

I am immediately wary.

“I will require you to wear this while we are outside.”

He stands up and walks to a safe. A moment later, he retrieves a richly decorated bracer from it. It looks like jewelry that gypsies would wear. All gold and bright color.

“What is it?”

“A tracking object, linked to Lady Moor herself.”

“Magic?”

“Yes. Should you try anything that could damage me or the clan, she will be able to track you and disable you. That means our reputation too. And don’t you try to remove it. Better people than you have failed.”

I measure my desire to get out of this filthy den against my unwillingness to be chained like a dog. Eventually, I choose to preserve my sanity over my dignity. Besides, if it comes to that I may be able to chop off my arm and reattach it later.

I am that desperate.

The bracer is frigid against my skin and I can feel something dormant in the pattern of gold and stones that decorate it.

“Let us go then.”

8. Outside

We step outside and something stops me in my tracks.

The night, in all its glory.

The oppressive heat of deep Southern summer days has cooled down a bit. Life in all its forms has come out to enjoy the small respite. I smell water from the sea and from the marshes, life in the trees and the scent of humanity.

The woodsmoke and the cooking meats, the alcohol and the sweat and under that, all this vitality. I hear people and hunting things. Insects. Some distant music. Men and women dancing, drinking, and singing their worries away.

Tomorrow, news of capricious floods devastating fields and villages may come, as they do every summer, but for now, they forget.

I look at the many roofs and the burning lamps, and above it, the sky.

There are so many colors, so many patterns I had never noticed before. The Milky Way slashes the sky like the thrown brush of an irate painter.

At the center of this incredible vista looms the strange eye I first saw. Just as I look at it, it stares right back, and I can once again feel an alien presence.

It does not threaten nor promises, it does not even judge. It just watches quietly.

Perhaps I have somewhat come to terms with my new nature because I find it soothing. Even the ever-present Thirst takes a place in the background.

An insistent pull on my sleeve wakes me up from my reverie. I expected anger from Baudouin, but he only displays patient amusement.

“I always wondered how your kind sees it. You all look like it contains a Faberge egg, or a tarantula.”

“You know of what we see?”

“The eye? Aye, Lady Moor mentioned it. She calls it the Demon’s gaze.”

“It is not a demon, but a Silent Watcher.”

Baudouin flinches.

“What?”

“Lord Nirari used the exact same term. I guess his blood runs true eh?” He sighs “They say every vampire who looks up sees the eye staring right at them. Scary stuff, aye.”

I have nothing to reply to that. We walk towards the docks and pass by the brand-new Spanish buildings around the Vieux Carré. The bells of the Saint Louis Cathedral grate my ears. It is midnight.

“Is something the matter Ariane?”

“I walked here, not a month ago. In that exact same street.”

“Ah, I forgot. I am not used to working with one so young. We will have to adapt, lest you are recognized.”

“You make it sound like you are an old man.”

As it turns out, he is. Baudouin is Lady Moor’s human servant. They are bound together and so long as she lives, so does he. Only masters can bind someone so.

I learn more useful facts from him in thirty minutes than I ever did from that slovenly whore.

Clan Lancaster rules most of the English part of New Orleans while clan Ekon wormed its way into the Creole population. Clan Cadiz only has a nominal presence. The Roland are all in Baton Rouge. What is left of them is, anyway.

Clan Lancaster is renowned for its business acumen and “recruits” heavily from mage families, with whom they are constantly at war.

Clan Lancaster makes good money from the trade of slaves and foodstuff. Most of the profits are paid as a tithe to the Main House in England.

I am sure this vexes Moor to no end.

Mages are another part of the magical population. Baudouin informs me that he will give me a more detailed explanation of the global magic community if I prove myself a trusted associate.

He knows much about vampires.

Fledglings apparently need more blood just to function. Physical exertion consumes a tremendous amount of energy and is discouraged during the first two years. In fact, it appears that fledglings need to be reared for quite some time before they are able to enter society once more. The youngest of us are either feral or apathetic. There is no in-between.

I seem to be the exception, though I am not sure why. Master is not known for siring spawns of notable intellect.

Baudouin learned about my confrontation in Jimena’s training room. I am quite fast for a newborn, but also very fragile and physically weak. This is good to know. Master is very old and I had hoped that it would make me stronger but it seems life does not work this way.

Vampires dislike firearms, bows, and crossbows because those are peasant weapons. Many powerful vampires predate the use of gunpowder. This is yet another sign of profound arrogance and imbecility to me until I remember Master and Gaspard moving faster than even I could perceive.

Perhaps this makes the use of ranged weapons pointless among us. I still see no reason not to use it on humans.

Speaking of humans, the battle priests are members of the Order of Gabriel. They are dedicated to the extermination of all magical beings. They also despise the Irish, the Mexicans, the Jews, the poor, and women. Truly, a charming lot.

Quickly, we reach the warehouse and I halt Baudoin before we come in sight. Those streets are silent but for laughter coming from our destination.

I drag him through a nearby alley and approach the target from the side. It looks more like a barn than anything else. It is made from a dark wood that smells faintly of rot and is large enough to hide a sloop.

I move my befuddled companion towards the entrance but stop before turning the corner and getting in view of the door. This is where the laughter is the loudest. I track a ray of light to a small hole in a plank.

“It is too small to see through, Ariane,” says Baudouin with derision.

I stare him in the eye, place my clawed index against the opening and push.

The damaged wood bends and breaks under the sharp nail and my finger digs completely. The raucous conversations mask the small noise I made.

I did not break eye contact.

Baudouin pales a bit, even though he must have seen more impressive displays of strength during his many years of service. I successfully hide my relief that the wood yielded. It would have been quite embarrassing otherwise.

I look in. Dull oil lamps cast a yellow blaze on a dozen men and women in the midst of a drunken revel. They are all young and flushed with heat and vitality. The girls show just a bit too much skin than their parents would allow. The men’s smiles have a wolfish quality.

The Thirst wakes up from its slumber. Greedy thing, you were already fed once tonight.

Like a princeling on his throne, a dashing young man in an open leather vest, brown pants, and boots sits at the forefront. He has black hair, an opera pirate beard, and dreamy grey eyes. He currently holds on his lap a cute blonde woman in trousers whose generous bust is revealed by a ample cleavage. A tall and strong bearded man stands close with a wary eye on the door.

There is no doubt in my mind that the rakish lad is Mr. Villemain, the person I will have to convince. His pretentious mannerism and cocksure air strike a nerve in me and I take an instant dislike to him.

I also discover another interesting fact about myself. While I used to judge group dynamics around power play and cliques, what I notice now is entirely focused on hunting.

This is a herd. It has a dominant male, a dominant female, and a powerful beta. I see who will fight and who will flee. I see who I can isolate easily and who the easiest prey is.

The runt of the group is a mousey girl with heavy glasses who stares fixedly at dear Andre with what Papa would call “des yeux de crapaud mort d’amour.” Eyes of the toad dying of love. Poor thing. I know better than most what infatuation can do when one’s chosen’s heart is as black as tar.

“Baudouin, find out who I cannot touch.”

With his help, I identify three men and two women whose disappearance would cause an uproar. Andre’s second and the blonde woman are not among them. Excellent. A plan starts to take form.

“How much time do I have?”

“Until the next delivery arrives, that would be three days from now.”

“That should be more than enough,” I reply and walk to the doors.

There is no sentry outside, which does not surprise me. Andre is quite confident in the protection his name grants him.

I open the door in silence and enter peacefully. I initially believed that the princeling had chosen this place because he wanted to ransom its content, but I may have overestimated him. The smell of overwrought sex is pungent in here.

The dark corners of the warehouse provided the group with long-awaited intimacy. I am confident that some of the ladies present will regret their decisions in a few months when the consequences grow too big to be hidden from their parents.

The bearded man is the first to see me and he takes out a cudgel, only to stop in his tracks when he notices my appearance. Gradually, the assembly falls silent as they realize the presence of an intruder until Andre is forced to turn his attention away from the blonde woman’s left nipple to address this new development.

The hussy has the audacity to look at me with rage as she readjusts her top, furious about the interruption.

“Well well well!” says the imbecile as the men chuckle “Are you lost, sweet thing?”

“No, you are. This is a warehouse, not a club.”

Anger flashes in the man’s eye.

“Would you kindly leave? My employer needs this place.”

The blonde woman whispers something in his ear with a sadistic smile and he nods. Some of the boys start jeering and “complimenting” my backside. The temptation to shred them all and bathe in their viscera grows by the minute yet I successfully resist it.

“Why don’t you stay awhile and play a few games? Then we will consider your proposal…”

“I will take this as a 'no' and shall return tomorrow to see if you have changed your mind.”

I turn around to leave.

“Not so fast!”

I reach the door.

“Hey, you slut! George, get her!”

When George steps out, I am already gone.

Now they know what their sin is, I just need to hand the punishment.

“So, what did you learn today little sister?”

I sip slowly from the glass of water and try my best to ignore the cookie jar atop the kitchen counter. The familiar room is bathed in the reddish light of late afternoon. A stew slowly boils in the hearth.

“We learned about anatomy, and the various functions of organs!”

Big brother Achille scoffs.

“What do women need to know about such things?”

“Women produce superior nurses and doctors!”

“Nonsense.”

“Well, I remember when cousin Sylvie lost her water on the carriage Montfort, and only one of us panicked, no?”

“Alright, alright! I guess! So, tell me about organs.”

“Well, there is for example, hmm, the liver! It cleanses the blood and it produces bile which is necessary for digestion.”

“Is that so? And where is the liver situated?”

“It’s huh, hmm, in the chest! Right side. Around here?” I reply while pointing a finger at the middle of my chest, to the right.

“Hah, no. A bit higher. Well, let’s find it together!”

Wait, what?

I am bound spread-eagle on the table now. My chest is bare. What is happening? Achille is approaching me with a sharpened pick.

“Wait, no, please! Please don’t! Achille!”

“It’s for your own good sister, that way you’ll remember for sure! There it is…”

“AAAAAAAAAAAGH”

“There! We found it on the first try! Now, if you want to reach above your station to become a doctor, you can.”

“Noooo please, stop! It hurts!”

“Ah, yes, but it will not kill you, as you are an abomination now! Good news, sister. And now, the pancreas. There!”

“AAAAAAAhAHAhaaaaaa no please… Please!”

I take a deep breath and release it. What an unpleasant nightmare.

“My name is Ariane, I am my own. I will live, I will go home.”

I take another calming breath as the phantom pain of cold blades in my stomach makes me wince.

I may no longer sweat, nor does my skin peel but there is still a scent to my body. It is not entirely unpleasant, I suppose, but I will have to take a bath later when I return from the warehouse.

Yesterday was strangely gratifying.

I am already dressed when a new servant knocks on my door. Joan is resting and this one lacks courage. I suppose I can hardly blame her when I almost killed her predecessor.

“I know where I need to go. You may leave.”

I walk to the back of the property and the pens. There are a few isolated cages where the Lancaster stow the problematic cattle.

“Good evening, Blanche.”

“M… Mistress Ariane! Please, please let me out! I promise I won’t…”

I bring the blonde woman closer to me and hug her tight. After a night of sex with the princeling and day out in the sweltering heat, she smells quite ripe. Her trousers are sticky with perspiration. I lick the two white scars on her neck, and she shivers with pleasure.

I bite.

I did not truly taste her yesterday, only marked her. It takes all my self-control not to kill her on the spot. It would be so easy. I wouldn’t even be blamed.

Something stops me, a sense of ownership. Blanche is my first cattle. Or at least she will be after a few more bites. It would just feel wasteful.

I lick the wound clean and the Thirst recedes in the background of my mind, like a patient tiger.

“Of course Blanche, you know I only do this for your own good….”

“Yes, Mistress, mmmmh. I’m so sorry, we were just playing! I will tell Andre and he will understand, he is a good man! After you explain the situation to him, he will surely agree to leave!”

“Naturally.” I reply, smiling.

I let my captive clean herself a bit in a water barrel as we wouldn’t want to be stopped by the militia simply because of the smell. Before we set out, I stop by Baudouin’s office.

“Come in! Ah, Ariane, how may I assist?”

“First, you could stop staring at my bottom every time I turn to close the door.”

“I fear it is too late for me to amend my behavior, young one.”

“You old pervert. In any case, I should return to the warehouse tonight and have them leave.”

“What if they refuse?”

“They will not.”

Baudouin raises a dubious brow but gives me leave to go, as well as the small knife I requested.

I walk through the streets of New Orleans in a simple dress and a conservative hat, courtesy of Baudouin. I also carry the bracer and a leather satchel.

The cunning man mentioned it yesterday as we were walking back, and he was right. Clothes and behavior really allow one to blend in. I change the way I walk to appear less confident by slightly bending my back, lowering my head and affecting a subdued expression. Soon, I fade in the background. Just another maid on an errand, nothing to see and no one to notice.

It is a different sort of magic, the art of street artists and con men. The tricks of the mind. I find them exhilarating.

We reach the warehouse quickly. There is no merriment tonight. The place is deadly silent, but not deserted.

Andre is living in an illusion of his own making. His parents are feared and protect him, his friends are rich and admire him. Daughters of respectable families fall for his wealth and good looks and spread their legs for his personal enjoyment.

He is living the life. Yesterday he founded the seat of his power in some fat merchant’s warehouse. In his mind, they would have fun for a while then leave after being paid off, preferably before the place turns too rank; the first step towards the creation of his own criminal empire, perhaps.

Then I came.

Blanche stepped out at some point during the night to attend to some natural needs, with George keeping an eye out. I took him out with a small bite and kidnapped the girl. Bites make everyone pliable, if only for a while.

I knock on the door and receive no answer. I can smell people inside. They expected me to return after yesterday’s message.

I need them out. Fending off an ambush at this stage would be tedious.

“Mistress?”

“I am sorry, Blanche.”

I step back from the gate and grab her, then I break one of her fingers.

What a beautiful voice she has.

As expected, the door bursts open and what is left of the gang spills out in the streets with Andre at the head.

Only five of them left. All men. This is truly pathetic.

I force Blanche on her knees and grab her hair while she nurses her hand. Her quiet sobs are the only thing disturbing the silence.

I appreciate the moment. I find it fascinating that real life would match fiction so deliciously. Here we stand, at the end of act three. The male lead bristles with rage while his loved one bemoans her fate.

The trusty second’s eyes grow wide at the sight of me. The seeds of the plot are ready to germinate and their battered group ready to implode.

I shiver in pleasure. I am the playwright and I already know how it all ends: with my victory.

“Release her immediately! Or else!”

Yesterday, they would have rushed me with their eyes full of bloodlust. Tonight, they are wary, and broken.

I took out their princess. She sits on the ground in front of me in defeat, and after one day of search, they failed to find her, to rescue her. Hours of rageful and enthusiastic inquiries, then the feeling of powerlessness. Reality came knocking and they didn’t like it.

They have already suffered the casualties of those who were there for the guilty pleasures and banter, but find street fighting and kidnappings too pedestrian.

It is already over.

Before Andre takes a step forward, I remove the knife from my satchel and apply the blade against Blanche’s tender neck, hard enough to draw blood.

“No, Mistress, please. I beg you…”

It is too much for the one remaining noble. He drops his saber and runs away. This leaves Andre, George and two henchmen.

Laughable.

“You will pay for this you whore! You have no idea who you are messing with!”

“Andre Villemain, son of Gauthier Villemain and Alice Wintraub.”

“Wh… What?”

“We know who you are, we know who your parents are, and we know what you have been up to. You came here high on pride and arrogance, thinking yourself untouchable. You thought wrong. Ah, but before we continue, this is a private conversation. The two of you? Leave us.”

The two henchmen look at each other and decide that it is not worth it. Now, only George and Andre remain.

“If you know my parents then you should know that you have messed with the wrong man!”

“Your parents disavowed your actions, Andre. They will not lift a finger. Even you are not worth a war with us.”

“You lie!”

“As long as you draw breath, Andre, they will not retaliate. This means that everything you own and everyone you know is fair game, starting with Blanche here.”

I move the knife just enough to elicit a cry of pain.

“No, please wait! Wait. I understand alright? Let us all calm down. I will do it. I’ll just leave. Hell, I will even compensate you for the damage. Just please, let her go…”

Oh? He cares more than I expected.

“A reasonable proposal. Sadly, it will not suffice. George?”

“Yes?”

I do… something. It is like drawing on a rope that is made of beads. The harder I pull and the more frayed my control grows. Still, a link is made. The bites I made yesterday sank something in their souls and now I have limited control over them.

“For Andre’s own good, bring him to me.”

“What!?”

“Very well, Mistress.”

George punches Andre who collapses on the ground like a doll with its strings cut. He takes the man in a gentle hold and brings him closer. I can feel him fight me, but my request is reasonable so far, and George is a natural follower.

The cold part of me enjoys itself and I finally understand those Lancaster inbred. This is entertaining!

“Understand, young Andre, that there is more to the night than you could ever imagine. We can tolerate joyrides and brash statements but this time you went too far. I am going to have to leave you with a reminder.”

I place the tip of the blade against the edge of his eye socket and carve downward. This will scar nicely, and since I am feeling generous, he can even keep the eye.

“Wait… What are you… No! Aaaaaaa!”

After I am finished, I calmly pocket the blade and stand up.

“And with this, we are done.” I say as he sobs and grabs his carved cheek.

My hold on George just broke and Blanche’s loyalty is tenuous despite the two bites. If I go any further, I will have to shed more blood than I planned.

“I expect the place to be cleared tonight. Farewell.”

I walk away. I can feel the tether that binds the two humans to me evaporate like morning dew with this symbolic gesture. I do not want to keep them with me, for the simple reason that they will be used as leverage by Melusine and the others. Any possession I gather must remain hidden, or it must be intangible, like status. I will not let her use them against me.

As soon as I am out of view, I hurry to the place where Baudouin and I first spied on the warehouse.

“You might as well come out.”

Smiling, the man himself walks out from a recess with his arms raised in mock surrender. I think a human could have passed him by a thousand times without ever noticing him.

“I hope you do not take this as a sign of distrust.”

I sneer.

“And if I had turned the street red, Baudouin, what would you have done? Scream for the…”

I gasp as I am interrupted by a sudden and violent pain. It shakes my bones and rattles my teeth and leaves me trembling after a brief instant.

“What… What happened?”

“I am sorry Ariane,” he says as he shows a golden band around his wrist, “The tracking bracer can also be used to inflict pain and disable its victim, and before you use that vampiric alacrity of yours, know that the bracer will punish you, should you touch me.

I hiss softly. What did I expect, that a clan full of liars and scoundrels would let me out of their house without a means to control me?

“Do not be too cross, little one. I will make it up to you.”

“How?”

“Before we begin, I have to ask. Why did you wait one day? Why the kidnapping?”

“You want to know the reason behind my plans?

“Yes, I am assessing you as a potential long-term associate. I need someone to replace Ogotai, if only temporarily. Harold and Wilburn are ill-suited to tasks that require a brain. As Lady Moor’s human servant, I can shield you from most of Melusine’s petty vengeance should you take that role.”

Baudouin’s expression turns to scorn at the mention of the other vampires. I am reminded that under his unsavory appearance, he hides a keen intellect. Also unsavory.

"I have the Mistress’ trust when running day to day affairs. So long I guarantee that you are better used solving problems than entertaining that arrogant twit, she will leave you be.”

I consider his words for a moment. Getting out means the Cadiz can contact me more easily when the time comes.

“Can you truly protect me from Melusine? She does not strike me as one who easily admits defeat. She could just abuse you until you change your mind.”

“When you realized I hurt you, how close were you to striking me down?”

“I… I…”

Baudouin is right. The predatory part of me, the part that always pushes me to violence was strangely silent.

“Vampires do not attack human servants directly unless they are desperate or unhinged. It is a rule that is engraved into your kind’s minds from the day you wake up again. Your very instincts will try to stop you.”

He is right. I was not tempted to retaliate. How tainted has my mind become? Is it still even my own?

“Melusine shall not harm me, and she knows the price of annoying the Mistress too much. Now, Ariane, do we have an understanding?”

“I shall not do anything that would rob me of the little dignity I have left. I hope we are clear on this, Baudouin.”

“Of course, Ariane,” he smirks “I would not force you to turn tricks. I have other agents for that.”

I hiss again but my heart is not into it.

“Well?”

I sigh. It costs me little to explain my actions.

“This group was fractured from the start. The leader had three associates with a poor background. The rest were scions of affluent families playing rogue. It was easy to make them confront the reality of the night. After that the mood was ruined, so to speak, and I just had to pick the pieces.”

“I see, and you judged that the best way to achieve this, to collapse their house of cards, was to abduct one of their members?”

“Perhaps not the best but certainly the most expedient. Few things match kidnapping as a wake-up call. Not to mention that I wanted a snack.”

He laughs with abandon, then: “Walk with me.”

As we reach the brighter lights around the Vieux Carré, Baudouin starts in a soft voice.

“You are nothing like I expected, you know?”

“How so?”

“I have seen many fledglings being reborn to this world. Most start off as mindless beasts, barely more than automatons. It is only after some time that they regain some semblance of humanity. You started as your old self and are now becoming more and more like a vampire.”

“Surely, my circumstances are not unique.”

“They are not; however, it is still quite rare. I cannot think of anyone who was quite so… alive, as you were when I first saw you.”

“I would prefer not to be reminded of this moment.”

He chuckles.

“There is also the issue with you being so weak. Lord Nirari managed to foster spawns that would go toe to toe with knight squads in only a few years.”

“Give me some time.”

He shakes his head.

“No Ariane, I can already tell that you will not match this development speed. You are faster than most fledglings, and some courtiers, but your strength is almost human.”

I wonder how I can become more powerful. If I could be fast enough to dodge Melusine’s dark powers and then grab her by the ankle and…

I spent some time imagining the red-haired harridan slamming into walls until we reached the outskirts of the city. I then realize something.

“Baudouin.”

“Yes?”

“You said you used Ogotai for this kind of work?”

“Indeed. His betrayal has caused quite a few problems, as you can imagine.”

“Did you expect his treachery?”

“No. I was stupefied when he found his spine. You see, Ogotai is centuries old. He has suffered abuse at the hands of the Lancasters for longer than I was alive.”

“Perhaps Melusine sent him over the edge.”

Baudouin’s laugh causes a few late revelers to turn.

“Ahh yes, I can believe that. You see, Ogotai was part of a horde of warriors from the East who invaded Hungary. He made the mistake of hunting a local Lord and the vengeance was what you guessed. Ogotai lacks something. He has never reached the rank of Master and he never will, if he still lives.”

“Can Lords figure out the best candidates for new Spawns?”

“If some do, they keep it secret. Some clans heavily recruit mages as they keep some of their powers, but for the rest, I do not know. I do not know what makes one vampire much better than another.”

“I see.”

When we reach the house, a servant hurries inside and a few moments later, Melusine gets out the door like a devil out of a box. It occurs to me that I failed to warn her that I would not attend her circus act of a lesson. Oops?

She and Baudouin stare at each other and a silent message must have been passed, for soon Melusine retreats. As the door shuts, I catch a glimpse of her face. It is twisted by the blackest of rage.

Your move, witch.

9. A casual visit

A leafy canopy covers the forest’s ground in shadows. I dart around trunks as large as carriages, doing my best to avoid the sunlight that stabs through here and there. The coverage is not perfect, and my skin is already covered in blisters. The cruel rays go straight through clothes as if they were not there.

“Ahh!" I scream and hiss, as yet another gust of wind moves branches and I am exposed to the cruel touch.

“You should give up; you are only delaying the inevitable.”

I want to make Him shut up, but he stands in the light, mocking me. Here, he looks human and regal with his thick brown beard and noble posture, a true king of old.

“Your peers reject you; the humans reject you. Even the sun itself wants you gone from this world.”

I dodge and sprint, time is running out. The sun is already going down. The shadows lengthen.

“The nail that sticks out gets nailed down, after all. You are only prolonging your suffering."

I need to keep going. I just have to reach the house. I will be safe inside.

“You think your family will welcome you? Idiot. You are not Ariane, though you stole her name for yourself. She died, that night, alone and broken. You are just the final insult to her memory.”

“You lie! I am me!”

“How can you be so sure? Have you seen yourself in a mirror?”

The sun is closing to the horizon, but I will never survive to twilight. The forest parts to expose me. At the last moment, I dive behind a tree and feel the bark to my back. The murderous rays start to twist around the trunk, and I yell when they reach the edges of my arm.

“You will forever be a pariah, spawn, no matter how much you beg or bow.”

I start screaming. Several voices join the chorus calling me an outsider then there is only fiery death.

I awake and quickly repeat the now-familiar sentence. I have been here for two months, two months of playing thug and errand girl. I am even building a bit of a reputation.

I wonder why I have so many nightmares, and if the others do as well. Unfortunately, I would sooner stab myself in the foot with a rusty meat skewer than share this detail with anyone here. My questions will therefore remain unanswered, for now.

The phantom pain coursing through my body ruins my meditation. I wish I could cry, but this is a function of the body that I find myself unable to force. I endure the memory of burning to a crisp for only a minute before it is replaced by a more powerful imperative.

I wonder if older vampires treat the Thirst as an old friend, or if they are all driven mad by it. Baudouin confirmed that fledglings consume more, especially the very young ones. I can only hope that I maintain a healthy self-control, at least long enough to grow out of “infancy”.

Like every night, I take the time to bathe and dress properly. I battle the Thirst with every bit of self-control I can muster to take the time to care for myself and my appearance. I even bought a comb.

After a quick detour by the cages, I reach Baudouin’s office.

“Ah, Ariane. Come in, come in.”

“Good evening. I am ready for the meeting.”

“Ah yes, well, unfortunately, you will not be attending.”

I freeze immediately. During my time here, I took my role as a spy quite seriously. I have listed all their warehouses, their banks, and business partners. Every key ally, every lie and every weakness I have religiously catalogued.

A sentence overheard, a confidential document left lying around, an unexpected visit, every activity is an opportunity to discover more. I have made reports that I have hidden well. If they fall in the hands of the Cadiz, they will be able to strike those degenerates down with deadly accuracy.

Hit them where it hurts the most: their pride, and their wallets. Has Baudouin discovered my stratagems? I thought I was careful… I even have an escape kit ready, hidden under the destroyed belfry of a derelict church.

I found the irony delicious.

Baudouin eyes me nervously. He does not know. He assumes I am mortally offended.

“This is not a punishment, in fact, I have something of a reward for you. Today, we had a situation. One of our whores made the unfortunate decision to laugh at a customer’s privates.”

“On Delore street?”

“No, the Red Veil, unfortunately.”

“Ah.”

This is the Lancaster’s high-end brothel, and that means the offended party is rich and powerful.

“The issue is that the man, a Simon Henley, took justice in his own hands and carved her up. That will not do. He is in his estate now, with half a dozen guards.”

“You expect me to go there and intimidate him?”

“No Ariane, I expect you to kill him. He made some very public statements and demanded reparations. I cannot let this stand.”

“How do you want this done?”

“Do what you want. I will burn down the house when you are finished. The militia knows to avoid this place tonight.”

“Can I get a gun this time?”

“No Ariane, my opinion hasn’t changed, we do not use guns.”

Neanderthals. I harrumph, then make for the exit.

“Then I will be on my way.”

“Do enjoy yourself.”

As I exit the office, my eyes are inevitably drawn by a figure going down the stairs.

Lady Moor does not belong here. This land is young and rakish. Its wealth is stolen from native tribes and torn from the earth by the labor of countless slaves, brought here against their wills in floating coffins.

It is no place for complicated intrigue and veiled threats, at least, not yet. Her appearance reflects this. Even her dress is too warm for the suffocating weather.

She ignores me and soon crosses the threshold, followed by a smug Melusine and Lambert the ever-bored. They will attend a meeting with the representative of clan Ekon about some flesh market issue.

I should have been there as “muscle”. It would have been an opportunity to meet them and perhaps know what the Cadiz have been up to. Well, there is always a next time.

I go back to my room to get changed and don a provocative attire with a shawl to hide my shoulders. Now I look like a streetwalker. If Papa would see me…

No! I must wear this as an armor. My appearance is both a weapon and a bait. Simon Henley expects some reparation from a bordello and this is what he will see, a suitable emissary. I will preserve my dignity according to my own rules and clothes are no longer a concern.

I leave the house with the bracer and a heavy bag, keeping to well-lit streets.

I have enough stashed away to run for a while with what I picked during my errands, the problem is that I would be hunted down and eliminated even without the bracer. I need a clean escape.

Since we are going to an expensive side of town and a woman alone would draw unneeded attention, A carriage has been made available. As we drive on, I am for once thankful for my cold body. Without it, the enclosed space would have been stifling.

After a quarter hour or so, we stop in front of a manor and the carriage leaves. The Victorian style house is without much embellishment, but the garden is impeccably maintained.

Papa always said that understated signs of wealth are the mark of good breeding and I have trouble reconciling the tasteful residence with the image of a man who would disfigure a whore because she laughed at his manhood.

Perhaps this was built and maintained by his father?

I cross the deserted entrance and arrive in front of a pair of wooden doors. At this time of the night, there should be lights and servants about, but the place is suspiciously silent.

I find myself growing wary.

I knock on the door and it opens immediately. A rough-looking man with a scowl inspects me in silence. I curtsey. They are expecting me, it seems.

With a grunt, the man invites me in.

This is it. I could start killing right away but something stops me. The guard is armed with a truncheon and no other visible weapon. He is no danger to me. Something else is.

Just like vampires have a cold aura, I feel something bright and colorful and it comes from deeper into the house.

I am curious. What could it possibly be?

I follow the guard into a modest ballroom covered with a plush carpet. Large windows adorn the wall opposite the entrance and there is only one door, the one I came from. On my left, a few seats have been gathered and four hard men stop their game of cards to take a gander at the newcomer.

On my right, next to a piano of good make, stands the master of the house. He sits atop a leather throne that was brought here for the occasion.

A flagon of spirits rests on a small coffee table to his side and next to him stands a bodyguard who immediately captivates me.

He is tall and muscular with a trimmed beard and wears on him enough weapons to take over a small town. I count no less than two pistols and seven daggers at first glance. He even wears a helmet, indoors, like some uncouth savage.

The colorful aura comes from him.

Our eyes meet and he gives me the most peculiar of smiles.

“Why don’t you take a seat?” asks Simon Henley, pointing to a modest chair in front of him. He is dressed in an expensive shirt and jacket that do little to hide his gut. His pale skin is the worm-flesh white of people who do not leave their house during the day, it is also covered in clammy perspiration. His grey eyes do not meet mine. He is scared out of his mind.

Everything is wrong.

The thugs should be leering or indifferent, not wary.

Henley should be smug and arrogant, not terrified.

The last man does not belong here.

My instincts and intellect unite in the firm belief that this is a trap. Worse, the bodyguard probably knows what I am and he is convinced he can take me on. I remember the followers of Gabriel assaulting the keep. They, too, had a plethora of arms and the training to use it. They did not have an aura.

This man is a mage.

If I take this seat, I am dead, again. This will not happen.

I step towards it and kick it into the pair. The mage easily dodges but Henley takes it in the face and collapses with a muffled scream. I move back, and not one second too soon.

“Seal!”

A white light erupts in a circle where the chair used to be and misses me by a hair. The room erupts in chaos and yells.

The mage takes out a gun and fires it at me. I finish my movement by falling on the floor. The bullet misses me.

I end up at the feet of a stupefied guard. I stand up and claw his throat in one movement. The geyser of blood distracts the other three.

His blood stinks, there is something wrong with it. I hiss and grab a second guard to use a shield. An instant later something bites into my side.

What?

I stare down in disbelief. There is a large gash on my waist. The dress is torn apart to reveal shredded flesh seeping dark red blood. The man I used as a shield screams, dying.

The mage shot his own ally!

Something pings on the floor and I instinctively look at it just as it detonates. A thunderous explosion, and a white light blind me, deafen me. I drop the man to grab my maimed eyes.

HURT, need to escape. Can’t see.

Behind me, cover. I move backwards and grab the edge of the poker table. With a grunt, I flip it and jump behind. I move to the side as something roars. Someone bumps against me and falls. I find a shoulder, a throat. I slash it open. The blood smells wrong again.

The bottle of wine that was on the table smells wrong too. Something they drank?

I can hear better now but my eyes still hurt. There are windows. Escape. I grab a body and blindly rush to the wall. Can find. Can break through.

“None of that! Seal!”

Something bumps against me. It does not hurt but it pushes me back with incredible strength. I crash against the table and it breaks under me. A shard stabs into my back. It hurts. So Thirsty. Can’t stay here.

I crawl away from the mage. Waist hurt. Back hurt. Bleeding. Need blood, but it all smells wrong.

Ah, I can finally see again.

I turn myself as a throwing knife whistles past my shoulder and buries itself in the carpet. Finally, a decent weapon. I remove the shard of wood in my back. It did not go deep.

The mage throws more daggers and once more I use bodies and the table to dodge and block. I grab one blade in each hand, then I throw a third one at him. It pings against his armor.

The man is still smiling, he unsheathes a saber and a short blade and rushes me. I manage to stand up to meet him in the middle of the room.

I realize very soon that this was a mistake. I may be faster than the mage but in everything else, he has the advantage. His reach is longer, and his technique superior. He deflects my strikes with precise and conservative movement.

I am completely outmatched.

Soon, I have a new long gash in my wrist, and I drop a blade. I cannot move my hand! I am not healing at all, and I am so very thirsty. I cannot get out!

The pain becomes too much. I have one last quick move in me but after that, I shall be helpless, I have to make it count and--

What is that delicious smell?

Blood.

It comes from Henley! I need to--

“Fire whip.”

A red snake twists around my useless hand. My flesh immediately starts to smolder. I scream in agony and lash out with the last knife I have. Fortunately, whatever made his blades so painful also breaks the spell.

I collapse on the ground shrieking.

I can’t stay there, I need to move, but...

it hUrts so muCh.

“Aaaah, that backlash was nasty. You cunning bitch! Though I must say, I am rather disappointed. With all the talks about vampires being century old apex predators, I was really looking forward to a good fight. Yet here you are, a brute relying on her speed rather than technique. Sloppy, and pathetic.”

PredAtoR saYs. YeS, viaBlE plaN. ImpLemEnt.

“Well, guess I have to find a knight next. Now, I was told that piercing the heart will incapacitate your kind. At least I can put that theory to the test.”

YeS, prey, cOme closer…

“I dare say killing that werewolf turned out to be more--AAARG!"

I move. I stay low, grab a knife and bury it behind the knee. Weak point. Now spring up his back, grab around with my claws.

“ Pulse!”

Something propels me backward and I smash into the coffee table and Henley’s inanimate body.

“Aaaah, you BITCH! Ah, Heal! HEAL! Dammit.”

So delicious.

“You’ll pay for this! I was going to make it quick but now I think I’ll burn you alive. Ah. Shit! Just you wait!”

I am feeding from Henley, my back to the mage when something happens. I can feel all of my fangs pull. The strength I draw multiplies tenfold, a hundredfold. This time there is no bliss. This time, there is only life, and the strength I need to survive. This time I do not feed.

I Devour.

It takes less than four seconds for Henley to die. As the last of his life force is torn away from his body, I feel a temporary burst of power. The pain is still there, as is the Thirst. It just does not matter so much anymore.

So this man is a hunter? He thinks I am game?

I am no beast. I am a vampire.

I pull myself up and find the mage applying bandages to his wounded leg. His disbelief turns to horror at the sight of my face. Blood is still dripping. I give a ghastly smile.

Then I throw the corpse at him.

I put my hips into it and the body flies. The mage swears and ducks.

I jump and fly with claws forward. I crash against him and send him on his back.

I claw and lash, trying to reach his face. His armored bracers stand in the way but I manage to score hits in unprotected places.

“Shie--!”

None of that. I use one hand to push both of his arms towards me and stab a finger in his cheek. I rake his face. Blood flows. Still smells wrong.

I am weakening.

I can feel him struggling to get something. I can’t fight much longer. My strength is already waning.

He pulls something that roars. I feel cold punching through my stomach.

I ignore the armed hand and deflect the other. I put one thumb against his eye and push. With a ghastly crunch, the eyes pop and I bury my fingers to the hilt in his skull. Fluids splurts on my face. The blood in them is…

It smells horrible but there is so much power in there.

It is fading quickly.

I bite deep and take a swallow. The blood is potent, it is also laced with something that ravages my throat. The balance is barely in favor of the blood.

I punch his face, once, twice, three times. The pain catches up to me and I collapse on the mangled corpse. Everything hurts. I have not felt this bad since my death.

Then, all feelings fade.

I feel strange.

Pain is a distant thing and so is the Thirst. I expected to turn into a ravening beast, but it appears that I am, in fact, sated. Wounded, but sated.

I can only draw strength from the red nectar so fast.

The edge of my vision is growing darker and I remember. This is what dying was like, back when it happened the first time. The sensation of slipping, of letting go.

“Nom de Dieu, c’est un cauchemar!”

Ah.

I remember now, we only killed three of the four guards, the mage and I.

“M… Monstre! Démon !”

The last one must have cowered in some corner. I do not blame him. He is growing a spine now, though. He took a knife. He is getting closer.

I absolutely cannot move. I am… So cold.

Slumber calls to me. I could just close my eyes and… forget, and yet dying is a once in a lifetime experience.

Well, twice in my case.

I would rather not miss it.

And now somebody knocks on the ballroom’s door. The guard squeals and jumps like a scalded maid. Heh.

A black woman walks in. A vampire. She is dressed in leather pants and a tight white shirt. How unladylike, although to be fair, she is not baring her midriff to the world like I am.

“Well, color me impressed,” she says with a fanged smile.

10. No rest for the wicked

Everything about the woman is predatory. Her walk, her posture, her mouth, they all speak of danger, but also of elegance. I am convinced that many men would deem her worth the risk.

“Who… Who are y--”

The man does not finish his sentence. The newcomer unsheathes a dagger and with a casual swipe, slices his throat open. She did not even grace him with a look.

I can see the tubes, and smell the fouled liquid. How vexing.

I can barely perceive the woman passing by. So very tired. Just need to close my eyes for a moment.

“Stay with me, young one.”

I blink my eyes open as something straddles me. The woman is here! She rubs her thighs on my stained dress, making herself comfortable. Then, she extends one hand and digs inside my chest.

“Urk!”

“Shhhh, look at me, follow my voice.”

I stare in chocolate brown eyes twinkling with mischief. She is doing something, but I am too weak to act.

“Nothing hurts, it just feels like you are surrounded by fluffy pillows.”

Something pulls on my stomach, but I feel no pain. A moment later, the strange woman is inspecting a silver ball held in a blood-soaked hand. She whistles.

“Nice catch, darling!”

Is it? I frown.

“You are comfortable, yes?”

Am I? I guess I am. I feel like taking a nap, but something is holding me conscious. How peculiar.

“So, did you know Jasper, the tracker?”

Who?

“I guess not, sweet cheeks. I’m talking about that mage who almost killed you. I assume it is he, seeing that the head is mostly gone. Nasty man. He had a habit of hunting monsters and people for sport, regardless of guilt. This time, he bit off more than he could chew. Pun intended.”

I see.

“Hmm you are too quiet, my little honey pot. Let me help you.”

She takes out a small canteen from her jacket and empties some of its content around my mouth. The burning sensation I had forgotten is simply washed away. She dabs at the damp spot with a clean tissue. I tentatively lick my lips. I am still sluggish, but now I can talk.

“Good evening.”

The woman looks dumbfounded before exploding into laughter.

“Aaaah my little duckling, so precious! I am Naminata, but you can call me Nami.”

“Nami...”

“So, why are you here anyway? I assume you were not tracking the Tracker.”

Talking is tiring. I slightly turn my head to the broken chair and the corpse besides it.

“Oh, that swine. You are the one who killed him, yes? Well done. I could not have entered this house otherwise.”

She leans forward. The distance between us grows intimate and when she licks her lips, I shudder.

“I know you don’t want to stay with those Lancaster bastards. You want in with us? One word to Kouakou and he will marry you. We could use une autre go, ma petite chérie.”

Now that my gut is free of bullets, I can feel my body struggle to heal itself. The torpor is receding a bit, replaced by pain and a renewed Thirst. I still cannot do more than shake myself a little.

“Never… again… Gggh! At the mercy…of another.”

The smile falls from her face, to be replaced by regret and a little bit of shame. I recognize her now that my mind is clearer. She was with the representative of clan Ekon when I escaped the fortress. She stays silent for a while. We do not move. I am starting to drift.

A hand pats my head softly. The sharp claws brush through my hair with a gentle touch, parting the strands without snagging them. The effect is so soothing that I shiver and relax.

“Ssshhh, alright little one. I am sorry. I forgot. Very well, I shall let you go with a little gift. As an apology for my tactless offer.”

My eyes are closed but suddenly I can smell something. It is a fragrance like wet earth and spice, an exotic scent, something to dance and sing to.

“I wonder how it feels. Come on, bite!”

I feel soft skin against my lips. The perfume grows hauntingly strong. I am so Thirsty. This is not exactly what I need, but it will help.

My fangs pierce her skin.

This is so different from a human. There is no rush, no ecstasy of life. I barely get any energy and whatever I obtain feels sluggish. No heartbeat drives vitality into my aching body. What I get instead is power.

If life is the thing that perpetuates my damned existence, what I get now is the essence that lets me do impossible things. I can feel myself growing noticeably more powerful. I suppose that I am so weak now, that every little bit counts.

There was something similar with the mage.

Drinking from magical creatures makes me stronger.

I finally understand the reason why the other spawns are so much more dangerous than me. My Master feeds them the blood of powerful things, and possibly his own. Their quick growth must ravage their mind and turn them into the natural disaster that they are made to be.

How dreadful.

Baudouin said that vampires grow in power with age, implying that the Devourer and his spawns draw power from the things they feed on, much more so than the other bloodlines.

I am not quite sure that this is common knowledge. I am however certain that no one knows how significant that is, here in Louisiana, and I fully intend to keep it that way. I am afraid that some would cull me before I become a threat, if they found out.

“That is enough little one,” says a sultry voice. I obediently lick the wound clean. This experience was far too intimate for my liking. I fear that Nami stole my first kiss, or whatever the vampiric equivalent is.

“Aaaaah, I so love to walk on the edge! But enough of this, ma chérie. I shall recover Mr. Jasper here, and I will be on my way. A bientôt!”

With Nami’s departure, something snaps and I immediately lose consciousness.

“No, please Achille, please…”

“I told you sister, it won’t help.”

A ghastly wind blows through desiccated sugar canes, throwing ash and dust into the air. The sky is so darkened by smoke that I cannot tell the time.

“Please… I am so Thirsty! Please…”

Achille carries the only flask of cold water around. He drinks from it from time to time. I can almost feel it on the tip of my tongue, so tantalizingly close.

“It’s all your fault, you know? If only you had died correctly, we could have had closure, but even this you could not manage.”

A blast of air blows embers on my tattered dress. The red dots settle on me and smoke starts to rise. I can already feel the heat burning my skin. I struggle, but I am restrained. My arms are held up by chains attached to a wooden mast dug deep into the ground. The familiar log cabin taunts me with its safety but it is so far, I can barely see its charred walls. They still stand.

“Achille…”

“You do not believe me. Very well. Try it yourself.”

My brother approaches. His wide shoulder and muscular body used to be a sign of comfort, but now it is a threat. I feel like he would gladly shatter bones and bruise flesh with strikes from his meaty hands, but he does not. Instead, he brings the canteen to my parched lips. Yes! At last!

The cold liquid rushes past my mouth, finally. It tastes like fresh mountain water. I gulp greedily yet nothing happens.

“What?”

“I told you, I told you it would not work. Only pain and misery will sate you now, you horror wearing my sister’s skin. Have it then. Gorge yourself on it. Monster.”

Achille takes out a hunting knife and slowly places it against his jugular.

“Wait! Achille, No! WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?”

The knife slices down and a veritable geyser of blood splashes all over me and the ground. He is going to die if I don’t… I don’t…

I need it, I need it so much. I am hurt, and so very…. THIRSTY!

THIRSTY!

“Ngah!”

Ah, the pain! What? Where is my respite? Where is my minute of introspection?!

I cannot move.

I crack open my eyes. I am attached to my bed by thick ropes that twist around me and the mattress. I am still wearing the remnants of yesterday’s dress under the layers of twine. It smells ripe. My face is coated with dried blood that cracks as I move.

This is amateur work. I can free myself in a few minutes and hunt someone to drink dry. I squirm and the pain redoubles. My stomach lances me so much I could believe I have been shot once more.

Ah, this is it. I must not have healed completely from yesterday’s ordeal. If I had been alive, such a wound would have killed me within an hour. I would have gasped my last in a pool of my own blood and offal.

There are some benefits to this cursed life after all.

I hear footsteps just as I manage to sever the first knots with a talon. The door opens to reveal Lady Moor.

She looks just as majestic as always, scrunching her nose in displeasure. How I hate her and her misplaced arrogance. She would smell like entrails and stale blood too if she got her dainty hands dirty, instead of parading herself in this barely civilized swamp like a peacock and letting others labor for her achievements.

Hussy.

“Is that defiance I see on your face, fledgling?”

This is no time for confrontation. I will escape, and much, much later, I will wipe that expression from her face.

“No, Mistress.”

I will not let arrogance destroy me. I realized yesterday that mortals are fortunate when it comes to pain. There is only so much damage a person can take before one’s body gives up, unless they are under the care of a particularly talented torturer I suppose.

Vampires, on the other hand, can take so much abuse. Enough to drive one insane.

I may be stronger than yesterday but I am still a sparrow to Lady Moor’s eagle. I need much more time before I can even compare. I shall be patient. I must be patient. I will be feared like Master, even if it takes me a thousand years.

I will see that pretentious wench broken before me.

“Baudouin had assured me that you  made yourself useful. However, I now believe that you played him, you filthy little trollop. He does not know your kind as I do, too used to dealing with mortals, I suppose. Now, you will tell me all the dealings you have had with Clan Ekon.”

What?

“I have no arrangement with Clan Ekon.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. None whatsoever.”

“Then how do you explain that Naminata was seen exiting the building we found you unconscious in?”

“This was the first time I saw her since the fortress.”

I explain what happened yesterday with the exception of my increased strength, such as it is.

“You said that you killed this Jasper man? Alone and unarmed?”

“I was not entirely unarmed. I used his throwing knives.”

She scoffs, her carmine lips twisted by disdain.

“Picking up a mortal weapon like a beggar with no dignity? Now this story is suddenly more believable.”

And whose fault is it that I ended up in harm’s way equipped with a shawl? Bah! This woman would not know intellectual honesty if it slapped her in the face with a rotten catfish.

Although…

Did she just imply that she cannot recognize lies from the truth? That is tremendous news! It means I can hide my little conspiracy from her. I still have to be careful, for she would not have survived this long without being crafty. Not with that attitude, at least.

“But to expect someone of your lineage to be honest? You must think me daft, girl.”

“I assure you that there are no arrangements between Clan Ekon and myself! I even refused Naminata’s proposal.”

“Hah! I knew it. And what proposal would that be?”

I did not mean to say that. My anger got the best of me yet again.

“To marry Lord Kouakou.”

“Hah! Hahaha, how it must have been tempting, you shameless harlot! Freedom at the tip of this savage’s member? What stopped you? The perspective of only being the second wife?”

“Hsss!”

It appears that Jimena was wrong. Vampires are racist, just not to each other’s face.

“Indeed, it appears that I was mistaken to believe you crafty enough to make such an arrangement. You certainly possess some form of low cunning; however, it is not enough to successfully plot against us.”

I remain silent. I finally see the end of my torment. I just want the insufferable woman to take her leave so that I may hunt in peace.

“A betrayal is not to be borne however, no matter how small. I am quite certain that your addled brain came up with some scheme, and I shall hear of it now.”

“What?”

“You have a plan to escape. You must have, and I will hear it when you are ready to share. Not to worry girl, I brought some light reading to entertain myself while we wait.

You must understand that in my veins runs the blood of kings. Those who have been brought up in such high spheres know the best tools to achieve the intended result, without ever having to sully their hands. In this specific instance, the tool is patience; and so we shall wait.”

Lady Moor ignores my protests. She sits on my chair, at my own desk and takes a book from a small bag, which she then proceeds to read.

I shuffle in discomfort. My stomach is still quite painful, if not as much as before. My Thirst, however…

It starts from the chest, at the height of my arm. It spreads up and down until it reaches my throat and tummy. It is an itch, a burn, and a craving. There is nothing like it, and no human experience can quite compare.

When I was a child, I held a heavy plate for as long as I could. At first, it felt easy, then uncomfortable, then painful until finally, it became almost unbearable. If I held longer, my entire existence had to be limited to the task.

The situation is somewhat similar, in the same way that being stung by a bee is similar to being stabbed by an enchanted silver dagger.

After a few minutes, I would roll around and fight the bindings openly, the pain in my stomach forgotten. I could not help myself.

After half an hour I was hissing and grunting. Lady Moor had heavy chains brought by a smirking Charlotte , and I was held up like in a cocoon.

After that, I lasted only a few more pages before starting to beg.

“Anything I want?”

“Yes! Yesssss. Just, please. PLEASE!”

“Your arrangements with Clan Ekon, I would hear of them now.”

“THERE ARE NO ARRANGEMENT YOU--ARG!”

“But you do have a place to escape.”

“I…”

“Well?”

“Yes! Yes, damn it, I do. I have a plan.”

“And what is that plan of yours?”

“I have money put away! I will take it and go!”

There is barely enough sanity in me left to throw away my most desperate plan. I will use it as bait, as a sacrifice.

“You STOLE from us?”

“N-no Mistress, I took money from your foes. The people in the warehouse! The swordfish gang, the rapists and the dodgers. I took their money!”

“Pfff! Hahaha oh, a war prize? Oh, this is just too precious. Very well, you might be slightly more cunning than I gave you credit for, but I must ask, how did you expect to survive the following manhunt?”

“Well, there is enough money to take a night coach. I would run afterward.”

“I was referring to the bracer you hare-brained bumpkin.”

“I…”

“Yes?”

“I was going to cut off my arm.”

“Oh. OH! This is just getting better and better. Why, I should thank you for tonight’s entertainment my dear, I have paid fortunes and laughed less. You seriously, seriously intended to mutilate yourself?”

“I… I know we can regrow limbs!”

“That is technically correct, and also completely irrelevant, as expected of you. You simply fail to understand the reality of your existence. You are no true spawn of The Devourer, mad with power and Thirst. You are just a lost fledgling abandoned by her sire who thinks herself tough enough to do what it takes to escape. You are not, and since I am a benevolent Mistress, I will educate you this instant.”

She walks to me and takes out a wicked dagger from a recess of her robe. The weapon is terrifying. It is black as obsidian and strangely curved. I have never seen such a thing before, yet one look at it is enough to know it was designed to slay humans.

She raises it and I flinch but she just frees my hands, and then removes the shackles. The rest of my body remains trapped.

“Well, I had almost forgotten your stench. I only have myself to blame. In any case, take it."

She gives me the dagger hilt first and I grab it before thinking. I could just cut the rest of the rope and get some blood…

“Cut off your arm here and now and I shall let you drink someone dry, then I will give you your freedom.”

“What?!”

“You heard me. Should you successfully cut off your arm, you can leave. This is my blade. It can cut through metal. Even an untrained mortal could decapitate a foe in two strikes using it, so slicing through an arm is a small matter.”

Doubt assails my mind through the numbing Thirst. Could it really be this easy?

“There are no traps. Go on. Try it.”

I extend my left arm and brandish the blade and I realize the issue.

I am terrified of pain.

I have suffered a lot in the past few months and one would think it would make me used to it. It does not. I do not want to be hurt. I do not want to bleed.

But I must try. I have to. This is my best shot at freedom. I turn my eyes towards the master vampire at my side. She has a patient and slightly condescending look on her face. She seems so certain that it is impossible for me.

I will show her.

I take a deep breath, grit my teeth and move to strike with all the speed and strength I can muster. I will hack down and slice before my brain can register what I have done.

My hand falls down and begins to quake.

Oh. My. God.

“AAAAAAaaaaAAaaaahhh!”

Can’t move. Can’t think. Hurts. Blade grates against the bone, buried deep.

I keep screaming and holding my arm, with the knife still in it, for some time. The agony washes my mind free of anything but the blinding pain itself. The world turns white. There is only suffering.

Eventually, another voice pushes through the dry sobs.

“Well, you managed to reach the bone. Here, let me help a bit.”

A hand pushes the blade down in a resounding crack and I lose consciousness for a few moments. When I come to, the knife is halfway through my arm. Blood slowly seeps on the stained sheets. The only sounds are my whimpers.

“You are halfway there, though arguably this was the easy half. Well, will you continue? Take your time.”

Too much pain. Too much pain and too Thirsty. I should continue, but I simply cannot. It hurts too much.

I am not some hero out of a story, who can just ignore pain and adversity. I am not strong enough.

I don’t want to do it. I don’t want to feel this torment.

It will have to be the Cadiz.

I am only lucky that Lady Moor forfeited a full interrogation in favor of humiliation. It seems that being looked down upon remains my greatest asset, for now. I would feel sorry about myself, but I am in too much agony for even that.

“Should I take it out?”

I nod. Yes, God please, just make it stop. Make everything stop. I feel like crying but I will not let go of the shreds of dignity I am still clinging to.

Lady Moor removes the knife and to her credit, she does it cleanly. The wound does not heal and I vainly hold my mangled arm to prevent more of the precious liquid from flowing away. So Thirsty. I can’t take it anymore.

She drags me to the cattle pens and I feed on two victims one after the other.

Something changed.

I notice that the sky outside of my mind refuge has turned dark. I should perhaps be worried, yet how could a vampire find daylight soothing? This is no more than I deserve.

After we are done, Lady Moor drags me back inside and throws me on the carpet. I can hear a snicker from Harold who watches me from the stairs. Those jackals are ever eager to witness someone else’s humiliation.

“My devoted Melusine tried to turn you into an acceptable courtier; however you preferred to be with the dregs. Now, unless you want to help with the gauntlet, you will work in a position that suits you better. More specifically, on your back.”

“Gauntlet.” I croak.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Gauntlet.” I repeat with more conviction. Whatever it is, it is still better than the fate she has in mind right now.

If Lady Moor is angered by my refusal, I see no trace of it.

“Very well. The Gauntlet it is.”

11. The Gauntlet

I was mistaken in believing I knew everything about the Lancaster's various businesses. I used my free access to Baudouin’s office to copy a few documents, including quarterly reports to the head of the Lancaster, in old English no less.

I knew about the plantations, the factories and warehouses. I knew about the inns and brothels. I knew about the slave and flesh trades. I even knew about the occasional contraband. Of course, they would hide something so that it is not taxed, and so I did not know about the blood sports.

New-Orleans’ landed gentry is proving to be an utter disappointment. Their unusual tastes have created a demand for the most horrendous of spectacles. Two to three times per week, men and sometimes even women, are given the opportunity to be freed of debt or punishment in exchange for a night of combat.

Should they survive, of course.

Ladies and gentlemen in expensive suits and domino masks travel by coach to one of Lancaster’s villas, walk through a cleanly cut maze of grass and sit with refreshments on the slope of a Greek-style amphitheater. An entertainer dressed in a toga and a full-face helmet loudly proclaims the night’s program.

The arena also employs a few prizefighters to guarantee some modicum of quality in the art of killing.

OoO

“Hsss...”

I breathe slowly. I do not need air anymore, but there is something in the cycles of breathing that provides the soothing rhythm I need to stay focused.

Inside, the log cabin has changed. It is no longer comically large, like I remember it as a child. The building is simply more spacious with some semblance of furniture. The cot has turned into a bed with a canopy that reminds me of my own, before I became what I am now.

The smell of wood smoke and fresh rain is just as prevalent as before. I let the light of the moon caress my skin from an open window and stare outside to endless fields of thorny trees. I do not recognize their essence and I know they should look menacing but I feel protected. Safe. Nobody will cross this expanse to harm me. They would be turned to bloody shreds in the labyrinthine forest.

I have not stepped outside yet. I am not ready.

I keep breathing. In and out. In and out. I just need to last a little longer. The Thirst will not make me throw myself against the bars. Never again.

I have been here for two weeks, and it only happened twice.

A clanging sound interrupts my meditation. Harold is opening the door to my cell. I can feel his hungry eyes on my body and I am once more thankful to Baudouin for his parting gift. He left clear instructions that I am not to be touched inappropriately, an order that the male vampire has yet to disobey.

When I kill every last one of them, I will be sure to make the human's death painless.

“It’s time.” says the brute.

I adjust my half mask and tighten the leather armor I wear. They are part of my public persona. I am, to the spectators, a Himalayan tribeswoman cursed with a taste for blood who fights without a blade.

Yes.

How they swallowed this much nonsense, I shall never know.

We walk through a short corridor to the arena’s gate. Harold stays mercifully silent the whole time.

Just a few more minutes. I can do it.

The gates open and I cross the threshold. The night smells of sweat, arousal, sand, and stale blood. In front of me, a burly man in a kilt and ancient helmet wipes his wounded shoulder with a stained piece of fabric. The corpse of a starved wolf lies a few feet farther.

“Laaadies and Gentlemen! Demetrius won his daughter’s freedom, can he repeat the exploit for the rest of his family? Will you grant him your favor against theeeeeee Blood Beast?!”

Seriously.

I raise my eyes to the skies and find the purple shape of the Silent Watcher. The twisted heaven grows closer as I am made aware of its presence.

It does not judge. That is all I can perceive and at the moment, it is all that I need. I bask in the eldritch light and savor the simplicity of the eye’s intent.

The raging Thirst slides in the background, if only for an instant. My only valued companion is a gigantic eye in the sky. This says a lot about my current social standing.

“Five lives, I have five lives, who will give me a sixth? No? Five lives it is! May the gaaaaaaame, BEGIN!”

The man grabs a trident and I finally notice a discarded net lying around. Baudouin must have gone for the Roman angle, as I recognize the attire of a Retiarius. That would make Harold a Lannista, the master of ceremony in a Roman circus, and me an idiot.

The man charges me with a grunt and thrusts the trident awkwardly. I easily push the shaft aside and stab a claw in his shoulder wound before dancing away.

I lick my bloodied finger for all to see.

“And we are one life down already! The Blood Beast teaches yet another lesson!”

The man howls in pain. The crowd roars in approval. I want to consume the prey. He tastes so sweet. Fear does that, it brings life to the surface.

I must remain patient.

My opponents have “lives”. Instead of going for a killing blow, I am to merely hurt them until they run out of it. Spectators can throw money to purchase an additional life for a contender, or they can pay that same amount to remove one.

To win, they only have to draw blood.

For me, the game is slightly different. I could finish the fight in an instant by moving, however, I have two objectives: provide entertainment, and spend as little resources as possible doing so. If I rouse the spectators, then Harold lets me feed on the defeated a little bit longer. On off days, the cattle arrives a little bit faster.

If I am defeated, or if I am too fast or too brutal, pain and the Thirst follow.

If Harold punishes me for no reason, I immediately kill my opponent.

There is a balance of terror in our relationship. I successfully made myself too valuable to kill and too difficult to control.

The failed Retiarius finally recovers from the pain and grabs the trident firmly with two hands, like an oversized sword. He swings at me menacingly a few times but I do not move. I can recognize the most obvious feints now. Out of patience, the man swings at my head and I dodge down and forward to close the distance.

He reacts in an instant by dropping the unwieldy weapon and punching forward. He is much faster now, and I barely manage to block. The impact pushes me back. My arm stings a bit. He immediately jumps on me but this time, I was expecting it. I sidestep his bull rush and stab a talon in his side as he goes by. Not too deep.

The man and the crowd roar at the same time as I lift a finger high. I lick it again. Hmm. I cannot wait much longer.

“And that is two! Is hope quickly fading for Demetrius? Can he make the monster bleed?”

Monster is a code word by the announcer to tell me to slow down. Drag the fight. I am so Thirsty, surely they would understand?

As Demetrius stands up, a heavy object buries itself at his feet with a thud. Silence descends upon the arena.

Throwing objects, and particularly weapons inside is ground for removal, who would dare to…

Ah.

A petite woman in a blue dress and a checkered mask waves her hand at me. Her crimson hair bobs up and down with her giggles.

Melusine.

The announcer recovers faster than me.

“Mistress! Do you grace Demetrius with your blessing?”

She waves lazily and sits down. The dismissal is so well done that all the attention returns to him and forces his hand.

“Very well! Demetrius, you have been given a second chance. Do not disappoint this noble assembly!”

I watch, speechless, as the gladiator picks up the massive knife and draws another one from his boot. So, not a Retiarius gladiator anymore. A Dimachaerus? Those are the ones who use two swords if I remember properly.

I fall back before my opponent. It is obvious that he knows how to use those. His posture is different and he feels so confident. I see no opening. I dodge a slice, another.

On the third, I try to grab his arm but his second blade lashes out. I barely avoid the bite. His moves are much more conservative and efficient.

Melusine broke the rules to make the fight more difficult and I know well that she will receive no more than a slap on the wrist for this transgression.

I slip to the side and sprint to my left. Demetrius easily keeps up with me, then I reverse course and rush forward. Caught off-guard, the gladiator stumbles. His weight makes it harder for him to change direction quickly. As I pass him by, he slashes the air. The blade slides against my armor with a scratch, a glancing blow that draws no blood.

I roll forward and grab the discarded trident. As he jumps at me again, I swing the massive weapon and smash it against his side. He crumples in a heap.

The crowd yells in approval, delighted at my quick thinking, such as it is.

“Oooooh, it appears that our valiant Demetrius still looks down upon the blood maiden! Three down, two left!”

I lick the outer prong. Very little blood. Not sharp. Soon. Have to wait.

“The trident is not yours.”

Once again, Melusine’s voice silences the intoxicated mob.

Oh no, she did not.

I am not to speak so instead, I tilt my masked helmet to the side, hold the polearm like a javelin and throw it at her.

Melusine’s eyes widen in disbelief behind her checkered mask. She barely manages to fall to her side and the weapon hits the stone behind her with a loud clang. I threw it shaft first, as a precaution.

Yup, it's yours now. Your move, you insufferable daughter of a hag.

Melusine shivers in rage but she already broke the rules twice for her own enjoyment. She is on thin ice, and she knows it. Fuming, she sits back down and I turn to the prostrate gladiator with a small scoff.

I make sure she notices.

Now that my anger dies down, the Thirst once more takes over. The wait is the worst. I am easily distracted from the craving but I do need something to focus on.

I walk a bit and when my preparation is done, I stand in front of the panting gladiator.

I wait. Perhaps I cracked his ribs?

“You bitch!”

It is always the same insults with them. No lily-livered wenches, no unable worms and three-fold fools. Has no one told them that variety is the spice of life?

“F-for my boy!” says he, as he stands up, quite audibly too.

The crowd erupts in cheers. The narration of the moment crystallizes in their sick minds.

Here is the criminal with the good heart fighting for his family's freedom. There, the cold maiden from the tribe at the dawn of time, the remnant of an archaic world where the fairer sex could wield blades as sharp as their tongue.

I care not. I am Ariane, I am my own. I will live, I will go home. All those who stand in my way, be they saints or criminals, I will devour.

The man rushes me again but he is slowing down. I easily dodge his slices by moving backwards and to the side. I leave my hands behind my back to everyone’s amusement. Finally, he corners me then overextends and I throw the net I was hiding that whole time.

There is an art to throwing a net. You have to make sure it is as wide as can be when it lands.

Demetrius recoils in panic and raises his hand in reflex. The net wraps around him beautifully and I draw a furrow in his left cheek with a talon. Yes. We are finally reaching the conclusion to this farce.

The crowd is silent now as the last act is about to open. The desperate man fumbles for a while and finally manages to get free. He immediately rushes me with a desperate roar. I stand my ground as the crowd watches with bated breath. When the knives reach me, I step backwards and grab both arms, let myself fall, put a foot against his belly and push.

That is a neat trick.

The big man is propelled like a derailed locomotive and crashes against the arena’s wall in a fracas of metal. I am on him in an instant. I lock one arm with a leg, the other with my right arm. I pull his head back and bite deep.

Finally.

Wait. No, this is wrong! I know that stench! That Jasper ruffian used the same concoction! How…

A mage potion? How? When?

There on the ground, a glass vial. He must have drunk it as he was fumbling under the net. But who would give it to him?

I spit out. Livid, I turn around and point an accusatory finger at Melusine. She was bent forward in anticipation! I knew it!

“YOU WHORE! YOU TAINTED THE BLOOD!”

Whispers and murmurs break among the crowd, growing in a crescendo. How dare she! How dare she pollute the precious substance!

Pain from the bracer makes me collapse. Harold comes and picks me up before retreating to the corridor.

I need it. I need it, need it, need it.

When Harold brings me another prisoner, it takes all my self-control not to kill the whimpering sod on the spot.

Two weeks later

There are no signs of Melusine, and I can only assume that she was reprimanded for her idiotic display. Fights remain difficult but I am fed enough to remain sane. Mostly.

Three weeks later

The man facing me is an old French sailor with graying hair and nose flattened by repeated fractures.

“Non, you must move better. I show.”

Marius is quite popular with the crowd, especially when he uses a ridiculous harpoon as a spear. He fights dirty and I learn a lot from him. We have an off night and I want to pick up a few tricks. God knows I could do better. This is unladylike, but I will do almost anything to survive.

Four weeks later

Marius is dead. He was killed by a downed debtor who stabbed him in the back after the fight had ended. On a positive note, I got to drink the shameless prick dry. I had a new fighter, an Italian lout, show me how to use a knife.

Five weeks later

The Italian lout made a name for himself as “Benedetti”. His knife-wielding technique and rakish looks apparently made him popular with widowed female spectators. I am fighting a bit less as a result. We also picked up a coolie called “Long”. He calls himself a “Martial artist”. He moves well but fights too clean.

Six weeks later

I lost my first match in a while against a desperate fighter, a cavalryman of some repute apparently. He managed to stab my arm using a suicidal attack. The crowd loved it. I think he may even survive.

Seven weeks later

I wake up to a familiar ceiling of red bricks. There are four hundred and ninety-six of them, to be precise. Entertainment is sparse here.

The cell is made of three brick walls and one made of metal bars to allow my captors a full view of my quarters, such as they are. The only saving grace is that I do not need to visit the lavatories, nor is it difficult to keep clean. No sweaty armpit, no dead skin for this young vampire. No moon blood either.

Even my costume is cleaned after every fight by a terrified maid. There is very little cause for me to undress, and I have so far managed to clean myself at record speed and therefore avoided any spectator.

“I am Ariane, I am my own, I will survive, I will go home.”

I repeat the sentences every night, though my heart is not in it these days. I have achieved something I thought would have been impossible after waking up with no pulse.

I am bored.

I know, on an intellectual level, that I am in mortal danger. I also know that I am a prisoner, and yet my life has become routine. There are only a few variations. Sometimes, I am let out to practice with other gladiators as a reward for good behavior.

I learn to move better, I learn where it hurts and what my body can do, but that barely covers an hour. Sometimes, I fight, and although it can be entertaining it is over too quickly. The rest of the time, there is nothing to do.

I asked for a book and they brought me a bible. I suppose this was a crude attempt at humor. I remember the cross on the men of the order of Gabriel and their dreadful effects on me. However, when I opened my own copy, nothing happened despite the holy symbol on the cover.

I thought that reading this most august of works would shed some new light on the world, now that I am aware of the existence of unnatural creatures. Sadly I found little of interest. It appears that a lot of the content is about who begat who and which tribe camped where.

Disappointing.

Two sets of footsteps approach my door. Harold comes into view, dragging a reluctant woman in a maid uniform. He opens the door and shoves her in. I approach slowly and she offers her neck, however as I draw closer, she seizes my arm.

I do not show any surprise and when we are done, she leaves without a word. I open the folded paper she placed in my hand to read its content.

Do not let him transform.

The message bears no signature and I do not recognize who wrote the blocky letters. A moment later, Harold returns with a fresh armor. No helmet this time.

“Put it on, and hurry.”

As I walk to the arena, I know something has changed. Winter is here. The air tastes colder and more quiescent, and the whispers and laughter of the crowd have fallen silent. When my feet tread the sand, I glance around in surprise.

The rowdy crowd has been replaced by my so-called benefactors. Lady Moor sits in the middle, in a comfortable throne. Baudouin and Melusine are on either sides. The redheaded hag is smirking gleefully and I am now convinced my opponent will be a difficult one.

Lady Moor glowers down at me.

“Let the mercenary…” she stops. Melusine leans towards her and whispers a few things. Moor considers her words for a moment before nodding in assent.

“You are correct, this is not technically against the rules. Inform Mr. Vauttier that he may start turning right away.”

Harold nods and crosses to the other gate. A moment later, dreadful cracks and groans emerge from the darkened corridor in front of me.

What in the world is happening?!

The abominable noises continue for half a minute and culminate in a sound that freezes the blood in my veins: a primal roar of utmost savagery. The sound reverberates in the closed space. Birds take flight in the distance and the world around me holds its breath.

A clattering of claws on cold stone announces the arrival of a creature of nightmare. Dark grey skin covers every muscular inch of a chimera between man and wolf. Even when hunched, it stands taller than me by half and its long and powerful hands end in claws that completely dwarf mine.

What in the name of God is that thing?!

I am supposed to fight that!?

The creature’s yellow eyes fall on me and in the same instant it jumps, and I move. I sidestep the beast, slide under its extended arms and rake my talons across its powerful sides.

It feels like carving into stone!

The monster’s hands grab air and before it can turn around, I rush from behind and kick its lower back. I used this move before to shove an unbalanced opponent into the wall with some success. Now? It feels like hitting a pile of bricks.

The creature turns around and slices the air where I was standing an instant before. It misses me by a breath. That thing is fast, almost as fast as me unless I move. That said, I am not giving a show anymore.

I am well fed, and I do not have to give quarter.

I draw into a deep part of me, the predatory aspect that ignores all rationality. The Lancasters fade away, the locked doors fade away. There is only me and the prey.

BIG, RESILIENT. INFLICT CRITICAL DAMAGE. NO DRAGGING OUT.

The monster rushes me, this time it stops beyond my reach and lashes out towards my torso. I move, using the same jump I used to hit the mage.

The enemy misses, but its arm brushes against my leg and I am propelled off course. I barely manage to swipe my target on the side of his head before ending up at its back again. This time, the creature howls in pain and reaches for the ruin of its left eye. I do not wait. I jump on it and dig both hands in its jugulars, then I pull.

To no avail.

My talons are stuck in the rock-hard skin. I fight and struggle in vain for an instant then the monster’s claws hit my midriff and throw me away.

There is a horrible shredding sound when my claws are torn from his arteries, and another when my body is sent flying.

Are those my guts?

Oh my God, it is, oh my God oh my GoD tHis…

ThiS is noT alRigHt.

In a panic, I try to pull my intestines back as fast as possible while the beast coughs and hacks. I am almost done when it turns to me.

Don’t think about it Ariane, don’t think about knowing what touching your own organs feels like. Gah!

The beast jumps again. So much blood! It killed itself when it wrestled me, slit its own throat.

I just need to last a little longer!

It steps forward and…

Hmmm, such a tantalizing bouquet!

I wilL paRtaKe of it.

The creature lurches at me, then strikes. I move for the third and last time tonight, dodging strike after strike with one hand against my stomach until eventually, I stumble.

What? Why?

I look down to my blood-drenched form. The wound is not closing at all. I am bleeding out!

Using my distraction, the monster grabs my left arm and pulls. The pain is renewed as I feel things come out that should have stayed in. So strong! I manage to lift my right hand so the beast’s other arm clamps on my torso instead.

The pain is almost enough to make me faint, only panic and my will to live keep me off the edge.

It opens a hellish maw, filled with serrated fangs.

Oh God! It is going to eat me!

No!

I grab its lower jaw and pull it towards me. The beast’s mouth bites on my fingers and a new pain joins the other, but I had enough time. The creature did not expect this. No prey wants to get closer.

My mouth sticks to the gaping wound on its throat and I start drinking. The beast shivers, it is already too late.

A rush of power and life unlike anything I have ever felt crashes against my mind. There is no time to think about any cabin, no time to prepare. I am just washed away.

Night. The hunt. I see something on the vale under the light of the full moon. It is an abomination devouring a child! I shoot. It jumps at me. I run. I reach a house. I reach the cellar door. Something bites my ankle but I turn and stab it in the eye. I run in. The beast is too large to follow me.

Night. The hunt. Blood sings through my veins as I howl in triumph. The pale prey and their pathetic mounts lay dismembered around me.

Morning. Regret. Grief. Shame. Exile.

I push away from the carcass and take a deep breath in. This was incredible! It does not compare to my master of course, but it was the closest to have come to it. I hear a suction noise and look down. Under the grime and congealing blood, I am unharmed.

Silence reigns over the arena. Melusine’s face is a mask of stupefaction while Moor is contemplative. Baudouin is pale and sweaty.

“It’s not fair! My Lady, this is a draw!”

“Unless I’m mistaken, your candidate is a stiff. How is that a draw?”

“Enough! Do not argue in public. Melusine, do not be ridiculous. Take the loss and go.”

“But…”

Lady Moor’s image blurs and I hear a loud smack at the same time as Melusine’s face moves back. She collapses in a heap and coughs blood.

Oh.

OH.

Let this moment be engraved in my memory until the end of times. Melusine’s pretty face with the imprint of someone’s hand on it and blood dripping down her poisonous mouth. Whatever God favors us vampires, praise be to thee. Hah!

Torpor hits me like a hammer. I fed a lot and took a lot of damage in a very short time. I can barely keep to my feet. I look up to the Silent Watcher as I am dragged away.

“Did you enjoy it too?”

Pale light shines on the meadow. In the semi-darkness, everything looks the same shade of grey except for scarlet droplets. I smirk and shoulder the smoking musket. With a trail that obvious, who needs bloodhounds?

I stride forward with haste, lest my prey ends up in some other animal’s belly. It is a swamp rabbit of prodigious size! Wait until I show it to Papa. I will surely break his and Achille’s records. Ariane Reynaud, greatest hunter of House Reynaud, here I come!

The trail goes over ferns and through bushes, and I follow. In less than a minute I start to hear wood snapping and a whimper of pain. Hah, so close.

Here it is, my prey. Such a huge rabbit it is!

“No amiga, please! Do you not recognize me?”

I take out my hunting knife to finish it off humanely. One slice and it will bleed out nicely.

“No, Ariane, please, Ariane I beg you! ARIANE, NO!”

There, all nice and proper. I lick the blood a bit, because it tastes so divine. Not bad!

Now I just have to bring the carcass to the camp and weigh it. After I am done gloating, I shall allow Achille to gut and skin it for me.

There is just something most peculiar about its empty eyes, staring at nothing. It is almost as if…

“GAH!”

By all the saints in paradise, what is it with these inane dreams! How awful. Who in their right mind would hunt at night in the bayou? Preposterous. Strutting around in the dark, in the marshlands is a sure-fire way to get bitten by an alligator and drown in some murky pond. I would not be caught dead doing something this senseless.

There is, of course, the small matter of the murder of my best friend. Unfortunately, I expect nothing else from those nightmares.

I lay there in relative peace. I am fully healed from yesterday’s fight and clean, and though my quarters are nothing comfortable, there is a pleasant feeling to just staying in bed.

Inevitably, the Thirst lets itself known and like clockwork, two sets of footsteps approach my cage. When my donor comes into view, it takes all my self-control not to jump in joy. I school my expression as the door opens, as the donor slips something with the glint of gold in Harold’s hand and as he leaves us alone. When I hear a shutting door though, I let myself smile warmly.

“Good evening Aintza.”

The Cadiz have finally made contact.

12. Acte I, scène finale

“Lo siento señorita. Time is short, and you must listen.”

I shiver as Aintza’s warm breath tickles my ear. We are sitting on my cot and I find her gesture distracting.

“We finally have an opportunity to force your escape. Unfortunately, it will have to be tomorrow. Is there anything that you can give us to justify our help? Please, my mistress wants to assist you, but her hands are tied.”

“Would a list of clan Lancaster’s holdings, contracts, and associates do? It is quite comprehensive.”

Aintza’s eyes widen in surprise.

“Truly, you have gathered this much?”

“Indeed.”

“You are a prisoner, however. Do you have it secure somewhere?”

“Yes, and I shall give it to you, but I must ask,” I add warily, “what stops you from taking the document and leaving?”

“Señorita Ariane, you know of my mistress. Do you truly expect her to behave in such a shameful way?”

“I suppose not.”

“You can ask me again after you have fed, to assuage any doubt.”

“Will I not be fighting your Mistress for influence over you?”

Aintza shakes her head with a light smile.

“Please, let us do it. Everything will be made clear.”

I embrace the shorter woman, who obediently bares her throat. Unmarred skin greets me and the offering is just too tempting. I flick my tongue and she shivers and moans.

Hmm, that was most lewd, and now I feel somewhat uncomfortable.

“Please… please!” she urges me on.

Am I being molested? Bah, quickly, let me feed and think of this no more!

As I stand in my refuge, I realize something incredible. I am tied to the diminutive woman by a bond we forged months ago. That means that Jimena hasn’t touched her companion in that long! That also explains why she could reach me without being recognized as another clan’s human. There is no trace on her of the touch of another vampire besides my meager own.

I can only applaud the squire’s restraint and the servant’s loyalty. It also means that she has been prepared to infiltrate the Lancaster clan since before I even entered their service. My vampire friend truly is a woman of honor. I am sure this separation has cost them dearly.

I pull away long before I must. There is something too intimate about this experience that I am uncomfortable with. Aintza’s rosy cheeks and the smell of her arousal are enough to convince me that she and Jimena may entertain a Sapphic relationship. Oh dear.

“Ask me again.”

“Hmm, do you and Jimena intend to save me?”

“Yes, you will be free tomorrow night. We have a plan. They will think you dead, and thus will not pursue.”

“And what is that plan, if I may ask?”

“Hm, I want to tell you, but Jimena said that it will not work then.”

I want to question her more, but the sound of Harold’s footsteps dissuades me. I quickly write a few directions to one of my hideouts for her. Time matters not. I have waited for six months. I can wait one more night. I can almost feel it. I am Ariane, I am my own, I will survive and tomorrow, I will head home, to freedom.

I follow Harold through the maze in a dress reminiscent of what Melusine had worn during our extremely short sparring session. The warden turns back to me every five seconds, frowning at my bare arms. No shackles for this vampire! I can only assume that wherever we go, I may not appear as a slave.

Harold fully expects me to make a run for it. I have taken his measure, and I am far from confident that I could escape him, and so I am patient. I will not endanger Jimena’s plan for a harebrained scheme.

A short time later, I climb into a carriage and settle down as it leaves. Lady Moor sits opposite me, wearing the finest white robe. She stares at me with an assessing gaze. I feel measured, weighted and judged.

“Good evening Ariane.”

I bow slightly to return the courtesy. Vampire society is ruthless, yet polite. Manners and rules are more important, it seems, when everyone can remove spines from torsos with their bare hands.

“Lady Moor, greetings.”

“It seems that I have misjudged you. Baudouin’s assessment was mostly correct after all.”

My eyes widen in shock. This sounded suspiciously like a compliment and an apology! Or, at least, as close to one as this stuck-up, arrogant twit can manage.

They must be desperate.

“This leads us to tonight. Clan Ekon has issued a formal challenge, to be witnessed by clan Roland.”

“A challenge, my Lady?”

“The slave trade is picking up and those jackals want in on it. Nothing to concern yourself over.”

She waves a hand dismissively.

“As the provoked party, we had the choice of the form of the duel. What do you know about vampire conflicts?”

“Nothing.”

“I see. I would have hoped that Melusine would have taught...bah, it matters not. There are several forms of formal resolutions. I am sure that Kouakou would have preferred to fight me in a duel, but I will not sully my hands wielding a blade against that savage.”

I highly suspect "that savage” would give her a proper and well-deserved spanking.

“And so we will rely on champions. By rule, it cannot be a member of our House. In this desolate place, it would mean an expensive mercenary or a duelist. You have already slain Melusine’s contender and so you are our best candidate. Win for us, and I will officially let you become Baudouin’s right hand.”

Desperate indeed! Oh, but I must not look too eager lest she suspects something.

“Should I accept, I want to have the right to possess a weapon and a proper bedroom.”

“Yes, yes indeed. You will be given Caitlynn’s free room. She died during the raid on the fortress. You will also be paid handsomely and be allowed to carry a blade, and before you ask, no, I cannot have someone representing my clan walk around with a musket. Women do not carry muskets around town! Just leave it be!”

She knows me so well. I am amused to realize that “Musket” is “Fire staff” in the tongue of Akkad.

“You have a deal, my Lady.”

“Excellent! Now, as the offended party, you have the freedom to choose the weapon.”

I let Moor tell me about strategy with only half an ear. Now that the bracer is off, I feel so giddy.

In short order, we stop in front of a derelict theater with a Spanish façade of pitted stone. I walk in flanked by Harold and we reach an opulent entrance of yellow stone and red curtains. Two curved stairs lead upward to a circular promenade while a set of doors stands in front of us. Corridors open here and there, basked in shadows. Belying the decayed exterior, everything here is spotless. Without a word, Harold leads me to a narrow passage while Moor struts proudly forward. I follow him through twisted alleys, barely lit by the errand candle.

Freedom, so close I can taste it.

Harold opens a set of doors and the golden light of torches shines on a renovated opera house. The lodges have been left intact, but the ground has been entirely replaced by a sand arena. This must be where they hold blood games during the winter.

I can feel quite a few vampires in the tribunes, as well as a smattering of mortals. A small gathering lies ahead of us.

The silence is eerie.

Lady Moor and Lambert stand on one side, while Naminata and the man I recognize as Lord Kouakou stand on the other. The twins, who had been Gaspard’s subordinates back at the fortress, are in the middle. I meet my savior’s eyes and she lowers them with sadness.

Uh?

I expected her to be more playful.

“I present to you our champion, Ariane of Clan Nirari.”

“There is no Clan Nirari,” retorts a frowning Kouakou.

“Then unaffiliated, not that it matters,” says Lady Moor with a smirk.

One of the twins raises his hand and both sides fall silent. Both are men with very light brown hair, brown eyes, and tan skin. They are rather short and have the muscles I would associate with dancers. They wear an identical beige ensemble and the whole effect is decidedly monochromatic.

“The Lancaster is correct Lord Kouakou. There were no restrictions on champion selection when you both agreed. A vampire from another house lent for the occasion is completely acceptable.”

I freeze in horror. Oh dear. I finally understand. So caught in the perspective of freedom, I ignored Aintza’s drunken remark. “They will think you dead,” she said.

Oh no.

This is going to be most painful.

“On this auspicious remark, let me present to you my representative: Squire Jimena of Clan Cadiz.”

I hear a sharp breath intake coming from Moor. She clearly did not see that coming.

“Since when are you a Cadiz lackey, Kouakou!? I thought--!”

“You thought our argument over the cane farms was unresolved, yes, I know.”

Lady Moor falls silent and I use this opportunity to stare at Jimena as she approaches. I thought I looked good in that strange battle dress I wear, yet she puts me to shame. She is regal in a form-fitting leather cuirass. Elaborate metal bracers adorn her forearms and her hand rests on the pommel of a sword of exquisite make.

“Both champions are approved. The parties may regain their seats.”

The others retreat and I am left with the twins and my opponent. Jimena’s face is a frozen mask.

The second twin turns to me:

“Ariane, as the offended party, the choice of arms is yours.”

“If I may…”

We both turn to Jimena.

“I advise you to choose a blade, young one. There is no need to make this worse than it is.”

How are they so serious?

“I am afraid she is right, young one.”

“Very well, I choose swords.”

One of the twins leaves and shortly comes back with a pair of identical dueling blades, made of silver without adornments. I pick one and Jimena, the other.

“This duel is to the death. You may begin when the door is shut.”

Hold on, what!? To the death!?

The twins leave at a leisurely pace.

“Do not let your circumstances dishearten you young Ariane, do your best to kill me.”

Then the door closes behind the judges.

Oh dear.

I am sure she has a plan, and she was quite clear that I use this sword to the best of my abilities.

“Fight me, Ariane.”

Very well.

I move, I try to swat her blade aside and lean in for a thrust, but she just lowers her blade then swipes it back up to deflect my blow. I keep moving more and more.

Every attack is deflected, every feint is ignored until I turn it into a real attack that is, and then it is blocked. I rush at Jimena like an enraged mantis and she dodges by the barest of margins. Sometimes, she ripostes but her moves are transparent, and I parry without difficulty.

I accelerate to the limits of my power and already the Thirst is back in strength. I try to grab her, I try to claw her. I try to kick and punch her. I attack her arm and legs. Nothing works.

This fight has lasted longer than the fight against the werewolf. I have completed no less than five quick sequences and am approaching my limits when something odd happens.

My head lurches, I stumble. My mind pops like a soap bubble. Every desire to fight evaporates and strength abandons me. My arms fall, the blade rolls on the floor.

“Huh?”

What is going on? I am trying to think through a thick wall of cotton.

Ah.

There is a blade in my heart. Thick red blood flows freely to my feet. There is so much of it.

Jimena approaches me with sorrow clear on her face.

Is it over, just like that?

There was a plan? No?

Her talons reach my throat.

No?

With a ripping sound, she tears something and my vision falls to black with the sound of polite applause.

Night reigns absolute in the thorn forest. Vines as thick as my legs twist and cross from all sides. They are covered in massive spines that could punch through a skull.

It is getting colder.

I walk and the vegetation moves aside to let me through. Even when I know my skin should be shredded by the contact, I receive instead the briefest of caresses. It is not enough to give me courage.

It is getting cold. I hug myself to stave off the frigid air in vain. I should be home, but I do not know the way. I am lost. Papa must be worried. Perhaps he is already looking for me.

The stars, if I see the stars then I will at least know where the North lies!

As if by magic, I immediately reach a clearing of packed earth. There are stars above but they are too indistinct, I recognize no constellation. I know in my heart that something is missing, but what?

Ah yes, I know. Of course, silly me, there is always the Silent Watcher!

A veil parts and the ominous orb stares at me in unknowable serenity. Somehow, its presence feels sharper today.

My mind is like taken and flung across the earth. The jolt is enough to wake me up from my trance.

I am stunned. What just happened? But wait, there is no time to lose. I am dying. It is not the false death of our sleep but the true end that no one can come back from. I need to move, to fight. I stand up and sprint towards the cabin. I do not need to see it to know where it is. We are, after all, in my psyche.

A cold wind picks up and roars behind me. The forest twists and shakes to hold it back, in vain. I need to go faster. Suddenly, an enticing scent reaches my nostrils: blood most potent.

It smells incredible. I run even faster. I need it. Such vitality, such life, I must make it my own. It is simply irresistible.

I finally reach the log house and crash through the door.

I come to with a gasp and terrible cough.

AWAKE. THIRSTY. WOUNDED.

An incredible treat in my mouth and down my throat. Delicious. So strong. Not enough. Prey ahead, chained and whimpering. I reach the prey. I drink deep. Rush of life. No pleasure, too hurt.

It dies.

I take a deep breath and cough. Blood droplets splatter on the bound corpse in front of me and my shoes. The battle dress’ front is completely red. The hole in my chest is already closed and I understand.

Jimena barely clipped my heart; even then the damage was massive. I understand the look on Gaspard’s face as he died. I haven’t felt this helpless since the night I met Him.

My throat still pains me. I cough again to try and clear the airway. More of the crimson liquid drips from my lips.

I take stock. I am in some wooden shed devoid of anything but the corpse of the tied man, a backpack and an oiled envelope on top of it. I approach the bag and notice a sheathed silver knife. Unbidden, a smile reaches my lips. She did it, Jimena did it! I am free!

“Ahhh!”

Someone just screamed outside, I am not completely free it seems.

I approach the door in silence and stare through the keyhole. I am in a courtyard occupied by two people. The first one is Aintza and the second one is Charlotte. The bovine woman is holding the servant’s hand. Two fingers are already bent at an unnatural angle.

Curses, what should I do? If I come out, I may be found out and this will have all been for nothing, assuming I even survive, and yet, not intervening feels wrong. I have a debt of gratitude towards Jimena and Aintza. I am not foolish enough to assume that we made a fair deal. They went to great length to guarantee my escape.

Aintza is begging now. She might be slain. Curse it all. This shall not stand. I would never be able to face my friend if I let it happen.

I will have to risk it.

I open the door and the hinges squeal like a stuck pig. So much for discretion.

Charlotte turns her piggish face to me and erupts in triumph.

“Hah, I knew it! You thought you could outsmart old Charlotte? You will not escape our service so easily. Wait until the Lady hears of this, your punishment will be exemplary! To return our gratitude--”

“So the Lady does not yet know?” I say in a gravelly voice.

“No, but soon we shall all--”

“So only you are aware of this scheme?” I smile, making sure to show my fangs. This blood that was poured down my throat and the man that followed sated me, but the repairing damage is keeping the torpor at bay. I feel awake, strong, and quite happy. I am free, and now Charlotte comes to me without anyone knowing? This is just the cherry on the cake.

I watch outrage and pride turn to hesitation then to fear. Yes, realize now your predicament you brainless excuse of a frigid ham.

“Y-you would not dare.”

I step closer, slowly as that she does not panic. I do not want to run after her.

I stop at arm’s reach.

“I am this close to escaping, you fat sow. Only your wagging tongue stands between me and freedom so I ask you: why not?”

She turns to run and I move. The silver knife slides between her ribs and my hand on her neck buries her ugly mug in the dirt. She is so slow and pathetic. Turning your back to your opponent while they are so close? It is tantamount to suicide.

I adjust my grip and bring the blade out. She cries briefly and I use the distraction to stab her in the heart.

Her struggle immediately seizes. I hear a whimper as I drag her neck up.

“In life as death, you were ever at the bottom, cur.”

I drink her dry. When I stand up, a weak blue light starts to consume her lifeless body. I feel like I am watching a log disintegrate.

Even her taste was disappointing. Truly, a waste of essence to the very end. Oh well.

I turn to Aintza. She stepped away from the fight and is currently cradling her wounded hand. Her face is pale but resolute.

“Aintza--”

"You must leave Ariane, or you will risk us all.”

“Will you be alright?”

“Yes, do not worry, this is not my first time running a scheme for Jimena.”

“She does seem too honest for her own good.”

“There is not a devious bone in her whole body.” She adds with a warm smile and dreamy eyes. She loves her. If I had any doubts before, there are none now. Even with the bonds formed from our recent bite, Jimena is still the most precious person in the world to the petite woman. I feel a pang of jealousy in my heart but I quickly suppress it. I do not need it. I do not want it.

“I shall take my leave then. Thank you, both of you, for everything.”

“Godspeed Lady Ariane. Read the letter with attention, it contains everything you need to know.”

I nod and rush away into the night. After six months of servitude, I am finally free.

I made it. And now, I am going home.

13. Homeward

The town of Montfort where I grew up is about two-thirds of the way between New Orleans and Baton Rouge. It took us a day of riding to come here, back when I was alive. Tonight, it only took me two hours of running to reach the outskirts.

I should have died. Even if my heart was barely clipped and my head still mostly attached, the grievous wounds I suffered should have been the end of me. Instead, I was given a few swallows of blood so potent, so incredibly strong that it amplified my healing and is even now carrying me forward.

I have run before and any exertion quickly led to Thirst. This time, I ride on the wind of boundless energy, a well of vitality that just goes on forever. Even now, I feel sated.

I do not understand what I was given; I only know that I had never heard of something similar. Whatever I was gifted, it was both rare and precious. One more debt to add to the pile.

I slow down as I recognize familiar houses. At this time of the night, the roads are completely empty and with clouds covering the night sky, even someone staring out of their windows would be hard-pressed to notice me. I still walk through fields and copses of trees to reach the back entrance of my house. I do not want to take any chances.

I reach the first of my family’s cane fields. Winter is almost here so they lie empty and desolate. I keep walking. Wet earth and trees give me the peculiar smell I associate with home and I stop.

I have done it. My primary purpose, the goal I aimed for since I woke up under the fortress has been fulfilled. I held to this feeling, this idea of freedom and heading home to keep my sanity and determination in situations that could have broken me and left me helpless. I now realize that I have no idea how to proceed now that I have achieved those priorities. Those were not plans that could be implemented, they were ideals without follow up.

I sit down on a tree stump.

What do I want?

I am a monster. My family will know sooner rather than later, should I try to go back to my old life. Worse, the news of my return would spread far and wide and I might as well just send a missive to the Lancaster and the order of Gabriel to show up to my house with a sharp blade and a silver spike.

I do not want to stay. I still want to know how my father and brother are faring. They need this closure as much as I do.

I do not want to die.

I do not want to be a slave.

All those are negative desires. They are an absence of things. They are not goals I can strive towards.

At a loss, I decide to read Jimena’s letter. She might have provided some good advice. I take out the heavy envelope from my larger backpack and open it. I note in passing that it is coated in something, to protect it from liquids, no doubt. They really thought of everything.

The first line is a series of strange runes, all wedges, and sharp angles. It looks like someone stabbed the paper and the ink is black blood seeping from the wound. I blink and the meaning becomes obvious.

Blood sister, if you can read and write the tongue of Akkad, please use it from now on in our correspondence.

I do not even question how the knowledge ended up in my mind.

The rest of the writing is in English. Jimena’s letters are identical and evenly spaced. The paper does not have a single blot, which is no less than I expected from that straight arrow of a woman.

“My dear Ariane,

The first thing you need to do upon reading these words is to get away from the city. Avoid the entire region around New-Orleans like the plague, and give Baton-Rouge a wide berth! You must not attract the notice of our peers, at least for a good ten years. Do not let our efforts be in vain, for I will be unable to rescue you a second time.

The second thing I need to tell you is to be careful if you head home. I do not blame you, for we have all done it. May the experience be kinder to you than it was to me. For the same reason, be careful not to be noticed and for the love of all you hold dear, do not try to live your old life.

You cannot trick the humans for long and if the vampires do not notice, the order of Gabriel will. Do not be fooled by their failure at the fortress. They are an efficient and ruthless lot, and they have been the end of many a fledgling. Underestimate them at your peril.

Now that I assume you are safe and away, I would like to impart a few notions upon you. Your first priority is to survive for another year and a half. As a new fledgling, you require a lot of sustenance. You will need to drink deep every night and finding the blood is not easy. You may feed off lone travelers, outlaws, and escapees with relative ease. Small villages may offer a hunting ground, but only for a single night.

You must remember this. Wherever you go, you are and will be an outsider. You will attract attention and attention is not your friend. As a vampire, you are more dangerous than most individual entities of the world. You are also isolated, at least for now.

Do not let yourself be discovered and cornered. Do not let yourself be tracked down. Be always one step ahead of others and your life will never be at risk. Let the crowd learn of the thing in its midst, however, and you will die. A hundred may fall before you but still, you will die, for nothing.

The only place where your presence might be properly hidden is within the anonymous multitude of cities. Even then, you will be at constant risk without the support of a master. At least until you gather allies, you should stay on the move.

For obvious reasons, you should avoid territories belonging to the natives as a lone white woman at night will always be too noticeable.

You may go where you wish, I would still advise you to stay well enough away from the two other vampire communities on the continent. One is in Charleston and the other in New York. Avoid them if you can.

Onto more practical matters, here is a list of advice I wish someone had given me when I first set out:

Create a fake identity and make it believable. Stick to it. The more familiar you are with it, the less people will think you lie. Remain consistent. Changing name and persona in every village will not protect you from the Order, or vampires tracking you. It will only make slipping more likely.

Always drink before you need to or the choice to spare a life will be taken away by the Thirst.

You must find a place to spend the day at least two hours before daylight. If the sun reaches you as you slumber, you will never wake up again.

Do not try to pet dogs, cats or any other animals. They can tell what we are.

Always keep a clean set of clothes, and if possible, clean socks as well.

Do not forget to wash behind your ears for the errant spot of blood.

Do not use pigs set on fire as a distraction; it will never work as intended! The same goes for boars and bulls.

Huh?

When people welcome you with a smile, it means they assume you to be a fugitive and a member of their house is already on his way to the constable.

And last but most important

Hide the bodies.

I close the letter with a sigh of regret. Jimena’s words are directions and warnings, there is no indication on what I should do with my life, besides surviving. I have only been delaying the inevitable. As much as I hate it, I will have to do some introspection.

What do I want?

I want to create something for myself and then nurture it. When I was younger, I wanted to build a stable and later a distillery. It is most likely impossible for now according to what I understand from Jimena’s letter. I might be able to do it later. I will never be too old to start a new project, after all.

If I cannot build then at least I can travel. I could go to Florida or Texas, or even visit the Anglos lands in the North. I could even go to Canada! Or, Paris! London!

No, that seems like a terrible idea. I would need to cross the ocean and even my Master would not risk it without preparation. This would also put me in contact with other clans. No Paris, no Barcelona, no Berlin for this lone vampire. I shall make the New World my own.

Yes. I can travel, I can discover things and meet people, and eat them too! As soon as I am done here.

Suddenly my mood plummets. I ran all the way here, and now I am wasting time making inane plans that may never reach completion. I am…

I am scared.

There, I said it. I am terrified by what I will find. What will I do if they try to kill me? What will I do if they are dead?

No, no. They cannot be dead. I will not accept it.

I stand up in a rush and stride towards the mansion, I am almost there.

The log cabin.

I slowly step to the place of my childhood.

It is burnt to the ground.

No!

Black soot clings to the stone foundations and the few surviving beams. The charcoal is dark and shiny, its surface made smooth by a season of rain. The small hearth is half-collapsed and there is nothing left of the furniture. I step forward and kneel. I grab a handful of dark dust.

What happened? Why is it gone, and why is it so small? My log cabin is tall. Large and strong, with a canopy bed! This pale imitation, this pathetic excuse of a dump cannot be the place of my childhood! I cannot accept it.

Is this a joke? Is this some sort of trick? Is there a hidden place farther away? Perhaps I remember it wrong, this has to be a shed and the real thing is farther away?

I am crying.

I silently dab the tears away with a clean tissue. I am so terribly affected by the loss of this place. Why? Why am I so sad? I look up to the Silent Watcher and suddenly, my mind reaches my refuge.

The sky is still dark and cloudless. Staring into it gives a feeling of immensity. I look down to the solid walls that would shame the ramparts of a Roman Oppidum and step in.

The gate opens before me, unbidden. The interior is warm and clean. The bed occupies the middle of the room, surrounded by furniture and the odd trinket, each a symbol of a significant memory. A fire roars in the hearth and the wood pops and hisses contentedly.

I step out and end up sitting in wet ashes.

So that is what it feels like, the death of innocence. It has been six months and the world moved on. It did not wait for me.

I stand back up. No. This is nothing. This is just a building. I will not let such an event shatter me. I refuse.

I keep going, after a while my childhood home comes in sight.

It is a two-story colonial house, the wood painted white. An outside patio leads to a grand entrance. I know every room in it, every nook and cranny and yet there is a major problem.

I cannot get in, at least not without an invitation. I need Papa to invite me.

I walk away to his bedroom window, on the side of the second floor. I jump up. I easily grab the sill with both hands and dig my talons in it, then I look down.

Impressive, I will have to remember to jump up to avoid pursuers.

Turning my attention forward, I face a shutter. Of course. I slide my index finger forward and the wood gives way with an audible crack, and I lift the lock. The shutter opens with a shriek from its rusty hinges. Inside, a dog starts to bark.

I stare through the window and drawn curtains. Surely, Papa heard me? He should be up and waving around a massive iron poker while bellowing threats at whoever dares do disturb his property and his rest.

The door slams wide and a female figure with a small dog comes in. I duck and let go.

“Roger, someone opened the shutter!”

“Damn it woman, I told you to wait for me.”

“Dad? What’s going on?”

I stay where I stand. Curses, this is my aunt and her family. What are they doing here? And where is my father?

“You stay there, I’m going to look outside.”

“Dad?”

“I said, stay there.”

He is going to step outside, voluntarily? How convenient.

Roger leaves the house with a lamp, the dog and a loaded musket. The small white thing keeps barking until it catches my scent.

Then it starts shaking.

I jump down from the patio and land behind him in perfect silence. I grab the man’s neck between two talons. He freezes and drops everything to grip my hand. I let him frantically struggle for a few seconds, then I increase the pressure.

“I have some questions,” I say in a low voice.

“Ari?!”

I stop dead. I cannot believe it. Did he recognize my voice? Roger and I were never close, we had not spoken since last May. How? How could he?

“Ari, is that you?”

“No!”

“Ari, what happened to you? We can help--”

“Silence! I do not--no! I ask the questions. Yes. And you answer. Now tell me, where is Papa?”

“Ari I am sorry, we had to--”

“WHERE IS HE!”

“In the dependence!”

I can’t stand this anymore. What the FUCK is he doing in the dependence? Those are the servant quarters! I turn Roger around and slam him against the wall.

“Why is he there? Why not here? THIS IS HIS FUCKING HOUSE!”

“I can tell you!”

“Please don’t hurt my daddy!”

Both of us turn to a small child, my nephew. For the first time, Roger’s voice shows true panic.

“Please… Lucien, no. Go home.”

“Aunt Ari?”

No this is wrong, this is all wrong, this should not be happening!

THEY DO NOT BELONG HERE! THIS IS THE NEST! SLAY THE INTRUDERS, DRINK THEM DRY, DISPLAY THEIR CORPSES AS WARNING FOR THE OTH--

No!

No.

This is my family. This parody of life has already robbed the human Ariane of her life, it will not take her family as well. I refuse. I am no slave, not to the Lancasters, not to Him, and certainly not to my own instincts. This will not stand.

I release the old man who collapses on the ground. Lucien looks at me in wonder. Curses, he must have seen the teeth. Now they know. I should kill them just to be on the safe side, I can easily get rid of the bodies.

What is wrong with me?

I need to leave.

“Where?”

“Tom’s old house. Wait!”

I stop but do not dare to turn around and face them.

“He had a hard time handling your disappearance.”

“Then why is he not in his bedroom where he belongs?”

“He drank too much, he burnt down the resting cabin, almost burnt down the house too. He moved out. We are taking care of the slaves and his investment while he, well, wastes away.”

“… I see.”

“Ari, what happened to you?”

“You did not see me, uncle. You never saw me here. I am dead. Do you understand?”

“We love you, Ari, we are your family. Just stay--”

“No! I cannot. I really cannot. I would endanger Lucien and Sara. I would endanger us all.”

“I understand. Is it farewell then?”

“It is.”

“Then, I wish you the best and I am sorry.”

“Goodbye Roger.”

“Goodbye, Ari.”

“Bye Aunt Ari, take care.”

I sprint forward to a group of small houses. It only takes me a few seconds to find the right house and knock on the door like a fury. It takes him a long time to answer, long enough, in fact, for other people to wake up. I care not.

Eventually, he opens the door and we stare at each other in stunned silence.

It is him, it is really him.

“Let me in.”

“Ari?”

“LET ME IN, DAMN IT!”

Astonished, he makes the barest of move and that is all that I need. I push past him and he closes the door behind me. Only a small candle provides light around us.

His place is a hovel, filled with rickety furniture and empty bottles. It reeks of alcohol, digested alcohol, and sweat.

We stay silent. I do not even turn to face him. I jump when someone knocks on the door.

“Mr. Reynaud, are you alright in there?”

“Yes. I am fine. Please, leave me be.”

“As you say, sir.”

We both turn at the same time. I wear a winter traveling garb complete with a cape but my head is bare and my hair free.

I am the exact copy of the woman who left his house back in July, down to the hair length. He, however, is but a shadow of his former self.

His sickly skin is drawn taut over a skeletal frame. His blue eyes are sunken and devoid of their usual spark. His shoulders are slumped, he is hunched and even his proud blonde beard is matted and messy. I find the irony tragic. I am the one who was left behind but he is the one who could not let go.

“Is that really you, or is this some sort of cruel joke?”

His voice is cold but his face shows an ocean of suffering, constant grief without end that even the bottle failed to blunt.

“I...”

I hesitate, then I decide to go for honesty.

“I am so sorry, I do not know.”

I start bawling like a child. God, how pathetic I am. The proud vampire who reigned undefeated over the Gauntlet reduced to a quivering mess. My father takes me in his arms and hugs me. I lean into it.

We stay like this for a while.

God, I wish this would never stop.

After a while, I push him away. He lets me go.

“You cried blood on my shirt, daughter.”

“It was filthy anyway.”

“Tell me what is going on.”

I start talking and I do not stop. The tale of what happens comes out in a messy jumble. I talk about being cursed, being dead, needing blood, escaping, my friend Jimena, how I first met her, fighting in the Gauntlet, running errands, the big eye in the sky. It just comes out in a big pile of nonsense and never does he interrupt me.

After a good hour, I putter out like a wet pistol. He dries his wet cheeks with a tissue as I wait for something, a verdict I suppose.

“You believe that my daughter died in that basement?”

“I think so," I say with some hesitation, “I do not think I am human.”

“Did she suffer? Did she call for me?”

I look at him. His face is a mask. Should I say the truth?

He would never believe a lie.

“Yes. I did.”

He sits down and cries again. We have cried quite a bit this past hour. I even stained the front of my dress.

“I never expected you to come,” I say.

I sit down.

“There was nothing you could have done. This is unfair, I know, but I can tell you this: even if you had found me, you would have died as well.”

“I failed you.”

“No, you did not. You made me happy. For those past nineteen years, you made me happy. This is what you were supposed to do Papa. Killing millennia-old monsters was never part of the deal.”

“If I had known--”

“But you could not.”

We sit in silence.

“Do you really have to leave?”

“Yes. I just came by because I needed closure. We both did.”

“I guess.”

“Where is Achille?”

“Closing a contract in Houston. He has come to terms with your death, I believe.”

“I expected no less from my practical brother. How is Constanza?”

“She recovered, but her face is scarred. She was followed by a nice doctor from the city and they are getting married in April.”

“That is good to hear.”

We stay for a while in comfortable silence. I do not believe I have ever stayed awake for so long since I died. I am dimly aware that I will need to find shelter for the day but right now, I cannot bring myself to care.

“I must leave Papa.”

“Yes, I suppose you do.”

His eyes suddenly widen in shock and a silly smile lightens his features. I feel myself mirror the expression. It is so good to see life come back to him if only a little.

“Hold on! Before you go, I have your birthday gift!”

“What? You do?”

And it finally occurs to me that I turned twenty in August. I was so focused on running errands and surviving that it never occurred to me to celebrate.

Excited, Papa runs to his bedroom and rummages through various belongings. I hear him mutter and curse, then with a triumphant “Aha!”, he returns with a long leather holster.

“Papa! Is that?”

“Indeed! I had Talleyrand make it for you. Try it out!”

I open the cover and take out a brand-new rifle.

“Oh my, oh my! It’s wonderful!”

I jump excitedly and I touch the smooth polished stock of red-colored wood, the silver engraved firing mechanism, and the long barrel. The weapon is a work of art and love. I aim and it is as if I have had it my whole life. It is perfectly balanced and quite light, although I suppose I can thank my new strength for that last part.

“Incredible! It is as if it was made for me!”

“It was. Talleyrand used your exact measurements”

“Oh Papa, this is such a great gift! Thank you, thank you!”

I jump and hug him again, laughing all the time.

“But wait, I haven’t told you the best part yet!” He replies with amusement.

For a while, my father goes to great length to explain how special the gun is. It is a more recent design that uses paper cartridges and is loaded from the gun’s breech instead of the muzzle. The barrel is even rifled for increased accuracy. Truly, the wonders of science know no bounds.

After that, it is time to say goodbye.

I shoulder my backpack, the leather cover and pocket the bag of ammunition in silence. Father holds my shoulders then gives me one last hug.

It is the first time in six months that I embrace someone I will not feed from.

He backs up a bit then a rugged thumb caresses my cheek.

“I remember that you told me you are not my Ariane, but you were wrong. You still carry the same spirit, the same aspirations and God forgive me, the same love for unladylike things that go boom.”

“Father!”

“Shhh, hahaha, let your old man finish. You think that being human is what made you my daughter. It is not. Being you is what made you my daughter. You have always changed and grown, this particular change is just the latest and the most dire. Do not despair and do not let go of your past and our time together, yes?”

“Don’t make me cry again!”

“Haha, it is fine.”

“The same goes for you!” I reply between two hiccups, “You better clean yourself, mister. Don’t make me feel ashamed.”

“Oh, believe me, I will.”

I turn and step to the door before I lose every last bit of self-control I have. I am so emotional tonight, more so than usual. This strange blood might be to blame yet I feel no regret. I think that I needed it.

“Take the key to the Saint Landry warehouse. You can rest there today and, Ariane?”

“Yes?”

“You have enemies. Give them hell and no quarters. I refuse to lose you again, you hear? You are forbidden from dying before me.”

“I promise.”

“Good, now go, and don’t forget to write!”

I leave Montfort at a dead run, feeling light as a feather. I did not expect everything to have gone so well. I look up and exchange a glance with the Silent Watcher. Its gaze feels softer tonight.

“I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.”

The road forward lies open.

14. Roadside snacks

It has been a week since I left Montfort. I have been able to take shelter in sheds and barns locked for the winter without much difficulty. The ability to climb means that I never have to force a door open. At worst, I have removed a pair of planks.

As for nourishment, it was not hard either.

There are several kinds of victims.

Some villages have sentries who walk around with a lantern. The light they carry makes them visible from hundreds of meters away, which I find very thoughtful of them. I have but to follow the signal and blood is to be found.

There is also the odd travelers. A surprising amount of people move at night for one reason or another, merchants coming back home, doctors, soldiers on leave…

It is enough.

If I ever grow desperate, I can always remove a layer of clothes and knock on a door with desperation on my face, although I shall do this as a last resort.

I have followed Jimena’s advice to stay on the move and to leave no body to be found. The best way to do so, I find, is to not create one to begin with. It seems that tonight will be the exception.

I am reaching the end of settled land and have started to skirt Choctaw territory, moving East. This used to be Native country as well, but it changed hands when a certain governor decided that respecting treaties only applied when the other side had a modern army. I noticed that since passing Mobile, the land and its people have grown increasingly rough.

Case in point.

“Your turn, Bouc!”

I stand at the edge of a small clearing. A hound is attached to the opposite end and is voraciously devouring a piece of charred meat.

Two patched tents sit on both sides of a small fire and the ground is littered with half-chewed bones and empty bottles. The culprits are three filthy men in their twenties who roar in laughter when a thrown knife kisses the cheek of a slave bound to a tree, eliciting a small whimper.

I frown in disapproval. I understand playing with your prey but there is something about this situation that bothers me. The black man shows courage in the face of defeat, surely, this warrants some sort of respect, no?

The situation is quite clear to me. The slave escaped, was successfully tracked down and now he will be returned, judged and punished according to the Black Code. The way they torture him and shed his blood for no reason feels wasteful and disrespectful of the Prey and the Hunt.

Those people disgust me, and I am Thirsty, so we shall see forthwith if they truly are the predators they believe themselves to be.

I retreat and hide my backpack as well as my precious rifle. I quickly don my most tattered dress, leave my travel cloak on the ground and return to the camp. After some deliberation, I decide to bear one white shoulder for them to see. The bait is set.

I take the hunched posture of the victim and cross my arm in a protective gesture. I step into the clearing, let out a loud gasp and deliberately step on a branch. The dog starts growling.

The three men fail to notice me.

Unbelievable.

Only when the slave’s eyes grow wide, do they turn around. I have maintained my frightened deer expression for a solid ten seconds now. Heavens, how much effort I am wasting trying to turn this into a proper contest! I could have broken two of the ruffian’s neck and the last one would still be giggling like a cretin while scratching his privates. I really hope they will do better from now on.

“Well, well well sweet thing, are you lost? Don’t ya worry, me and the boys will take reaaaal good care of ya, won’t we lads?” says the leader, a gangly man with a cruel face.

“Yeah, huhuhu” replies a short man with a bushy beard and a lazy eye. The third man just stands there with an absent smile. A trail of drool drips down his chin.

And just like that, my interest in a verbal exchange has died down. There is little cause for a battle of wit when my opponents are so obviously unarmed, so I let out a distressed yelp and turn to flee.

As expected, the three launch themselves after with drunken laughter. I am forced to slow down so that they do not lose my trail. We eventually reach another clearing and I veer left, then I hide at the base of the tallest beech tree I can find.

The trio reaches the clearing and the leader scowls. He makes a hand gesture and they separate to start to look for tracks.

“Should have taken the dog.” Says the leader.

That would not have saved you.

I wait a bit until they are properly split, then I let one foot hanging out of my hiding spot. As soon as the closest lout looks in my direction, I snap a branch and his eyes land on it.

I hope he is dumb enough to fall for that more than obvious ploy.

He is. I am not surprised, but still a bit disappointed.

I see from the corner of my eye the man, the bearded one called Bouc, gesture at his friends to join him. Of course, they are already too far from each other to notice and so he would have to call them, warning me that I am spotted.

Or he could take me by surprise.

Bouc is eminently predictable. I know he will prefer to end the chase as fast as possible and I also know why. He is after another kind of sport.

As the man creeps ever closer with all the subtlety of a drunken bull in a China shop. The wind blows and I catch a waft of his musk.

Oh. My. GOD! Do I really want to drink from him? Can I truly not catch any diseases? I am afraid that I will have to burn that dress afterward, or risk being noticed from a mile away. How can a man allow himself to be so revolting? How has his nose not fallen off yet? Ah, this is getting worse and worse.

The man extends a filthy hand to catch my leg and at the last moment, before he can stain my sock beyond anyone’s ability to wash it, I move. Two fingers close on his airway without drawing blood, yet. I smile to him and make sure he sees the eight fangs.

I start whispering.

“Congratulations, you caught…” And I freeze.

The man just soiled himself. I thought the smell could not possibly get any worse, I was sorely mistaken.

“Tch, you insufferable swine! I…”

I stop again.

Something is crawling from his beard to my arm. My eyes widen in shock as my enhanced vision reveals the unwelcome transient.

Lice.

“Hsss!”

Oh, that is IT! I punch the man in the throat, grab his arm and bite deep. In the safety of my refuge, I ignore both the rush of life and my memories to stare at the echo of the Silent Watcher.

“Don’t think about it, don’t think about it, don’t think about it…”

“Ngah!” With a last shiver of revulsion, I drop the bloody arm and the corpse it is attached to slumps on the ground. I made a bit of a mess and I silently scold myself. I should not, in any circumstances, waste blood. Still…

“Bouc?”

The leader is walking in my general direction with a scowl. I push the horrendous remains in a recess and walk forward in the clearing as if I were trying to be stealthy. I then seemingly notice the leader and run away with a scream of terror.

The leader smiles and sprints, all thoughts of his friend promptly forgotten.

We race for half a minute, during which the man manages to promise me that I will like it, threaten me if I don’t stop, call me a dumb whore, and “compliments” my rear. Really, what is it with men and my posterior? Should I ask?

Eventually, I pretend to fall. The gangly lowlife stops to savor the sight of his target crawling on the ground. The glint in his eye is quite telling, and so is the way he licks his lips. Then I turn my head and fix a random spot in the tree.

“Behind you!” I scream in terror.

The man frowns and turns away, only for two talons to grab his neck.

“I said,” I add in a sultry voice, “Behind you…”

I took my time enjoying the leader and I am now sated. The Thirst has left me be for the night and I now face a dilemma.

Should I slay the simpleton in front of me, or let him go free?

I am not confident about my ability to make him forget. When I drew from travelers on my way here, the bite and a look were always enough to send them off with no recollection of the event. A chase that resulted in the disappearance of friends, however, is another issue altogether. If I let him leave, will he speak of a blonde woman in a tattered dress? In the best-case scenario, informed parties might recognize the influence of a vampire. In the worst case, they could start a manhunt.

He is dangerous.

And yet is any of this truly his fault? He looks too dim to understand the evil of his ways. His “friends” were quite possibly a bad influence. Am I not being too hasty?

I am already feeling just a little tipsy. Could vampires get drunk from too much blood?

Surely not.

“You woman! I fouuuuund you!” says the dullard as he finally notices me. He then proceeds to unhook his belt and lower his pants.

“I do you like the servant girl!”

Well, that settles it.

“Teeheehee!”

Oh but what a beautiful night it is! So nice and quiet, and peaceful, and the weather is so clement. Why, I could have a tea party under the moon! And the Silent Watcher! Except, with no tea, please. Instead, we could have gentlemen on the table and Jimena and Constanza could be there! And the gentlemen would be completely… Nude!

“Teehehehehehehe, nude!”

But first I have to clean up the bodies because Jimena said I should and Jimena is my best friend in the whole world! So, I bring them together, it is so easy. The idiot was already there, so I went to pick up the leader and it took me a little bit to find him but eventually I did and then I brought him and piled them and then I found the stinky one but he is too gross so I took the belt from the idiot and wrapped it around his leg and then I tied it to the head of the idiot. Now I only have to drag the idiot to move both of them!

“Genius! Ariane, the light of your intellect truly shines upon this world!”

So, I take the leader’s belt and attach his head the idiot’s leg and now I can just return to the camp in one go with all three corpses! My ability to innovate knows no bounds! So, I pick the leader and start to drag and fall on my face.

Heavy!

I spit out a few leaves and stare up at the Silent Watcher.

“You didn’t see anything!”

It watches.

“Fine! But don’t tell anyone, I am serious!” I continue between two grunts, “I have a reputation to uphold.”

I navigate myself and the corpse train back to the camp and only fall twice and bump against one tree. Ariane, queen of dexterity!

As I reach the clearing, the dog starts barking and howling so I roar once and it quiets down with a whimper.

Good dog.

I drop my luggage and look around for a shovel. There are no marshes around so I would be better off burying the bodies.

Oh but wait…

I turn around and burp. A trail of blood drips from my chin. Ariane, manners! Ah yes, I remember now. The captive!

I move closer and the black man looks at me with a surprising amount of calm. Why, how courageous. My mouth is positively covered in the red liquid and still, he does not flinch!

“Greeting, princess.”

Huh, did he just…

The man leans forward despite the ropes biting in his wrist and offers his jugular.

That is so unusual and so exciting! He spoke the tongue! And he was so polite by calling me “Nin”, a princess! And this submissive position, I feel that I should not hurt him. Why, I am curious now. I was going to kill him cleanly but now I just have to hear what he has to say!

The words escape my lips, unbidden.

“Supplicant.”

The man almost collapses in relief. What? He was that anxious?

“Princess, would you please free my hands?”

It is a reasonable request, and besides, he cannot kneel properly as he is. The position of supplicant is all wrong!

“Very well.”

I walk to him and cut the ropes with a few swipes with my talons. Just like a cat!

“Teehehehehe!”

Now the man massages his wrists, well, where is my kneeling supplicant?

He freezes and slowly kneels and, again, offers his throat to me. Just so! Now, I am satisfied. So I stop growling.

“You may rise.”

He does not move and so I sigh,

“You may rise.”

Silly Ariane, you cannot expect every human to know the tongue! Bah.

“What is your name?”

“Toussaint.”

A Creole! That might explain it. He is acquainted with the Ekon, maybe even that scandalous girl Nami.

Possibly.

“How do you know how to address me?”

“Princess, there is a Bokor who goes from plantation to plantation. He speaks to us of the Voodoo and the way of magic. He also told us of the loa, the loup-garou, and the pale ones. He said that if one meets a pale one outside at night, he should greet them politely, and pray they are feeling merciful.”

I hold my hands up, this is a fascinating tale but I now have a most urgent matter to attend to.

I rush to the nearest bush.

“OooOoOoo…”

I throw up blood. It stinks! There is no vitality to be found in it, at all. Bah! I should not have drunk so much, but, well, I did not want all that life to go to waste.

“Hic! Uuuuh.”

When I come back, Toussaint has not moved an inch, Droplets of cold sweat have gathered on his brow however, despite the chill.

“What is a loup-garou anyway?”

“A werewolf. A cursed soul who turns into a horrible monster under the light of the moon. It is said that it is as tall as two men, covered in fur, and strong enough to shred metal! Only by silver can it be slain, but it is no small task! For the beast is terrifying: its maw is like that of a wolf and lined with nightmarish…”

“Ooooh, so thaaaaaat’s what it was. Well, it was delicious. Full of life and power. I wonder if I can catch another one?”

Toussaint does not reply but he smells afraid again. Was it something I said? Bah.

“So you presented yourself as a supplicant. Now tell me, what is your request?”

“Hum, I would like to live.”

“Hum!”

I tap my index against my chin and ponder those words. He would like to live. Well, it does sound reasonable, I suppose. I cannot stomach another human anyway. I could let him go?

“Ah Toussaint, I wish I could, but I really cannot have someone spread tales of my passage. You see,” I grab his shoulder and lean closer because it’s a secret.

“I am trying to move inco… Incon… Wait. INCOGNITO!” He winces.” Yes, that is it. Teehee!”

“That is not an issue, princess.” He replies with the barest trace of panic. “I can swear an oath on the loa!”

“So?”

“If I lie, my soul will burn in hell for all eternity! The Bondye will never forgive me!”

“Hmmm, give me your hand.”

I lightly bite him and stare in his eyes.

“You meant to betray me?”

“No princess! Toussaint is a man of honor!”

“Do you believe that if you break an oath to the loa, your soul will go to hell?”

“Of course!” He answers, scandalized.

“Humm. Very well then. I will consent to let you go. In return, you will help me bury the bodies.”

“Princess? Truly?” He licks his lips, hope clear as day on his face.

“Yes. Now Swear!”

I expected a hastily cobbled up sentence, instead, the man actually builds a small altar of wood and soot and mutters a long prayer, complete with a loud proclamation of demise should he break his word. How queer! I was having a perfectly reasonable night and suddenly, something completely out of the ordinary happens, a heathen ceremony. That is so quaint!

After he is done, Toussaint finds a small gully and we drop the bodies there and then cover them with earth and heavy stones so that wild animals don’t dig them up. Tada! They’re gone. Ariane, queen of prestidigitation!

We walk back to camp one last time. Toussaint assures me that he knows where he intends to go, that he will take care of the men’s belonging and their dog as well. He also gives me some directions without prompt. On this note, we part ways. The expression of grateful incredulity he shows me when I leave is so touching. He is, as my father would say, a good lad.

With his advice, I quickly find shelter in a natural cave system and although it is still quite early, I decide to call it a night.

15. Reap what you sow

Yesterday did not happen. Nope! It did not. Nothing embarrassing happened, at all. The blood on my chin and clothes? A hunting accident. I was hunting a deer. Yes, a deer. A vicious one.

I walk on a trail that skirts the border between Louisiana proper and the native lands. Despite yesterday’s excess, I already feel Thirsty.

I am also feeling a bit lonely.

I never anticipated this to happen. I have been on the road for only a week, yet a simple conversation with this human, Toussaint, reminded me of what I had forfeited. I want to talk to someone, I want to learn something new, discuss ideas. I do not want to turn into some sort of hermit.

I find it impressive that the mundane reasserts itself so easily. When I was attending the red-haired bitch queen, I wanted nothing but to be left alone. When I was in the gauntlet, I wanted nothing but entertainment, and now I want company. It is Humanity’s lot to always crave for more, and death has not made me an exception.

I sigh and shoulder my backpack. I now have exactly three outfits, with one being the battle dress with a hole in the chest. I should have brought a sewing kit…

I was too hasty when I skirted Mobile. I should have stopped and resupplied. The fact that I need no food blinded me and…

I stop on the trail. I have been walking in mostly forested land for two days now. Between the hills, the tree trunks and the occasional rock, visibility is limited despite my eyes.

I close them.

I hear the cracks and groans of living wood, distant birds, the wind.

Strange, I could swear that I felt something, not the auras I associate with magical beings but something weaker and less alive.

Hum.

I start walking again a bit faster and leave the trail for the top of the nearest hill. My instincts have never betrayed me. Something is off.

I reach the top and look around, nothing but trees and silence. I climb the tallest tree I can find using my claws to dig in. Still nothing, and now my fingers are sticky with sap.

The feeling comes and goes again, both closer and stronger. I still have no idea what it could be, yet I can think of only one explanation. Someone or something is tracking me.

Should I run for it? Can I? Running makes me Thirsty and finding blood here will be difficult if I have to rush it.

Should I ambush them? That would be pointless if they know my exact location. Hum. Perhaps they cannot. I believe whatever is tracking me to do the magical equivalent of yelling to find someone in the forest, and the person yells back.

I need more information. I shall hide and wait to see what it is and at the first sign of danger, I shall be gone like the wind.

After half an hour, the feeling comes back. It is exactly as it was, that I can say.

Someone is hunting me, I am sure of it. However, they stopped.

I wait half an hour more without change. The feeling does no return and the implication scares me. It is likely, that whatever is doing this knows my approximate location. It decided to stop when it noticed me doing the same, and I finally understand why. Time is against me.

If they can track me during daylight, I am finished. Most vampires protect themselves by slumbering in fortresses defended by loyal followers. This was made obvious during the fortress raid. I have none of those defenses. My only advantage in hiding is that no one was looking for me, until now that is. There is no labyrinth, no rock formation that will hide me from whatever is out for me. It would be child’s play to find my body in some bear cave or abandoned shack and then dispose of me.

How did this even happen? I thought I was being careful.

Bah, it matters not. I must find what I am up against. My only saving grace is that it prefers to wait until I am defenseless, which means that it is not confident it can slay me in a fair fight.

I do not have a way to track it, however. How should I proceed?

I have superior sight, hearing, and sense of smell. I can use it. I also have my wits, such as they are.

I have been on the move for a week, mostly going North and now East. Whatever is tracking me must logically be behind. I need to retrace my steps. Secondly, whatever is tracking me has a high chance of being sapient. Indeed, I find it unlikely that a beast would have the presence of mind to wait for daylight to slay its prey. It might well have followed the trail.

I take out and load my rifle as a precaution, grateful that it has not rained in a while. I also make sure that Jimena’s knife is within reach.

The taste of tallow on the paper cartridge, I could have done without. Pah!

I walk back, stopping every three hundred steps. I close my eyes and listen to sounds, taste the air. I do not detect anything abnormal and continue.

I do this for a solid hour and it becomes increasingly difficult not to focus on the Thirst. Perhaps I should just drop everything and go to those small outposts Toussaint mentioned, hunt, and return? It would just take a couple of hours…

No! I am close, I can feel it.

I am so distracted that when the tracking thingie returns, I yelp in surprise. It is closer and stronger than ever before! I could just run around and…

No. Focus, Ariane, you can do this.

This was like a pulse, a ripple on the surface of a placid lake. Concentric circles going back and reflecting obstacles.

I still cannot tell where it comes from, it could be anywhere… I sniff in disappointment and it hits me. There is a new smell. I rush forward on the trail and I finally identify it, I just found horse dung.

I walk closer. I can tell that it is still very fresh. I kneel and stare at the ground. Here and there are the deep imprints of hooves with horseshoes.

I am no tracking expert, but I can already tell a few things. I am being hunted by humans because vampires and werewolves do not ride horses, at least not when they hunt. Natives do not use steel tips. Finally, there are more than one but less than a lot. That means the culprits are a small squad of either servants of Gabriel, or mages. Given that I am sure I am being magically followed, I shall go with mages.

That is extremely problematic. They may have ways to mask their presence or turn invisible. Mayhaps, they can even turn themselves into newts! And then, what should I do to find them.

I follow the tracks to a bend in the road where it disappears. I quickly figure out that they decided to leave the path at that moment. That must be when they realized I was not moving anymore. Time is running short, and so is my patience. I must find them before the cravings become unmanageable.

I follow the prints to a mass of rocky outcrops covered in pine trees and lose them on the solid ground. I am not sure what to do. I have never hunted without a dog before.

I sniff the air. The smell of pine sap is overwhelming and under it there is woodsmoke. Aha! A fire! I find the tallest tree I can and start climbing. Ignoring my ever stickier talons, I look around.

Nothing, absolutely nothing. There is not the red hint of a cooling ember. Not a single pop or crack of wood turning to ash. Not even a trail of smoke rising to the skies.

They are hiding.

What should I do, what should I do? I can walk around for all the remaining time I have before I turn into a ravening beast and they slay me in a well-prepared trap. No, wait, they cannot be far, I can just go from hilltop to hilltop and smell them. Arg, this will take too much time.

Ah, but I almost forgot.

They have horses.

I remember yesterday, I managed to scare the dog. Horses are prey, they should scare easily. I just have to do something to make them panic.

I could set fire to the forest.

No Ariane, this is the dumbest idea you ever had since you tried to deep-fry butter. You are not a creature of fire, no, you are a creature of the night.

So let us scare them.

“Roaaaa!”

…

That was beyond pathetic. I might have scared three bats and a squirrel. This is wrong. I am trying to act too human.

I close my eyes and focus.

Under the smooth lake of my thoughts lie the instincts that saved me so many times before. I call upon them now, I draw them out, helped by urgency and The Thirst.

I feel the slight wind on my face, smell the barest hint of woodsmoke. My blood sings in the night, this is my moment. The prey is cloSE. NO ONE TRACKS THE VAMPIRE. FIND. KILL. TAKE TROPHY. HIDING LIKE COCKROACHES. LET THEM KNOW. LET THEM KNOW I AM NO PREY. I AM THE APEX.

THE NIGHT IS MINE.

“ROOOOAAAAAAR!!!”

The terrifying scream erupts like a volcano, spreads and rolls over the valleys and the forests, filling every cranny, reaching under every root. Hundreds of animals freeze in terror as millions of year of natural selection reminds them of their place in the pecking order. It is fury made manifest, the screams at the dawn of time, back when the winner would eat its victim’s blood-soaked heart.

There, a neigh. PREY! Slightly to my left. They are so close!

I rush forward and then I slow down.

They know I am coming. Charging in against a mage has already proven to be stupid, and a few months of limited training has not suddenly turned me into an Amazon. I need to play this smart. OR CHARGE IN KILL DRINK.

No.

I hear another subdued neigh, as well as the sound of hooves hitting the ground. They are just behind this tall rock.

I look around me. There is a colossal pine tree a maybe thirty steps away to my right. I carefully walk there. I drop my backpack.

Change?

Change. I wear the battle dress and I appreciate that someone would make something elegant and practical. It even has pockets! Imagine that.

I tie the dagger to my hip and the rifle to my shoulder and I start climbing. I am not entirely silent but I still manage to slither between branches until I reach the proper height.

There they are.

Three men sit in a secluded clearing surrounded by rocks. The only entrance is facing away from the road, which means that whoever follows them would have to go around the pile of rocks then circle back. One of the men is doing his best to control three heavily laden horses, another sits in a meditation position next to a smothered campfire and the last one is staring towards the entrance of the valley with a…

Is that a blunderbuss? Ah well, at least they are taking this seriously.

A circle of something surrounds them. It shines in my view in a white aura that makes the air shimmer as if it were heated. Despite the closeness, I cannot feel the colorful aura that I associate with mages.

I consider my options. I have to kill them quickly, but I can try it in several ways.

I could jump on them. That would let me kill one before the others retaliate, but I do not know what that strange barrier does. It could just prevent me from feeling them. It could also set me on fire, and would that not be unpleasant.

Or, I could try my brand new Talleyrand custom made fifty-six caliber breech-loaded rifle that I haven’t had the chance to try yet from the safety of a tree and bathed in almost total darkness.

Hum…

BANG!

The bullet hits the sitting man in the chest. Yes! He tips backward with a yelp of surprise.

Wait, surprise?

The circle fades. The man reaches from something in his pocket with panic and takes out a strange object, he starts mumbling something while the man with the blunderbuss kneels by his side and aims in my general direction.

Uh oh.

The wounded man points a finger and I let myself drop just as a storm of metal shreds my hiding spot. Never mind, close quarters it is.

I leave the rifle and rush forward with my knife in front. I jump up and down the rock face and land in their camp. The first mage is still mumbling and I freeze in shock. The two other men are from the order of Gabriel! I thought this was impossible!

A quick gesture wakes me up. The two hunters draw pistols while the mage takes out a sword, their faces are pale and drawn by worry. As they aim at me, I move forward. The man guarding the horse fires too fast and his shot goes completely off but the other one waits until I get closer. I push myself and rush the mage. At the last moment, I pretend to slow down, then move down instead. A roar deafens me as a bullet slices the air where my head was but a moment before. I dodge forward and slice the hunter’s extended hand, Unfortunately, my blade catches his hand at an angle and merely makes him drop the spent weapon. A quick movement makes me raise my hand and a silver dagger pings uselessly against my forearm.

Wait, this dress is armored? I did not know!

I return my focus to the mage, he smells delicious! I jump on him.

“Fire whip!”

An incendiary snake coils angrily around my neck, I back off and slice it with all my strength. The blade cuts into it and the magical construct pops like a soap bubble.

“Arg!”

I block another silver dagger from the hunter and move around the mage.

“Hedgehog!”

Silvery spines erupt from his back, easily avoided. I cannot touch his back without getting skewered, but I don’t have to.

I plant one foot in the ground, arm the second one and kick up with all my strength. My foot lifts off the ground in a shower of leaves and catches the mage square between the legs. He is launched up in the air and collapses in a miserable heap a few feet farther.

Thanks for the advice, Marcus. As you would have said, “Right in the jewels”

I ignore the look of unmitigated horror on the other two men’s face and rush the second hunter. The third one, the one near the horse, is brandishing a pistol like an amateur.

LOW THREAT.

I move more slowly now. I can still accelerate but the Thirst is growing by the second and I am afraid to lose control. Against those foes, it would be a terrible idea.

I reach the expert hunter and try to stab him. He deflects my knife with one of his own, but it looks like I really hurt his hand after all.

“Run Gregoire, that's an order!”

The man with the horses hesitates but mounts a horse and gallops away. Arg! Must not…

The expert hunter uses my distraction to slice my wrist. I manage to move at the last moment and the blade slides against the dress’ armor.

“Foul Monster!”

This man is quite old, with a creased face and a gigantic scar on his cheek. His eyes are anything but dimmed though, and he harbors an expression of endless hatred.

In a quick movement, he throws his knife at me and I duck to avoid it.

“In the name of GOD!”

With a strange, silent explosion, I am propelled back against the rock wall. I barely manage to dive left when a bullet hits my right arm. With a scream of pain. I drop the knife.

The hunter is already drawing a third pistol.

I move forward, then to the side and grab the unconscious body of the mage to lift it. The hunter tries to circle me to get a clear shot I use my left hand to…

BANG.

Time slows down as I move left. A burning line spreads to the side of my head.

“Gah!”

It hurts! Dammit! Oh, just you wait.

My frantic hand finally finds what I was looking for as the hunter rushes me with yet another knife. His hopeful face falls when he sees what I managed to grab.

A pistol.

I cock the weapon, aim at his leg and pull the trigger. With a deafening roar, the hunter falls, clutching his leg. I do not leave him the time to recover. I jump on his back and punch his neck, but not enough to kill him. He collapses.

I breathe by reflex. I am alive, I won.

I need to…

First thing, I need to feed. The downed mage is bleeding heavily from a bullet wound to the head. Waste.

I put my mouth against the wound. Messy. Nevermind.

Ah, yes, this man did not use the potion to poison his own blood. This is amazing. There is much less vitality than in a werewolf but all this power...

I take my time to drink until the man dies. Ah yes, that was something. I stand up and roll my shoulder to my instant regret.

With all this action, I forgot about the bullet wound. The projectile punched right through, fortunately.

I soon feel my body start to heal itself under the influence of my recent feeding and despite the pain, I am quite alright. Good. On another note, one of my foes escaped, and that is not good.

I rummage through the men’s belonging until I find a rope and use it to bind the remaining man tightly. I then disarm him as best as I can. With that much rope, it would take a magician to escape anyway.

I will have some questions for him when he wakes up.

I start to race after the inexperienced hunter. Gregoire, apparently. I still have five hours before dawn and I have quite a bit of energy to burn.

The man is easy to follow. Deep imprints in the mud lead me forward until I pick up a pained neigh.

His horse is lying on the ground. One of its legs is bent at the wrong angle. The man left it to suffer here.

I look at brown eyes made frantic with fear and pain. It’s a beautiful beast. It is a shame.

“It was a good hunt.”

I stab it in the brain, it dies instantly.

“You rest now.”

I, however, still have a quarry.

Now, where did he go? I cannot follow his footprint as easily but he cannot be far. If I were a panicked and inexperienced human, what would I do?

Keep moving forward, seek shelter. He is afraid and tired.

I keep going. The ground of the forest is at an incline and I walk down. On my right, I see a large trace of disturbed soil, as if something had fallen heavily. I change course and see a few other clumps of disturbed earth. Thankfully, the ground here is softer.

I follow it until down the vale then up to a small wooden structure. I approach it carefully. I have already been shot twice tonight.

I creep closer and hear a voice.

“… Midst of the shadow of death, I will fear no evils, for thou art...”

Cute.

I silently creep to the door and immediately encounter a problem. There is a massive silver cross hanging to the door.

I cannot enter.

“Hsss”

No invitation will let me step foot into this hovel. This is hostile territory.

Hum.

Let us try diplomacy.

“Gregoiiiire,” I say in a singsong voice.

The man screams then keeps muttering his psalms. The sound grates my ears and sets my teeth on edge.

“Gregoire, let’s talk, shall we?”

No reply.

I suppose I will have to be a little more convincing. This haphazard pile of rotten wood has suddenly been turned into a sacristy for some inane reason. Force will not help me. At least, not the kind of force I can apply with my bare hands.

I do have a bargaining chip, however.

I retrace my steps to the clearing. The mage is still dead and the servant of Gabriel still unconscious. I go to the pine tree to gather my belongings. With my hurt arm, it will be difficult to shoot through the walls and my dagger is barely better than my claws. I empty the mage’s pockets and I recover a very nice pistol with golden engravings, a bag of silver bullets and two throwing daggers.

I can get all the firearms I want now, hah!

There are a few magical knick-knacks but I have no idea what they are for and so I leave them here.

I also empty his pockets of a few Spanish golden doubloons. No point in leaving those to the wolves.

Out of curiosity, I grab the strange gauntlet all mages seem to have and fasten it to my hand.

“Spike! Shield! Seal! Firewhip!”

I spend a few minutes trying to shout incantations, imagine the effect, scream and yell. Nothing happens.

I raise my eyes to the Silent Watcher. Can a celestial body convey amused condescension? I believe it can.

Dejected, I drop the useless piece of junk, grab my prisoner and walk forward. We reach the small hovel and I still hear the blithering idiot spewing the holy Bible verse by verse. Pah!

“Gregoiiire, are you still in there?”

The man hiccups and the recitation speeds up. I have his attention.

“It is not polite to ignore a lady. Why, I believe I may even take it out on your friend here.”

I reach behind for a finger and break it. The older man wakes up with a scream of pain.

“Oh my God, no…”

“Ah, I knew you could hear me Gregoire dear. Now, let us talk.”

“Gregoire, listen to me, don’t tell her…”

Tch, your participation is no longer required, old man.

I reach in my backpack for the closest piece of fabric and shove it in the man’s mouth.

He looks at me in surprise, then in confusion.

I have a better look at this specific piece of fabric. It is white cotton with a nice line of frills and a little bow and…

“Gah!’”

I rip my underwear from the man’s mouth and promptly replace it with a sock. I look up to the Silent Watcher.

“This definitely stays between us.”

It watches.

“I am serious.”

“Oh my God, oh my God!”

Ah, yes, right. To the matter at hand. Yes. This never happened. Nope! It was a sock from the beginning. Yes. A sock.

“Now Gregoire, I am going to ask you a few questions.”

“I will not speak to you, beast! Get thee behind me…”

“And every time I do not like the answer, I will break something. After I run out of things to break, I will drink him dry.”

Silence.

“Let us start with a simple question. What is this man’s name?”

“Father Perry.”

The bound man groans and shakes but he might as well wrestle a bear. Yes, this is the right way I can feel it. I will ask simple questions that cost him nothing. The more he replies, the more he will reply. I can take a little time here. I could…

I am sleepy.

The immediate danger has passed, so my body is shutting down. The potent blood of the mage can only carry me so far. Curses! I have to hurry.

“Are you members of the order of Gabriel?”

“Yes! And we shall strike you down, foul fiend! The Wrath of God shall…”

I think I liked him more when he was silent.

“ You seem too inexperienced to be out hunting vampires. Why are you here?”

Gregoire remains silent but eventually, he answers.

“I am an archivist. Father Perry asked me to come.”

“Did he now? And where is his squad?”

Gregoire hesitates. I am about to snap another knuckle when I figure out the situation by myself.

“Let me guess, you are short-handed since your disastrous assault on the vampire keep.”

“The… The warriors of God are legion! We are without number! Always, righteous men will answer the call and rise against the agent of Evil and…”

“Yes, yes, I understand now. What I do not understand is why the three of you would go to such an extent to hunt me down. And why is there a mage with you? I thought you hated each other. Are you not supposed to put all of them on a pyre and set it ablaze?”

“I..I…”

“Nine fingers left.”

“I am weak, but I know that father Perry would rather die than have me betray the secrets of the order. I refuse to speak!”

Time is running short. I could always torture him but…

Hum.

That could work.

“I have a proposal. You answer three questions of mine, and I will let father Perry go.”

“No, you lie.”

“I will swear on the Silent Watcher.”

“Suqqam Hayatu? Ah, the Watcher. Really? No, you are a devil! You are trying to manipulate me.”

“Tell you what,” I say in the tone that got me fifteen pence on the bushel at the Montfort market, “I ask three questions, you answer them fully. If at any point you think the answer is not worth your friend’s life, you can stop and I will kill him cleanly. If you answer all my questions, I will drop him on the front of the door, no more harmed than he is right now, and let you take him in. At no point will I try to harm him or you. When the door is closed and you two are secured, our truce will end.”

The man ponders while father Perry spits mumbled imprecations in my mud-stained sock.

There are no tricks, no places to wiggle. If I swear and he answers, this will end with both of my surviving enemies secured and away.

“I consent.”

Good.

Father Perry screams in muffled outrage. Inside the shack, I hear the sound of furniture being moved around. The man remembers that I used firearms and thinks my end goal is to shoot them from the outside. He is building a shelter. I find his determination admirable.

“How come you are teaming up with a mage?”

“… It was Father Perry’s decision.”

“FULL answers, Gregoire. This was the deal.” I say with impatience.

“We did not have the numbers to track you down and you did not leave the trail of bodies we expected from a yearling, so we had to hire a mercenary mage to find you, despite our rules.”

“What made you go to such extent to kill me?”

Gregoire truly hesitates this time. I do not understand why this is so important.

“You killed his son, at the fortress. We figured out who you were from the New Orleans Saint Lucia hospital incident. We knew the victim was Ariane Reynaud, but with the Order evacuating we did not have the numbers to take you down. That’s why we did what we had to do. I owe the father my life, so I followed.”

I turn and take a good look at the priest.

That scar.

I remember…

The corridor in the vampire keep, Ogotai’s lifeless body falling. I throw it at the man with a scar on his face, his red-haired companion shoots me…

Oh my God.

I look in that pair of grey eyes, I see hatred beyond limit. I see a lust for vengeance that neither time nor distance will ever grind, no drug and nor love will ever smother. This man forfeited his hierarchy, his vows and his very values for the sole purpose of killing me. Scorn to defy God.

I am flattered.

“How were you able to track me?”

“The… The mage…”

“Full answers Gregoire. If any mage could track down vampires at will I would know.”

“A lock of your hair.”

“What!?”

“We used a lock of your hair from one of your father’s locket as a focus, it was well preserved and carried a strong meaning so the mercenary was able to use it!”

I feel my entire body freeze. My voice is deceptively calm

“Gregoire, what did you do to my father?”

“Nothing! We will never harm the innocent!”

I look at father Perry. I am not so sure…

“We got it from your uncle Roger, we said we wanted to add it to a memorial to victims of violence in New Orleans! I swear. Also, this was the fourth question, which I answered willingly but my part is done.”

Pah, he is right.

As promised, I drag the furious priest to the door and step away.

Gregoire opens the door and we take each other’s measure. He seems captivated by me as I stand here in my blood-stained dress, arms crossed against my chest. Then he drags his friend in, locks the door and they both take shelter in whatever fortified nest he managed to construct.

Our truce is over.

The discovery of Perry’s grudge and the risk he is for my father feeds slow-burning anger that pushes the torpor away. I calmly walk back to the clearing and find what I was looking for in the saddles of a panicked horse. I find more in their bags. After I have everything I need I head back to the shack.

I tear a piece of tissue from their spare cloth and wrap it around a stick of dry wood, then I splash lantern oil on it. I emptied the remaining oil against one of the walls. Set the torch ablaze with tinder and set it against the wooden frame. After it catches nicely, I throw the torch on the thatch roof.

This is not a church, but a sanctified hunter shack.

As I mentioned, it has not rained in a little while.

They last for fifteen minutes, but eventually, the smoke and heat forces them out.

They both still fight to the end.

I make it quick and painless.

“It was a good hunt.”

I drink a bit from both of them, and then I throw their bodies and that of the mage in the funeral pyre that the sanctuary has become. I add the magical item, including the tracking device to it. I leave their crosses on a standing post outside.

Later, I quickly find a cave and collapse, utterly exhausted.

16. Marsh March

It has been three nights since I fought the renegades of the Order and I keep thinking about my experience. This truly was a good hunt. The enemy was strong and cunning, and I managed to fight better and outsmart them, the predatory part of me used in service of a well-executed plan. This is as it should be. Grégoire, Perry and you the unnamed mage, may you find rest in the afterlife.

Between hunting parties, patrols and the occasional lone traveler, I have stayed well-fed without draining anyone dry. That includes tonight.

I am crossing a meadow when suddenly, something attracts my attention.

Not too far to my left, I feel a powerful aura that does not come from a person, but a spell. This one does not track or warn, it is a sort of polite invitation.

How curious. A call in the middle of nowhere?

I cannot perceive any malice or any compelling effect in the working. It is, in fact, the equivalent of a merchant hawking his goods at the top of his lungs in the marketplace.

Although there appears to be nothing amiss, the prudent call would be to continue forward. Curiosity killed the cat after all, and a vampire has only one life...

I am also growing increasingly bored. I should have packed a book, a good romance filled with moneyed gentlemen and impoverished yet witty women. Ah, but alas, I was so worried about my physical well-being that I failed to account for the mental one.

It is probably nothing too bad.

Just a quick look.

I walk towards the obvious origin of the magic. Whoever designed it made sure that it could not be missed. I still make some effort to walk off the path and keep close to the edge of the copses I come across. After a few minutes, I reach the edge of a vast open field.

This is the largest valley I have seen in a while. Despite the overcast sky, I can see for a good mile in any direction, and so I do not miss the strange construct that sits thirty paces away from me, nor the three natives who approach it.

The construct is a wooden pillar covered in carvings from top to bottom. I identify several human and animal heads and body parts covered in garish colors. Branches have been drilled to form limbs that hold a variety of objects including a spear and a drum. This is the magic beacon.

The trio eventually stops before it. They are quite the group.

The first man walks with a strong limp and is helped forward by the two others. I am not familiar with native customs but his clothes seem haphazardly put on, as if he had opened a drawer and just piled on what he could find. Despite the variety of cuts and fabrics, he still manages to have parts of his chest bare in temperatures that approach freezing.

He is also drunk as a skunk.

The second man wears a mix of Western and native clothes, glasses and a bowler hat. I can appreciate the care that was invested in making the arrangement stylish. He looks scared.

The last man is a warrior. If the eagle feathers, spear, and javelins had not given him away, his scowl and musculature would have made it obvious. His expression is that of a man who has utterly run out of patience and is one wrong word away from a tussle.

Mesmerized, I observe them. What are they doing here so late? And why?

The drunk man falls on his knees before the statue and starts muttering and shrieking imprecations in a language I do not know. His lunatic ravings reach a crescendo that ends in a sentence that he screams at the top of his lungs.

“Come and partake.”

What!?

WHAT?!

Did this buffoon actually… Impossible. Implausible. This is surely a coincidence?

The man quickly proves me wrong. He grabs a bowl from some recess of his cloth, stabs himself in the arm quite viciously and soon enough, the recipient contains a few gulps of blood. He then kneels and presents this offering towards my general direction.

The warrior is at the end of his patience, he is about to intervene when the man with glasses holds him back. They start arguing between themselves, gesticulating and pointing at the kneeling lunatic, the statue and wherever they came from.

The scent of the blood reaches me and despite being fed, my fangs come out. This man’s blood contains powerful magic. Drinking it would be extremely beneficial, not to mention delicious.

It’s here, cooling in that bowl.

It would be a shame to let it go to waste.

With a last inspection of my surroundings, I leave the safety of the woods and silently approach the madman. My instincts tell me that it is safe, that the supplicant should not be ignored.

Yes, this is right.

A moment later, I drink the bowl and lick the wound close. The lunatic looks at me with brown eyes full of wonder, and I realize that he is much younger than I thought. He waits for me to release his arm and smiles toothily.

That is not the reaction I expected. Regardless, the beacon and offerings mean they have a proposal, and now I am interested in hearing it.

“You may speak, supplicant.”

The two others jump and yelp as they finally notice me. The warrior immediately points his spear in my direction before realizing something. His eyes go from furious to afraid and when his companion pushes the weapon down, he does not resist.

As I wait without a move, the lunatic places his head against my leg and sighs. I abhor physical contact from strangers, yet his gesture is so innocent and harmless that I decide to tolerate it.

I place a proprietary hand on the young man’s head.

“Well?”

The pair look at each other and the hatted man lifts his hat and addresses me in French.

“Good evening madam, I am Iskani, of the Choctaw people. We invited you here because we humbly request your assistance.”

He grips the hat nervously. I signal him to go on.

“Our tribe is hunted by a giant cursed alligator. It is said that the beast is as long as three men and black as the night. It comes out every month to eat a man or a child. We cannot let this continue.

My chief Minco,” He points to the warrior, “led several hunts against the creature, but they were not successful. It stays hidden and turns a deaf ear to the challenges of brave hunters.” The warrior crosses his arms as if to dare me to deride his efforts.

"Our shaman Nashoba had a vision. He said that a pale one would be willing to help, maybe.” The man swallows in fear. He knows what we are capable of. He also knows that he stands without a weapon or a plan on an open field.

I am curious about the beast, however.

I was informed by Baudouin that vampires cannot feed on animals and indeed, beast blood lacks this vitality I crave so much. With that said, I successfully fed from a werewolf and I am not quite confident that a seven feet tall fur-covered wolf hybrid still qualifies as homo sapiens.

He was technically a cursed human, of course, but with that form…

Could I perhaps feed on a magical beast to grow stronger?

I am tempted to try. I could certainly use the distraction, at least.

“What do you offer in exchange?”

The translator turns to his chief and the two debate for a while, eventually the chief points to Nashoda with a smirk. His companion frowns, yet still offers.

“Minco says that should you slay the beast, we will let you have the shaman to drink dry.”

I remain silent and unmoving. This is not right. Only a free man can become a supplicant. Only what is offered freely can be taken fully.

My lack of response produces the expected result. The two men start shifting nervously and Minco’s grip on his spear makes the wood creak.

I turn to the kneeling shaman.

“Should I do as your chief asks, you will offer your blood to me freely.”

“Forgive me pale one, our shaman does not speak...”

“Give blood, earring to hide better, for you, child of thorn and hunger.”

He blinks slowly, first one eye then the other, like a wave. One of his pupils is much larger than the other.

This young man is mad as a March hare and caution dictates that I should not trust a word he says. It would be wrong. Nashoba showed up exactly as I reached this clearing. Given our respective speed, he would have had to depart from his village far before I noticed the beacon. He also spoke the tongue, twice and that is no coincidence.

It is said that genius and insanity walk hand in hand. Perhaps there is some truth to it.

He also offered me something I did not ask for. Earrings that will help me hide? Did he see a reason why I would need those? Did he see my future?

This man is dangerous. Perhaps I should dispose of him before he can be turned against me.

No, this is wrong, a supplicant should never be harmed. What was I thinking?

“Agreed.”

The shaman nods as if my approval was never in doubt. He stands up and points a finger towards one side of the valley that goes deeper into native land. A low incline leads to a sparse canopy of trees and the occasional glimpse of gray water.

As a gesture of goodwill, I nod to his two companions, but they only stare at me with apprehension. This is a bit rude, though I harbor no grudge. Their fear is not unwarranted.

I pick up my pack and set out while they do the same.

Once I am out of view, I change into the battle dress. The original spotless garment now harbors a bloody stab wound, a bloody bullet wound, a bloodstain on the left shoulder and scorch marks. It also smells a bit rank as a result. I really need to stop and do some actual laundry.

Ariane, the vampire that washes bloody rags under the moonlight. Perhaps I should sing, too.

I quickly reach the edge of the marsh proper. Now, how to proceed? My quarry should be either in, or next to a body of water that can contain it. Even accounting for exaggeration, the beast should be massive and only the largest ponds would be a suitable habitat for it. I am reasonably confident that I can feel its magic.

My plan is decided. I shall skirt alongside the aforementioned ponds and keep my senses sharp. I will start by going left and circle the marsh, then go inwards. I will use this opportunity to find shelter should the task prove to be too much for a single night.

Nodding to myself, I set out and for a couple of hours, I search. At this time of the year, the marsh is unusually quiet. Strands of mist hover on the water and around naked trees. Their blackened limbs extend like the desiccated hands of crones, ready to snatch and strangle. Only the sound of my traveling boots in the odd pool breaks the ominous silence. Finally, I find the first trace of my quarry.

Under a gnarled root, I find a severed arm. Only my keen nose led me to the relatively fresh appendage. It has been cut off at the shoulder and I push it with a shoe to stare at the grisly wound.

I count three tooth marks. For an entire shoulder.

Aha.

I back up slowly and almost lose my footing when I step in a hole. Cursing, I quickly regain my balance and stop when I realize what I walked in.

It is a footprint.

It is… Quite large.

Really large.

Surely, it could not be that big? When Iskani said that the creature was as long as three men, he was joking, right? That was poetic license, yes? It just has very, very big feet. Right?

Oh my God.

That thing must be as big as a bloody elephant! Nevermind my rifle; I should have brought a navy cannon, nay, a frigate, with a full marine complement!

Did I truly agree to go after this Behemoth? Was I insane?

Forget it, it would be better to cover the entire marsh in black tar and set it on fire. Problem solved.

I stay like this for a few seconds, but my cold will soon reasserts itself. This is a hunt. The prey is deadly, and so am I.

I secure my backpack and take out and load the pistol with a silver bullet. Should the beast assault me, I will rely on my speed to shoot and stab it in the eyes. Alligator brains are small and their eyes, unarmored. It will do.

I hope.

Another few minutes later, I stop as I see something promising. There is a small lake further inland with parts of the shore suspiciously devoid of vegetation. I creep closer and my suspicions are confirmed. There are a few stumps and dead trees as if something massive had passed through several times. This could be the lair of my prey. I start walking along the edge until I pick something up, the aura of a living being.

I step away from the edge of the water as soon as I realize two problems. First, it does not come from the water but a copse of trees a few paces away. Secondly, it is wrong.

This aura does not feel like a marsh animal should be like. It is powerful, yes, but powerful like a mountain, like steel. It is unbreakable, indomitable and it is ancient.

I turn to the source, aim my pistol and cock it. Without being prompted, a nightmarish form stands up.

And up, and up.

What in the name of…

It is an abomination! An insectoid creature covered in moss and dead vegetation, with two arms and two legs and…

Oh.

It is a very tall, very strong man in a black iron armor of strange make, covered with camouflage.

“Are ye quite alright, lass?”

With an annoyed click, I close my mouth and holster the pistol. I must have looked like some scared bumpkin just now. What a disgrace! A giant insect? Please.

“Hum, yes, I am, thank you for inquiring Mr…?”

The man in front of me is a force of nature. He is the tallest person I have ever seen by a wide margin and his shoulders match the rest of his physique. What can be seen that is not hidden by armor is scar-covered muscles and tan skin. The armor itself is a thing of wonder. It looks like it was built from a locomotive, with rivets and additions aplenty and shaped like a massive beetle. There are even gauges and buttons spread about. I cannot see his expression behind a conical half-helmet and glasses that look like a pair of tinted monocles. The rest of his face is covered by a majestic beard sitting under a huge, ruddy nose.

Quite the character!

“Loth of Skoragg, lass, it is a pleasure to meet ye.”

The man’s voice is deep and cultured. It is much softer than I expected, even if there is a gravelly quality to it.

“Ariane,” I reply as I curtsy. This is new and exciting! “May I inquire as to what you were trying to ambush here?”

“Of course. I am hunting an alligator of prodigious size that has been terrorizing the locals.”

I freeze.

Could it be?

“And were you perhaps asked to do so by a trio of Choctaw men?”

“Ah, ye saw their advertisement too?”

Gah! Of course! They just attract anyone that has a chance and then throw them at their problem. Is this a scam? Have I been swindled?

“And may I ask what you have been promised as compensation?”

“A few shards of obsidian. Nothing too fancy. Ye?”

“A trinket, also I get to drink from the shaman.”

Oops, I spoke too hastily! Instead of a reply, a whirr and click come from the man’s helmet and his left eye’s lens is substituted by a reddish one.

“Ah, a vampire. I never expected one so far away from a large settlement. Well, to tell ye the truth I am more interested in the beast’s scales, unfortunately, it has refused to come out and attack me. I had resolved to wait on one of its trails until it passed by, but your arrival has changed things. Do tell, how did ye notice me, lass?”

“I…”

I hesitate. The man raises a hand.

“I apologize for my manners, vampire. It has been a while since I had a proper discussion and I am understandably rusty.”

He stands straighter and the armor creaks and groans like an old barn to accommodate him. That thing must weigh a ton!

“Hum hum, I, Loth of Skoragg, would like to offer ye to cooperate on this hunt. Since our prizes are different, there is no reason for us ta compete. Instead, I would like to ask for the help of whatever keen senses told ye of my presence. In return, I shall cover ye and provide ranged support to take down the beast.”

I see no field cannon on that man.

“And what, pray tell, will you use to pierce through its thick dermis?”

“I thought ye’d never ask, lass.”

Loth turns back and leans forward. There are a few clangs, a few grunts and he eventually turns around to show me his weapon, proudly displayed in front of his hips.

“Oh, my, it is so big!”

The man smiles as I admire his equipment. It looks like a harpoon launcher that would have been taken from a whaler’s deck. It is humongous in size and no human should be able to wield this monstrosity.

“Aye, just wait ‘till I start shooting.”

By comparison, my poor pistol looks woefully inadequate. Oh, what an unpleasant feeling.

“Before I agree, I would like to ask you a few questions. Hum. You are not human, are you?”

The man stops moving.

“Wh…What gave it away?”

“Hum you have an aura but you are not a mage, there is also your size, that strange armor of yours, the oversized harpoon…”

“Aye, alright, but what about my voice? My mannerisms? Close yer eyes for a while and imagine we’re havin’ this conversation in a nice salon, aye? Would I come off as strange?”

“This conversation? The one we are having about hunting a titanic magical alligator together, at night, in Choctaw territory, in exchange for blood and obsidian shards?”

He nods frantically.

“Uuuuuuh, besides the obvious, you sound perfectly normal, I think?”

“Oof! Ya had me worried for a second here lass. Ya see I haven’t had a talk this long in three months! I was afraid I was coming off as particular. Ya know? Borderline? Loony? Isolation can do that to ya”

“I… I see. Hold on, you have not talked to anyone in three months?! What in the world were you doing!?”

“I was looking for magical beast skin.”

“…”

“…”

“Magical alligator skin?”

“Aye lass that would do, and that is why I need yer help! I thought I was blessed when I spotted that towering column of magic those lads set up and heard their proposal. But that beast is cunning! It hides from groups and things too big. I walked around; screamed obscenities that could be heard from here to the North pole and even showed it my arse but ‘twas all for nothing! The beast will not take the bait. I have been stuck in that piece of armor for three bloody days! Do you know how hard it is when you got that itch in ya…”

Does… Does this man have any censure?!

“Ye alright lass?”

I close my mouth with a click. I just wanted to know what he was! How did we end up talking about his itchy crotch…? Arg!

“Oooh, ye asked me what I am. Well, I am a Dvergur.”

I stare in silence.

“Aye, don’t look at me like that! I’m telling the truth. I’m probably the only Dvergur on the continent, well, the only one with pure enough blood to know what he is.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well we have a veeeery low birth rate, aye, and we are so close to human most can’t tell, so many of us just marry into human families. Why, my second wife was human!”

“What happened to her? Where is she?”

“She died of old age! That was, oh three hundred years ago, give or take.”

“WHAT?! How old are you!?”

“Aye lass, that’s sort of a personal thing to ask hey?”

And telling me about the state of his unmentionables is not personal? Pah! Men, I swear.

“We are close to stone and steel. Always have been. We love metal and magic and we wield them well! Why, I built that thing meself! Oh, and we also love good liquor. And lasses, or lads! Ah, and we can live very long. My grand-uncle Lokri, bless his heart, was already a man when Rome fell to those Huns upstarts. And he’s probably still alive if that harpy of a wife has not…”

I spend a good three minutes listening to the man talk about his cousins twice-removed back in Norway and Lapony and whatnot, and I am growing increasingly worried. I am confident that the Choctaw tribesmen will not speak of me, not because I believe in their honesty, but because no warriors worth their salt will admit to having asked a foreign woman for help.

I am planning to kill Loth, however. He already proved beyond the shadow of a doubt that he cannot keep his mouth shut. The more he talks, however, and the more I see the issue.

Loth is a centuries-old battle-hardened veteran encased in a magical suit of armor of his own making. I would rather try my luck against the crocodile, bare-handed.

Could I possibly wait until he lowers his guard? He will get out of this thing after the hunt. I can still work with him to slay our quarry, though I dislike the idea of murdering someone I fought side by side with.

“… And then it took three weeks for their wives to figure out the twins had switched place, bahahaha! Lokri and Takk are such pranksters!”

“Loth of Skoragg?”

“Aye?”

“I propose that we kill the alligator together. You take all the skin you want, I get to try its blood and then we shall return to the tribesmen and claim our respective rewards. Do you agree?”

“Aye, sure lass, works fer me. We’ve already delayed long enough as it is.”

And whose fault is this you gossiping blabbermouth?! Gah!

“Let us set out then.”

I walk forward, close to the water while Loth covers me from much farther away. When I asked him about it, he answered that the beast would only go after “cute and juicy-rumped targets”, that I should not worry my “pretty noggin” over playing bait because he could “throw a Francisca through a troll’s nostrils at a hundred paces.”, whatever that meant, and that I was, therefore “Guarded as a dragon’s bollocks”. After that, I decided not to ask any more questions.

Loth is direct, vulgar and talkative but as I offer my back to him, I do not doubt that he will only protect it. My instincts agree.

I do not want to fight him, but I want to fall back into vampire hands even less. ..

We circle the whole pond without success and the strange man leads me to another lake where our target may be resting.

“Ya know, East of here there’s a species of wetland trees with its roots bare. It’s a bit indecent if ye ask me. They’re showing their naked legs to everyone if ya think about it.”

“Ya know, all this mud reminds me of Aunt Gerda’s cooking. She could not make a proper meal ta save her life. We used to say, just throw it up it will taste better the second time! I remember that even that starving fox…”

“Ya know, I think vampires should say yesternight, cause it’s never yesterday, technically.”

He never shuts up.

I know a few nasty words could make him stop. I do not say them. It would be unwise to antagonize him now.

Ah who am I kidding, I understand him perfectly. He has spent three months in solitude, and now he has someone who he can talk to about events that happened two hundred years before without being seen as a madman.

He is also the only Dvergur around. I know that I should avoid other vampires like the plague but at least they are there. I am not the only one of my kind. I have Jimena. I have my father and Aintza. Loth is alone.

How can someone so old be so alone?

“And here we are lass, I hope I did not bother too much with me ramblings aye?”

“Not at all Loth. Should we proceed as before?”

“Aye. Just so. Keep yer peepers open, I think it’s the right one.”

We keep walking. The immobility of the marsh grates on my nerves. At the same time, I feel myself growing sluggish. The tedious search is not the same as an active hunt, and since I fed almost immediately upon waking up, I...

A noise behind me. I turn around.

Massive jaws.

Impossible, IMPOSSIBLE! I did not feel anything?!

I move and it compensates. With a snap, it closes.

Caught.

DRAGGED. STUCK. TRAPPED. MUST SLASH.

The thing is too fast, its skin too thick, it drags me away. My head is submerged. There is muddy water in my mouth; there is muddy water in my lungs. It hurts. My leg hurts.

IGNORE PAIN, KILL FIGHT.

I grab the silver dagger and stab what I can reach: inside a nostril, the gum, a broken tooth. I fight like a fury. I grab the jaw and try to push it away.

Suddenly, I surface.

I manage to open the nightmarish maw, I free a bleeding leg. I crawl away. The beast does not move.

I cough a lungful of brackish liquid. I turn again. It’s dead. I cough more.

“Ariane.”

I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine…

“Ariane! You are safe lass, it’s over. We killed it.”

“Cough, I .. cough, I did not feel it coming, at all! Cough!”

“Yes, I understand now, it could mask its presence. I was looking at the water the whole time and did not see anything. Its eyes should have been visible.”

I stare at the corpse of the beast. The alligator is as massive as expected, and its scales are completely black. The darkness is so intense it seems like it is swallowing the light. Even the corridors of the arena were never that obscure. The beast has a single, massive harpoon lodged to the hilt in its eye. Transparent liquid slowly drips down its side.

This was an incredible shot. Loth is as good as his word.

After a pause, the man goes on.

“Try the blood, then we can go back. I’ll skin the thing tomorrow at dawn. ”

Yes, I should not let myself be distracted by a near-death experience at the hand of a massive Saurian.

I take my knife and stab into its throat. A thin trail of blood drips down. I must hurry before all the vitality disappears.

I take one swallow.

“Blergh.”

So bitter! This is completely undrinkable! I can feel the potency, but I cannot stomach its medium.

“Yes, I thought it might be the case. I met vampires in Boston, ya know? Some of them can distill essence from magical beast blood. I thought it was weird that ye tried to drink it raw.”

He looks at me and frowns.

This is bad, I don’t want him to…

“We should get back to my camp. I have rainwater. Let’s wash the worst of it clean.”

I look down at myself.

The dress is beyond ruined. A massive tear runs from waist high down and shows my pale left leg on top of the existing damage. It is also disgustingly filthy. The walk back to the camp feels like an eternity, an eternity spent picking weed off my hair. Eventually, we arrive back where we first met.

“Come, sit.”

I am not thinking straight. I am exhausted now. I still need to pick up my gear and find shelter for the day. This will be a closer call than I would like…

I sheathe the knife and drop my holster. I will have to clean those very thoroughly, preferably before I slumber. I really need one night spent on supplies and cleaning… So bothersome.

Loth grabs an entire barrel and slowly upends it on top of my head. I rinse my hair, my face. I remove the worst from the dress. I need clean clothes.

“Hey lass, that hunt was a bit anticlimactic don’t ye think? We got all that anticipation, all that tension, and then bam, it’s over in a second. Kind of disappointing, ya know. I was hoping for something that would get the blood pumping”

It suddenly occurs to me that I am weakened, and completely unarmed. He… he wouldn’t…

“I know what I want to do to get a little bit of excitement, a challenge if ye will. I heard that vampires are exceptional at it”

No… He wants a real hunt. I can’t fight him, I am not at my best and he is dangerous, deadly even! Must RECOVER DAGGER, CREATE DISTANCE, HIDE, AMBU…

“Say, let’s have sex!”

WHAT

What?!

“What?!” I sputter.

“Aye, to celebrate the hunt, the fact that we’re alive and the beast is dead aye? We Dvergur….”

His hand caresses my shoulder…

I am crying. The front of my dress is shredded, but my right arm is still free. I grab around. I find a rock. The abomination has stopped moving. It is looking right at me, daring me to act.

“Go on, try.”

With a yell of defiance, I smash the rock against its temple. I might as well have hit a steel door.

“I think that you do not need to use that arm anymore.”

A heavy hand grabs my shoulder.

“NOOOOOO!”

I jump, I grab my knife, I wave it in front of me.

“STAY AWAY FROM ME!”

He looks too astonished to move at first, then he slowly raises his hands to appear harmless.

“You, you stay away from me, don’t touch me. Don’t touch me at all. Stay away.”

“Alright.”

“You, you don’t come near.”

“I won’t come near. I’m sitting down.”

He does, and at the same time, he deflates. I know that he is the same size, but he seems to collapse on himself. Slowly, Loth raises his hand and unlocks something, then he removes his helmet, which falls on the ground with a loud thud. He then waits in silence.

I realize that I am hyperventilating. Ariane, the only hyperventilating creature that needs no air. Pathetic.

I am pathetic. I was weak. I am weak. We killed the alligator? What a joke. He killed the alligator. I was just floundering around like an idiot. I am still very much the Spawn that was thrown away by its Master after only four bloody days. Unwanted. A bargaining chip. The butt of the bloody joke. Damn it.

We spend some time in this strange stalemate. I am standing with a blade trying to regain control, while he sits quietly, waiting for God knows what.

“I am so sorry, Ariane.”

I look up and take his measure for the first time. Now that his head is revealed, I can see that Loth has a pleasant face, in a rugged gentleman kind of way. His hair is black and cut short and he has chestnut-colored eyes currently fixed on me. Right now, he looks like a beaten dog. A harpoon-equipped, armored, beaten dog.

I say nothing.

He waits.

Why did this happen? I have been touched by people before without triggering any memories, without turning into a quivering mess.

Except, besides my father, I have never been touched by a man who wasn’t a cattle or a supplicant. They were all in my power.

They were not men to me, not really. Loth is. He is mature, strong and we are not bound by oath or contract.

What should I do?

At a loss, I look up to the Silent Watcher. Once more, its quiet gaze brings me a modicum of self-control.

“Ye’re a fugitive, ain’t ye ?”

Well, that settles it. He figured me out. It has come to this. I should never have agreed to a truce, I should have fought him on the spot.

I stand up.

“What if I am?”

“Aye, don’t get yer panties in a twist. I’m asking because, well, because I can help ya.”

I scoff. Does he think me daft?

“Why would you ever do something like that? We just met.”

I must run away. Even with his helmet off, I am far from confident that I can take him out.

Loth’s expression turns resolute. He stands up, takes a step back and methodically removes a gauntlet. I watch, mesmerized as he takes a small knife and slices his palm open. Blood wells. It smells pretty good.

“I, Loth of Skoragg, hereby swear that I shall protect Ariane’s life, freedom, and welfare until next midnight, or die trying.”

A powerful wave of magic washes over me. It tastes like snow, mountain, and unyielding metal, all things I am not familiar with and yet I feel them as if I knew them intimately. The intensity of the blood oath is stunning.

The Dvergur closes his fist and kisses it without breaking eye contact with me.

What?! What just happened?

I don’t know what to say. I certainly did not expect this. Loth of Skoragg, warrior, and craftsman, will die to defend me if it comes to it. I know this with the same certainty that I know the sun will rise in the East. It is inevitable.

“But why?”

“Perhaps I feel like a fool that ignored all the obvious signs. Perhaps I owe ye for what I just put ye through by being callous. And perhaps…”

He pauses for a long time and I wait without a sound. This moment feels important. It would be sacrilegious to interrupt him.

“Perhaps I feel lonely.”

I ponder this strange confession for a little while. His words make little sense to me. I cannot reconcile them with my image of him.

“I do not understand. You look human, you sound human, you can drink, eat and walk under the sun, so why are you alone?”

“Ye are so young to ask me such a question… Tyr, I should have known. I should have noticed. Yes, humans are good companions. Did I mention me second wife, Agna?”

I nod.

“I stayed by her side until her head went white. In the end, she could no longer walk, could barely see. Never did she harbor any grudge that her body would fail her while I would go on.”

Loth marks a heavy pause. The pain in his eyes is sobering.

“It broke me heart when she died. I promised myself, never again. Our children were adults by that time, so I picked me things and left. I stayed in the mountains for a century to hone my craft. It did not help. Even today I can see her smile as a young lass, as a mother, as a mature woman and as I held her hand because she could not see me no more. If ye live long enough ye will know this too. Human lives shine bright, but they fade fast. I cannot let meself be burnt like that again.”

“And maybe I will die in two weeks. Fugitive, remember?”

“And maybe ye won’t, especially if ye accept me proposal. The gist of it is, maybe in a hundred years, ye’ll still be here. The humans won’t, and there’s nothing I can do about it. Just knowing it is enough.”

“Not to mention, you can’t talk about that time your nephew Rollo showed his posterior to Edward the First without people starting to wonder how old that would make you.”

“Aye lass, ye got me there. Rollo two Beards we called him afterward!”

“Well, after what you said and that oath of yours, I think… I think that I want to hear your proposal.”

“And I’ll tell ye tomorrow. Ye’re barely staying awake as it is, and we need to find ye some shelter.”

“Yes… I am afraid you may have to carry me.”

“That’s not the issue… Don’t ye want to get changed? Ye’re kind of covered in swamp water”

“Ah! Let us make haste!”

17. Loth of Skoragg's offer.

My wrists and ankles are bound to the chair by massive manacles of steel and silver. Scarlet runes glow ominously.

“Does it not look scrumptious, Ari?”

The long table spreads in front of me. I am at the place of honor, where the “pater familias”, the father, should sit. This isn’t normal. The dishes are not normal. They shimmer in the semi-darkness like red-hot embers.

“It… It sure does aunt Sara!”

“Does it now?” she replies with a smirk, “Well then, should we start?”

Her eyes are not the usual grey. They are as dark as the place between the stars and just as empty. My right hand is drawn forward to a fork by the manacle. I cannot resist. When I make contact, the cutlery flashes blue and my skin erupts in bloody blisters. I bite down screams of pain.

“Something the matter Ari? You are Ari, are you not?”

“Of course something is the matter darling.” Says uncle Roger as he takes a seat, soon followed by other members of the family. Black eyes everywhere.

A powerful hand grabs my hair and pulls my head back.

“Did you forget to say the Graces, sister? Surely, only a dirty slut who sold herself to the Devil to survive would forget to say them?”

“No! No, I was just waiting for everyone to be seated, as is proper!”

“Proper hmmm? Well since you are so proper dear sister, you may say them first.”

“But Achille, Papa should be the one to do it, no?”

Father enters the room. Each of his steps makes the ground tremble. He is so strong, strong enough to shatter my arms with a finger. On his collar stands a cross of the order of Gabriel, and in his hands, he holds wooden spikes and a silver maul. He takes the seat that faces mine, at the end of the table.

“Tut tut tut daughter. We awaited your return among us for so long. Just this once, you may take my place and do the rites. It is a great honor, one that only a wanton harlot would refuse. You agree, do you not?”

“O… Of course.”

“Very good. Since we are all here, you may begin.”

They all stare at me with hungry mouths just a bit too wide. The skin around their eyes cracks as the darkness spreads.

“B… Bless us, cough, O cough, O Lord, cough cough, and these Thy…”

My throat burns, clouds of ash and droplets of charred blood erupt with each word. I have to continue, oh no, they are standing up, no please….

I wake up to an unfamiliar sight: the canopy of a canvas tent.

I am in a metal box with the top opened. I do not remember how I got there.

I sit up and a simple cover of brown fabric falls from me. Under it, I am still wearing the traveled-stained dress I fell to torpor in.

I take in the sights. A single lamp shines with soft blue light on the vast interior. A chest and a tidied cot occupy one side, while another accommodates a copper tub filled to the brim with water. A chair next to it holds soap and a folded cloth.

“Hello?”

“I’m outside, lass.”

I stand up. The box I am in looks suspiciously like a coffin, except that this one has a lock on the inside allowing its occupant to shut it tight and a symbolic quilt. That is quite thoughtful, and the effort makes me feel a bit better after this nightmare.

I step to the entrance and move my head out.

We stand in a clearing. Two torches illuminate a circle of grassy earth upon which stand tanning posts. Vast squares of black scaly skin are left to dry. Loth is in the process of dismantling the first one with an ease that speaks of experience.

Tanneries usually smell like a latrine’s latrines and I am quite surprised when my nose only picks up hints of chemicals and herbs.

“Good evening Loth.”

“Good evening Ariane, I drew ye a bath and ye can tell me if that dress fits.”

“Hold on, you skinned and tanned the alligator, made a dress and the coffin for me in one day?!”

“I would prefer the term sarcophagus” he replies with a laugh, “and aye. You were slumbering for more than sixteen hours ya know? Ye must have been exhausted.”

“I see, hum, well, I’ll talk to you later.”

I feel a bit wary at the thought of disrobing while only a layer of fabric separates me from a man. All my concerns melt as I step into the bath.

“Aaaaaa.”

It feels so incredibly good to immerse myself in piping warm, clean water after more than a week on the road. I submerge my head for a full minute and enjoy the feeling of weightlessness that no lack of air can disturb.

I sit back up and grab a bar of soap. It is scented! Is that jasmine? I slather my hair and body.

“Ooooo so good!”

It feels so incredible. Beware, world, Ariane the squeaky-clean vampire Queen is about!

I hear Loth chuckle. He heard me! Gah!

I get out and dry myself on a deliciously clean towel just as the Thirst makes its presence known. I dig out my last set of relatively clean underwear and put on the dress.

It is a marvel. The cut is very simple and without any adornments but also comfortable and flexible. Dark green and brown cotton offer a natural camouflage and I can tell it has been reinforced at the sleeves. There are also, wonders of wonders, pockets! And it suits me!

I come out in a rush.

“Loth, this is incredible! How did you know my measurements?”

“I promise I did not touch ye Ariane, I just have, hum, quite a bit of experience with women.”

“Oh…”

I would blush if I still could.

“Just hold on for a bit while I pack.”

“Oh, let me assist.”

While he gathers the skin, I take care of the tent and its contents.

“Thank ya. Now let’s get all this on me ride.”

I pick my bag and the chest and follow him. Across the clearing stands a huge metal box. I notice the enormous wheels stuck to it and realize that this is a carriage. If I had to transport all the jewels of India from one side of the continent to the other, I would place them in this.

“Wow.”

What manner of beast could draw this monstrosity? Curious, I circle.

“Wow!”

Loth smiles broadly and chuckles. His giant chest quakes with hilarity as I lay my eyes on a mastodon of a beast of burden.

Someone must have successfully cross-bred a bison with a blue whale! The shaggy quadruped is bigger than most carriages I have seen. A set of horns that could skewer a horse extend from its bovine skull.

“Hah, meet Asni. Impressive, isn’t he?”

“How?!”

“Ah don’t mind the size, he isn’t the biggest thing around. Instead, go closer.”

I hesitate.

“Hum Loth, animals do not react well to my presence.”

“Asni is special. Come, come!”

We walk to the front of the animal. A shaggy mane covers its eyes. Only its jaw moves, busy masticating.

“Touch him.”

I am surprised to see that Asni has not reacted to my presence yet. I slowly bring a hand to its muzzle and pet him slowly. His pelt is surprisingly soft, and I find myself enjoying the experience. Loth stands in front of me proudly with its chest out. He places a hand in the small of his back and shows Asni with the other. He looks like a businessman unveiling his latest venture.

“Have ye ever had your mount flee after a werewolf’s howl, or panic at the sight of a giant magical hyena? Does the scent of blood make yer ride unreliable? Well, worry no more, Loth of Skoragg has the solution. This here majestic beast is the result of decades of effort and selective breeding into making the absolute dumbest animal possible.”

I giggle.

“That’s right, ladies and gentlemen! This here beast is simply too dim-witted to be afraid. With Asni, experience the boundless courage of abysmal stupidity as it rides into battle with a serene heart and an empty skull!”

I applaud and Loth bows perfectly.

“Let’s be on our way before…”

It starts as a whistle, then a trumpet, then whistle, then trumpet again and ends up with the sound of wet cloth flapping in the wind.

It lasted for almost ten seconds.

I stare at Loth, horrified.

“Aye, that’s a problem. Let’s move before we can smell it. That’s also why I never park him near an open flame.”

I am tempted to ask to ride in the back. I do admire the beast, but I am not inclined to be submitted to such cavernous bouts of flatulence. I know I do not have to breathe but this is simply a matter of principles!

We load everything in the back of his carriage in comfortable silence. I notice that his armor is stored in the center with free access. The interior looks defensible. This was designed on purpose to let him defend himself should the carriage be intercepted.

When we’re done, I sit next to him. He takes out a massive stick and slaps the beast’s rear with it. He places it back on the side and we wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Finally, the beast starts moving forward at a placid pace, pulling the moving fort as if it weighed nothing.

“Takes a few seconds for the signal to reach its brain. Ye got to anticipate when ye want to stop.”

I smile and let the movement distract me from the Thirst. I realize that our truce only lasts until midnight and if I want to consider staying with him, we need to have a talk. I decide to start with basic courtesy.

“I wanted to thank you for your care. You went beyond any reasonable expectations. I notice that you even cleaned my gun.”

“Ye’re welcome lass. Now we go to get yer reward and that blood. How long can ye go without feeding by the way? More than a day?”

“No.”

“I figured ye were pretty young. Ye’re not a courtier are ye? Ye’re a fledgling.”

“How do you know so much about us?”

“I think I mentioned that I met one of you near Boston. He goes by Constantine, and he’s a scholar of sorts. We talked a lot and I got some good work done with his protection.”

“I see, and to answer your question, yes I am a fledgling.”

“How old are ye really? Ye don’t have to answer by the way. I just know that younger vampires have more needs, so I’ll know to adapt.”

I hesitate. There is no reason for me to share this with him. The less he knows, the less everything can go to the dogs if the deal falls through and I don’t manage to kill him.

Loth gives me a sad smile. For some reason, seeing the pain on his bushy face makes me uncomfortable. Between the ruddy nose and glorious beard, he looks like a favorite uncle or grandfather. It is a face designed for boisterous claims and roaring laughter, not for the raw hurt I see on it now.

“Ya know, I can see the cogs turning behind those sky-colored eyes of yers. I know we just met but I believe I have been nothing but true to my word. Even if we part ways, I will swear an oath to secrecy. Ye have nothing to fear from me.”

I believe him. I have spent so much time surrounded by the scum of the earth that I have forgotten that there are people out there whose sole purpose is not to make my life as miserable and brief as possible.

“I am twenty.”

“Oh, I thought that was less. Ye’re almost a courtier then.”

He stops.

“Ye do know vampires measure their age from the day they rise again, aye?”

“Uuuh now that you mention it, I think my friend mentioned this the first day we met. Then I am six months old.”

It sounds wrong when I say it, as if who I was before did not matter, as if you could discard almost two decades of life experience on the ground that I was human when I had them.

Loth thinks on it for a while. He looks angry.

"That ain’t right lass, that ain’t right at all. Ye did not commit some sort of horrible crime, did ye?”

“Besides existing you mean? No. If you must know though, I have blood on my hands.”

“All vampires do. This ain’t right ta force someone so new ta flee away. A yearling should feel the need ta hunker down and nest for safety’s sake. If you felt compelled to take the road… I dare not imagine what ye went though.

I have no more questions, so just ya know, I want to invite ye to live with me. I’ll protect ye and in return, there are a few things I can use yer help with, ye being an immortal killing machine and all. I’ll compensate ye of course, and it will be exciting work, ye can rely on that. Oh, and no biting me. Ask your questions.”

“Before we start, I want to make it clear. I’m not performing any… Favor… For anyone.”

Loth suddenly turns terribly embarrassed, his nose becomes even redder than unusual.

“Hrm, again, I am so sorry for yesterday’s indiscretion. I assumed ye were much older and vampires have a bit of a reputation fer that… Please, forgive me. I have never taken a woman against her will and I shall never do so! Naturally, hrm, I will never expect anything of the sort. Please! Let us never speak of this again. Rest assured that I will never act in an untoward manner. My shame…”

“It’s alright, Loth” I reply, smiling “I believe you. I just needed to say it.”

“Hrm! Of course, of course.”

“I do not have any questions at the moment. Tell me, what do you propose?”

“Aye, it’s simple enough lass. I have a manor with a basement in the town of Higginsville, named after its founder, Philip Higgins. I met him ya know? A fine lad, a bit obsessed with garter belts and Rubenian…”

“Loth?”

“Aye, I was saying. A manor. I’ll give ye a secure room and defend ye during the day. I’m one of the two towns doctors. They see me as a bit of an eccentric, a gentleman of science. Why, this one time, young Tim Letterson came to me and…”

“Loth.”

“Sorry, as the town doctor I will ask for blood donations in lieu of payment, ye see? I’ll say it’s for experiments. So ye can just drink fresh from a chalice. Ye’ll need a few glasses per nights and ye’ll have ta hunt on occasion, but it should be fine. In return, I’ll need yer help for a few things like hunting dangerous beasts, exploring caves, killing the odd brigand band and werewolf. Oh, and helping me carry heavy stuff. I only ask that you don’t kill anyone from the town. Limit yerself to criminals and outcasts.”

I stare at Loth who is now focused on the trail. He is giving me time to think.

It sounds too good to be true. I could lay low in a remote town where no vampires would look for me, protected by a gentleman of repute who would defend and hide me out of his own free will. I could survive my most vulnerable years safely. I could build something. I could learn something. I could send letters to Jimena and Papa.

I could live, as opposed to surviving.

“This is a very generous offer.”

“Aye, it is.”

“Is there a catch?”

“No, there isn’t lass. Ye need to catch a break. I’ll be happy to help. I wish someone had done it for me when I needed it.”

“I won’t kill people if I don’t want to.”

“HAHAHA! Lass, far be it from me to force a vampire to kill, aye?”

“I won’t break my word for you.”

“And neither will I.”

I want it. I really want it now.

“If I want to leave I can, and you will let me go and swear an oath to secrecy.”

“Aye.”

I want it.

“I want to try.”

“Then open your palm and we shake on it. Be aware that ye’re a creature of magic now. Ye can lie but ye can’t break an oath without breaking yerself.”

We slice our hands, him with a knife and I with a talon. We shake them without ceremony.

A powerful wave of magic washes over both of us. I feel Loth’s essence of mountain and steel and another one that smells of thorns and wet earth.

It is done.

I sit back into the chair and let the oath settle on me as the wound on my hand closes. This was strange and wonderful. This was an experience that I would never have thought possible a year ago. Perhaps, things do not have to be so bad.

Half an hour later, we reach the edge of the valley where we met the Choctaw men. Asni is strong but also slow. I do not mind.

We step down and walk to the statue, a totem apparently, and witness the approach of a strange procession.

Nashoba walks with the help of two scowling women. He looks cleaner and tidier than yesterday. Minco walks at their side with a furious glare, while Iskani trails the two groups with the awkward look of the man caught between two friends arguing.

They stop at ten paces and Iskani shuffles forward, greets us both with a bow and asks us how the hunt went.

Loth smiles and throws him a bag that smells of dead meat to me. The translator opens it and turns an interesting shade of green. Loth whispers in a sound that only I can hear.

“It’s the other eyeball.”

I school my expression so I do not laugh. The man brings the trophy to his chief who also grows noticeably paler. Yes, Minco, you are not impressing us very much with that tiny spear of yours.

Iskani grabs a satchel and hands it to Loth. My companion checks the contents then nods. It is right to make sure he receives his proper reward, even if it is of little value to him.

It is my turn. I extend my hand towards my supplicant. Nashoba tries to free himself from the grasp of the two women, but the left one holds him back and starts arguing with him and Minco.

My hand is still out.

They wouldn’t dare. They wouldn’t dare break their word with me. I would have to teach them the consequences of their actions. I would have to make the lesson very thorough.

“Hssssssss”

I feel anger overcoming me, I feel the beast beneath the surface waking up.

The valley freezes. Even the wind dies down.

Loth’s measured and soft voice slithers through the fog over my mind.

“Ye’re not trying to renege on a deal with a pale one, are ya? Because that would be a bad idea.”

In the silence that follows, Nashoba frees himself from the paralyzed woman with the barest of touch.

Good, now I will kill only her.

My supplicant places his hand in mine. The other one brushes the skin of my wrist.

I look at him. With an innocent smile, he reaches into his pocket and takes out a pair of earrings. Today, his eyes are clear and focused.

“Gift.”

The pieces of jewelry are made of copper and transparent stone engraved with strange drawings. No matter how much I concentrate on them they always appear out of focus.

Nashoba closes my hand over the offering and slowly comes closer. He grabs one of my shoulders and offers me his throat.

Mmmh, perhaps there is no need to slay anyone tonight. All is as it should be.

I hold him up as I feed.

This is unexpected. He is, of course, delicious, but there is something more. His power resonates within me. There is something familiar that echoes with the refuge I find myself in.

I stop long before I need to. I have taken my due, I do not need more.

I lick the wound close. The shaman smiles one last time. He walks to the two women who pick him up and leave in a hurry. They do not meet my eyes. The two men look at me, at each other and follow suit. I did not know people could go that fast without running.

Loth and I leave as well and settle on the steel carriage.

“Ye sure know how to leave an impression. Well done.”

“You approve?”

“I’d say ye left a warning without hurting anyone and that’s the best outcome. I’d also say how you deal with oathbreakers is none of my business. Ye ready to go?”

“Yes, I am ready and eager.”

Loth pokes Asni.

“Good, now I wanted ta talk about yer lair. All good lairs need ta be hidden, protected and not worth the effort, as cousin Okri used ta say.”

“He is a locksmith?”

“Nah, a thief.”

The carriage moves slowly into the night.

18. Six Months Later

My dearest Ariane,

Words cannot express how relieved I am to hear from you. Aintza and I were ready to cover your tracks, fully expecting a slip-up. When you disappeared without a trace, we feared the worst. I now see that my concerns were unwarranted and that you are very much the resourceful young vampire I took you to be.

Onto the most pressing matters, I must issue a word of warning. You must not, under any circumstances, write to your father. I do not believe that the Lancaster suspect you may have survived, however, the order of Gabriel has sent significant reinforcements to Louisiana following their disastrous assault. We believe your house to be under constant surveillance. Do send me a short message and I will make sure it reaches him safely.

As for that most potent blood that was given to you after your apparent demise at my hand, I was hoping you could have forgotten its very existence. I must beseech you, never to mention it to anyone. Forgive me, for I cannot say more.

I am pleased with your arrangement. A safe place to grow and prosper is exactly what you need now. It is what you should have received. Do be cautious, for overconfidence is always involved in our kind’s demise and pride will ever be our greatest sin.

Aintza is well and she has indeed made a full recovery. She mentioned that you defended her life at a risk to your own even though your freedom was at hand. I will be eternally grateful to you for this decision, and I am proud to call you my friend.

Please write often and let me know about your adventures. Use the same secured method.

Yours,

Jimena de Cadiz.

The log cabin has grown quite a bit, I muse, as I stare at the massive four-poster bed at its center. The fire roars in the chimney with a flame that will never burn me. A cool wind brings the smell of wet earth through an open window.

Someone is knocking politely.

I stand up and go down the stairs to the house’s main room. I open the gate and stare outside. The small grass expanse that leads to the thorn forest lies empty.

A path opens before me. I follow it to a dense line of trees stretching on both sides as far as the eye can see. Thorny vines twist and mesh to form an impenetrable wall that looks more sculpted than grown. The knocks come from behind.

There is something familiar about the rhythm I cannot quite place. There is also nothing hostile about the invitation. If I were to compare it, it would be the same as a friend tugging on your sleeve to wake you up.

I want to get through.

The roots and trunks shiver then part before me with a deep rumble. An alley extends into the mists.

I stumble when I cross the threshold, but something helps me regain my balance. I move through the white fog for a few moments until I come across a small mound.

The air clears up and I am standing in a gorge. On both sides, sheer cliffs climb up beyond my sight while in front stands a most peculiar structure. It looks like someone carved a temple in the very rock. The architecture is blocky, massive and solemn. Styled lions stand guard at each side of a monumental entrance.

What I thought to be a mound turns out to be a tortoise of massive proportion. It spreads all over the path and is currently sleeping contentedly. The Choctaw shaman is perched atop its shell.

“Nashoba?”

“Child of thorn and hunger. Curious home this is, no? You should visit.”

“Where is it?”

“Not where, when.”

The tortoise yawns and the mists close on me.

“Please miss, you gotta believe me!”

“Nope!”

“I swear, I am not the person you are looking for.”

“Yes, you are Charles Bishop, charlatan, conman, and horse thief.”

“You got the wrong person miss, I never heard of this Bishop.”

“And yet you ride on a horse that was stolen from the Mitchell estate this very morning by a Charles Bishop, charlatan, conman, and horse thief, who happens to match your description.”

“That’s not right miss, you must have seen it wrong!”

“I found their brand on the beast’s leg.”

That was a lie, but it is indeed the right horse. I simply do love how Mr. Bishop’s face falls for half a second as he rebuilds a tale in his brain that will accommodate my solid evidence.

“Ah, I knew my kindness would play tricks on me! I met this man not three hours ago, he looked desperate. He wanted to sell me this horse so he could take a coach to Atlanta to visit his sick mother. And I, the fool, believed him! I did not tell you because I knew there was trouble. You gotta believe me, I am the victim in this sordid affair!”

Mesmerizing. He is spinning a tale and gauging my reaction at the very same time! Is this how people like him manipulate their audience, through constant adaptation? Truly, this man is an artist. It is no wonder that he could swindle old Margie Mitchell out of her pension.

“A famous tale Mr. Bishop. Now we shall play a little game. I will ask you questions and if you lie, I will break one of your fingers.”

I grab his bound hands in my own and free his index without much fuss.

“Let us start with a simple one. What is your name?”

“Marcus…”

Snap.

“AAAAaaaagh. What is wrong with you! This is intolerable, an abuse of power. Guards, guards, anyone, help! I am being assaulted! You better let me go before I have you arrested for your heinous crimes! The law is on my side.”

The man swallows nervously. His eyes dart around my face, looking for hints of emotions. Hmm, perhaps I should stop smiling so much. It is at least fortunate that I had the presence of mind to hide my fangs.

“What. Is. Your. Name.”

He hesitates

“Miss you gotta believe me I’m telling the truth, I am the victim of an odious machination. My name really is Marcus…”

Snap.

“Aaaaaa! FUCK! Aaaaaaahaha it hurts. Miss, please, have mercy. You’re a sharp lady aye, I can see that. I am indeed Charles Bishop,”

I was almost expecting him to double down!

“But I was telling you the truth! I am indeed the victim of an odious machination! Those Mitchell bastards are a bunch of heathens and faithless liars. I have done nothing as they say, they’re just slandering me because the truth is that Jeremy Mitchell…. Is my father!”

“Pffff Hohohohaha this is just too good. Oh my! Do these kinds of lies work on anyone?”

“I swear it on God…”

Snap.

“AAAAaaaa JESUS! FUCK!”

“Tut tut tut, do not anger me by making false oaths, particularly on that name. You know this is an experiment, correct? I am just determining how many fingers it will take before you realize I can see through your lies.”

“Miss, miss, enough. Please!”

“I only asked for your name and we are already at three fingers. I hope you can do better in the future.”

I brush the top of the knee-high wheat with a gloved hand.

This is frustrating.

I had to drag Mr. Bishop half a mile into a deserted field while a man could have flashed his credentials and conducted the interrogation in a private room in the town hall. This is unfair. I even asked Loth for male clothes, but he said I had, and I quote, “an arse ta send ships across the Aegean” and that he “would not have innocent young lads question their sexuality every time ye cross the street.” Which I assume means crossdressing is off.

So here I am. Entertaining myself as best as I can, in the middle of a wheat field in the back end of Georgia while I could be doing it in a comfortable room, with the full authority of the citizen watch simply because my genitals do not happen to dangle around when I walk. This is a disgrace. I almost miss Vampire society and its ruthless equal treatment.

“Miss?”

How should I proceed?

“Besides cash, what did you steal?”

A quick movement of the eye to the right, towards the town.

“So you did steal something.”

“No miss, please, you gotta believe me, I’m an honest man!”

Snap.

“Gaaaaaaaaaaaahahahaaaaaaaahaha!”

“Charles dear, you are almost begging for it. You already admitted to lying not a minute ago. Do you ever realize that you are going too far?”

“Baaaaahahaha”

I watch, impressed, as Mr. Bishop spins an incredible tale of pain and misery for a whole minute. Tears flow from his eyes, and snot from his nostrils like unto the Niagara Falls. He is the very picture of despair and repentance. I just have to let him go, and after he buys medicine for his poor mother, he will lead the honest life he always craved. I try to look increasingly filled with pity as the story reaches its dramatic conclusion.

“Your poor family…”

“Yes, miss…”

“What caused your sister to go blind?”

“I, Uhh”

Snap.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA”

“Charles, Charles, now you are making me angry. Don’t tell me you’ve never thought of that! Of course, people are going to be asking questions to challenge your claims! You need to be able to answer such basic inquiries on the spot or the lies will unravel. What a poor performance. Ah, what am I to do with you?"

Hmm.

“Anyway, onto the next question. Is what you stole in the horse’s saddle.”

“YES, YES DAMMIT YES, IT’S ALL THERE!”

“And the pension?”

“…”

Snap.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAA I DID NOT SAY ANYTHING!”

“You were thinking about it! You were licking your lips and calculating the odds! I am tired of this, you obviously cannot tell the truth to save your own miserable life! I broke six fingers! Six! How stupid can you be! Do not waste my time any further.”

“Yes, yes I will tell you.”

I grab the man’s hair with one hand and Jimena’s dagger with the other. I place the blade at the base of the orbit, just below the eyeball. He freezes.

“I will now ask one more time. If anything but the precise and complete answer to my question comes out of your mouth, I will push the knife in. And I do mean anything. You protest, you beg, whimper or lie and you lose that eye and I go to the next target. You don’t need any eyes, nor ears, nor fingers to tell me what I want to know. I will take them in precisely that order until I get what I want. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

He nods.

“Where is the pension money?”

“I buried it in a burlap sack under the apple tree behind the inn. The one that's next to the shitter.”

“Very good.”

I sheathe the dagger and go rummage into my backpack for what I stole from the inn.

“You’re probably here for the bounty aye? You could take everything and let me go, keep the pension for yourself. If someone asks, you never met me. Just untie me and I’ll be gone like the wind. You’ll never see me again and the pension money will be yours.”

Oh?

“Charles, Charles, Charles… If I were to do as you ask and keep the pension for myself, why, pray tell, would I ever leave a witness?”

Mr. Bishop turns to a pleasant shade of grey. Oh, he is so ripe with fear and vitality! A few more minutes and I will be unable to resist.

“I may consider letting you go if you do a little thing for me. A very simple thing…”

“Yes, yes, please anything!”

Bishop yelps in surprise, and then in pain as I shove a brand-new candle between his bound hands. The look of incomprehension on his face as I use a match to light it is just precious.

“I just realized that tonight is my Birthday! Well, in a manner of speaking. I was not exactly born. Still, I simply must celebrate the occasion. I would just ask that you sing for me.”

“W… What?”

“SING!”

“H… Haaaaappy Birthday t… to youuu.”

I sing along and only take my dagger out once, to encourage him to finish. When he is done, I clap and blow the candle. Only the light of the moon shines on us now.

“Good! And now I need a drink, for what is a party with nothing to drink? Would you help me get something nice?”

“Of… Of course! Drink as much as you like!”

“Why thank you!”

I grab him by the throat and bite down.

Several things have changed over the past six months. I can move faster and for longer periods of time. I can use the same energy to strengthen myself, although I find it much more difficult. I can also wrestle adult men without effort. The most valuable change, in my opinion, is that I can now stay awake for almost the entire night, though to be fair, the night lasts for nine hours in July.

It is only by living with Loth that I realize how little I can accomplish every day. With only a few hours of complete activity, every project takes a week to finish. I should not be surprised that Father Perry managed to catch up to me. In two days of intense riding, he easily went further than I had in one week.

Despite the short time I have at my disposal, I have managed to accomplish several things. I have assisted Loth in several hunts and I often help him with the finishing touches of delicate tasks. In return, I have learned to read several rune alphabets and although magic is beyond me, its understanding is not. I now comprehend the abilities of mages and the various tools at their disposal and I must say that I am incredibly lucky that those I faced were lone wolves. A cabal of them working together is a dangerous thing indeed.

When I am not working with Loth, I read and hunt bounties.

The Town we live in and its neighbors do not have a group dedicated to law enforcement. Lawbreakers are dealt with by groups of “concerned citizens” who can be prompt to dish out mob justice. When the perpetrator manages to escape immediate punishment, the mayor issues a bounty so that he, or in this case she, who brings them back are compensated for the loss of income. Being a bounty hunter is no easy task. When the judge and half the jury know the victim personally, the executioner has his work cut out for him and the fugitives know it.

Hence my arrangement with the good Mr. Partridge.

I knock on the reinforced wooden door.

“Come in!”

I enter a soberly decorated living room. I do my best to ignore the ever-present Christian imagery and focus on the man in front of me. Michael Partridge is a stocky man with a greying beard and a single good eye. The undyed clothes he wears underline wiry muscles that age has not managed to tear down, although he is starting to sport a little belly.

“Miss Delaney, did you find him?”

Loth goes by Delaney, for now.

“Yes. I left him tied under the big chestnut tree, at the crossing between Jacksonville and the Holst farmstead.”

“Well done, I will pick him up tomorrow. The horse?”

“Tied up in front of the Fat Pig tavern.”

“And old Ms. Mitchell’s savings?”

“All here,” I answer as I place the loot on his table. “There is also a pair of silver candelabra and some cutlery. Hold on.”

I exit the house and return with a bag I pretend to struggle with. I was never weak, for a woman, but I am not built like a day laborer and silver can be rather heavy. Loth mentioned that humans are designed to notice inconsistencies as a survival mechanism, and so I am careful when dealing with people I do not intend to bite.

I deposit the heavy bag next to the first one.

“Good find. The Mitchells did not mention this. Could it be from another victim?”

“I doubt that he had the time. Perhaps old Lady Mitchell did not want to admit to being swindled and robbed blind. You know how ashamed people can be about being attacked as if it were their fault that they were targeted.”

Michael nods thoughtfully.

“Or perhaps she forgot, but yes, that is plausible. I remember thinking if I had dodged left instead of backward, that Hessian spear would never have... ah but listen to me rambling like an old man. Thank you miss Delaney. I will make sure Margaret knows how much you helped.”

“You must be discreet…”

“Of course, of course.”

I am about to leave but my host scratches his beard and gazes in the distance, a sure sign that something bothers him.

“Do tell, what is the cause of your uneasiness?”

The man sighs and massages his tired eyes.

“Would you care for a cup of tea?”

Even if I could drink it, I would refuse simply for that massive cross hanging above the table.

“It is late sir, and I should really be heading home.”

“Yes, and it is not even proper for me to ask, just as it is not proper... Ah, there is not a single proper thing to this whole madness. I am helping a lone woman apprehend dangerous criminals in the dead of night. This is insanity. You should be home in your bed at this hour, or better yet, in the bed of your husband.”

“And then who would have caught up with that Bishop fellow?”

“I don’t know! Phillips maybe, or the Mitchell brothers when they arrive! Not... you!”

“And do you believe they would have forced where he had buried his catch out of him if they found him at all?”

He is about to retort when the information registers. Curses I should have remained silent.

“What did you do to him?”

Way to go, Ariane.

“I just broke a few fingers...”

“JESUS, WOMAN!”

I wince.

“Language!”

“Ah! I... I am sorry. This is wrong miss Delaney, just plain wrong.”

I need to act. If our agreement is broken it will make hunting outlaws much less rewarding.

“When you return old Mrs. Mitchell her life savings, look her in the eyes and tell her it is wrong, tell her it was not proper. We live in a lawless land Michael, and for Evil to triumph, it is enough that good people do nothing. If we both do not stand up to treachery, who will? If we must choose between propriety and Justice, I know that my heart will lean towards what will protect our people.”

Hum, I am laying it a little thick here.

“You... you are right miss Delaney. I have no right to object,” he says as a single tear rolls down in ruddy cheek, ”I only wish this bad leg of mine wouldn’t hold me back.”

Huh. It worked. He wipes his eyes and stares straight at me, nodding at my pretend determination to carry out the Law.

“I do not know why you were blessed with those skills even though you are of the fairer sex, but the Lord works in mysterious ways, and so long as we carry His will, that is all that matters. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, and may He have mercy on Charles Bishop for we shall not.”

He stands up and grabs my hand, which he shakes with enthusiasm and leads me outside.

“Go home safe miss Delaney, sleep well and may God be with you. You did well tonight. I will leave the reward with your uncle.”

I walk back to Loth’s mansion. Hmmm, what just happened? Well, as long as I can keep hunting…

19. A gentleman and a scholar

I wake up to the same thing I have woken to for the past hundred days: complete darkness. My hand easily finds and pulls a handle. With nary a noise, the top of my sarcophagus slides up and away on a pair of well-oiled rails. The exterior is completely smooth. It can only be opened from the inside.

My room is rather small but I like it. It is well furnished with a bed I barely ever use, a desk, a wardrobe that hides a secret exit and a small but well-provisioned library. I quickly dress and cross the fortified door that leads to the rest of the basement, rush up the steps and reach the study. Loth is not here so I quickly uncover two golden chalices covered with runes and gulp down their crimson contents.

The chalices are of Loth’s design and manage to conserve the vitality of the liquid for a short while. This way, I can get some nourishment from donors I will never have to touch. It is not much though, just a pale copy of the real thing to stem the Thirst until the next bounty. It will never suffice on its own.

I close my eyes and listen. Loth is not in his office, which means…

I leave the part of the house that doubles as a doctor’s office and reach Loth’s private quarters. A woman is slowly walking down the stairs. Despite her conservative clothes and traces of gray in her hair, she blushes like a maiden when she sees me.

“Hello Mrs. Nobel.”

“Oh! Hum, Ariane! I did not see you there. I was just hmmmm.”

“Of course Mrs. Nobel, I wish you a good evening.”

Turning a delicate shade of tulip, the mature girl makes an awkward exit on shaky legs. As she passes me by, I catch a whiff of her. Oh my, Loth, you have outdone yourself this time.

Leaving our visitor to her walk of shame, I continue and hear Loth in the smoking room. I knock politely.

“Good evening Loth, are you decent?”

“Good evening Ari, come in, come in!”

Loth sits leisurely in a very casual set of silk pants and jacket crossed over a muscular and hirsute chest. He sips Whiskey from a lowball glass while staring at nothing.

“It is good that ye came, there are three things I wanted ta address.”

“Oh?” I answer, suddenly wary.

“Nothing bad I assure ye. First, I recovered a letter from Jimena at the drop point. Here it is." He says, and hands me a sealed envelope.

“The second thing is a bit delicate, ya know. Would ya consider taking a seat?” he says, and gestures to a leather couch. I do as he says.

“It has come to me attention that the disgusting little weasel who abused poor Margaret was apprehended yesterday. I received a very thoughtful thank ye note from her, I should mention. She even offered to introduce ye to her favorite nephew, a banker from Savannah who happens to be looking fer a wife.”

“Pass.”

“I shall convey yer regrets lass. What concerns me slightly is the state of the weasel’s hands. Now, ye have respected our agreement to the letter and ye had every right ta kill the prick where he stood, however, I would like ta offer ye a piece of advice, from an old monster to a young one.”

“How unusually serious. Do tell.”

“I know ya played with that one while ye simply bit and questioned that other conman from three weeks ago. Ya treated them differently. Why?”

“I was curious about Bishop’s lies. It is as if he could not stop, as if his life depended on it. Testing the limits was quite interesting.”

“So ye did it on the spur of the moment, aye?”

“Yes?”

Loth calmly puts his glass on the coffee table and crosses his fingers in front of him in a pose I now associate with lecturing.

“Many of us long-lived creatures do not attach the same value ta life as most mortals do. They will often hesitate ta torture or ta kill, ya know. It is a natural mechanism that I have observed in all of the peaceful societies I have lived in and is, I believe, caused by the need ta live in harmony. Killing becomes taboo. We outsiders are exempt of that. This is both a benefit and a tremendous risk.

Ya see, the more you follow your instincts and the more you are prone ta fall the path of easy murder, until the very idea of civilization and peaceful cohabitation loses its meaning.”

My Master being the prime example of that.

“Do you mean that I should not torture or kill?”

“Of course not, ye are a vampire. And besides, it would be hypocritical of me to ask this of ya, don’t ye think?”

I remember the only time we went after a band of outlaws together. They had raided a distant farm and spared no one. Loth had been… Thorough. He does not play around like I do. He is methodical and merciless.

“I merely suggest that ye develop a code and try ta stick to it.”

“What if I decide that rapists and those who wear white at someone else’s wedding can be mercilessly tortured before I kill them?”

“Then it is so. I am not judging the scale by which ye decide someone’s fate, Ari, I only ask that ye find one.”

I contemplate those words. Loth is experienced and there is a truth to what he says. I suppose I could at least try.

“I need to think of one. And it will not apply if my life is at risk.”

“Naturally. Now, onto more pleasant matters. I apologize fer the heavy discussion and I have just the thing ta lighten the mood. There’s this English lad who came ta visit this afternoon. He wanted ta, what was it? Entertain me with a proposal that I would find to me taste. Or something. I thought ye might want ta hear it as well so I told him ta show up at eight.”

“That is very thoughtful of you Loth. I appreciate it.”

“Don’t mention it lass” he adds with a smile, “and if he’s trying to, as aunt Freyja said, slather me up and shove me on a spit, I want ya to eat him.”

I smile as we talk about yesterday’s hunt. No matter what happens, tonight will be fun!

“Cecil Rutherford Bingle, miss, at your service!”

The red-haired man removes his bowler hat and bows perfectly. I simply cannot believe my eyes. The chops, the wide, waxed mustache, the leather overcoat, everything conspires to make him appear as the hero of some silly book about mummies and damsels in distress. He has a ruggedly handsome face with a chin like a sledgehammer and the healthy tan of the consumate traveler. He even speaks as if he were in the middle of a theater and had to be heard by spectators on the fourth floor! I am simply in awe.

Loth gives me a half smile and a knowing look.

“Oh, uh, it is my pleasure Mr. Bingle.”

“Hohoho, do not be alarmed by my roguish appearance young miss, I assure you, I do not bite!”

What a coincidence.

“Yet the road is not safe, and a gentleman must do what he must do to guarantee his safety, I say! Now, I apologize if I seem abrupt, but the tardiness and the reason for my visit bear heavily on my heart, and I must beg you to hear me out promptly, for this matter is urgent, as you shall see Professor Delaney.”

Loth answers in kind.

“Then let us retire to my salon. Ari, my dear, would ye be so kind as to brew a pot for our guest, and then join us.”

“Mr. Delaney, hrm hrm, far from me to tell you how to manage your house, hrm, however, the matters I wish to address are so grave as to, hrm, hurt delicate sensitivities, and I would be mortified if hrm, your niece were to be indisposed as a result of hearing them.”

Loth takes a grave and tragic air. With his red nose and beard, he looks like a grizzled retired captain reminiscing about a doomed expedition to the North Pole.

“My esteemed guest, I appreciate yer tactful observation and I see that even in your hour of need, ye still show admirable concern for everyone around ye, however I ask now that ye trust in my judgment on this matter, as it pertains ta my expertise, and to please exert patience, as the necessity of her presence will be explained in due time.”

“Very well, Mr. Delaney, lead the way!”

I leave the two men to go prepare tea and cups. I find the ritual of tea brewing relaxing, one of the reasons why Loth lets me use his precious reserve. It does not matter that I do not drink, the act of preparing it and the fragrance from a successful brew are rewards enough.

When I reach the others, Loth is busy explaining the subtle differences between two rune systems, one of which I am unfamiliar with.

After serving them, I sit in a comfortable leather sofa slightly on the side. After one last dubious look at me, Bingle starts his tale.

“Three years ago, I was stationed in Gibraltar when I met a most peculiar and delightful woman by the name of Flora Schaffer. The daughter of a Prussian Junker, she had a deep and curious interest in ancient history and when my service ended, I agreed to follow her in an expedition to Syria, deep in Ottoman territory. I shall not recount our tale now, as one night would not be enough to do it justice. Suffice to say she located a tablet covered in strange runes that she studied with a morbid fascination.

Seven months ago, I received a letter from her and it was no small amount of surprise that I learnt that she was in the Americas, where her search had led her. Indeed, the only match for those strange runes came from a lone amphora traded to a collector of curios by a group of Natives who disappeared soon after. The letter was vague but hinted at the need for a dangerous expedition. Alas, when I arrived, she had already left to hire a group of adventurers of ill repute called the Valiant Companions. This was three months ago. I am afraid that her eagerness may have cost her dearly.

I inquired about them and learned the most dreadful thing: they are now suspected of several acts of heinous banditry, such as raiding, kidnapping, and racketeering. They have since then escaped the vicinity of Atlanta and thus, the arm of the law. Of my companion, there is no trace and I fear the worst has happened.

Intent on gathering clues, I found her notebook in her personal effects, however many of the notes relate to a runic alphabet I cannot decipher. I was about to give in to despair when a friend of mine mentioned you, Mr. Delaney. He said that you were a scholar, a gentleman, and a crack shot, all qualities that I am in dire need of.”

Loth nods in understanding. He opens the notebook and takes out a few drawings, then raises an eyebrow. He places them back and resumes the conversation.

“I appreciate the worth and the urgency of your task Mr. Bingle. Before we continue, I ask that you forgive my rudeness for there is something I need to discuss with my niece. If you will excuse us for a moment.”

I follow Loth outside.

“Yes?”

“He is going ta ask me to join him on his expedition and I am going ta accept because I am bored and his story sounds interesting. I think ye should join too.”

“Isn’t every trip dangerous? What if I cannot find a prey?”

“I think this will not be a problem, at least not at the early stage. I anticipate a lot of violence. The reason why I ask is because I recognized the runes on the tablet and amphora. Those are vampire runes.”

“Truly? In the tongue?”

“Yes. They are vanishingly rare in mundane circles, and their presence outside of vampire cities makes no sense. I am curious as to how the trail ended up here. I also need to state that remote regions of the world are where deranged individuals hide, and strange runes are closely associated with them.”

“Hum.”

“There is a major issue though, should ya join, and it is that of your peculiarities. Mr. Bingle is sharper than he appears, and I have no doubt that he will figure out that something is wrong too quickly. I would be disappointed if we had to silence him.”

“If we travel together, I am afraid that it is inevitable. What do you propose?”

“Well, I caught a glimpse of Frau Schaffer’s notebook and it contained ample references to magic although I doubt that she was a practitioner herself. I am convinced that Bingle knows about magic in general, and suspects that I dabble. Otherwise, he would have defended himself from believing in it beforehand so as not to appear as a lunatic. We could pretend that you are under a curse.”

“A curse? As in I am a human victim of a spell?”

“Yes.”

“Would he believe it?”

“He will if you are the one to tell him the tale. Vampires are unnaturally persuasive. I am sure you can come up with something.”

“What do we do with him after we discover the truth. I would rather know beforehand. I would not create ties or take oaths if we end up disposing of him.”

“If we manage to keep most of your physical prowess and my deadliest enchanted weapon under wrap, it should be within his expectations. If so, he will naturally assume that we are but two eccentric people and we won’t have to kill him. If we reveal inhuman traits, then it is different. He will want to know the truth.”

“If we fight by his side then killing him would be distasteful.”

“Then let us make sure it does not happen.”

I do not even suggest killing the man and recovering everything ourselves. This man is Loth’s supplicant, he is also a guest and he has been nothing but honorable. It would simply be wrong to kill him.

We head back and as I sit, Loth turns to me.

“Cecil, I ask that you forgive my poor manners. I had to ask my niece if she were comfortable about sharing the details of the tragedy...

But before we begin, Cecil, I must ask. Do you believe in magic? Do you believe that in dark corners of the world exist things that have no place in civilized society? Do you believe that there is some knowledge that it would be wise not to acquire?”

“Mr. Delaney, no, Loth. I was afraid to say so, for who in their right mind would believe what seems like childish poppycock! Yet my eyes did not deceive me, back in Syria. I saw and fought things that will never have their place in a compendium of natural history.”

“Indeed, and this leads me to my poor Ariane’s story.”

In a shaky voice, I tell Bingle about my father, the African explorer. How he hunted dangerous game, and how one day he came across a strange altar while tracking a vicious lion on the plains of the Serengeti. Upon this altar sat the effigy of a bat. Curious, if wary, he brought it to a local sorcerer. He was told that the effigy was linked to a powerful spirit, that of a night hunter. A ravenous, bloodthirsty beast. He was told that the night hunter would share its gift upon the offering of a suitable sacrifice. Amused, my father brought the morbid statue back with him as a sort of grisly trophy. The years went by and we thought nothing of it until my father’s vision declined and he was forced to retire. Alas, the thrill of the hunt could not be denied, and he became increasingly obsessed. What if he could still go after the most dangerous preys and fell them? What if he could move at night like the deadliest panther? The thought devoured him until he could take it no longer.

I tried to stop him, to distract him, but it was in vain. One night, I saw a light in the distance and grew suspicious. As I approached, the most horrid spectacle was unveiled, and I almost fainted. Upon a meadow was my father, the accursed effigy and the bleeding body of the family dog. My father turned to me and the insanity in his eyes made me recoil in terror.

“Behold, Ariane, for we are blessed!” He said in a great and terrible voice. Then, with a great laugh, he ran into the woods with a vitality and gait most unnatural. I waited for his return and as dawn came, I saw him appear on the horizon. As the rays of the sun touched him, a dreadful shriek escaped his lips. He fell, unconscious. I immediately set out to rescue him but alas, no sooner had I stepped outside that a most abominable pain seized me and I was forced to retreat. The sacrifice, it seems, was not suitable. Indeed, how could such a dreadful entity accept anything but the most precious of flesh? We were deemed unworthy. In exchange for vision, my father and his bloodline were cursed never to walk under the sun on penalty of death. Worse, I now must follow their habits and drink the blood of living creatures!

I left the family house without looking back and went to my dear uncle for help, for his knowledge of the world is renowned. He protects me and together, we have looked for a cure forever since.”

Warm tears fall freely from Cecil Rutherford Bingle’s weathered face by the time I finish the steaming pile of inanities that is this story and when he speaks, his voice is quavering with emotion.

“Such a dreadful tale my dear, such a dreadful, dreadful fate! Oh cruelty of cruelties to place this burden on the shoulder of such kind a soul, such amenable a temperament! If I can be of help...”

I shake my head, my eyes wet with emotion, face slightly flushed despite their pallor.

“It almost seems like a lost cause Mr. Bingle, but at least I have my dear uncle to look after me. I wish to accompany and help, for if I cannot save myself, my heart can be at ease with the belief that I should help others.”

Bingle lets out a terrible sob as emotion once again overcomes him. Loth grabs my shoulder in a paternal hand, his face also marred by sorrow and regret. As he turns away to wipe a tear I hear a whisper from him.

“Seven out of ten.”

What?! The man is crying, I at least deserve a nine! Bah.

"Cecil, ye may ask yerself why I wanted to share this delicate piece of information with ye, sir. Well I wanted ta explain why my niece is competent to hear such stories. She is also well-versed in dead languages. Ariane, could ye look at this?”

I take the notebook and read what was transcribed form the amphora.

“Salt.”

“Salt?”

“Yes salt, the alchemical reagent. This is the language of Akkad, derived from Akkadian inscriptions. Notice the sharp indents. The runes are designed to be inscribed on tablet with stylus.”

“What could it mean?”

“This was most likely taken from an alchemy set. It hints at some sort of laboratory or even something larger.”

“Who would use a long dead language to perform alchemy?” asks Bingle.

“Someone who studied alchemy from a dead civilization, perhaps.”

Or someone who was there when it was still very much alive.

Loth clears his throat and the adventurer emerges from his contemplation to look at him.

“My dear Mr. Bingle, if I understand correctly, ye require my expertise in deciphering Mrs. Schaffer’s notes, and ye also ask for me to join ye on this expedition, aye?”

Bingle blushes in embarrassment when the enormity of what he asks is stated so plainly.

“Hrm, I am aware that I ask much, hrm, however, circumstances dictate that I put aside my pride! Indeed, the life of Flora is certainly at risk, and I would gladly sacrifice my reputation should it bring her back alive and safe. Please forgive me for this audacious request, and know that we Bingle are not without means. I will compensate you for this effort, naturally, though I know that for a gentleman such as yourself, the call of adventure, knowledge, and honor fulfilled are of greater import!”

I never imagined that Bingle could assess Loth so accurately, albeit for the wrong reasons. I can tell that his curiosity is piqued. An amphora covered with ancient runes, found here? Even I am curious.

“Fret not, Mr. Bingle, fer yer call fer help has not fallen on deaf ears. I am willing, nay, eager, ta help ye rescue yer friend from those ruffians. We shall depart tomorrow and find those Valiant Companions you spoke of so we can determine Miss Schaffer’s whereabouts. I have a few acquaintances in law enforcement who will be eager to inform me upon their current whereabouts. Perhaps the outlaws will be amenable to discussion and if not, we can extract this knowledge from them through violence or subterfuge.”

The conversation devolves into minutiae and after a manly handshake, Bingle is gone. Loth and I go to his workshop.

The massive room which takes half of the first and second floor is his sanctuary. I only entered the place a few times and never alone, so it comes as a mild surprise when he drags me in.

“Ariane, I have a service to ask of you. I am quite drained…”

I chuckle. He smiles, a bit embarrassed.

“Yes, I did not anticipate Clara’s appetite. In any case, I am tired. Could you please pack for me?”

“Of course.”

He points out what he wants to take, and I spend a few hours moving heavy equipment and gadgets to the heavy carriage. Even though he does not intend to use it, I also take his massive armor as a measure of safety.

I myself pack the practical outfits he made for me, as well as my rifle, knife and notebook on ancient languages. I go by the kitchen and prepare a significant amount of travel food. After I am done, I retire to my room.

I pick a piece of paper. It was torn from an advertisement and on it are a few words.

“I love you daughter, do not forget your promise.”

A tear smudged the ink a bit.

I place it in a locket, which I put around my neck.

Finally, I decide to open Jimena’s letter. Most of the content is news about herself, but one line catches my attention.

“We have received confirmation that the Southern Lady was lost off the coast of Senegal with all hands.”

This was the ship my Master was sailing on. I do not know what happened to him. I was told that older vampires can enter a form of stasis if they are trapped somewhere, so it is likely that he still lives, held in an iron coffin in the darkness of the deep ocean.

I do not know how I feel about this.

Artificial tendrils of twisted love make me yearn to go and rescue him, but they are quickly silenced.

I am relieved that I will not see him again. I hate how I lose my mind when he is around.

I am afraid of what will happen when he gets free. It is inevitable.

Well, enough moping. This is far beyond my control.

I drag the sarcophagus to the carriage, secure it and call it a night.

20. The Pursuer and the Pursued

Bonk.

“Ouch.”

BONK.

“Ow! What in the!?”

I open the sarcophagus and jump out in a fury. I am inside the carriage. It is currently running at full speed on a bumpy road. Why would they ever do something so…

Bang!

Ah, of course.

I open a small slit that allows sight to the forward coach.

“Uncle? I take it the negotiations did not pan out?

“Ah, Ari. We can’t seem to shake them off. Can you think of something?”

“Miss Delaney, this is not safe, you should stay inside while we deal with those ruffians!”

“I’ll see what I can do!”

I jump and reach a hatch on the carriage’s ceiling. I quickly open it and take a look outside.

Around us, a dense pine forest hugs a trail that should be too small for our wheels. Behind, a dozen men on horses follow us with sabers and pistols waved fiercely. As I watch, one of them tries to overtake the carriage and catches a bullet for his trouble.

I turn my head and end up face to face with a bandit crawling forward. His surprise turns to a vicious smile when he sees me.

Could it be… Breakfast delivery? How thoughtful!

I grace him with my own vicious smile and as he starts screaming, I claw his shoulder and drag him to the darkness below, face first. I am about to bite when Loth yells.

“Hurry girl, Asni can’t last much longer!”

Hum, annoying, they are interrupting my moment. I stun the man with a hit to the neck and decide how to address the problem. Prey. PREY. WEAKLINGS. MAGGOTS. WAIT YOUR TURNS BLOODBAGS. CLIMB, HATCH. THERE. RUNNING AFTER ME! LET THEM KNOW.

“ROOOAAAAAAAAR”

Horses panic and collapse. Men try to keep control and fail. The pursuers stop in their tracks.

Good.

Now, back to…

“W… What was that?!”

Ah, oops?

I grab something on the floor and open the slit to a pair of curious eyes.

“Uncle, it worked! Your phlogiston noisinator scared them off!” I yell while waving around what is essentially a fuel tank with a gauge and three connectors.

“Remarkable!” answers the eyes on the right. “This invention is truly a godsend!”

“Yes, niece, I congratulate you on your… quick thinking.” answers the scowling pair of eyes on the left.

I nod happily and discreetly push the bandit’s body under a tarp in case Bingle’s eyes start roaming.

“Unfortunately, we are not safe yet. They are sure to resume pursuit and Asni has reached the end of his stamina. We need to hunker down somewhere and hold them off.”

“How about the river crossing, Loth. There is a small cliff on the side. We would be protected and have a commanding view of the passage.”

“Very well.”

I close the slit. We don’t have much time! I quickly drink the bandit, barely enjoying the experience. I open the hatch and let the corpse drop on the road. There. Ariane, queen of expedited evidence disposal.

A few minutes later, we cross a small river, not large enough to prevent passage downstream by determined riders, I note. The carriage is parked some distance away and the men take their weapons and prepare to leave.

“I shall stay here and water Asni. Be careful uncle, please! And you too Mr. Bingle.”

“Hah, those low-lives will rue the day they came across Cecil Rutherford Bingle, I say! For it should be their last.” The man trumpets.

“I care not for the lives of those men, Mr. Bingle, I only want both of you to return to me safe.”

“Of course Ms. Delaney” he replies with a tremor in his voice, “We shall come back safe and sound. You have my word!”

I watch the two disappear in the darkness. Well, darkness for them, I can see perfectly well under the moonlight.

I take out a humongous barrel and start rolling liter upon liter to the poor overheated Asni. A few minutes later, the crack of discharged muskets reaches my ears.

Loth is only wearing a secured surcoat but I know he brought his night vision monocle. Those imbeciles are as good as dead.

That said, there is an obvious way to circumvent their blockade.

I close my eyes and focus. Yes, I hear the sound of hooves from across the water.

I lay low and follow them. Two hundred yards downstream, three men on horseback emerge from the vegetation and start crossing at a cautious pace.

I let them pass me by. One, two. Any time now.

The horses catch my scent and neigh nervously.

“What is wrong with those…”

Using the distraction, I jump on the last rider and stab him in the spine, then I haul him backward.

“Some sort of beast? Smith, do you see… Smith?”

I slap the panicked horse on the rump and the scared animal immediately goes to a gallop. Cursing, the two other men try to keep control of their mounts and I take down the second one in the same manner.

The last man takes the hint and urges his horse to run away.

Futile.

I move. I grab him and bite deep. Once more, I must hurry and do not enjoy myself. Curses, but this travel is having some unintended aspects, namely, vampire travel rations.

I drop the third body and after making sure the horses are heading away from the crossing, I quickly run back. There, crisis averted and in perfect silence as well! Ariane, queen of efficacy.

I make sure that Asni is cooling down and settle down to wait. The two men soon return without a scratch. I come from behind the carriage with apparent worry turning to apparent relief.

“Oh, thank G… cough, thankfully, you are back! Are you both safe?”

“Yes, miss Delaney! Fear not, for we sure gave them what for!”

Loth silently points at my cheek. Oops.

I turn my visage away and pretend to dry tears while I do my best to clean the bandit’s blood.

“Oh miss Delaney…” says Bingle with emotion.

Loth takes me in a bear hug and pat my back.

“There, there, it is all over, we are safe.”

And then more silently.

“How many?”

I escape the hug and turn to him with eyes full of tears.

“This wait frayed my nerves! I know it was a short time, but it felt like three hours!”

Loth nods.

“We gave them a lesson aye, one the survivors will not soon forget. Nevertheless, we should hide and recover for now. Let us depart, niece.”

We find a small recess in a woody valley large enough to accommodate everything. The men promptly dig a hole while I gather wood. They build the fire inside and when it starts, the light is blocked by earth. Loth even uses some sort of grill to prevent smoke and floating embers from rising into the night sky. I do not mention that anyone with one eye and half a brain could follow our tracks.

I offer to take the first watch and Bingle only protests twice, a testament to how exhausted he is.

After three hours, Loth wakes up and joins me around the pit.

“So how did it go?”

“They denied ever meeting Flora. Bingle managed ta search their leader’s hideout while I was distracting the rest of the Valiants with a demonstration of the latest iteration of the Skoragg repeater. Reminds me of that time my first wife Gurda distracted a crowd with the proper way ta skin a rabbit while I was robbing their granary. Anyway. He stole a diary and another notebook but was found out. We escaped before it could degenerate into a firefight.”

Loth is quiet. I know him rather well after our six months of friendship and I can tell that he is not done.

“There is something strange about that Bingle lad, a kind of magic.”

“He is a mage?”

“What? No. No, it is different. All our timings were too perfect, too dramatic. His infiltration should never have worked yet it did, and his exit should have not been noticed yet it was. It is as if... the world works around him, somehow. Events are changed to make things more exciting and keep him alive at the same time.”

“Are we in danger?”

“Good question. I don’t think so. He would not endanger us on purpose, ya know. Just.... consider the narrative when he is involved.”

“This does not make sense.”

“Welcome ta the world of wild magic, Ari.”

“... I suppose I should not complain when it comes to magical aid. Vampires are not exactly at a disadvantage either.”

“Heh. Speaking of vampires, how are ye feeling?”

“It is barely past midnight. I can go on for another few hours. Why?”

“I’d like ya ta trace back our steps. See if we’ve been followed. The leader of the Valiants, Crow, he called himself, he was a bit on the side.”

“You mean...”

“Aye, mad as a March hare, a few cards short of a deck, out there with the faeries, batty, nutty, off his damn trolley. Ya know.”

“I’ll go. If I don’t see him within one hour, I shall head back here.”

“Be careful.”

I strap up my knives but leave the rifle. I do not intend to shoot anyone if I can help it. We need to be discreet.

21. Murder of Crows

I quickly retrace our steps. As expected, a blind child could track us down. In half an hour I slow down when I see the smoke and ember of another camp.

I creep closer until I happen upon the remainders of the ill-fated Valiants.

Most of the group lounges dejectedly around the campfire. They lost more than half of their numbers today. Many men sit apart from each other. Eyes do not meet.

A real group bound by links of blood or friendship would cling together tightly. Misery and fear would promote the herd instinct and a feeling of unity before the catastrophe. Those people are nothing like that. They are a band of jackals and hyenas brought together by greed and the promise of easy violence. Now that their failure is made evident, they are starting to split along lines of allegiance.

This motley crew does not even qualify for the moniker of Warband. Truly pathetic.

I can see the alpha and beta males in a contest. The beta is a huge man with an imposing black beard that reaches his protruding belly. The alpha is sitting on a rock, his hand on the pommel of a saber. I can tell why he calls himself Crow. His jacket, trousers, and boots are black. Even his hat is the same color and adorned with shiny dark feathers of the eponymous bird.

I am getting flashbacks from half a year ago when I cleared the warehouse.

I return my attention to the group. They have two sentries. I also count eight men in various stages of despair. Only the two leaders pose some sort of threat, or they would if they had adapted weapons, which I doubt.

I feel disappointed and this feeling worries me. I know what is required for survival. I know from the books Loth lent me that victory is often achieved before the battle even begins. I am still frustrated.

I want a challenge. I want to walk on the edge. I want a good hunt so that when I defeat my opponent, their blood is that much sweeter.

I remember Nami’s expression when she let me drink from her. She was also seeking a thrill. Am I turning into a prideful fop?

I looked down on Gaspard, the man my master crushed because he was arrogant. I fear now that this lust for danger will make me take unreasonable risks.

On the other hand, measured risks are beneficial. I never learned so much about fighting as a vampire as when I was running the Gauntlet. There was a stake, a cost for defeat and therefore I was invested.

Even Loth, old as he is, still takes risks. I find it unlikely that a single bullet even to the head could take him out, however fighting still brings a risk to him.

He still does it.

Perhaps this is what it takes to stay alive, actually alive, for so long.

I will set my own rules now. I will challenge myself only if I am confident that I can at least escape and survive.

Yes, that sounds reasonable. I shall still ask Loth about his opinion later. He must have guidelines for having lived for so long.

Using a tried and true method, I wait until the first sentry gets out of sight to neutralize him. In the camp, nobody notices.

This is the first time since the night with Toussaint that I am faced with more blood than I can safely consume.

I can not afford to get drunk this time. I decide to try to Devour him. It may only grant me a fraction of the normal vitality, but it is faster, does not make me drunk and leaves me in control. Truly there is no better way to recover strength quickly.

Now to do it.

I plunge eight fangs in the man’s carotid and pull. It is much harder than last time. The part of me that pulls is not quite AWAKE. MANY PREY. HUNTING GROUND. CATTLE.

Wait, cattle?

I smell the air. There, near the tent. It smells like unwashed women.

Could it be...

“You might as well come out!”

I turn my attention back to Crow who stands on the middle of the clearing. Everyone else is staring at him as if he were insane.

“Peter disappeared without a noise one minute ago and two men cannot account for all of our casualties. Not to mention, all of this occurred at night. I know what is happening, I know you’re here somewhere. Come on out. Let me see the face of my doom. I dare you!”

Ho? Now this is interesting.

“Do you now, little bird...”

How they jump in fright at the clear sound of my voice. How they brandish their weapons in vain.

Hopeless.

I step out in the middle of the clearing with my weapon holstered. I know how I look: like a young woman in a traveling dress. Young, fresh and innocent, with the pale skin of those who do not work outside.

The image in their head does not match with what they know. I present myself as a threat yet I do not look like one. Their expectations of the world will make them look down upon me until it is far too late. Such is the power of a vampire.

Despite his bluster, Crow swallows nervously. He looks like a little boy who threatened the monster under his bed to come out, only for something to drag on his sheets.

You called the night and it answered.

I tap my index under my chin and this time I do not bother to hide what I am. Talons and fangs are out. I stop bothering to breathe or close my eyes.

“I am curious, little bird, what did you think would happen now? Hum? A heroic fight?“

The man swallows and retorts with pretend confidence.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I challenge you to a duel.”

There is something desperate about the proclamation. Those are the words of a drowning man clinging to the familiar.

“And why would I accept?”

“Why not? Are you scared?”

I move, turn on myself to slash the throat of the man approaching me from the back with his knife drawn. I heard the sound of metal scraping against leather. I saw the looks of the others when they forced themselves to look straight away. I smelled his perspiration and his fear.

I finish the circular motion in an instant, ending up exactly as I had started except for red liquid dripping down my claws. I hear blood spilling on the ground and the gurgles of the dying.

I resume as if nothing had happened.

“Am I truly? Or do I simply not see the point in granting you this request? You will fight me anyway. Well, you will try. Why should I offer you a formal duel?”

“A wager!”

“Oh?”

I can almost see the cogs grinding in his skull, looking for a solution to his predicament.

“I have information. I know you were looking for the girl and you think you’ll get what you’re looking for from my diary, well, you won’t. You won’t get anything. It’s encrypted.”

“There is no cipher your mind can come up with that my friend cannot crack in twenty seconds.”

He shakes his head.

“Not that kind of cipher. I wrote things like, I smelled strawberry today and it means I was thinking of my sister.”

As he says so, he blushes. Hah, the dark and brooding Crow, thinking about a sister.

“It won’t matter. I know things that I didn’t write. Couldn’t write. It was just too insane. I know who she really was, what she really was after, exactly where I sold her, and to whom.”

“And what are you asking for in return?”

“If I give you a good show you will spare my men.”

The clearing is perfectly silent. You could hear a pin drop.

“We engage in bouts until blood is drawn. For every time you make me bleed, you get to choose one person. I will not hunt them, and they can survive the night. For every time I draw yours, you tell me something I want to know. If I don’t like it or it is too brief, I shall assume you have run out of ideas and I will kill you. While we duel, I will not use my powers, just my body and my blades.”

“Deal!”

“Then let us begin.”

I jump on the man, who desperately draws and attempts so slice me in the same motion. I am used to this now and I can tell where the blade will land. I simply block it with my knife and stab him in the shoulder with my left hand. Not too deep. Not the dominant arm. That would not be sporting.

“Gaaaaah! Hell!”

“Speak.”

“Gah, fine. Fine! That woman, she was not who she said she was. She had some weird rings and documents in German. When we captured her she said that she worked for the Order of the Heirs, whatever that means. She said they're a powerful secret society. I thought it might be poppycock but what do I know.”

Hum, it appears that everyone and their dogs manipulate poor Cecil. Ah well, I care not. As long as she does not endanger me, she can belong to the Chinese imperial family for all I care. As for the organization itself, there is absolutely no way that they would have a big enough presence here to be any of my concern in the short run. This is a problem for much later if indeed it is even true.

I resume a guarding stance and we circle each other. Crow probes my defenses with conservative movements. I move as little as I can until he overcommits on a feint. I jump forward and hit the saber with the knife’s small guard. We lock blade and I easily stop his left hand with my own. I stab a finger in his wrist and he drops the knife he had been concealing.

“Ah, dammit!”

“Speak.”

Cold sweat has started to form on Crow’s brow. A darker patch marks his wounds on his shoulder and sleeve.

He smells delicious, like battle lust and courage in the face of certain death. I am sated, for now, thankfully, or resisting the Thirst would be difficult.

“We sold the woman to some insane communities up there at the southernmost peaks of the Appalachians. Some kind of inbred idiots who worship the weirdest things. Heathens and maniacs, the lot of them.”

“Where?”

“Hey come on, I...”

“Where?”

“F... four days of riding, to the North. They have some insane estate painted white and red. You’d think you were transported to bloody Gloucestershire.”

“Hmm.”

We resume guard position and this time, Crow goes all out. I use it as an opportunity to dodge with minimal movement and try to predict the way he moves his body, and yet the fight becomes much harder. His heavy cavalry saber was a liability in quick exchanges but now its weight and power make it harder to block and dodge. This exchange lasts for a very long time. Thirty seconds. Forty seconds. He does not relent.

At the fifty seconds mark, he tires and slips on the muddy ground. I bounce forward but he surprises me. Instead of trying to block his fall, he uses a two-handed strike to swipe at me. I block with my left talons but stop as I am about to stab him in the ribs.

We stay there for a second as I look in his terrified eyes.

Humans blink a lot.

I get back up and inspect my left hand. The blade caught between two talons and sliced my finger. The wound is already closed, still...

“Choose.”

“What?”

“You drew blood. Choose.”

“Dalton.”

As the name crosses his lips, I hear a scream from behind. I turn to see the large bearded man take out a gun and aim it.

Not at me, at a very young man sitting terrified at the side.

Tut tut tut I won’t have someone ruin my moment. I move.

I stab every finger of my left hand in the man’s chest. He gasps in pain and drops the gun.

Ooowww! What? That hurts! I think I broke two knuckles! How are ribs so bloody hard?! Master put his entire hands in someone’s chest and made it look easy! How!

I remove my hand. The man falls without a noise and I face Crow again. I do my very best to school my expression.

Ouch ouch ouch ouch... Gah! Dammit! Must focus.

Crow looks at me warily. I just assume an en guarde position again and we resume fighting.

I can tell that he is tiring. It is long past midnight, he has had a long day and he is bleeding.

Crow has a pattern. At the end of an exchange, he loves to swing and hit his opponent’s blade on the way up, then immediately slash back down and move forward at the same time before they can recover. It must have worked well against weaker opponents, particularly given how heavy his saber is.

It is useless against me.

The next time he does it. I strike the blade further out just as he reverses and get into his guard. I slice a shallow cut across his chest.

“Gah!”

We are now on the last act of this tragedy and the others can feel it. I catch a few subtle glances and I hear footsteps. I turn around to a filthy man in a straw hat who is much closer to the edge of the forest than he was a moment ago.

“You run, you die first.”

The man stops. This will give me a moment before I have to finish this.

“Speak.”

“I, hmm. The cult. They keep stealing people around for who knows what.”

Stealing huh. I know who they have "stealing" those people.

“That is not helpful. Tell me how you knew what I was.”

“The... the head of the cult. I sold the woman to him. He called you vampires. He said that you are hoarding your power. He says that he will achieve this by himself and share the bounty with his followers.”

“Hmmm.”

I return to the center of the clearing and wait for Crow to do the same. As soon as he is in position, he charges me, and all the Valiant Companions turn and run.

I stand my ground. Crow sees his men run and charges me with a desperate cry.

Remarkable! Of course, I was expecting no less from a crafty outlaw. I flip my left arm and a moment later, Crow stumbles and falls. He stares with disbelief at the throwing dagger in his chest. I did not waste my time those past six months.

“I did warn you when I said blades.”

I move after every bandit. I Devour them one after the other without pause. In the dark, they are all slow and noisy. I make it quick and painless.

When I return to the clearing, only Crow and that young man Dalton remain.

“It should not... be like this. We were meant... to be adventurers. Heroes… Like knights of old.” Says the fallen leader with a strained voice.

I straddle Crow and let my hair fall on his face. He is so warm and his perfume is exquisite. A perfect end to a worthy Hunt.

“Heroes, you say? Do heroes raid travelers? Do they keep sex slaves?”

“They are... natives, not white women.”

“They are sex slaves. Who they are does not change what you did.”

“That’s rich... coming from a monster.”

“Ah, but I do know what I am. Just as I know who kidnaps people for that strange estate you mentioned, and just as I know why you were prompt to sell them the woman as well. You have fallen farther than most, Crow. Now, any last words?”

Crow gives me one last smile with red-tinged teeth. Defiant to the end. I love it.

“I’ll see you in hell.”

Heh.

“Farewell human, it was a good Hunt.”

When I am done, I stand up and take in the devastation I brought.

Corpses litter the clearing, strewn around broken tents and trampled personal effects. The sole survivor of this massacre is kneeling on the ground with his hand on his head. I ignore him for now.

I approach the largest tent and open it. The stench of unwashed bodies is pungent here, yet I fight through.

Two young women stare at me with insane eyes. The first one is shaking with fury while the other one cowers behind her. They are dressed in the torn remnants of filthy rags. Their dark hair is stringy and matted.

When I get closer, the stronger one growls and curses under her breath.

Hum.

I retreat and pick up a skinning knife, then get back in and drop it at their feet. I leave them be.

Crow used a short stool to sit. I right it and settle near the fire.

I need to think.

Why did I accept the challenge? Why did I kill these men but spare their prisoners? What do I do with Dalton? Do I stick to the spirit of the agreement and let him go? Or do I follow the letter and make sure that he dies before he reaches a settlement? Was I led here by Bingle’s preposterous narrative power because what I learned is vital to the continuation of our quest?

I ignore the two native women as they stumble around the camp, kicking and spitting on corpses while crying and sobbing in their language.

I accepted the challenge because it was right. It was right to offer them a chance to accomplish something instead of butchering them like animals. It made for a good Hunt.

And again with this Hunt concept. It certainly has something to do with the tainted blood in my veins. I never thought much about the concepts of the Hunt when I was alive. Should I stop? Will it kill me like blind confidence killed Gaspard?

I do not think so. Crow’s blood was both delicious and more powerful than it should have been because its potency did not stem from the man himself, but from the way it was taken. Respecting the spirit of the Hunt and winning makes me stronger. It also made me feel more alive. The contest forced me to work for it, instead of just taking it with overwhelming force, just like the blood of a supplicant tastes sweeter than that of the cattle.

Yes, I know that I am right. I shall respect the prey and in turn, it will make me stronger, more patient and more cautious. Challenges will remind me of my limits and that I should never look down upon mortals, just like Crow reminded me of my imperfect technique when he sliced my finger.

If I encounter a situation that is a challenge in itself, then I do not need to give myself constraints. Instead, I will use every tool at my disposal to achieve victory.

Yes, it is as it should be. The red nectar needs to be earned. I must never forget it.

Now onto the next concern.

Who do I spare, and why? Loth was correct. Rules and guidelines are the first steps in any proper society. As the only vampire in the area, I need to set those rules and enforce them on myself, by myself.

I shall now create ground rules, just as the Continental Congress established a constitution more than two decades ago.

Those I call my friends, those that are bound to me by contract or oath, those I am negotiating with, and those who are too young should not be touched without their explicit consent. This includes supplicants.

Those who are not related to me can be fed upon, but not killed nor enslaved.

Those who have disrespected the Hunt by hurting weak prey, those who have broken their oaths to others, and those I have been contracted to capture can be fed upon, tortured and enslaved, but not killed.

Those who broke their oath to me and my own, those that stole lives out of self-interest and those that stole women’s dignity are fair game. Those rules apply to groups I consider myself at war with, but not their relatives.

Those that endanger me by their existence and those that tried to kill me yet respected the spirit of the hunt can be fed upon and killed, but not tortured nor enslaved.

Above all else, I must keep my word and protect myself and mine.

Yes. This feels right. I shall apply those rules at least for now. I will adjust them as I go if I deem it necessary.

I return my attention to the present. The boy has not moved, and the two native women are cleaning themselves while eyeing the prostrate man with suspicion. The taller one is caressing her knife with a contemplative expression.

I start gathering supplies. I know what I must do with the boy and I want no witnesses.

I prepare two heavy backpacks and return to the women. Diplomacy is made difficult because they do not speak a word of English, French nor Spanish, not that I blame them. With enough grunts and pointed fingers, they understand that they are to take horses and food and go, but they refuse. After pointing to the sky and fire a few times, I finally remember that this is currently the dead of night and traveling is not the best of ideas.

I am sated and they represent no danger to me, so I decide to let them do as they please. Instead, I grab the boy by the elbow and drag him to the cover of the trees. He does not resist.

“Can you understand me?”

He nods.

“You are safe from me for tonight, but tonight only.”

The young man raises his head to me. Just like the other bandits, he is wearing a mix and match of farming and travelling clothes of simple but solid make. His brown vest is too large for him. I think he may have been the youngest person of the group at around sixteen.

I end up face to face with liquid blue eyes paler than mine. They are large and strangely magnetic. Even when I look at the rest of him, my gaze is drawn back. He looks at me with a sort of childish wonder and though I smell fear on him, it is not as strong as I would have expected.

I do not want to kill him. I do not believe he is a threat to me. He does not feel like one.

“If you never speak of this, nor of me, to anyone, I will let you go. Do you agree?”

The boy actually considers my words for a moment, and only then agrees by nodding again.

“Swear on it.”

“I will not betray you. I swear.”

“Good, now I shall test your word.”

I take his unresisting arm and bite, then stare in his eyes.

“Did you intend to betray me?”

“No. Never.”

That was fast. According to my rules, I can kill him if I deem him a threat. I do not. He is not a friend either, so he can be fed upon, but not harmed further.

I do not Thirst.

Bah, enough, the hour grows late.

“Very well. You may leave and go where you wish. Respect your word, for if you do not, I will not be the only one to go after you provided you are even believed.”

“I will not betray you.”

The boy’s reactions are rather strange. Could he be retarded? That would explain why Crow chose him to be spared. He must be the least deserving of death of them all.

“You should leave the camp this very moment. I doubt your previous captives would forgive you for what they have been through.”

“I know where to go.”

Again with the lack of any doubt. There is something wrong with this young man. He is entirely too accepting of the situation. Could he be hiding what he really is? No. I did get the barest hint of his essence when I bit him and he is, beyond a doubt, a mortal.

Bah, it matters not. I have already delayed too long.

I make sure I have all my weapons on me and promptly depart the area. The return trip is much faster since I do not have to search for our camp, nor do I need to hide my presence. Two hours after I left, I soon find the familiar lights of our campfire.

As I return to the camp, I see a hint of magic in the air. Loth has not been idle while I was out.

I cross the spell’s demarcation, eliciting a light chime. I hear a sleeper waking up and follow the sounds to a slightly haggard Loth. He gestures to Bingle and we leave the warmth of the dying fire to discuss the night’s events without waking him up.

I tell him everything, including my findings, the ethic code and Dalton’s fate.

“Hum. Ari, are ye tipsy?”

“What? Hum, perhaps? How could you possibly tell?”

“Yer attention is wandering and ye are more contemplative than usual. I saw this in Constantine back in Boston, he would have a similar mood after a lethal hunt. In any case, I must congratulate ye on tonight. Well done”

“You think so?”

“Ye eliminated the threat, left no dangerous survivors and got us what we wanted. Now ye’re back safe and sound. Tyr, I wish all my raids had gone that well.”

“Yes, and now we must decide on how to proceed.”

“There’s no doubt to be had aye? We’ll ride North ta purge those madmen and recover the lass, if she lives. I doubt it, ya know? Any weird cult that buys people don’t keep them around for long.”

“I do not like this. We are moving blindly into a situation that could very well be dangerous. Is there no group that should be sent to deal with this?”

“Aye lass, there is us! We are the two most powerful entities for a hundred miles so it’s up ta us ta defend our territory. Hahaha, Tyr, you are still so human sometimes. Did you expect the gendarmes or militia to come and hunt monsters?”

“Hum, not them, but their supernatural peers? I assumed that the order of Gabriel or vampire knight squads would dedicate themselves to hunting those strange groups.”

Loth looks at me in silence for a moment. The atmosphere grows heavy. A sort of pressure makes me want to avert my gaze and I am reminded of who Loth of Skoragg really is, not a gentleman and a scholar but an ancient being of vast magical knowledge whose hands are tainted with blood. I remember when we fought together. I remember the silent titan of cold metal slaughtering his way through fighting and pleading men without ever stopping, without ever flinching, and I shiver.

“Lass, this is our territory and we don’t need no idiots to protect it for us. This is not the human world, where ye can rely on institutions and laws. For us, what is ours is what we can get and keep, and don’t ye ever forget it. Besides, I won’t tolerate those fanatical mongrels stepping foot on it anyway.”

Loth closes his eyes and massages the bridge of his prominent nose.

“Aye, listen ta me rambling like an old man. I did not mean ta scold you lass. Sometimes, you are so good at being what ye are that I forget that ye’re so young. As fer knight squads, ye don’t understand.”

He sits down and moves his hands together in the lecture stance and I sit comfortably.

“I mentioned that they fix supernatural issues before they get out of hand. I did not tell ye more, but I should have. Vampires are a rare breed. Ye are a territorial and arrogant lot. Ye’ll rarely see more than fifteen in a large city, and they will be defended by a handful of masters. The reason why vampires sit at the top of the hierarchy where they are is because each master is incredibly dangerous. Knight Squads are groups of battle-hardened masters dedicated to war. There’s barely a handful of them, but ye can be sure that if they get sent somewhere, the problem gets solved. Permanently.

That’s the thing though, they’re always busy. They will only come here if the cult somehow gets out of hand and starts summoning horrors from the beyond.”

“They… They can really do that?!”

“Aye it can happen, but we won’t let it come to this. Don’t ye worry.”

“I see. So it is up to us. Well, I won’t let you down.”

“I know I can count on ye. Well. We have a big day ahead of us. I’d better catch some shut-eye.”

Loth lies down and five minutes later I hear both men snoring like two horns playing a duo. If I were a mortal woman trying to sleep, I believe I would be trying to smother them with their pillows now.

I take out my notebook on ancient languages and review it as the night slowly reaches its end.

22. The Waiting Maw

I place the dessert spoon back on the empty plate and rest both hands on my round belly.

“Where are the kids?” Asks Achille with a smile.

“Mine or yours?”

“Both.”

“They are outside. Roger is looking after them, don’t worry.”

“Good. There is somebody I wanted you to meet.”

“Really? At this time?”

“You already know him.”

A young man enters the dining room. He is certainly not dressed for the occasion! Why, he just looks like an apprentice running errand for his mentor!

“That is exactly what I was doing.”

Huh? Now that I am paying attention, he looks a little pale, and are those tear marks on his boyish face?

“What I was doing when you killed me that is. They captured me and dragged me to you. You were a new monster then, not yet the accomplished murderer you have become”

“We could have had children, family of flesh and bone and not those pathetic fantasies you still cling to.” Says a newcomer to my left. I recognize him. He was father Perry’s son. My talons grip the edge of the table and I move forward a bit now that my figure is as lean as it should be.

“Yeah!”

“Hear, hear!”

The dining room is full of men clamoring and complaining. I recognize some from my days as an enforcer, the estate where I met Nami and my days at the Gauntlet.

“We could have been so much more!”

Achille grabs my hand.

“You will never create life. You will never make the world more, only less. Your very existence is...”

“Shut up.”

I pick a knife and stab him in the wrist. The flesh breaks like porcelain, as if it were solid. I stare into cracking eyes as black as night. The entire assembly is focused on me like a pack of hounds on a wounded deer.

I am no wounded deer.

“I claimed your essences to the last and you think your pathetic rabble of fools can stop me?”

Night falls outside and the smell of roast is replaced by wet earth and woodsmoke. Something grinds against the walls of the dining room. Something huge, and covered in spikes. The ceiling breaks and strands of baleful purple light shines on the white sheets and posh chairs.

“You are no hunting party. You are just drained prey I left in my trail.”

“You can’t stop us all.” Says Crow.

I stand up and the wood groans and cracks under my feet.

“I already have.”

I wake up to the familiar darkness. Well. That was... different. I did not expect a nightmare to lead to anything but my death. This is also the first time that it refers to potential events instead of reinterpretation of my past.

Now is not the time for introspection, however. I close my eyes and focus on my hearing. This is a new precaution I have come up with. We are in hostile territory and there is no guarantee that the carriage could not fall into hostile hands. I need to see if anyone is around before I make my presence known.

There, a heartbeat. It stands just beside the sarcophagus. I feel a tug on my mind and the beat grows more excited. With a sigh, I open the sarcophagus.

I slide the door open, already annoyed.

“I feel like I am repeating myself in vain, but you should really leave.”

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes Mistress, you are repeating yourself in vain.”

I tap on the edge of my haven with a talon. The clinking sound echoes the noise of the rain outside. Dalton’s large eyes do not have a hint of mockery. He just stands there being… I do not know what he is.

“We will arrive at the estate within two hours. Mr. Bingle says that the heavy rain will help us with our cover as waylaid travelers. Mr. Delaney suggests that you wear the blue dress.”

The blue dress is formal. Why do I want the formal dress? Why do we simply not move under the cover of the night and the heavy rain and slaughter everything? We already determined these cultists mass kidnap innocents.

Just like the Lancaster.

Fair enough, I am being hypocritical. Let us just say that I, as the resident vampire in these lands, reserve the exclusive right to the mass kidnapping of innocent people for the sake of sacrificing them to some dark entity, in this specific case myself. There. Now they are an enemy organization and all its members are fair game.

This adventure is wearing my patience thin. Dalton leaves and I clean myself quickly, brush my hair and finally open the slit that separates the interior of the carriage from the drivers.

“Gentlemen.”

“Good evening miss Ariane, I hope you are well?”

“I am Mr. Bingle, thank you. I am however concerned by your plan to make yourselves known! Those ruffians are in the habit of capturing people. Why would they not put all of us in chains at the first opportunity?”

“You would prefer that we simply find Flora and make our escape, do you not?”

Actually, I was planning on slaughtering everything and everyone and then setting the rest on fire.

“That seems more prudent.”

“Indeed, and I recognize there your kind heart, miss Ariane. Truly, you are too pure for this world, and indeed what you say makes perfect sense, but for two important factors. First, we do not know how many prisoners they hold, I wager quite a lot! We must also learn of their sinister purposes!”

I wager those prisoners are not as many as he thinks, the live ones at least.

“And secondly, I know the type of people who lead such terrible and dreadful schemes. They are vain creatures, eager to display themselves and their extraordinary qualities…”

Look who’s talking.

“Therefore they will want to show how superior they are, as well as learn how we found them. And we shall let them know, I say! We shall let them know before the night is out! They will rue the day…”

I ignore the rest of the rant. I am Thirsty now. Yesterday I managed to feed a bit from a Choctaw traveler who left his teepee to attend to a natural need. I had to wait for two hours for him to come out. He was weakened by the low temperatures and I did not get much vitality. Tonight will be a feast I am looking forward to.

As the Thirst momentarily overcomes me, I feel my fangs draw out and something tugs on my mind. A pair of large icy eyes reach the slit.

“Are you alright, miss?”

The invitation in his eyes is clear. He offers himself, his blood, to me. I should accept but something makes me uncomfortable. He chose me, not the contrary. He chose me not as supplicant but as something else. I am not in control. I should be in control. I should be the one to select who I want to feed on. It is not normal that one would be willing to serve an abomination like me. All humans should want to kill me because I prey on them. This is unnatural? I think?

Right?

Bingle interrupts his many promises of retribution and justice to express his concern.

“Miss Ariane, please do not be alarmed. I know you abhor violence, but this is not my first adventure and I will protect you with my life!”

You fool, how can you promise such a thing? Can you predict the trajectories of bullets? Can you stop explosions before they deliver their deadly shrapnel? Could you have stopped Master from k… Enough. Enough of this.

“He is right niece; it would be better for us to be invited in. They would lower their guard. Besides, young Dalton will remain hidden inside the wagon and bring us our weapons should we need them.”

Mmmmh, as always, Loth makes a point. I could not get into the mansion without an invitation. Well thought.

“Yes, miss Ariane, young Dalton has proven himself an invaluable help since he joined us. He has been looking after you with dedication, and I am pleased at his change of heart. He is the proof that men who lose their way to darkness can always find the light if they look for courage inside their heart. A truly moving tale, I say!”

Yes, invaluable help since he showed up at their camp with a wild tale of the Valiant Companions killing each other. He offered to show the group the way to the cult’s base and drowned Bingle with a tale of contrition. It never occurred to the red-haired hero that Dalton’s change of heart happened rather late in the group’s criminal career.

If he is not evil there is at least something wrong with him. I am unwilling to ask. After we return to civilization, he will have to go. Yes. That would probably be for the best.

Around us, pine forests give way to empty fields and basic wooden shacks. I change seats with Dalton, who is supposed to remain hidden, when we reach the outskirts of the cultist base. I can smell cattle, the animal kind, and woodsmoke. It is not long before we arrive at the limit of a stone enclosure.

If I were still mortal, I would pinch myself and check for a fever.

The wall marks the border between semi wilderness and an outlandish version of a British cottage. Why, I am looking at something out of a book!

A beautifully made manor of stone and glass, actual glass, with an arched rooftop of grey tiles sits at the top of a gently inclined hill. Even in the dead of winter, the trees are expertly trimmed and the lawn is taken care of. A small pond lies further to the side and a clean road of white gravel leads from an iron gate to the foot of the grand entrance. A cliff of sheer rock rises a hundred yards behind the property, adding a mysterious and grandiose air to the edifice.

What am I even looking at?

“How peculiar!” says Bingle.

What is peculiar is the color theme. The walls are painted, flawlessly, in white and red.

“Where are the workers housed? With so many fields there should be at least thirty people tending to them and cattle. They’re not living in the manor, I assume?” I add.

“A most astute observation miss Ariane! We must assume that there are more buildings we are not yet aware of, and that we should keep an eye open for them. Indeed, who knows how many people live here?”

I hope we do not find out when they rush us with torches and pitchforks? This… This stupid plan! I want to leave, find somebody to drink. This farce can only lead to disaster! Gah, why am I so Thirsty?! I drank my fill less than a week ago! Do I really have to suffer through this for another year?

Curses, curses, curses…

While I am ranting in the privacy of my addled brain, two men in mud-colored cloth emerge from behind the wall and open the door of the property for us.

Maybe I can eat them?

“There, there.” Says Bingle with a comforting voice. He is about to pat my shoulder but then he hesitates and retracts his hand. That’s right my good man, keep your appendages away or I will tear them off and shove them up your…

“Welcome to the Abernathy estate gentlemen, and lady. May I inquire what business you have here?”

We let Bingle drown the poor guard in platitudes and a story of lost travelers, unusual itineraries and some such nonsense until he regrets ever asking. Perhaps I should slice his throat to end his suffering, let the warm, red geyser of life…

“Alright come in, come in, Mr. Abernathy will be delighted to see you.” He adds with a sinister smile. If I were a normal girl I would already be out there trying my luck with the grizzlies. Is everybody devoid of common sense?

I gnash my teeth as the carriage climbs the small hill and we come in view of the manor’s owners, apparently warned of our presence.

“Come in, come in, gentlemen, and lady! I, Rufus Abernathy, would like to formally welcome you to my humble abode.”

The man who addresses us is in his fifties with carefully combed silver hair and an aristocratic face. He is clean shaven but for a small mustache and dark eyes. His prestance and charisma are impressive and are reinforced by a fetching tweed ensemble. I feel myself warming to his presence despite an inkling of what he is. He introduces his wife Maria, a portly woman with an astoundingly good skin. Her black hair is held in a severe bun, but her smile is warm and welcoming.

Those people are good. They really look the part of the kind and welcoming hosts. They smell a little bit wrong, however, particularly the woman. There is something acid and altogether unpleasant about her smell. It is not rot or any disease I can think of. Odd.

“You are too kind sir, and we apologize for coming here unannounced. We were set upon by a dreadful storm and I was afraid we would have to spend the night outside, if you would imagine!”

We follow our host through a grand entrance and up a set of stairs to corridors painted white. The furniture is a bit crude but the ground is spotless. We do not meet anyone on the way and I suspect it is not due to the late hour. My hearing confirms that this place is mostly empty. It is a façade.

Abernathy leads us into a large smoking room. Several leather couches surround a coffee table while the walls are covered with books and maps. The smell of cold cigar and alcohol is prevalent, it makes me suspect that this is used as a meeting room of sort. The number of seats hint at five or six people and I presume that the cult’s leadership may include people we haven’t met yet.

After a short exchange of niceties, Bingle tells our cover story in a performance I judge passable while I do my best to ignore lady Abernathy’s inspection of my appearance. I pretend not to notice, and play the tired and reserved niece until her attention switches to Loth. Free of scrutiny, I examine our surroundings. There is nothing untoward here. No scent of blood or corpse, no suspicious sounds. Were it not for the strange stench emanating from the woman at my side, I could have closed my eyes and imagined being back in New Orleans.

With the niceties out of the way, our host finally hits his stride, much to my dismay.

“America was meant to be a land of opportunity and so it was for a short while, but man needs to rule and be ruled and now states and governments spread everywhere to bring order to what they perceive as chaos but in the end is just what Rousseau would say is the state of nature."

“Rousseau assumed Man to be good at heart, however...” answers Loth.

“Ah, a fellow philosopher? Would you not agree that...”

And so they go on.

Bingle who I suspect does not care the least about the enlightened philosopher and would prefer to treat every Frenchman as if they were the devil himself pouts in silence. It seems that not being the center of attention is an uncomfortable and unfamiliar feeling for our brave gentleman. I, however, pray that they finish their pointless conversation with commendable haste, or else...

To my chagrin, Abernathy keeps on leading the conversation in the tried and true method which consists in asking a question, pretending to listen, and then saying what you wanted to say to begin with. Now he has “masterfully” led us to where he wanted to be and starts his main point as tea is served by a shy maid.

“We who traveled across the ocean to this place have brought with us chains. Those chains I speak of are chains of the mind. We still worship what we should study and pray to what we should strive to understand. The judgement of others stirs the direction in which we...”

Yadda yadda yadda I deem myself a scientist and ethical concerns hold me back. I get it. Abernathy now leans forward with a mad glint in his eye, his slight frame animated by the manic energy of the fanatic.

“You do not seem to agree, Miss Delaney.”

I should have better schooled my expression. This pretentious fop is dancing a waltz on my already frayed nerve. Should I play the dumb blond? Should I throw Aristotles in the fragile construct of his theory? Should I START KILLING. ENOUGH GAMES.

“Mr. Abernathy, the road has been long and tiring...”

“Yes darling,” adds his wife who had been standing there like a scarecrow, “we of the fairer sex have little taste for those grand endeavors, let me take care of the young Lady while you men remake the world.”

“A fair point, I wouldn’t want to... overtax you.”

Jerk.

I stand and bow stiffly. Yes, a breath of fresh air and a drink is exactly what I need right now.

“Take good care of yourself niece, we shall see you again later.”

Yes don’t worry old man I shall take really good care of myself, indulge even.

The mistress of the house holds my hand and drags me out in the corridor and deeper into the mansion, which I will tolerate without severing it from the rest of her arm nail after nail, knuckle after knuckle, because I am patient and perfectly in control. After a while, we enter a small tearoom with a roaring fire and decoration in shades of red and white, to no one’s surprise. A woman in a maid uniform is stirring a log with a cast iron poker.

“My, your hand is freezing. How about some tea?”

“I would appreciate something hot to drink, Mrs. Abernathy.”

“Excellent. Rose, please give her a cup, my house blend.”

The maid nods silently. While the water boils, I notice that she has the same wrong smell as her employer, and she’s almost paralyzed by anxiety.

“You must forgive my husband. Ah, those men, always remaking the universe from the comfort of their seats while we toil to make the world around us better through action. I must confess that all those talks about ethics are going over my head!”

“Indeed?”

I could suggest that she read the classics, starting with Socrates. I remember fighting with Achille, stating that we should act in accordance with virtue, not with what seems the most convenient at the time. I remember him telling me women did not understand such things. I remember informing him this was taken directly from Aristotle’s Nicomachean ethics. I remember him mumbling something. I remember needling him about it for a whole week.

Good times.

It doesn’t matter. We are on opposite sides of the conflict. I feel no need to advise someone I may have to kill. I do not have the patience.

We exchange a few platitudes until the maid comes and serves me tea. I bring the cup to my lips and take a deep breath in.

Essence of laudanum. A very powerful anesthetic. A single gulp would have sent me to dreamland for the next few hours. I raise my eyes to Mrs. Abernathy. I will not consider this oath-breaking because we are already hostile. This is more ruse or....

Huh?

What?!

I watch, astonished as Rose swings the iron poker with all her might and crashes it against the mistress of the house’s temple. I hear a wet crunch and the woman falls like a puppet with its strings cut.

Huh.

Wow.

She’s dead.

The maid killed her employer in front of me. Finally, something amusing.

“Ssssh! Please do not scream,” she whispers “I mean you no harm!”

Miss, that would work better if you were not waving that red-tinged poker around? Common sense?

Nevermind, let me just nod.

“Please do not drink the tea, as it is poisoned. I apologize for this, but we must speak at all costs. Your companions and you are in grave danger! This place is not what it seems. It is a den of sin and iniquity of the most grievous sort! I beg of you, escape this place and take me with you!”

I turn to the corpse of my deceitful host. The blood dripping from her temple and nose smells abominable. It is not disease or a spell but something tainted and abject. I feel as if someone had taken a painter’s masterpiece and covered it in feces. I am beyond disgusted. I will never, ever partake of it.

I look at the maid. She is a tall and sturdy girl and the loose uniform barely hides her well-endowed figure. Her face has a kind of honest beauty to it. I would think her smart but guileless. This sudden murder is rather unexpected.

Alarmingly, she has the same revolting smell as her former employer. I knew it. I should have fed from Dalton. Why did I wait? Gah. So Thirsty...

“She is in on this conspiracy. Please, I know you must be alarmed and that this is difficult to accept but you must believe me! Those people here, Abernathy, everyone! They kidnap settlers and then they... They.... Snif. God as my witness you are my only chance. We must save your friends and escape!”

I need to find them, and I need to find Dalton.

“We expected this. We are looking for someone who was abducted.”

“Wait. You knew? And you still came?! The three of you?!”

“We, ah, underestimated the size of the group.”

“There is almost a hundred people on the compound! Fighting is folly!”

“It is too late now. Let us meet up with the others and at least get our gear back. We can discuss a plan then.”

“Right, quickly before she wakes up.” She says.

Huh... If she wakes up from that she can start her own religion. Nevermind, I should not mention it now. There is no reason to risk her turning hysterical. That would be the last thing I need.

The first thing I need is blood, and quickly.

“Lead the way back to the salon. With any luck they are still listening to Abernathy’s disjointed rant so my uncle and his friend can overwhelm him.”

I grab the late mistress under her shoulder and pull her behind a couch, then I cover her with a table sheet while trying to ignore the smell of excrement.

When I return to Rose, she is staring at me warily. Ah yes, I was supposed to be the brainless blonde.

“Ah, you are more, hm, resourceful than I thought.”

“I came prepared, although not prepared for this. You surprised me.”

“I...I suppose. I shall lead the way! Stay behind me and all should be well. Yes.”

We walk back through an empty corridor. Yes, I remember. Now we go right and...

I hold Rose back as she is about to turn and pull her towards me. She looks at me in confusion until I hold a finger in front of my lips and point towards our destination. We peek across the corner. A large group of very burly men is dragging two struggling shapes to parts unknown. There goes the team. I knew this was a stupid idea from the beginning! I should never, NEVER HAD AGREED. PATHETIC HUNTERS. BUFFOONS. Alright. Calm. Enough. Loth has probably decided to play along and he is counting on me to drink, I mean to save him later. Alright. I can’t just go in and DROWN THE PLACE IN TAINTED BLOOD, HOW DARE THEY. ROACHES. MONGRELS. Yes. Yes yes yes fine, I shall wait. I shall rescue them the old-fashioned way, with dumb luck and outrageous plans that should not work.

“Nooooo we are too late! What should we do?!” My unfortunate companion whispers.

“Calm down. Do you know where they are taken?”

“Yes. Yes I do, all the prisoners are held in cells inside the mountain.”

Inside the mountain?! What is this?! Shakespeare’s Tempest? Will I meet queen Mab and Puck? Gah. This is all Bingle’s fault! Him and his stupid fate magic!

“Can you lead me there?”

“Yes I was held there before I... before I joined them.”

She shivers.

“There will be guards and other people on the way.”

“We need weapons and we need a disguise. Weapons first. Do you know where they took the carriage?”

“I do, near the stables and the pens. Follow me!”

23. Into the Heart

I trail Rose through a set of doors and smaller stairs. We do not come across anyone and soon reach a side of the manor. In front of me stand the stables and in the distance, I can see a few barns of great size, possibly home to over a hundred beasts. More houses rise around interspersed with trees.

After a quick glance to the Silent Watcher for serenity and good luck, I order Rose to walk ahead while I stealthily move after her. My guide only crosses path with a patrol of two burly men walking around before we reach our destination. I easily avoid them by sticking to the shadows.

There is something wrong with them that I had not noticed on the gate guards. They carry the same smell as lady Abernathy, only stronger. There is something too mechanical about their steps and their skin is too smooth for outdoor people. Their vigilance is also terribly lacking. It is not due to overconfidence or laziness, rather, their eyes are fixed in front of them with a strange focus instead of roaming around like proper scouts, seeing nothing and everything at once. All my instincts scream not in fear, but in outrage. This is more than blood wasted, the people here have desecrated that which should have remained untouched, for the good of everyone.

I need to get to the bottom of this and stop it, even if it means revealing what I am.

We enter the stable in total silence. Once more I grab Rose.

“Shhh, do you smell this?”

“Smell what?”

“Blood and death.”

The woman moves in the darkness with a lack of concern I find both admirable and stupid. A moment later, she bumps into a prone body and falls with a most unladylike epithet.

“Perhaps this will help?” I add as I light a lantern.

“Ah, hum, of course, silly me. I just…. Wanted to be inconspicuous, in case… Lord above!”

Inconspicuous? You opened the door like a drunk octogenarian, fumbled like a gravid hippopotamus and managed to fall heel over head? You are as inconspicuous as an eight-month pregnancy, you undrinkable daft sow. Let me just kill every last person here besides Loth, set everything on fire, then sod off. Gah.

“Somebody is dead! Oh my God! There is blood everywhere!”

I help the woman stand up and make sure she doesn’t get blood on the white part of her dress. The lantern's light falls on the remains of a burly man. He had his throat slit. Whoever did it left nothing to chance. The wound is so deep his head is half-detached.

I move the lantern to the open door of the carriage, and another door opposite us. Another guard lies dead against it. The front of his chest is a mangled mess of shredded fabric and gaping puncture wounds. He was stabbed with incredible savagery.

Dalton.

I cannot pick the scent of pure blood, not even a hint. A quick look in the carriage confirms that our conventional weaponry is gone.

He made it out with our guns. I choose to believe he will fulfill his part but this display of absurd violence makes me…

PROUD. COMPETENT VASSAL. DUTIFUL. CUNNING. WILL REWARD.

Oh no no no no no dear instincts of mine, let us not get carried away.

This is a good point however…

Ah, later.

“Our weapons are gone, and so is our ally, we must…”

Rose is looking quite green around the gills. Perhaps throwing up will make her feel better?

“Rose?”

“My, My God… All this blood. And… Those people are.”

I rotate the woman and stare into her eyes.

“Rose, I know you are unaccustomed to violence and this is hard to take, but now I need you to focus. We are still very much in danger. I need you to help me find the others, so we can all leave together.”

“I… I don’t want to go back there. They dragged me in after they raided our caravan… I did not want to, but I drunk the… Jesus…”

“You drank what? Blood?”

She gasps.

“How did you know!?”

“It is standard for a cult. They do this to make you feel bad, to make you feel like you do not deserve to be saved, but redemption does not depend on them now does it?”

“No, no indeed, it depends on the will of God. I… I will not let them win! I will be redeemed, once we find and save the others. If I turn away now, I will never forgive myself!”

There, it worked.

“Oh, miss Ariane, you are so strong and courageous. How I wish I could be like you!”

“Shhh, you are more courageous than you know Rose. You fought their influence alone, and you saved me from the poison. Use this iron will of yours, for the night is not done. Are you with me?”

“Yes, by God, yes. I shall show you the way.”

Gah, finally. Why do all my motivational talks make the others think of God? I assure you, he was not included in the making of me.

After drying her tears, my guide raises herself to her full height, takes a deep breath and we step outside.

I follow Rose through paths and thickets to the edge of the mountain, until I see it.

If the estate itself has already been impressive, this goes beyond my expectations. Two torches sit in a small clearing with a stone path leading to an impressive gate into the very rock. I am reminded of the vampire fortress access to the underground structure, so grandiose and unexpected the view is. Three guards stand with muskets and torches around it. There will be no sneaking in, at all.

“I need a disguise.”

“Oh, yes, that would be better. Hum, I know!”

I follow her back. The cult’s quarters are not only barracks as I had assumed. The women have their own personal sheds. I assume that Abernathy drags the choice morsels to one of his opulent bedrooms when the urge takes him, so the sheds are meant to provide intimacy for lieutenants. That brings all of them in the rapist category. There is no consent when the alternative is death.

We find an unlocked door which Rose pushes open.

“This used to belong to Sophia but she... She disappeared shortly after I got inducted.”

Guilt mars her expression before she regains control. She does have a good heart. As for the dearly departed Sophia, I do not doubt that she was set as an example. I do not believe for a moment that Abernathy believes in the sanctity of human lives.

In short order, I put on a maid uniform. It is a bit tight around the hips as usual. It will be a pain to move in.

We clean up and reach the gate once more. There are four sentinels this time, all alert. Most of them wear a dull brown overcoat except one. He is wearing all white and radiates arrogance. Behind me, I can hear shouts and the barks of dogs.

It appears that someone kicked the hornet’s nest.

Rose leads the way and I smell tainted blood. A drying pool of respectable size was spilled to the door’s right.

Four pairs of eyes follow us and when we arrive, one of the men interrupts us.

“And what are you doing here, Rose?”

“We carry a message for the jailers. Let us through.”

“Do you, now? And why are you the one to carry this message? Should it not be a guard as usual?”

I smell fear from her. She is about to falter. As expected, she is not one for deceit.

“All the guards are covering the ground so they can flush out the intruders, sir.”

The man turns to me and raises an eyebrow. His eyes roam over my body with a complete lack of decency. He might be clean and tidy, but there is something twisted about him that reminds me of the Lancaster. Malice backed by cunning.

“Hmm. And who might you be?”

“Ari sir, I... I... drank yesterday.”

The man is more alert and careful than all the others put together. I put out my best act. I lower my head in embarrassment. I am the newcomer, not quite yet indoctrinated.

I feel fingers reaching for my chin.

MAIM GUT KILL.

No, later, he is no threat to me. I can kill him when I want.

He lifts my face. I keep my eyes lowered so he doesn’t see the fury in them.

“You do have the pure skin...”

“Leonard! This is not the time for your games!”

Rose came to my defense.

“Of course, I will see you two... later.”

Rose grabs my hand. We rush up some stupid stairs.

Breathe in, breathe out. I can do it. Everything is under control. I will free the stumbling idiots then TEAR LIMB RIP HEAD PULL INNARDS.

“Hsss”

“Miss Ariane?”

“... Nothing.”

Can’t look up now. Silent Watcher hidden. Must focus.

Rose quietly guides me up a massive central staircase and then through a big side door. The two men guarding it let us pass without a word.

I smell Dalton’s blood. Not enough to kill him. Soooo intoxicating. Why did I ever refuse him? He shall be rewarded for his efforts, I will bless him with my kiss. A proper vassal.

Yes, I will do all of that.

The passage we take is much darker than the previous one. The stone is rough and sparsely lit by torches. We follow it to yet another door, without guard this time. I get in to the sound of flesh hitting flesh.

We stand in an antechamber. It is a guard post of sorts, with chairs, a rough wooden table with a deck of cards and a rack holding rifles and crude sabers. A pistol was left unattended and its handle bears the enticing smell of Dalton’s blood.

Light shines through an opening leading to a well-lit chamber ahead. I hold Rose and take a moment to lock the door with a set of keys next to it, which I then hide in a barrel. I open the firing mechanism of every musket I find and let the powder drop on the ground.

After I am done, we cross the threshold.

This is a large guards room, mostly devoid of furniture but for chests and table set against the wall. Five men are gathered in a circle kicking the prostrated form of Dalton.

No, HE IS MINE TO DISPOSE OF AS I WISH.

“Gentlemen? Excuse me? Hello?”

The group slows the beating. They blink and look at us like people waking up from sleep. It seems that most guards lack something essential, a sense of self perhaps. They are just too passive.

A bit like...

Drones.

“We are here to see the prisoners. One of you will lead us to them. Now.”

I sense resistance. They are still human, and I do not fit into the category of people who can give them orders. They stir.

“We were sent by the Master himself. Do not waste his time.”

I back the claim by the barest hint of suggestion. I focus on the one who seems most alert.

“Fair enough. Philips, you show them our guests. The rest of you back to your post. And you Wallace, take the boy to a cell.”

Wallace and Philips move and open the reinforced door opposite the entrance with the grace and energy I associate with ruminants.

We follow them inside a narrow corridor lined with cells. I close the door behind us which makes Rose look at me with worry, and catch up to the group. I bypass the girl and lift a truncheon from Wallace’s belt. He does not notice.

Wallace drags Dalton’s unconscious form inside one of the dark rooms. It takes all my self-control not to follow them. The VASSAL NEEDS US. PROTECT THEN CONSUME. No, I shall stick to my plan.

Philips leads us to the very last cell. As the door clanks open, I smash the truncheon in his neck with far too much strength. The noise is covered by the whine of the rusty hinge.

I pick the key and wordlessly hand it to Rose. There must be something wrong with me because she pales and nods frantically. We pass one another.

She stinks. They all do. They do not belong here, on this planet. They need to die.

I get in Dalton’s cell at an unhurried pace. The cow-like guard stares dumbly when I get in. He looks surprised when my hand wraps around his trachea. His eyes bulge when I wrench his neck like a chicken’s. I throw the twitching corpse to the side.

What have they done to my Vassal?

A single liquid eye opens, unfocused. The other is covered by a purple bruise. Blood everywhere. They broke his nose.

Thirsty, so Thirsty.

He lifts a wounded arm to me. I grab his chain. I pop the collar like a rotten piece of fabric.

There is something calm and relaxed in him, a sense of certainty, faith.

I lick the wound on his brow. The blood calls to me. The tear is healed. The Vassal is safer, as it should be. I feel weird, and I feel like I am starving. I need to feed but it will kill him. I don’t want to kill him. He is my Vassal, not cattle. The first one. THE FIRST OF MANY.

Somebody enters behind me. Man, Fresh sweat, Cologne. The adventurer. CAN KILL. No, oath break, oath to Loth. Cannot drink friends and business partner. THIRST.

HAND REACHING FOR ME. NO RIGHT. TEAR LIMB.

“Cecil.”

“Ah, my apologies, I forgot, Loth. No touching. The boy though…”

“Let me handle it. She is very fragile. Please wait for us outside, aye?”

“Very well my friend, I am sorry.”

“Not yer fault.”

Someone steps out. Mountain and steel get closer. Loth. Ally. Oath. Must not KILL.

“I’ll help him.”

Vassal needs help. Ally can offer. I cannot. Not in control. THIRSTY.

I nod. Yes, ally. Do it.

Mountain and steel leans forward.

“I need to get my supplies back. It’s in the guard room. I will be back.”

“Six little preys, fire sticks neutered. Do not let them run.”

“I am sorry Ariane...”

Stupid, fragile, slow mortals. If Master were here, we could just tear through them and be done. I repeat myself, in English this time.

“Six little preys, fire sticks neutered. Do not let them run.”

“Alright.”

Stinky woman comes closer. Temporary ally. Still useful. Displays worry, concern, not a threat. Sounds from exit. Fighting. Noisy one making claims, being boisterous. Sounds of flesh beaten and torn. Can feel the silent rage of the mountain and steel. Good. Soon done. Mountain Is back. Applies magic to Vassal’s wound. Stable. Good.

“We need ta go. Rose, pick Dalton.”

“What about miss Ariane?”

“She will follow and no matter what, do not touch her, aye?”

“Yes, sir.”

The stinky woman picks up the Vassal with reverence. Care. Only stinky, still useful. Tolerate for now. Cannot touch Vassal. Could kill.

Follow through doors, bowels of rock. Stinky woman guides from behind. Reach vast staircase. Go up. Hear sounds. Go left. Close access.

They go up. I follow, I do not follow. Something in the way. Metal bars with Silver thingie. Magic.

“Ari, look at me.” Says steel and mountain. I do.

“You need to go back and hide before they find us. We triggered the alarm. Try to hide. We’ll come back for you alright? You need to make it out."

I nod. Try to hide. THIRST.

They leave.

Know where to hide. Up.

Climb up, one hand, one foot on each wall. Hidden. Wait.

Men come in. A dozen. Torches.

A dog whimpers.

Three of them are dressed in white, the other ten or so, in brown.

The dog panics.

Two of the white ones are arguing. Dog tries to run. One of the white ones frowns. Sniffs the air. Brows raise.

It looks up.

It sees me.

It smiles.

I am no longer hidden.

Something bumps against my chin. It is a pendant. I know it. Inside there is a note stained by tear.

It says this:

“I love you, remember your promise.”

I cannot die before my father. I made the oath.

“Well my pretty, let’s get you down.”

There are no witnesses here. Only the stinky ones and my oath.

“HSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS.”

“Ah, SHIT!”

I drop.

Beautiful patterns in shades and strands. Pure red, stained beyond measure, both holy and blasphemous. I can hear them sing. They long to be free. I have ten needles and eight knives. The eight knives cannot do. They, too, are holy. The needles are used for dirty work, like now.

Patterns flow free and pure. Other patterns fall towards me, they want to stop the dance but cannot. The dance is alive with the song of the night, the purity of the Hunt. Brown canvas falls quickly, the white canvas leave so that they are the head of the painting. It is alright, they are leading me to something greater.

I go through a neck in the fabric. More brown pieces of canvas join at the shoulders. I follow the three white ones towards the right arm. Some of the canvas use faster and noisier patterns and one of them bites into me. It does not hurt much, but a little of the precious liquid is lost. My own ink. It calls for more, too concentrated. Strong but tired. I need more so that I can keep painting.

More canvas is unmade as potential and made as fleeting perfection. Their strands blow like stars and bouquets, beautiful and rotten. The three go to another neck. I follow, there is no more brown canvas.

I enter a room. A circle on the ground. Yet another canvas stands with the three others.

This one is untainted. I can get more ink!

I move forward and the circle comes alive. Patterns of silver block my way.

Impregnable.

I am trapped?

Keep pushing the pattern until I…

NO!

Hurts hurts hurts hurts dammit. So Thirsty so Thirsty cannot take it anymore. Never since Moore… Alright, need to focus.

“I knew your kind would show up. Your arrogance and selfishness know no bounds. You try to keep the secrets of immortality to yourselves! But you will not triumph, oh no, this is a new world and a new century. A time of science and enlightenment. No longer will your powers be in the hands of the few. I shall usher in a New Age of…”

Breathe in breathe out breathe in breathe out. Push the pain away from the core. Think. Instincts will not help here.

I am inside of a magic circle.

I am trapped.

But not all is lost. Loth taught me the basics of magic and I know what I can do to escape.

Magic requires three things: power, symbolism, and will.

The power feeds magic in the working.

Symbolism is the core of the working. Symbols are used to translate power into concepts. Mages use runes, bones, dice, and so on to give a frame, boundaries.

Will shapes the meaning and unleashes it upon the real world.

Thus is intent made manifest and reality is altered.

I do not have Power; therefore I cannot cast spells. Loth mentioned that old vampires can use blood magic but this is an impossibility for me. I cannot counter the spell. I cannot stop the power, nor the will.

I can, however, ruin the symbols.

I slowly grab Jimena’s gift from a holster against my thigh. Everything hurts. I can’t even stand straight, so intense is the pain in my guts. I look at the circle. I recognize the runes. Western Standard. All mages from Europe use it, with minimal variation. There should be. There. The rune for Ulz, containment. I stab towards it.

“AAAAAAAAAAHHHH”

Burns, Skin scalded but "containment" rune is now "understanding" rune. The circle flickers. The man stops talking. Need one more. Change hand. Find another Ulz. Stab.

“AAaahhhhahah”

Dry sobs, Other hand hurts. Firesticks roar and something punches me in the left arm, something else in my breast. I cough blood. Arm dangles. Dagger fallen. Pick up with other arm.

I walk forward, too wounded to run, too weak to move. A man in white is too stunned. Slit throat. Tainted blood. Need the leader. Another man jumps at me.

“Fire Whip!”

I swipe where I know the spell will lash. Easy to predict. The man falters. I stab him. I keep moving.

Leader back against the wall. Cannot fight anymore… Barely enough strength to…

“Noooo stay away!”

Nasty dagger aimed at my chest. Cannot block. Need to take and bite at the same time.

Thock

Mind pops like a bubble.

…Huh?

I fall.

Dark red blood spills on the ground.

Thoughts... Broken...

Huh?

Exhaustion.

Darkness.

24. Valor

“… Potent blood for the experiments, Leonard…”

“… Over there next to the others, and cover her in chains…”

“… Costly, but think of the possibilities! She is fully turned; we now have a benchmark…”

Time passes.

Sometimes I move my eyes. There are bricks.

Sometimes I hear a sound. People are crying.

Sometimes I smell fear and unwashed bodies. And blood.

Time passes.

I cough. A few droplets flash blue and turn to ash.

Time passes.

A flake of ash falls from my finger. It won’t be long now.

Time passes.

Something is traveling underground. When it emerges from the ground, all will be ash.

Time passes.

It’s cold, and sometimes very hot when I cough, but mostly cold.

Time passes.

Something grabs me. Pair of brown eyes. Worry, pain, guilt. I close my eyes.

“No, Ari, Tyr, Ari, stay with me.”

“Loth…”

“Sod off Cecil, she ain’t dead yet. I need privacy. NOW!”

Something wet falls on my face. I breathe in. Steel and Mountain. Feels safe. Can go now.

“No no no no it’s my bloody fault. Don’t ye dare. Don’t ye fucking dare leave. Alright, alright. No choice you daft old cunt. You brought her here. Now pay the price. Only ye can do it. Right. Right, hold on girl. This old fool got ye.”

I breathe in something fantastic.

Absolutely incredible. Exquisite.

I open my eyes, a red wrist. It forcefully parts my cracked lips. The pure liquid seeps on my tongue, drips down my throat.

Aaaaahhh

Yes.

I stand in the middle of a battlefield. Crags and green grass, and the sea beyond. My chest is bare but for blue woad and black hair. A man charges me, shield up. I bury a heavy ax in it. He loses his balance. I pull and he falls forward. My other ax kisses his neck. I roar in laughter and jump to the next warrior.

A vast hall. Sturdy men and women drink and make merry. Meat juices flow down my chin and on my beard and that blonde lass keeps reaching between my legs. A grey-bearded man grabs my shoulder and I smile to him. He is so proud and happy. Father, my heart is full.

I watch with amusement as that tall brown-haired human screams in outrage at Skeggi. He threatens her with a fist. She upends a bag of manure on his short frame. We all laugh as he runs screaming to the river. Her name is Agna.

My feet dig in the mattress. Both my hands grasp the sheet. Agna smiles mischievously and licks her flushed lips. I want to grab her heavy breast, tease those erect nipples yet I do not. She smiles wider, she grabs my arms with her own and lowers her torso, sinuous and sensual. I see the white of her belly, I smell her arousal. Her soft skin brushes mine. Nails drift against my skin. I shiver.

Her head is level with my chest. She kisses me lightly. I moan. I do not move.

She raises her hips and her mound rubs against my manhood. I feel moist skin and pubic hair made wet by her ardor. I pant with desire and still, I do not move. I close my eyes. Something incredibly soft and wet parts to let me in. She sheathes herself with agonizing slowness. Her sigh of ecstasy tickles my ear. Still, I do not move.

She lowers herself to grab more of me. Her hip rolls against mine and I can take it no longer. With a soft growl, I collapse as she laughs and grabs my back. I take a firm cheek with one hand, her graying hair in the other and I move inside her, slow and steady. Soon, her giggles turn to moans and she answers my rhythm with her own, guiding me towards her bliss. We accelerate and tenderness turns to a relentless dance, one we have mastered over the years. I go as deep as I can and her legs twist on my back to lock me in. After a while, we turn frantic and I barely manage to control myself. With a last moan, she rakes my back as her whole body stills. I keep the exact same speed and soon we climax together. Her body spasms as I empty myself inside of her. Our moans of release shake the walls of our home.

A minute later, we catch our breath, I roll on my back and she falls asleep on my shoulder. I am safe. I am happy.

The last shovelful of black earth leaves the hole. There, that should be deep enough.

Someone gouged my chest a day ago and filled it with brine and ice.

Agna is dead.

The pain I feel cannot be expressed with words, it cannot be expressed with deeds. It is so immense, so incredibly overwhelming, that it covers the entirety of creation and then some. Agna is dead. Her mortality caught up with her.

I pick up the covered body and gently lower it. Then I exit the tomb and fill it with earth. I would fill it with gold, diamond and the heads of emperors if she had let me. She wanted good earth and flowers instead, so I plant the flowers, take my bag and leave.

I climbed down from the mountain because the clan needs me. Father points me at enemies, and I kill. Father gave me a bride and I married her. I fuck her as well. She does not love me, but she likes the prestige and pleasure I give, I think.

My younger brother challenged me today. He and my wife planned a coup. I saw the fear when I took my ax. He knows what I can do. I do not kill him. Instead, I leave. I walk North and take a ship to Greenland, then I start walking. Let them have it if they want it so much. I care not.

It is frigid and I am too thin. I munch on the cold fish I caught from the depth. Tasteless. There is land to the South. I am tired of this. I want to travel to a better place, to forget.

“Ariane, please, Tyr, answer me.”

My consciousness rises to the surface.

“L… Loth?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m here lass. I’m here.”

I cough a bit. I spit out something sticky and disgusting. I feel a wet cloth clean my mouth.

“How are ye feeling,”

“Hnn…As if Asni and the carriage trampled me a dozen times, then left me to dry under the sun.”

I crack open my eyes. It’s difficult to concentrate. Things come in and out of focus. All sounds come to me distorted.

“I… Feel so weak.”

“Ye’re lucky my blood is potent. I fear…. I fear the worst may have happened otherwise. For a fledgling to suffer so much and live… I did not dare hope.”

I try to lift an arm to my chest but I fail. The left one is bandaged tight and the right one is unusually heavy.

“Wow, slow down.”

“Bandages?”

“Ye’re still not fully healed. Yer arm was punched clean through. Ye’re lucky it’s still attached. Ye also got lacerations, burn marks and a bullet through the right lung. And yer heart was stabbed.”

“I don’t feel Thirsty…”

“What can I say, I am delicious.”

We stay silent for a while, then...

“I think I need a moment.”

I feel pain, though less than I should. More than that I feel empty, drained. I know we are probably still in danger but cannot bring myself to care. A little of the apathy I felt earlier still clings to my psyche despite the holes in my chest now being closed. I decide to focus on just breathing, not because I need air, but because it has always helped me settle. I count thirty cycles before I turn my face up to Loth again.

“Shouldn’t we be on the move?”

“We need some time to organize the prisoners we just freed. The cultists have taken some of them and regrouped higher in the mountain complex. We must prepare before we continue.”

“How are the others?”

“Everybody is fine. Dalton has cracked ribs, nothing too serious. I gave him a tonic and he will be able to function for another four hours, then he will crash down.” Loth pauses long enough for me to realize he is considering something.

“He found you.”

“He did?”

“Yes. He knew where you went, somehow. You bonded. We will have to discuss this later, in greater detail, when we have time.”

“Right. Do we have a plan to get out? I cannot fight anymore tonight.”

“I think you will need a few days to recover, at the very least. Before we discuss a plan I have to ask. What happened? What managed to take you down?”

I recount my evening to Loth. He frowns at the mention of tainted blood, raises his eyebrows in surprise when I mention that there are two mages left, and shows barely restrained anger when I share my pain.

“There, you have it. I expect that there are at least twenty more guards, fifteen tops if they did not pull back from the property grounds. The two mages are also a problem.”

“Yer immense Thirst almost killed ye because I did not anticipate this…”

“You could not…”

“Do not make excuses fer me, young one. I brought you on my raid and ye almost starved. This is my failure, and I will reflect on it when we are done here. As for the plan, I will explain when everyone is ready.”

I finally take the time to look around. We stand in the middle of a vast, rectangular room with a single wide door. Chains are attached to the bare stone wall at regular intervals. Most are empty, but some still hold captives. As I watch, Bingle and Dalton walk around to free prisoners. They are a sorry lot, thin and weakened, but most look angry and eager for revenge. A small group of women stands near the exit huddling together protectively. Every one of them is pale and filthy. The cell has a rancid stench of unwashed bodies, old sweat, and excrement.

“Maybe we should…”

“Let’s wait for a while. When we found ye, ye looked like a corpse. I thought… Nevermind that lass. Just give it one more minute. Ye’re already haler.”

Hale? A vampire? I begin to protest, however, I realize that I do not want to move. I am warm here, and safe. Just five more minutes, then I will stand up.

“Mmmrglm?”

“Sorry Ari, we gotta go now. Come on.”

Loth hoists me up and drags me to the rest of the group. I can barely put one foot in front of the other. Two women I do not know rush to take me under the armpit.

“We thought you were dead miss.”

“I thought I was dead too.”

I close my eyes for a while until I hear someone clearing their throat. I look up to see Bingle’s worried face.

“Miss Delaney, I cannot express how sorry I am to see you in this state. I failed to protect you. My shame knows no bounds.”

“Do not fret good sir, if you recall, this was my decision to put myself in harm’s way.”

“And I remember recommending against it, and if you had followed my recommendation, I would be currently rotting in a cell and awaiting a fate most cruel. You saved my life twice tonight, miss Delaney, when you braved those corridors to free me, and when you sabotaged our jailor’s muskets. I shall never forget it. You have my word as a Bingle!”

“Ah, I thank you for your gratitude, and yet I cannot accept it, for are we not saving each other? In the face of such evil, can good souls do else but to rise up to the challenge?”

“Well said, I say, well said! By Jove, what a loss it is for the armed forces that you were born a woman! I am most blessed to have met people such as you and Loth!”

“Thank you, Mr. Bingle. Now, I dare not ask, but did you find Mrs. Schaffer?”

Ah, I should not have asked. How very tactless of me.

“Alas no. But I do not despair! There are still captives to be saved, and if not, I shall find a trace of her passage. I shall not grieve, nor relent until the light is shed on her fate, whatever it may be.”

There is something chivalrous about this man, an indomitable will to fight with the belief that in the end, Good will triumph. Behind all the boisterous claims and bombastic sentences, Bingle has courage, honor, and compassion. I think he was born in the wrong time, that he should have been a knight riding fearlessly in the defense of the innocents. This anachronism makes him sympathetic and his friend’s certain death all the more tragic.

“We can but hope.”

“Indeed. Now I shall address this crowd and then we will set out to end this menace once and for all.”

“Do you think it wise, sir? Many of those men are weakened.”

“Yes miss Delaney, for where you see sheep, I see starving wolves, and they shall be led by a lion.”

With this “optimistic“ statement, Bingle calls for anyone’s attention and we gather in a small crowd facing Loth and him.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, it is good that we were able to release you from the clutch of those faithless heathens, those worshippers of idols and devilry! Yet our task is not done. Although it is my fondest wish to see you all depart this forsaken place safely, I must ask, nay, beg you for assistance. Indeed, there is still a hurdle on the road to freedom! Our enemies stand strong and we are still in the black heart of their keep. I cannot prevail alone, and I find myself compelled to call on you brave souls for help.

I know that your burden was great. You traveled West to find a new life, safe from starvation, oppression, tyranny! And on the cusp of success, succor was stolen from you by the most horrid of foes! Your pains are great and you have lost friends and family, and yet you still stand before me! Undaunted and unbroken!”

“Yea!”

“Hear hear!”

“Those hateful curs thought you an easy take, but settlers are made of stern stuff and they shall regret ever laying their filthy hands on you!”

“Aye!”

“And I ask you, my brothers and sisters in arms, will we allow this injustice to continue? Will we bend the knees like pigs to be slaughtered? Will we forfeit our dignity?”

“Nay!”

“Indeed not! For our hearts cry for justice and the righteous glory of the Lord! We shall not surrender, we shall overcome, and may God have mercy on their souls!”

“YEAAAAAAH!”

I watch mesmerized as Bingle works the crowd. I finally realize why he is so convincing, it is because he is convinced himself. His eyes shine with emotion, his face is reddened with passion. He truly believes this motley crew capable of defeating two dozen well-armed guards, and he will personally lead them into battle.

As the yells of fury die down, Bingle asks for everyone’s attention as Loth walks to a wall where he draws a map with white chalk.

“The cultists have gathered in their ceremony room. It is a vast open cavern leading to a sheer cliff. It could easily hold two hundred people. We expect the cultist head to be at the altar which is situated in the middle of the cave and close to the edge. There is a main entrance that will undoubtedly be guarded; however, we have found an alternate way. On one side, the cave wall rises to an elevated platform from whence lady Abernathy could watch the proceedings. There is a very small corridor that leads to this platform and we shall take it. We will distribute muskets shortly. The best marksmen will stay on the elevation to provide covering fire while the bulk of us will jump down and engage the guards. Sir Bingle is volunteering to lead the attack himself.”

With the leader dead, the drones will be affected. I need to make sure it happens sooner rather than later.

There are no questions. Loth and Bingle distribute weapons taken from guards. There are truncheons, the odd saber, and a few old muskets. I would be worried if our opponents were not in the same situation.

Rose and the men lead the way out and I notice Dalton standing guard outside. He joins me when he sees me.

“Thank you, friends, I think I can stand now.”

The two women let me go with a nod and a knowing smile. Dalton silently hands me my pistol, some ammunition and one of my throwing knives.

“There you go, Mistress.”

In his eyes, I find the same tranquil faith, the same blind acceptance as before. I find it hard to reconcile this peaceful demeanor with the mangled corpse of the stable’s sentinel, its chest turned to ruin by relentless stabbings. It finally occurs to me that Dalton would make an excellent vampire.

There is, of course, no way for me to turn him into one. I can still keep him as a vassal.

“Do you understand the choice you have made? You are bound to me now.”

“I told you the night we met. I will never betray you and I know where to go.”

I turn away, unable to face him any longer. I do not want the responsibility of another person…

Or do I?

It is only suitable for me to have a Vassal. With him, I can easily hunt bounties, purchase lands, sign contracts…

The possibilities are endless.

“There is much I can accomplish with you.”

“Yes, Mistress…”

I can already imagine it. We would track our quarry, then Dalton could handle the authorities while I snack. I would not even have to go into Partridge’s house anymore! No more will I have to face tasteless Christian imagery! This is great!

“Are you feeling better Mistress?”

“Hum? Oh, I can walk but I cannot fight. You will have to do without me.”

“Not to worry Mistress. I believe your … Uncle… has reached the end of his patience.”

We silently move up a set of stairs, down dark alleys and corridors interspersed with storage rooms and studies. We do not meet anyone on the way and the silence is only broken by footsteps and tired breathing. We finally stop while inside a particularly dark and twisted passage and instructions roll down the line in frantic whispers.

“We’re there, keep silent and wait for the signal before attacking.”

What kind of signal would that be anyway? Bingle never said. Was he really an officer of his Majesty’s army? This is amateurish, I believe.

Little by little, the group enters a monumental cave.

We stand on an elevated balcony with a low stone parapet. Below us, the cavern extends in every direction. Illumination is provided by iron candelabra suspended here and there. The reddish light of torches reflects on the sheer rock with an ominous glint. A natural opening into the side of the cliff on our left only shows the night’s cloudy sky while on our right, the cave ends up in a massive set of doors. Our target stands in the center, surrounded by braziers and armed goons. He holds a chalice over a white altar and as we watch, a captive is dragged to its marble surface to be secured with bindings. A group of prisoners is kneeling beside, waiting for their turn.

My senses are coming back and even from here, I can tell that the stench I smelled in everyone comes from what this chalice contains. The fact that I am not shaking with fury is a testament to how weakened I am.

Now we just have to get in position while they are focused on making this victim drink…

“YOU HAVE SHED BLOOD FOR THE LAST TIME FOUL FIEND! HAVE AT THEM LADS, FOR KING AND COUNTRY! CHAAAAAAAAARGE!!!”

Bingle grabs one of the ropes that secures a candelabra and cuts it at the base. As the implement falls on the head of an unfortunate goon, he is propelled forward and up, lands feet first on another guard’s chest and rushes the cult head with a furious yell. At the same moment, Loth bellows a deafening roar that washes over the cave as he jumps down and crashes against a hastily drawn line of opponents. They are sent flying like ragdolls before his fury. A second later, the rest of the men reach him and lay into their enemies with vicious enthusiasm.

So... That was the signal. Huh.

I turn to Dalton and remember to close my mouth.

“Did he just?!”

“It’s been like that for the whole evening, Mistress.”

My consternation is interrupted when the gates slam open and another squad of guards comes to the help of their beleaguered allies. They are led by a man in white: the surviving mage, Leonard.

“Over there!” I scream.

The musket team was hesitant to shoot at the melee, but the newcomers are exposed and close enough to be easy targets for even an inexperienced marksman. The sounds of detonations and the smell of powder soon fill the air as both groups exchange shots. Two guards soon fall but on our side, one man falls back clutching the ruins of his left hand.

“Let me!”

A burly woman grabs the fallen combatant’s gun while a few others pull him to safety. She reloads with expertise and a few seconds later, yet another guard collapses with a smoking hole in his chest. Seeing that our cover advantage is too great, the mage orders his troop behind him and rushes our position. The balcony is on a slope which means that they will reach us too easily.

“Shield!”

Two lead bullets crash uselessly against a transparent barrier to our side’s consternation.

“Sorcery!”

“Keep firing!”

I push myself against the wall and Dalton kneels against the parapet. An instant later, five guards led by a furious Leonard jump on the landing and push the men back. I notice Jimena’s knife on his belt.

Oh no he didn’t.

With a vicious smile, he raises his gauntlet to the fallen shooters and panicked women.

“You should have stayed in your cages.”

That's when I shoot him.

The bullet goes cleanly through his skull and covers his neighbor in brain matter.

He should have kept his shield up and his grimy paws off my precious knife. Hah.

The drones turn to me and charge. I move to the side and collapse instantly with a hiss of pain. I watch powerless as a guard raises his truncheon.

This is going to hurt.

Dalton jumps on the foe’s back and stabs him like a madman, my enemy falls with a yelp of pain. Our men regroup and charge back but I watch, powerless, as a second guard raises his truncheon.

No escaping it this time, this is going to hurt.

“Lady Delaney showed us the way! YAAAAAAA!”

A massive woman in a white bonnet and the clothes of a baker smashes into the goon with the power of a freight train. I can hear the “oof” as air leaves his lungs and the crack of bones when she pins him into the wall like an ugly butterfly. With a deafening shriek, the rest of the women slam into the beleaguered guards with terrifying fury, overwhelming them in seconds. Goons are pummeled into the ground with boots, stones, and white-hot rage. I can scarcely believe my eyes. Not even the Gauntlet displayed this magnitude of unleashed violence.

I stand up, pick up my blade and walk from group to group, delivering a jab when the guard is still moving a bit and in short order our victory is total.

Below us, the fight is also taking a turn for the better. Our side would have been losing were it not for Loth of Skoragg.

Suffice to say, the man has had enough.

I can only imagine that following Bingle on his silly adventure has frayed his nerves. He is currently right where he wants to be: in the thick of battle. As I watch, he grabs the neck of an enemy who was about to kill one of our own and throws him in the feet of another. He then dodges a club and punches his assailant in the face, breaking his nose. As the man raises his hands to his face with a cry of pain, Loth gives him a gut punch of such strength that his opponent's feet lift off the ground, then kicks him in the head. The guard flies back into one of his partners. Half of his teeth stay where they are.

I know for a fact that he can kill more efficiently. He is just letting off steam.

Men, I swear.

My attention turns to Bingle who seems to be in a bit of a predicament. The cultist leader is harrying him with a fire whip spell which he manages to deflect with his saber. Unfortunately, Abernathy manages to snag the blade and tear it out of his hand. Bingle stumbles and Abernathy uses this opening to use a push spell.

Our adventurer is propelled against the altar and I can tell he is in pain. I turn around and urge the nearest marksman to look at the leader and shoot him. It is already clear that I will be too late.

“You are blinded by your ignorance, fool!” screams Abernathy hysterically.

“It is you who cannot see.” retorts Bingle as he throws the cult’s blood chalice. His opponent is caught off guard and although he stops the goblet with his arm, its contents splash over his face. Bingle ignores his distressed screams to jump back into the fray. He grabs his blade and puts an end to his vile foe.

The rest of the cultists still fight to the bitter end, but they are disheartened and without a head to think for them, they only offer us token resistance. In short order, we stand victorious.

It is finally over.

People cheer and jeer, hug and cry. Bingle walks under the acclamation of the mass. His clothes are singed, he is hurt and tired and yet there is a spring in his step as he walks triumphant from group to group, shaking hands and patting shoulders. Dalton and I gather the wounded and bring them to Loth who sets up a temporary infirmary. There is a lull of activity when everyone catches their breath and I use this opportunity to approach the mouth of the cave.

Finally, a reprieve.

It is at this moment that I regret never learning how to draw. The land lays before me for miles in so many valleys and plains. The mountain range extends to my right at a sharp angle and the sky is enormous, almost overbearing. The presence of the Silent Watcher greets me with its now-familiar light.

A fresh breeze blows inside the cavern, making the light dance. It brings with it untainted air, and something else.

I turn my gaze to the right when I smell something tantalizing. The perfume is gone as fast as it appeared.

Stairs are going up along the cliff.

“This leads to the sanctum, Miss Delaney.” Says Rose as she walks to me.

“We need to explore it, make sure we did not miss anything and destroy the research.”

“Are you sure? I mean...”

“Yes, I am sure.”

I leave the entrance with regret, but I have no choice. The sun will rise in less than four hours and I need to prepare for it. We gather and it is decided that Bingle, Dalton and I will go up while Loth stays with the rest to look after the wounded and protect the group.

“Don’t worry lass I’ll take a look later.”

We set out.

25. The Source

Stairs have been dug into the side of the mountain and railings placed at strategic positions. It does not help, I feel like I am a trespasser in a place that should have remained untamed and untouched.

We quickly reach a small landing. Nestled between two planes of the mountain is a shack. It is little more than a shelter and when we enter, I notice that it can barely contain all three of us. A cot and cupboard have been pushed against the farthest wall. Most of the single floor is covered with an alchemy kit and a desk covered in paper. I let the men walk around and quickly find what I knew would be there: a research journal.

The tome is hefty so I mostly glance through. The cult leader’s writing is methodical and more importantly, it is not coded, therefore my reading is quick and unimpeded. I soon learn that Abernathy found the place three years ago thanks to hints from a Creek guide. He immediately found something which he refers to as the temple, further up, and studied the inscriptions left behind. Apparently, some of them contained European style alchemical annotations on the art of blood magic. He gathered several rogue mages and followers and moved in.

A bit over a year ago someone broke through the temple and destroyed the lab and many of the notes, that is when Abernathy ramped up his activities and started kidnapping people for blood experiments. At the same time, he acquired something he refers to as “the Source”. He believed he could produce an elixir of eternal life without the drawbacks of sun sensitivity and bloodlust. The attack on the lab was taken as an attempt to stop him from reaching enlightenment.

We have to go up.

Dalton and Bingle join me with little to show for their efforts. I wordlessly hand the adventurer a single sheet I took from experiment note.

“Subject: Flora Schaffer, female...”

His voice dies down as he keeps on reading. I already suspected she would be dead of course. This only confirms it.

My vassal and I wait in respectful silence until he is done. The grief on his face is palpable.

“Forgive me, I need a moment.”

We step outside, close the gate behind us and wait. I am a bit shaken as I realize that this is the first time I have witnessed the fearless adventurer with such a hopeless expression on his face.

“I wanted to ask you something, Mistress.” Says Dalton.

“Yes?”

“What are you exactly?”

I turn to him dumbfounded.

“You decided to serve me, yet you do not know what I am?”

“I knew enough to decide, now I want to know everything.”

I spend a few minutes telling him about my strengths but also my weakness to fire, silver and the sun. It only occurs to me when I am done that I did not even contemplate him betraying me. My instincts tell me that he will not. We have bonded now. His loyalty is as certain as the dawn.

It doesn’t take long for Bingle to join us.

“Forgive me for this delay. I am.. I was...”

I place a comforting hand on his arm and address him with a soothing voice.

“There is nothing to apologize for sir, and I can only extend my condolences to you. I know it is poor comfort in the face of such pain, yet I must remind you that without our timely intervention, those unfortunate souls behind us would have suffered a fate most cruel.”

Bingle seems surprised by my touch; his honest face brims with emotion.

“Yes, you are correct. Thank you so much Miss Delaney. We have done well tonight, and though salvation was beyond my grasp, we made sure that vengeance was not. A worthy end, I say!”

“Indeed. Now, that loathsome man’s notes mention a temple above, and I would like to see it with my own eyes and make sure there is nothing afoot.”

“Of course, Miss Delaney! Your tenacity and rigor are an inspiration! No stone shall remain unturned until we ascertain that evil has been vanquished!”

Right.

“Then I shall lead the way, forward!”

Wait, what is wrong with me?! Why did I just say that?!

Impossible...

Is the man contagious?

I certainly hope not. I would not want to turn righteous.

My hearing has recovered enough to hear Dalton’s amused chuckle. I may never live this down.

We walk for ten minutes at a measured pace along the mountain and up a natural ridge. Eventually, the path turns right to end on a small plateau.

Hidden from the worst of the wind, pine trees and knee-high bushes have prospered and spread around the place, turning it into a shelter. I notice regular formations that look too perfect to be the work of nature. Rather, someone grew a garden here and left it for at least a decade. Further up, the valley disappears between two cliffs.

This feels awfully familiar.

Oh.

OH!

I remember now. “Not where, but when.” said Nashoba in that dream months ago.

I found it! The place from the dream!

Just as I remember it, the blocky architecture clings to the rock as if it had been dug in. Two lion statues stand guard on each side of the main entrance, a little worse for wear. I hear nothing suspicious.

“Let me in first Miss Delaney.”

We enter the so-called temple and look around. The men take out lanterns and light the insides.

Abernathy has mentioned that the place had been ransacked. That is not correct. The single room has been devastated by an impact of incredible power. Everything that stands near the door such as a stone bed and fire pit remains intact. Further up, debris litter the floor and the opposite wall has been shattered completely.

On the side, I recognize a bare alchemy station under a pile of rocks curiously arranged. I walk closer.

Somebody gathered stones with inscription. I recognize the tongue.

“Dalton, I need your lantern.”

It is, of course, a lie for the benefit of Bingle.

I read a few runes despite the poor state. Unfortunately, there is not enough to infer a meaning, unless...

I walk to the shattered wall, dodging the errant stone.

Something smells delicious. I know a very similar scent, from long ago. It’s on the tip of my tongue...

I approach the impact.

Either someone brought a small cannon or...

I place my fist against the central hole and push in. I touch smashed rock when I am elbow deep. Hmm.

I take a look inside. The point of origin has a single black spot.

Could it be....

I shove hand back in and after fumbling for a few seconds I manage to touch something. When I pull back my index has the slightest hint of a tar-like substance. I rub my fingers and sample the scent.

A wave of emotion overcomes me. There is no vitality left yet this fragrance is unmistakable. Stunned, I stand back and realize the crater is surrounded by other runes. I pull two and two together.

“What are those Miss Delaney?”

“A poem in the tongue of Akkad. It says:

Little bird flew low and high

To the rock and to the sky

Little bird flew far and wide

Yet always one step behind“

“I do not understand.”

“This is a taunt.”

My Master came here a year ago. He did not find what he was looking for. Someone took it and hid it from him.

This is why he came to this remote place.

This is also how he… Found me.

As to what his target was, I have no idea. If we find a container of some sort, we might get a clue. I decide to keep looking. I am particularly interested in where that precious smell comes from.

I turn left and walk to the wall. A particularly well-preserved stone cabinet has escaped the devastation.

That is rather suspicious.

“Help me move this, I think there might be something there.”

Both men rush past me, intent on making sure I do not need to work. Alright, so there are some benefits to being of the fairer sex. I would still rather be allowed to go bounty hunting.

With little effort, Dalton and Bingle push the piece of furniture out of the way. Light shines into a small bathroom, sparsely equipped with a stone tube and a storage shelf. More interesting is the prostrate figure on the ground. This is where the tantalizing scent comes from.

I can’t help myself. I walk past my companions and ignore their warnings. I fall on my knees before the humanoid thing and lift its chin.

Two Amber eyes open and blink at me. They are too large to belong on a human face. The thing’s traits have a strange alienness to them, different yet alluring. I think it is male, a he then. I lean closer. He smells so scrumptious, so incredibly delicate. This bouquet, this vitality ... I open my mouth and eight fangs manifest. The man cries a single tear as he shows an acceptance born out of the deepest pits of despair.

He knows what I am, he knows what I will do and he has already given up. Good, now I just need to...

“Miss Delaney?”

I close my mouth with a click.

If I do this now, I will have to kill Bingle. I do not believe I can hypnotize him into forgetting someone’s death.

I don’t want to kill Bingle. No. I do not want my instincts to get in the way of my long term plans. So I slowly force myself away from the most potent, delicious blood I have...

Wait that’s it.

This entity provided the blood that saved my life the night of my escape. Or not. His smell is slightly different, spicier and more mature. I fed on his kind, however.

“Miss?”

I finally force myself to turn.

“He’s alive! We need to free him.”

I compel myself to take a step back from that enticing, delicious smell. Bingle passes me by and kneels. I notice that he still has the keys he used to free the other prisoners fortunately, and that they fit.

Hold on he will notice that something is wrong!

I turn in a panic, only to see a perfectly normal, if unhealthy man where I left the strange creature. A quick study shows a sort of shimmer around his eyes and ears.

“Can you talk lad?”

“Y...Yes.”

“Are you hurt anywhere.”

“No... just sore, thirsty and hungry.”

But not dirty. How could somebody dirty have such an incredible perfume!

“Don’t worry lad. Your troubles are at an end! We shall take good care of you. You have the word of Cecil Rutherford Bingle!”

Yessssssssss good care.

“Mistress you are drooling.” Whispers Dalton. “Do you need more blood?”

“Thank you I’ll be fine.”

What is wrong with me? Besides the recently skewered heart, nothing. I do not even feel the Thirst. This creature just has a blood that I apparently cannot resist.

I will not bite.

I will not bite.

Maybe just a little... NO! I will not bite. Calm down Ari, this is not like you. Just take a deep breath.

Alright, this was a terrible idea. How can this man smell so intoxicating! Gah!

“Are you alright Miss Delaney?”

I look away so he doesn’t see the fangs.

“I apologize, it is just, I am sorry I need some fresh air.”

I stumble out until I reach outside. Up here, a cold wind blows down the flanks of the mountain and carries on it hints of pine. I start feeling better or at least, more in control.

Only a short while later, the three men exit the structure. In the open, the temptation is not so strong.

Bingle looks at me with empathy and leads the way down. I follow him while Dalton supports the strange creature. I do not dare get closer. Actually, Bingle has his back to me so I suppose I could indulge...

No. No! Oh, that is it. Get a hold of yourself Ariane! This is unsightly! I am no slave to my impulses.

As I slap my cheek, the softest breeze caresses my ears as something whispers to me.

“Why did you spare me Nightwalker?”

“WOW!”

“Mistress?”

“Miss Delaney?”

“Hum sorry! Sorry everyone, I just missed a step.”

Dalton is dubious and Bingle full of concern.

“Miss Delaney, I apologize! I should have remembered your ordeal! Foolish me! You, hrm, if you, hrm, if it is not too impertinent of me to offer, you may take my arm. I shall lead you to safety!”

Yes, let me be downwind before I do something we shall all regret.

“If it is not too much trouble...”

I approach and grabs his muscular arm. Hum! This is not entirely unpleasant. The man himself radiates with pride, it seems that my trust means a lot to him. Perhaps I should not offer my back to this creature though. It made it clear it knows what I am.

“Is this a cruel trap, Nightwalker?” Whispers the wind once more.

“My name is Ariane” I grumble back, too low to be heard by the humans.

“Very well, since you have given me the gift of courtesy I shall reciprocate. I am Sinead.”

We continue our conversation in the same manner.

“What are you?”

“You truly do not know?”

“I wouldn’t ask otherwise!” I softly hiss.

“Your kind calls us trespassers or errant ones. We are from far away…”

“How far is far away? India? Nippon?”

“We are from another dimension.”

“Ah…Really?! How did you even come here?!”

The wind sighs with annoyance.

“My kind likes to play games. Sometimes we slip and fall into other worlds. This would not be an issue if your plane was not so heavy.”

“Huh?”

“Your reality is rigid. We cannot get through it. It resists us too much. We cannot get back and so we are lost, trespassers and prey.”

“Prey?”

“You must be young... Your kind captures us and harvests our immortal blood. It is kept in secure containers to be drunk as an emergency. We are slaves and cattle to you lot. Barely better than animals.” He adds with resentment.

I now understand. Six months ago, I should have died from the wounds I suffered at the hand of Jimena. Only a miracle could have saved me, and this miracle was the blood of his species.

“I do not understand! I thought that blood must be consumed on the spot!”

“We are immortal. We do not age, and so our blood can keep its vitality indefinitely if harvested properly.”

“I never knew...”

“Curious, I would expect clans to inform their members of our existence so that you know not to devour us instantly should you happen upon our kind. It would be too merciful a fate, I suppose...

Our essence remains bound to the blood so only a limited amount of elixirs can be harvested from the same captive, who then needs to be kept alive. My people has been reduced to kept assets and fugitives like me.”

If what he says is true, and I believe him, then Jimena gave up on an incredible treasure to help me. What I used to run home could have been employed in combat to save her life instead! My gratitude towards her only ever grows.

Why did she not mention it? Well, I am not surprised that my friend would try to hide the extent of her sacrifice, and yet there could be something else. Vampires may attempt to hush the existence of such a powerful secret weapon. I will have to be discreet.

“I know not what you have planned,” Says Sinead, “and so I am left at the mercy of a creature of the night...”

He goes on like that for a while and I learn a few interesting things. His species is called the Likaeans and they are powerful magic users. On their home plane, they can manipulate the very essence of reality the way a great painter manipulates colors. Down here, they are limited to a few tricks and illusions. I also learn that Sinead is by default the leader of his kind, the most powerful Likaean here, and that he has a second of sort. Finally I learn that Sinead is an absolute drama queen.

Honestly, I am impressed.

Grand declamations, laments and inflamed discourses pour ceaselessly from his lips. Some of it even rhymes! He goes on and on without pause, cursing this plane and its inhabitants, his fate, the moon and the stars, the neighbor’s dog. Everyone. The worse thing for me is that he never even tried to escape. We are on a dark path outside, at night, he is not bound, and we are clearly exhausted and wounded and still, there is not a single attempt to even steal a knife! If it were me, I would have at least tried something...

Wait, could he have played me all that time?!

I turn in a panic but no, he is still hanging from Dalton’s shoulder, looking in the distance like an opera main lead. I can still smell him when the wind gives us a respite.

I believe that if his race is half as dramatic as he is, it is no wonder that they have been exploited by vampires. We all have one thing in common: ruthlessness.

I continue musing while we walk down the path at a slow pace. With Bingle guiding me, I can stop focusing on my surroundings and Sinead’s constant whining.

He is clearly the Source mentioned in Abernathy’s workshop notes. If I understand properly, the cult leader has been using his blood as an attempt to reach eternal life.

Perhaps this is why it felt so wrong.

Likaean blood is precious. It is not to be squandered by a fumbling idiot with no talent or experience. A few scratched symbols are not enough to reach the apex of mastery required to brew an elixir of eternity. I remember the woman in my vision, when I drunk from Master and was made a vampire. She was writing something on tanned human skin. It was an intricate formula, a work of art far beyond anything I have seen since, not even in Loth’s workshop.

This man could not have achieved his goal within three lifetimes. He only made an impure mix with fleeting effects, at the cost of one’s free-will.

How naïve of him to even assume that our mewling rescuee could be a strong enough source of power. He is weak and pathetic here. He would not have sufficed, no. It would take something incredible to change a human at such a fundamental level. It would take a god.

Truly, this entire project was doomed from the start. I take comfort in the knowledge that at the very least, we cleaned our own backyard.

Oh, and we rescued some humans and that weird alien being. I suppose this counts as a success.

“… So tell me, child of darkness, tell me why do you play with me so? What sinister fate awaits me, now that my freedom…”

Sinead’s ranting has progressed enough that he requires attention. Good.

“I have not decided yet.”

“Pardon?”

“I said, I have not made a choice. Now please leave me be, I tire of this conversation.”

I do not have the inclination to handle this man today. I am not Thirsty, I am exhausted and his survival depends on a tangle of commitments and rules I do not feel like considering before a good rest.

We soon reach the cave again. I go to Loth, still busy with the wounded. It seems that a few of them will not make it.

“Dalton?”

“Yes Mistress?”

“Please look after me, I need to rest my eyes for a moment.”

“Very well Mistress.”

Yes, there is still much to be done. I just need a moment.

26. Self-Discovery

I open my eyes to the familiar darkness. I am still wearing the ruin of the maid outfit and the congealed blood sticks to my skin in a most unpleasant way. The smell is not much better.

Outside I can hear two heartbeats.

I slide the sarcophagus open to the canopy of Loth’s large tent. Just like six months ago, it is basked in soothing blue light.

“Good evening.”

“Good evening lass, quick, take this!”

He hands me a silver chalice with a cover. The hint of fresh blood immediately wakes the Thirst. I take off the top and drink.

It tastes so much sweeter than my usual fare. It is, without a doubt, human, with a hint of something special. A strange power fleets through its exquisite vitality, taunting and tricksy, but not malicious. It is the best human blood I have ever sampled since the first.

“Bingle?”

“Yes, he volunteered. He said he wanted to contribute to the potion that will alleviate the curse. It seems that it mattered to him quite a bit,” says Loth, as he finishes draining his blood in a second chalice.

“Loth…”

“Ye were hurt by my fault, so I will give ye my blood in good faith tonight. Take it as a day off. A night off. Whatever.”

I stand up and take stock while he finishes. I am healed, yet still weak. It would be best if I do not have to fight anyone tonight.

“I believe I will take you up on that offer. Thank you, Loth.”

I drink the second chalice, a full cup of steel, mountain, and power. Although nowhere close to yesterday’s blood, it is still extremely potent.

“Thank you Loth! That was delicious!”

“Naturally. Now lass, we need to address your first follower.”

“My Vassal, Dalton.”

“Aye. The boy and I came ta an agreement. I need someone to clean around the garden, run some errands and spot me when I calibrate rifles. He’ll do. I also expect him ta make yer hunting easier. Smooth things out, as it were.”

I turn to Dalton.

“It’s a very good offer Mistress, I could never hope for such a good position anywhere else.”

“Good, so it’s settled then?”

“Aye, all that’s left is that you, ah, seal the deal so to speak...”

“Wh… What!?”

“…By drinking his blood.”

“Of course! Haha, yes, naturally.”

Loth gives me a knowing smile and leaves the tent.

“So…” says Dalton.

Why does he have to make it so awkward? It’s just… Hum, part of the deal! We just have to be intimate even though we met a week ago…

Is this how arranged marriage feels like?

Bah, I don’t want to think about this any longer. I approach Dalton who obediently tilts his head and embrace him.

He smells like soap, sunshine, and liquor. Not a bad mix. His pulse quickens… I lick the jugular and he swallows. The movement is so enticing. Slowly, I bite.

Ah… Yesssss.

So good.

It reminds me of that time with Aintza… The same arousal… Oh no! Hum! Let me lick this close with all haste and let him go. God, young men are so enthusiastic! Gah, this is embarrassing, but kind of fun. How I wish Jimena liked men. Then we could talk together and she could tell me more. We could even have many Vassals! Bring them together and have them walk around with nothing on their butts! We could stare at their butts! Even touch them!

“Teeheehee!”

“Mistress?”

“Nothing! Now, I really need to take a bath. Is there water?”

“There is a river a few hundred yards away. I could draw enough for a bath and warm it for you?”

“Silly Vassal! That would take aaaaaaaaages! Let me just go there. I don’t need warm water. Cold water will help me wake up! It forges the character!”

I step outside and immediately come across Loth, waiting for something.

“Ariane?”

“I’m going to take a bath!”

“We do have other things to discuss…”

“After the bath! Now, where is the river?”

“You… Want to bath in the river?”

“Of course not! Do you take me for a savage? Wait… OOoooooooh of course, thank you Loth!”

Silly me, to go out like that. I come back inside and pile my favorite jasmine soap of all time and clean clothes in the copper tub then drag it outside.

“Alright, I’m gone!”

“Ari…”

“Yes?”

“… The river is the other way.”

“Oooooh thanks, see you later Loth!”

I manage to drag the tub with me through the undergrowth and only fall twice and impact a single tree. I don’t know who planted that pine like that in the middle of the way, it’s so stupid! If I catch the rogue! Ugh.

The river is quite shallow and I only have to drag the tub to the edge, realize my stuff is still in it, take my stuff out, fill it with water and settle it in a nice secluded grove and ta da! It’s done. I jump in and start peeling the ruined uniform and flaking red stuff. Aaaaah but it is so good to be there. I can enjoy the light of the moon, the water, bubbly soap and the caress of the wind on my skin. Stars illuminate the sky while the relaxing light of the Silent Watcher stands as proof to its eternal vigil. The riot of colors and sounds form together a chaotic symphony both complex and so very alive. The night is beautiful, and it is mine.

I savor the moment and think back on yesterday.

Loth is right, we have much to discuss. I will have to tell him about the vision. He is my friend and needs to know what I saw.

Having a penis was a strange experience. I know how it feels now. Teehee. Oh my, I know how it feels to be inside of a woman! Truly remarkable. I am willing to bet some women would pay solid gold to feel what I experienced!

And what an experience it was. The slow and steady moves, the feeling of a warm body against my own, the moans of pleasure... This is so much more than I expected. It was amazing...

I stop and realize I am no longer applying soap. My left hand is cupping my breast and the other rests at the edge of my pubis.

I lower myself in the tub and raise my hips. Yes, Agna had raised hers, just so. They had rolled with a hypnotic motion…

I lower my right hand until it parts the blond hair, and then I stop again. I let it lie there, quiescent.

I always thought I knew all there is to know about sex. I saw animals go at it so I had a general idea about the process. I learned from the people around me that married couples do it to have children. I was told that men want it all the time and women give it. I understood that it could be painful or somewhat pleasant for us. Hussies are those who let many men have what they want from them and use it for their own benefits.

This is what I was led to believe. It is also a lie. Yesterday, Loth showed me what could be. He showed me that sex could be a source of incredible bliss for both partners, a felicity that transcends the physical into the quasi mystic.

When Agna climaxed, the sensation was so strong that she looked like she was dying. They shared this together. It was intense and beautiful. It was sacred.

I remember what Master did. It does not have to be that way. I do not have to surrender this to him, not to anyone. It can be mine. I could even share it with someone else, one day.

Maybe.

I lower my hand. My sex is flushed and wet, not with water but something much softer. It makes my fingers drift smoothly over my folds and that little nub of flesh that… Aaaaaaah.

My body spasms once around my core in a wave that expands throughout my entire body. I arc my back away from the water.

More.

I move two fingers in slow and large circular motions. I take my time and enjoy the feeling building inside of me. My finger brushes the little nub, again and again, slow and steady. I remember yesterday, Loth’s lips on her nipple. I use my other hand to touch and tease my own until the pink tips become hard and sensitive. I move progressively faster. I moan loudly and I don’t care.

After a while, I stop once more. I want to try things. I move my fingers horizontally or vertically, with more or less pressure. Sometimes my movements are slow, sometimes a little bit faster.

I remember when Agna impaled herself on Loth. The look on her face…

I move my hand lower and slide a finger in. So wet! Yes, she was moving just so, pushing him in. I move my hips as well and do not forget the little nub. I find a rhythm I like, slow but purposeful and I lose myself in it.

Time abandons its meaning, there are only the sensual dance and the pleasure that scours me. Eventually, the urge to reach something becomes too great. I play the nub again, faster, with a bit more strength. Something warm builds up inside. I want to know. I want to feel. I keep going on and on until I’m on the verge of something great. I keep going, almost there.

And then I climax.

Oh. My. GOD!

“Ooooohohoho yesss!!!”

For ten seconds my mind blanks as successive waves of ecstasy ravage body and mind. My body shivers and quakes around its center. Aaaaa soooo good!

I splash back into the tub and just stay there for a moment, unable to move. I haven’t recovered when an aftershock sends me into another shake that makes me curl my toes.

Wow!

This is great! Better than great! Aaaaa! For a while there, I could think of nothing! Why did I not hear of this earlier?! Who keeps this secret?! I swear that half of human conflicts would be solved on the spot if people experienced this daily! Hiding this is a disgrace, a vile conspiracy!!! So this is why vampires are rumored to enjoy lovemaking. It is a bloodless, victimless alternative to our usual fare, and without risks of disease and unknown pregnancy to boot! Aaaah this explains so much!

Hum!

I should try to get another one, for science’s purposes. It is only true if it is repeatable, is it not?

Thirty minutes later I finish dressing and start walking back to the camp, with a towel around my hair and the tub in tow.

Well, this was enlightening and relaxing. Much of the tension of these past few days has been lifted from my shoulders.

That said, perhaps I should not share my newfound knowledge with the men. I do believe it does not concern them. Hum, yes, this seems wiser.

I wouldn’t want them to get jealous! The poor things.

Rather soon I find my way back to the carriage. I only fall once, and someone else planted another damned pine in the middle of the way! Who would even do such a thing?

Three people wait in the small clearing, although I can see other campfires around and hear noises in the distance. I wave at them and promptly fall on my face.

Bah, the ground of the forest is so uneven! Unbelievable!

“What’s wrong with her?” I hear someone whisper.

“She’s drunk off her arse.” replies my friend.

“Loth of Skoragg! Je ne vous permets pas!”

“In English my dear.”

“Then let it be known that I find your grrrrrrroundless accusations... Scandalous!“

“My apologies, now we need to reach an agreement with the latest addition to our merry band.”

“Who?”

“Me!!!” Replies the newcomer, red with anger.

I get closer. This is a person of the male persuasion. Yes.

Ariane, of the astute observations!

It does not help me tremendously though.

“Uhhhhhhh.”

I turn to Dalton who taps his nose. Wait, is something wrong with the smell?

...

Delicious! What a wonderful fragrance! Ah, I remember now!

“Mmmmmmmmm.”

I scrunch my face with effort.

“MMMMMMMMMMMM.”

The others seem at a loss. Oh, just you wait.

“MMMMM AH! SYNOAD!”

“It’s Sinead! Sinead, you disrespectful wench!”

Dalton and Loth take a collective step back from the newcomer.

“I beg your pardon?” I say as I smile. Surely I misheard? I have been nothing but patient and respectful since we met.

“Do you have an issue with how you’ve been treated so far?”

Looking left and right, the Likaean realizes that the others are unwilling to help him with his current predicament.

“I believe I spoke too hastily.”

“It’s alright Senerad, it was wrong of me to mispronounce your name. I will endeavor not to do so again.”

Sinied glowers but says nothing. What a prickly fellow.

“I believe we were going to discuss his fate.”

“Oh yes! Enough distractions. So, hum. What should we do? I want to feed on him at some point”

“Well. I was hoping that you would not.”

“Hum!”

I tap my index against my chin. Well. It does sound like a sensible request. He is no danger to me and I feel quite full. Ah, but he is both magical and delicious... what to do?

“Unless you name him as your friend, I can drink from him but not kill him. We rescued that man, I believe that there is a debt. Besides, I would be stupid not to get some power from him. I can get much. “

“That’s the thing lass, I had a talk with Sinead and I believe that should you bite, you will drain him dry and we will not be able to pry you away.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes,” says the man himself, “I arrived in this land twenty years ago to look for my lost brethren. Alas, I failed to hide my nature at first and rumors of my happening drew the hated Nightwalkers of clan Roland to me! I was powerless before their strength, and they abducted me, dragged me to a hideout deep in the forests of Ardennes. There, I met others of my kind. I learned that we are mercilessly hunted and that our blood drives you mad the moment you taste it. A feeding is almost always fatal, therefore the red liquid is carefully harvested and used in potions that grant limitless power for a night. A vampire under the effect of our blood is nigh unstoppable. As I mentioned, we need to be kept alive for this to happen and our essence will not regenerate while the potion remains intact. Each captive thus yields a limited, but precious resource. We are under heavy guard, constantly.

Fortunately, I managed to fool the humans at dawn by using a mighty illusion. My deception was not detected until far too late. To my deep regret, I was unable to free the others and had to escape alone...”

Sinaiad’s expression is one of utter guilt. He left his people behind! Well, I am in no position to judge.

“I stowed on a ship headed for the New World, thinking it would be a haven where I could plan a daring rescue. I was mistaken. Human mages successfully detected my presence and abducted me. I was soon sold to the man your party slew yesterday. The rest, you know.”

The Likaean licks his lips nervously.

“While I was in the custody of this clan, I learned much and I would be willing to tell you, in exchange for safe passage.”

“Then are you a supplicant?”

“Mustemiqu? Ah, a supplicant. Yes.”

“Then kneel.”

The man turns red with fury.

I do not understand the rage I see in him now. Supplicants kneel. It is the way of things. It is what should be. We stand and listen, the Supplicants speak and kneel, and if an agreement is reached, we grant a favor.

Why the hatred?

“Ari...”

I turn to Loth with a raised eyebrow.

“His kind is enslaved by your kind. He is their leader by default. Kneeling to you is... a humiliation.”

“How does that concern the matter at hand? Is he not the Supplicant? Do I not listen?”

“I see... in this case, I would ask that you forgive the lack of decorum as a favor to me. Just this once.”

“I...”

I don’t know. I find the very proposal distasteful. If proper forms are not respected, then what does that mean for the proceedings? Are we honorless beasts, to discard traditions so easily?

“Is your skin so thin that you need the worship, vampire?” Asks Sinead, irate.

The haze I was in until now drops like water to be replaced by cold instinct and the death of empathy.

I move. I move faster than ever before despite my weakened state. My hand closes around his neck.

“Gah!”

“Ari! Please wait!”

“Perhaps forms are important to us for another reason? Perhaps we need it to balance our humanity and that part of us that calls you food?”

“Ari, please. Please!”

I drop my victim and turn around before I TAKE A TOE OR TWO. AND HIS TONGUE AS WELL.

“Safe passage in exchange for information was it?”

“Y... Yes.”

Loth is fraught with worry. The alien insulted the protocol. That puts him dangerously close to the oath-breaker category as far as I am concerned. I would drink him dry, but he clearly made a deal with Loth and it means I cannot drink from him? Confusing. Perhaps I should just kill him and be done with it...

No, I cannot do this to Loth. Not after what happened last night.

“I want this and blood. Your objections make little sense to me. You admitted that a potion can be drawn from his blood and that means there is a safe way to harvest it. I am not letting him go without a taste. You will find a way to provide it safely or I will take my chances.”

"Ari..."

"No! I bled and almost died for this, and refrained from feeding until we could reach a proper agreement. I have been more than reasonable! Blood, to be consumed on the spot, is to be part of this."

"I do not know how to properly harvest blood. The task was done by human alchemists in the employ of the Roland."

"Then Loth can help you draw it and preserve it in the chalice until I wake. If you are not around when I consume it, it should be safe."

Everyone is silent. I will not back down on this. The blood will be mine one way or the other.

"Very well Nightwalker. This is humiliating but you leave me with little choice. I agree to your terms. Blood and information in exchange for safe passage."

The annoying man leaves with a huff. I track his movement then return my attention to Loth.

“We need to talk.”

He points to the tent and we get in. I stand up and pace while he sits priestly on the only cot. I don’t know how to start. How do you admit something this big to a friend?

“Why are you trying to save Sinead anyway? You’re not exactly a bleeding heart.”

“Oh? Ye think me too generous in rescuing my fellow supernatural beings? Should I have been harsher?” He asks pointedly.

I stop in my tracks.

“I’m sorry Loth, I guess I deserved that one.”

To my surprise, he chuckles.

“Ye’re forgiven, but please say what ye want to say.”

“Aaaah how should I put it...”

I explain how I saw visions and describe the first one, the battlefield.

“Aye I remember, I remember well. ‘Twas my first real battle, it was. That’s where my old uncle Strum got the nickname of ball-crusher after he accidentally fell on an anvil.”

I ignore the juicy anecdote and tell him about the banquet. I describe the grey-bearded man in great detail.

“Aye, my father. Yes. He was so proud. Was there also a blond woman?”

“Hum, yes. She, huh, kept reaching for...”

“My cock, aye” I wince at the vulgarity, “that was Gerda, good old Gerda! We called her the virgin hunter. Half of my generation blew their first load in her hairy...”

“LOTH!”

“Alright, alright. Ye win. Next.”

I hesitate and lick my lips. I do owe him the truth. I don’t want to hide this. Those memories belong to him.

“You saw Agna for the first time. She threw manure at Skeggi’s face.”

Loth studies me.

“How did you know it was Skeggi?”

“I felt what you felt, learned what you thought. You were not thinking of that Gerda woman in the short interval I perceived.”

“I see.” He deliberately marks a pause. He knows what follows is the reason I feel embarrassed.

“I was you when you made love to Agna.”

The revelation is received a stunned silence. It takes a long time before Loth speaks again, long enough for the campfire outside to weaken. Long enough for Dalton to fall asleep in the tent next to mine.

“I don’t exactly remember her face. I tried to engrave it, but it never looked quite right. Metal is a poor medium to create the portrait of a loved one, I find. I never managed to form what I wanted. It always felt dead, a farcical attempt at capturing that which cannot be held. Like sand flowing between my fingers, ya know?”

Loth barely raises his head and looks at me. There is something there that I saw in Master, but also in Moor and even to an extent, Jimena. Agelessness. Before me stands an ancient being whose life has extended longer than some dynasties lasted.

“I destroyed every last one of them, and now I regret it. Memories grow hazy after a few centuries. Even a shadow of what she was would have helped me remember.”

So the mind lost its grip, but the blood remembers.

Loth sighs deeply. I give him some time as I realize that if he wanted an input he would ask for it. Entities of his age probably cherish moments of strong emotion as proof that they still live.

“What else?”

Loth doesn’t comment when I tell him about the rest. His only reaction is a bitter smile at the mention of his brother and wife’s betrayal.

“And that is all.”

“I see. Well. Thank ye for sharing, I appreciate that. It was bittersweet ta say the least. “

I hesitate for a while before asking the question that has been nagging me for a few minutes now. Loth is always straightforward. If he thinks it inappropriate, he will let me know.

“Just ask yer question lass.”

“How did you know!?”

“When you are thinking too hard you forget to breathe. Humans may not notice but I do.”

“Aaaah no, this is a good way to get caught.”

“Hahaha give it some time, and stop stalling!”

“Fine. Why did you never return?”

Loth freezes like a cat caught with its paw in the bowl of cream.

“... I’m scared of boats. Long travel distance between here and home, ya know?”

“Loth.”

“Also, many projects here, can’t decently just stop everything...”

“Loth!”

“I’m scared! There, ye got it. I did not leave on good terms and I was an important warrior for my family. Many bad things could have happened.”

“How about a letter?!”

“Damn good idea lass, I’ll just address it ta a clan of long-lived dwarves in the Kebnekaise mountain range somewhere in Sweden. The postmen could sure use a good laugh.”

I do not reply, instead, I reflect in silence. This does not sound like the Loth I have come to know, and yet do I really understand him? I have never seen him face something he could not immediately handle. I have never known true love either. My friend lost his soul mate and could not overcome his grief, not even in a century. Is he constantly escaping reality? Should I say something?

“Don’t be too disappointed in this old man, lass. The truth is that I care about my clan back home, and I miss them a lot. That doesn’t change the fact that I was used by them, manipulated and then betrayed by those who believed they could do better. I have given much, and should I return, I will be asked to give even more.”

I still say nothing. Loth made a few very good points and it does not matter. He is not doing anything because he is scared, that is the crux of the matter. I want to point it out. I also want to respect the boundaries he is currently setting.

“Damn it lass, you are doing that vampire thing again. Fine, fine. I… I admit that I am still running away. I won’t visit them but perhaps a letter will do. For starter.”

How is being silent so efficient?! Is it because I do not breathe nor move?

“It would bring you closure, my friend, if only that.”

“Right. Yea. I was considering it, ya know?”

Men are so good at self-deception, it is almost unreal. Well, time to change the topic. I shall verify later that he is indeed working on a proper means of correspondence.

“I want to ask, what happened after I fell into torpor?”

“We rested for an hour then moved everyone down. Bingle and I got rid of the handful of guards remaining. When we got outside there was a, well, a purge. The prisoners and freed servants picked seven among them and slaughtered them in the street. It was sudden and extremely violent. Bingle’s voice was drowned by the vengeful mob. It was not pretty.

After that, we all crashed down. In the morning, we gathered in a council to decide what to do. Bingle managed to steer the discussion effectively and it only took an hour to finish. Some decided to stay and take care of the cattle and fields. Those that left were allowed to take valuables and sundries to start over somewhere else, they are with us now. I’d estimate around fifteen people. Rose is here as well. She and Bingle have grown quite close.”

“Hum.”

Rose is both grounded and painfully honest. They could be a good match.

I want to ask about our plans but I can see that Loth is tired. Even though I just woke up, I feel exhausted as well so we both decide to call it a night.

27. Coming of Age

I wake up to the sound of animated discussion. I quickly don one of my armored dresses in dark blue and wonder if I should pick up my pistol. So far, I can only hear irate voices and the appearance of someone armed might do more damage than good. Let us try diplomacy first.

I step out of the tent and realize that we are at the edge of a native city of respectable size. An earthen pyramid dominates the vista in front of me, surrounded by wooden buildings that form a circle around it. Well-tended farms dot the valley as far as I can see, and a few campfires give the place a festive feeling.

Our campfire is not festive at all. Most of the escapees that elected to join us are in a circle of wagons to my left. The men stand around like sentinels and there is not a woman in sight. The voices come from a gathering a few paces away. Torches provide a reddish light to what I hope is just a heated negotiation.

On one side stands a frowning Bingle, an old man who I know has weight with the people we freed, and Loth. Only the Dvergur seems somewhat relaxed. I can feel Dalton from somewhere inside the circle.

On the other side is a most curious motley crew. The largest group is composed of men and women in light and colorful clothes. There are bells and jewelry in their hair, and pieces of mirrors hang from oversized necklaces. I notice at least one European and a few of the younger people are obvious mixed bloods. They are led by two siblings, a large man with a moustache and a red bandana and a shrewd looking woman.

I think the man’s moustache may even rival Bingle’s! Is it why they are trying to stare each other down? I always thought there would be a brotherhood of the great moustaches, yet it appears that they are competing for supremacy. Perhaps they need to establish a hierarchy first? Men are strange creatures.

My attempts at joining my allies discreetly are thwarted when the second part of the native group turns to me. They are dressed in more conservative undyed leather clothes.

Nashoba limps from the group and greets me with a radiant smile, which I return. The argument dies down and all attention turn to me.

Ah, this is uncomfortable.

“Greetings, Child of Thorn and Hunger.”

“Greetings Nashoba. What is this about?”

The circle expands to include me. After Nashoba’s voice dies down I get varied reactions from the colorful group. Many are wary while a few look at me with doubt in their eyes. The European openly scoffs, which does not bother me much. I would rather he believed pale ones to be a myth from the mind of gullible savages.

“The Muscogee of the Fox clan take exception to you crossing their land without license. The white men have been encroaching on them as of late. Tensions are running high, though the death of the defiler has bought you much goodwill.”

“And what are you doing here? You are not one of their own.”

“I came here to make sure those negotiations succeed. That alligator you killed is not the only thing hunting us and your help is required again.”

“Before we begin, I am not slaughtering entire villages of white folks for you, if that is what you were referring to.”

“Indeed not, child of Thorn, for this path would save no one. Ah, but our companions are losing patience, so let us listen to their whining and posturing for a while.” He adds with a smirk.

I did not remember him being so assertive. It appears that the past six months have been good to him.

It is the male Muscogee envoy who resumes the hostilities. He spews what I assume are scathing remarks to the rest of his band and wildly gestures at Nashoba and myself. I do not understand his language at all and apparently neither does the shaman. One of the Choctaw is growing increasingly red though, and I assume he is the interpreter. I notice that one of the women who picked Nashoba after I exacted my payment is here as well, although she is currently staring at the ground with rare intensity. Loth was correct. I did leave a lasting impression.

The harangue lasts until his sister grabs his sleeve. Two newcomers are walking towards us from the village at a brisk pace. I immediately recognize one of them to be the shy captive I freed from the Valiant’s camps.

Not so shy anymore. At the sight of me she frowns before turning to the assembly. Her speech is short and to the point. The woman envoy asks her a few questions which she answers curtly. A wind of fear and surprise washes over the crowd with one single exception: the white man is apparently unimpressed and grows increasingly angrier.

The male leader starts asking something, but the short woman cuts him off with an obvious rebuke and leaves without looking back. Her companion, an older lady, struggles to catch up.

I suppose my identity has been verified. The Muscogee group is filled with whispers and comments which I suppose is good, however the white man in native clothes is moving forward and is about to be annoying.

I look at Loth and he instantly grabs Bingle’s and the old man’s attention. My Dvergur friend is a rare treasure, to understand me so readily.

The nuisance and I cross eyes. I focus on him.

Hypnotizing people has always been difficult. Besides feeding, attempting to influence someone is always a hit or miss. This time, however, I can feel a tug. While not exactly subtle, I manage to push what I want to convey through the temporary bindings that connect us.

Stop.

Look.

Feel.

Understand.

Cower.

The world fades around me as the man stops in his track. I watch as his confused frown turns to bleak realization then to stark terror. He takes an involuntary step back.

The connection frays and I break eye contact just as the rest of his group reaches a consensus. They do not address the European group. Instead, the shrewd woman and Nashoba exchange a few words before retreating in the darkness.

The entire Muscogee delegation soon follows, including a bewildered stranger.

“I will need your help for a hunt, one week from now. In return, your people may go through unhindered. Those that remained will not be harassed. Do I need to convince you to join?”

“What is it that you want?”

“The world will not die in one day, nor will it be redeemed in one. I plant seeds that save and uproot others that destroy.”

“I hardly qualify as savior.”

“The Fallen Prince and the others behind you show otherwise.”

“… This was not entirely my decision.”

The shaman smiles sadly.

“It never is. Will you help me? Must I beg?”

“Yes, yes, I will. In one week. Where?”

“I will send you a dream.”

Well is that not convenient. Nashoba limps away, immediately followed by the rest of his small group. In short order, we are alone.

“What just happened?”

Ah I forgot about Bingle and the old man. How am I going to explain this?

One hour later, I stand in front of Sinead and Loth on the village’s outskirt.

I could tell that Bingle was doubtful about the shaman being a fellow archeologist, but our exchange in a "dead" language as well as the credit I garnered with him allowed the lie to pass. He even offered to accompany me on my next “archeological expedition”, which is how I sold the whole thing. Only the assurance that it would be night-long pottery inspections changed his mind. I am touched, but I would rather clean Melusine’s feet than attempt to hunt Nashoba’s next target without the full extent of my power. One brush with death per year is enough, please and thank you.

“Still nothing?”

“Well he does smell enticing, even from far away but I feel quite fine.”

“How long does it usually take to manifest?”

“Under a minute.”

“I see.”

Something is notable by its absence, something I have learned to live with for the past year.

The Thirst.

I feel fine.

It is still here, just somewhat sated. As if I had a light feeding.

“Can ye tell me how many people there are around us?”

I close my eyes and focus on heartbeats, the sound of footsteps and movements.

“Seventeen people in our camp. There are three sentries keeping an eye on us from behind that drying rack.”

I do not add that there is a couple in the middle of a furious coit in the nearest wagon. Hearing this made me feel uncomfortable, as if I were spying.

“Yes that’s twenty in total, good guess. Now look at the pyramid and tell me what ye see.”

I turn at the shape half a mile away.

“There is a stone door leading inside. It’s guarded.”

Loth’s eyes widen in surprise.

“Well I’ll be. Can ye try to move quickly?”

I do so and finish the movement behind him. As I touch his shoulder, he jumps with a short yelp.

“Hooooly cow Ari, don’t ye frighten me like that girl,” he says, breathless “my old heart cannot take it, ya know? “

“It felt faster than even yesterday.”

“Aye, I know what’s happening. It’s incredible! Ari, ye’re on the path to becoming a Courtier.”

“What? What do you mean a Courtier? I thought I was still a fledgling for another year!”

“Well…” Loth says, eyeing Sinead with suspicion.

“I assure you” retorts the offended party, “I have no interest in sharing information with your enemies. They are mine as well, if you recall.”

We do not say anything, because we know his comment is worthless.

“… Very well, I swear an oath to secrecy.”

“Right. Ari, your Devourer bloodline must be hastening yer growth. How many powerful creatures have ye drained since ye awoke?”

I think for a while. Sinead gasps in horror.

“How many creatures have you killed, Nightwalker?”

“Well, I fully drained two mages, three werewolves including two with Loth’s help and one vampire. I got blood offered in good will by one mage, one blessed human, that would be Bingle, one powerful vampire Courtier and one centuries-old Dvergur. ”

“… Yeah that would do it.”

“By the grove! In one year?”

“I have been busy. In any case, you are telling me that one year was enough? I assumed that it was fixed, like pregnancy.”

“It is not. Constantine said it took him only a year and a half. You are probably setting some sort of record, though you would need to compare yourself to others of your kind if you want a benchmark. And yes, I am aware that this is impossible. I suspect that it is as fast as it can get while retaining one’s sanity. Your Master’s other creations grew significantly faster, but they were hand-fed, so to speak.”

“You are a scion of the Devourer?”

I expected fear in Sinead, instead he is contemplative.

“Yes. And?”

“Your Master has a bit of a reputation in Europe. It is said that every century or so, a faction tries to take him out for one reason or another.”

“Foolish.”

“That is what is said, yes. They also say that he is always true to his word, both in letter and in spirit.”

“Are you sure? He made me to pressure someone he was negotiating with.”

“I never said he was kind, only that when the bargain is struck, he will stick to it. I choose to believe that his blood runs true.”

“Hssss.”

“Regardless of your opinion of him, you are of his bloodline.”

I find no trace of contempt on Sinead’s expression. This was not an insult, merely an observation that he deems important. It is true that from his perspective, all vampires must be equally threatening. If someone is ripping your throat open, why care if they have four or eight fangs?

“Fair enough, I suppose. Now, does somebody know what is happening?”

“I can tell you, since it is part of our agreement. Your host can attend as well.”

Sinead clears his throat and proceeds with the lecture.

“During my seven years of captivity, I managed to gather quite a few tidbits of information from my jailors, be they humans or vampires. The conditions of drone and fledgling, you already know. The title of Courtier is more informal in the sense that it is traditionally bestowed by one’s clan. There are several aspects of a vampire’s powers one must master before they obtain this recognition, Those specific elements vary from clan to clan and reflect the organization’s mindset and priorities. For example, the Hastings require the completion of a complex project while the Roland base it on ability in one’s chosen field.

I am not familiar with what your Sire would ask of you to acknowledge you, and I doubt it would matter.

Concretely a Courtier is an adult vampire. The majority of vampires are at this stage, as it takes around a century to reach the next threshold in your development. The only real constant is that contrary to fledglings, Courtiers can go two days or more between feedings and stay awake for the whole night.

Aspiring Courtiers typically start by improving their powers: Charm, Senses and Movements. Those are what separates Vampires from the rest of the mortals, besides your many weaknesses.”

“Could you elaborate?”

“Yes,“ replies Sinead scathingly, “I was leading to it. You already experienced them. Charm alters the mortals’ perception; Senses is exactly what it says, and Movements is what allows your kind supernatural displays of strength and speed.”

“I can already do all of that.”

“Not to the best of your abilities, I believe. For example, the pyramid’s door you inspected earlier has a small statue at the top.”

Surprised, I check the earthen mound again and yes, there is something at the top of the white stone door. I try to focus on it, instead, my vision turns blurry and my head starts to hurt.

“It will come with time and practice, like most things. In any case, you have your work cut out for you. Now, let us continue.”

Sinead carries on his lesson for a good two hours before my brain finally cries for mercy. My precious notebook finds itself filled with valuable information on various clans, major figures and ideologies. Little of that is of use to me now besides two critical pieces of information.

The first is that there are three main political alliances in the community that covers Europe, the Middle-East, and North Africa. Their members shift to a degree, but not by much.

Eseru is the group of hidden kingdoms, entire cities subverted to an openly vampiric ruling class. They have groups everywhere but mostly in the East and South of the region.

Masks are partisans of secret dominion. They have a strong artistic and hedonistic side and a pull on several governments. They are mostly present in the United Kingdom, France, and Italy.

Followers of the Path are a diverse bunch dedicated to causes outside of the more political spheres of influence, such as scientific and magic research.

It appears that the community in Louisiana represents all three, which is rather surprising considering that they are currently at war. This is the second piece of news and it surprises me a lot. I expected vampire conflicts to be short, violent and usually one-sided. Instead, much time is spent on preparation for decisive strikes, plots within plots are revealed or unraveled every day and allegiances shift according to inscrutable arrangements. It even appears that they try to avoid fatalities whenever possible. I recognize that when I killed Charlotte, it put me at odds with our usual rules of engagement.

Ah whatever, Melusine is next. That tramp.

“This concludes my presentation on European Vampire politics. I realize that human minds are fragile and feeble things and I see no objection to continuing tomorrow.”

“Yes, that would be for the best.” I answer with fraying patience. “I need a break anyway.”

I return to the encampment to find Dalton almost falling asleep on his feet.

“Mistress?”

“How are you feeling, besides exhaustion of course.”

“My ribs hurt and the road is not helping. I will be fine though. Say, be careful about Sinead.”

“Ah?”

Dalton rubs his eyes and stares in the distance.

“Heard of his kind, I did, from my grandmother. I was born further North and my folks are from Ireland. She spoke of one like him, with big eyes, pointy ears and shiny hair that looks too colorful to be from this world.”

Besides the hair it sounds like the Likaean indeed. Perhaps it will grow back?

“She called them the Fae. She said they like to play around and that not everyone survives their games. They are cruel and callous. Their amusement is all that matters to them. Our lives are worthless because they are so ephemeral, she said. Be careful. Sinead may be a victim, and an assailant too.”

I pause, contemplating. Do I care? I don’t want to get close to the man anyway.

“Thank you Dalton. Our bargain was already struck, however I shall remember his contempt for mankind. You should sleep. You look exhausted.”

No sooner have I said those words that the young man falls on his cot. He is out in seconds.

I reach our tent and find Loth writing in his own notebook. He closes it when I approach.

“Yes?”

“I was wondering what we were going to do now that our objective is complete?”

“We are going to the limit of settled lands, a place called fort Barrington which we should arrive in tomorrow. We’ll report our findings to the authorities and split up with Bingle and the settlers there. Then we head home and prepare for your hunt. Ah but it is good to head home from a raid, ya know? Though I would have preferred more loot…”

“What about the Likaean.”

“He will accompany us. By the time you return, he will be gone. I’ll put him on a ship to South America.”

“Good. Well, that is all. I’m going for a walk.”

“Enjoy.” He answers with a predatory smile.

I walk outside and away from the others. When I have reached the edge of the valley, I start to run.

Finally alone. It feels good. It feels good to let go, to run around with no immediate need to hunt, no need to patrol or come back. Just me and the land. I enjoy the wind on my face, the earth and roots under my feet, and the sounds of the night, alive around me. I move in bursts of speed just because I can. Sometimes, my dress gets snagged or I stumble but it does not ruin my fun. The dress I wear is sturdy and so is the body it covers. For a good hour, I trot and sprint across the land with no direction.

I am alive.

My Master took my life and future from me and I turned this curse into a new beginning. I survived and endured and reclaimed. Now, I can choose and carve my own path. It will be difficult but for now, I can let go.

“Hahahahaha!”

I run and run and run. I only return an hour before dawn, mind clear and hair riddled with broken twigs. I look wild, and I care not.

28. Like Herding Cats pt. 1

“What is this place?” I ask as I exit the sarcophagus.

“We are inside the Tillerson plantation house Mistress. The largest and most expensive manor in a hundred-mile radius! The furniture was made by a famous Philadelphia artisan and it has no less than forty windows. Please note the wonderful Corinthian column on the front porch, so lovely.” Says Dalton, deadpan.

I am grateful that vampires rise fully awake.

“The Tillerson are very proud of the place, aren’t they?”

“Yes, Mistress. They explained everything in great detail. Took one bloody hour.”

“And I assume that we reached fort Barrington safely during the day?”

“Yes Mistress.”

“And we have become their guests because…?”

“Why Mistress, how could Cornelius Tillerson let a good act such as this rescue remain unpunished? Of course, he must show the hero of the moment, sir Cecil Rutherford Bingle, to all of his posh friends! We are invited to the ball.”

“Loth has been unable to leave?”

“Unable and unwilling. We only arrived two hours ago, so leaving would have been unreasonable. Not to mention, suspicious.”

“What does suspicion have to do with anything?”

“We do not all have sir Bingle’s winning charisma, Mistress. See, the brave man credited us for many things. Except, I’m not exactly hero material and Loth is a bit odd. Not to mention a few widows and spinsters have been sweet on him. Never good to steal the women the first day in a new place, I can tell you. Was hoping you could use your legendary persuasion to smooth things out.”

And by "smoothing things out" he does not mean killing everyone here, this time.

“Very well, but I want to clean up first.”

“I’ll have the servants bring water.”

The bedroom I am in is small but well furnished. It is too impersonal to be cozy, but I can appreciate the effort. As I finish picking leaves and twigs from my hair a harried-looking black woman drags a pot of tepid water inside before leaving without a word. I have helped organize enough receptions to know that improvising one is a tiring and thankless ordeal.

The Thirst takes me as I finish putting on Nashoba’s earrings and a mother of pearl necklace. The royal blue dress I wear is too practical to be elegant, unfortunately. At least, it is well cut and should serve adequately.

I exit the bedroom and find myself in a corridor of respectable size, and I admit to being impressed. The Tillerson mansion is large indeed, and expensively decorated. I would think that more money than sense had been thrown at our surroundings. As the guest, however, I am also grateful for the care and will refrain from commenting.

Dalton has been waiting for me faithfully. I notice that he is much more polished than his usual self. He is clean-shaven and his hair is combed back and even waxed. He has become darkly charismatic, the kind of men fathers are afraid of when their daughters come of age. A well-cut suit helped him transition from outlaw to prodigal son.

Good. This image is more respectable than the last and should help him in serving me.

“Offer me your arm.”

“Mistress? You… Are Thirsty?”

“No! Well, yes, but that is not what I meant. Offer me your arm so that we may walk together.”

“Aaaah. Of course.”

I grab him and we move towards a set of stairs. I can hear quite a few people making merry below, as well as the scent of alcohol, vitality and sweat. And also…

I stop Dalton with a gesture and knock on a nearby door.

“Excuse me! Hello?”

It is soon opened by a mortified man in the uniform of a butler. One of his hands is behind his back to hide the proof of his crime: a half-empty bottle of fine scotch.

“Hrm. May I help you miss…”

When our eyes meet, I hit him with the full power of my hypnosis. With one small push, he tumbles back inside.

To my dismay, his bow tie is in the way so I must feed on his arm. Well, nevermind.

When I am finished, I return to Dalton and leave my donor in the haze he was so desperately seeking. It seems that it is impossible to find good help anywhere nowadays. Oh well, that is feeding taken care of for tonight I suppose.

“Where is Sinead anyway?”

“Oh, he mentioned something about filthy humans stinking up the air and left for the forest. If we’re lucky a wolf will eat him…”

“Not before I get my due I hope!”

“I believe, however, that some naïve daughter will give birth to a child with strange hair nine months from now.”

“…”

That sounded personal. I am starting to think that someone in his family may have rolled in the hay with the wrong species. Hum. I shall leave those thoughts for some other time as we approach our destination.

The ballroom is at the back of the property and it seems the party is already in full swing. Groups of revelers have spilled over the main hall and the garden beyond through open French windows. I notice the conservative yet expensive garb of wealthy landowners in light colors, but also more than a few army uniforms in dark blue, quite close to my dress in fact. I wonder if Loth did it on purpose? It would not surprise me, coming from the crafty old bugger.

We are stopped at the entrance by a man in a butler outfit who is as puffed up as a singing bird. The self-importance radiating from his scowling features is remarkable.

He considers Dalton with obvious distrust. I, however, seem to pass some kind of test. The condition of one’s skin in the South is an easy way to determine their position in society. Anyone with a white and healthy skin is hidden during the day and sleeps at night. Thus, they must be rich.

The dress and understated jewelry as well as my posture only reinforce this image. In half a second, the gatekeeper has deemed me worthy.

“Who should I announce, miss?”

“Ariane Delaney.”

“Oh! You are… Hm. Forgive me.”

The man is flustered by his breach of decorum. Well, I cannot blame him as I can already hear Loth’s roaring laughter.

“Miss Ariane Delaney!” Announces the man to the crowd, to the general indiff…

Why is everyone looking at me?

“Miss Delaney, over here!” says Bingle in the center of the room.

I bypass several groups of people, smiling and nodding to any guest meeting my eyes. Dalton follows me in like a shadow before merging into the crowd, unnoticed.

Soon, I arrive before a group of people who I assume are the instigators of tonight’s unexpected celebration. I notice in passing that Rose is absent from Bingle's arm. I hope she is not being snubbed.

“Miss Delaney, it is so good to see you! Here, let me present to you our most excellent and generous Hosts: Cornelius Tillerson,”

He indicates a jolly fellow with a large grey beard and mustache. His well-cut suit struggles to contain a gut, his nose is already quite red and his glass is empty, not the first one tonight I’d wager. The master of the house is a man who indulges it seems.

“… Lydia Tillerson…”

His wife is much younger than him. She is also gorgeous and elegant. With her slightly graying hair, she is the very image of a mature beauty. Loth would be pleased.

She smells of sex. This is rather interesting because her husband does not.

“… And their daughter Cecily!”

The last member of the assembly has unfortunately inherited her father’s traits, although I have seen worse. What she lacks in beauty, she makes up for in self-confidence, and her calculating eyes hint at a keen intelligence.

Since the introductions are done, I curtsy only for Cornelius to shove his hand in my face.

I give him my own fully expecting a proper kiss, instead the man pumps it like he expects me to spit crude oil.

“The heroine of the hour! Bingle here mentioned your courage! A true testament to American women you are, not like those pale flowers the Brits seem to like, hah!”

“Haha. Surely Mr. Bingle is exaggerating. He and my uncle did most of the work.”

“He also said you were modest.” He replies with a sly smile.

“Corny dear, stop hogging the poor woman, you will scare her!”

“Is it true that you deceived a room full of guard and clobbered one of them?”

Why does he make it sound so uncouth?

“Well, there were two of them. The other was guarding Dalton.”

“Hah! HAHAHAHA by God Bingle, you missed one! Aaaa thank you my girl, I have not laughed that hard in a long time. Now. Why don’t you and Cecily enjoy yourselves with the young people while we crusty old folks reminisce about the past! My friends would never forgive me if I do not give their sons a chance to court you. Now go! Enjoy and be merry, and come back to us when you have made the round!”

The young woman immediately locks arms with me while Cornelius and Bingle resume their previous discussions under the lady of the house’s tolerant gaze. She drags me from group to group and introduces me to more people than I care to remember. I answer a barrage of repetitive questions with all the charm and patience I can muster. Am I engaged? No but I have prospects. Is it true I manipulated a group of men and used violence on one of them in order to save my uncle and the adventurer? It certainly is. Someone heard that I shot a pistol in someone’s face at point blank range. That last rumor, which I deny in vain, makes me popular among the soldiers and younger people, not so with the more conservative fringe of the room. For some reason, I have a particularly warm reception from the women. I am willing to bet that quite a few of them would find swinging a club at their rivals a therapeutic experience.

I am leaving a group of scowling spinsters when I catch a warning sign from the corner of my eyes. Dalton is frantically gesturing in several directions.

Ah, it seems that I am being corralled. A few men in uniform are making their way across the crowd. I immediately spot the leader by virtue of his cloth being the shiniest, turn around and stop.

“What is it?” Asks Cecily.

“Someone could not wait their turn.”

To her credit, my companion does not inquire more. Instead, she moves closer to me to offer a united front.

In moments, a tall officer with a clean-shaven face and piercing brown eyes appears from the edge of a herd of guests. He is wearing a powdered white wig despite the sweltering heat. Whether it is by vanity or love for decorum, I cannot tell. His eyes fall on me with a frown.

Yes, I was expecting you. What I was not expecting is for you to smell of sex and of Lydia Tillerson. This is an abuse of his position as guest. It makes me want to kill him.

“Miss Delaney?”

“Yes?”

“Would you please...”

“And who might you be?”

The man’s face ticks in anger at being interrupted. This is a trick I learned from Papa. People in a position of power are not used to opposition. If they are thwarted, their first reaction will almost always be to threaten.

“I am captain Lannes of the United States army, and you would do well to follow me.”

“Is there an issue, Jonas?” Asks my neighbor.

You just lost the home advantage Jonas, let us see if I can take it for myself.

“I have some questions for your guest, nothing serious I assure you.” Says the Officer with a strained smile.

“Then surely you can ask them here.” I suggest loudly. A few people are starting to turn to us, sensing the tension in our respective postures. I could have been surprised that Cecily supports me instead of someone she lives with. I am not. My stay with the Lancaster taught me that people are always eager to employ newcomers as tool in an ongoing conflict. The rigid officer is not on his first offense, it seems, and Cecily is not someone I would offend lightly.

Now to see if he stays or retreats.

“I was very impressed by your uncle’s tale Miss Delaney. There is no need for hostility. I merely wanted to clarify a few points. As a member of law enforcement in those savage lands, it is my duty to shed light on your extraordinary adventure.”

Cute save, mortal.

“I notice that you still haven’t asked a question.”

“Your aggression does you a disservice Miss Delaney, it almost looks suspicious.”

“I confess, I am guilty of running out of patience. Ask your questions and be gone Jonas, we still have many guests to greet. “

Poor Jonas. You cannot touch me and we both know it.

“... Very well. What’s your relationship with the group of outlaws known as the Valiant Companions?”

“There isn’t one.”

“Really?” He smirks. “Then can you explain why you came here arm in arm with one of its members?”

“And who would that be?” I answer immediately. The immediate riposte catches him off-guard. If he expected guilt and fear, I am going to disappoint him.

“Do not play coy. I am referring to Mr. Dalton.”

“Is he a member of the Valiant Companions?”

“... Yes?”

“Curious, I would expect him to be in chains then, since he is an outlaw. No?”

Silence.

I am aware that I am playing a dangerous game. The best would be to avoid the conflict. That would mean that they attempt to corner me for the rest of the evening however, and I am not letting that happen.

“Mr. Dalton’s pardon does not absolve him of his crime before the Lord.”

“I suppose that is between them then, was there anything else?”

“...Yes, in fact, there is. I find it hard to believe that a woman with an interest in ancient writings could manipulate a room full of guards and neutralize one with a single hit.”

“You are mistaken in your assumption sir. I have plenty of experience in making men do what I want.”

This gets me a few chuckles from the growing circle of people following the exchange. Wit will triumph over honesty here.

“As for neutralizing a guard, I come from a long line of hunters. The nape of the neck has ever been a vulnerable area.”

“Indeed. What an interesting pair you two are. Say…”

The officer asks a flurry of questions about Loth, myself, our relationship and so on. I am not sure what he expected. I created Ariane Delaney over six months ago. I know this persona as well as an experienced actor knows their favorite character.

After half a dozen questions the man relents and leaves with a polite farewell. I watch his back recede into the crowd and the spectators of our altercation return to their groups. We are departing this place tomorrow so we should be fine.

“Are you alright Ariane?”

I sigh deeply.

“I apologize for this display of hostility. I did not mean to ruin the mood of the party but I could not just stand there and suffer those shameless accusations.”

“Please, my friend, it is I who should be apologizing. Captain Lannes’ misplaced zeal has brought us no end of problems. He is as rigid as he is obtuse in his management of every issue to everyone's dismay. He cares not about spreading strife and misery so long as his precious law is upheld.”

“Fiat Justitia, Ruat Caelum?”

“Precisely. Justice should serve the common good in my opinion. If we could redeem as we punish, the world would be better for it. His way leaves us with no teeth and no eyes.”

We continue our round though I see that Cecily’s mood has plummeted after our talk. Her dislike runs deep.

We have just left my drunk “uncle” with a trio of mature ladies when Dalton crosses our path.

“I am sorry to interrupt Mistress. Rose needs your help.”

“She does? Cecily, I must beg your pardon.”

“Oh do not mind me Ariane, I have been a poor host for the past hour. Some fresh air will do me good. Take care, and do enjoy the party!”

“Thank you Cecily, We should meet again later.”

Dalton leads me through a servant access to a kitchen filled with rushing staff and a side corridor. Nobody questions our passage.

“Are you acquainted with the staff?”

“Yes, before you came I assisted them with the party preparations.”

“Well done, Vassal.”

Dalton shivers.

“Thank you Mistress. It’s over there.”

I follow Dalton into a room that looks suspiciously like my own. We are still on the first floor, which means that this is the guest wing. I am surprised to see Rose is accompanied by a timid young woman in a grey dress, currently sitting on a large armchair. As I enter, Rose pats her companion's hand in an awkward attempt at comfort.

She is concerned and the girl, terrified. I can see it, and smell it. Curious.

“What is this about?”

“Rose…” says the newcomer. " I thank you, however I must beg..."

“Yes, yes, I will do as you say, though I do not approve. Ariane, I leave the young miss in your capable hands and shall return to the ballroom. Do let me know how things pan out, please.”

Rose leaves and closes the door behind her. I do not say anything, for her perfume leaves me no doubt. That girl is also a Vassal.

After six months of isolation, I have been found.

Before I can decide what to do the young woman stands up, gathers her courage and kneels with her throat exposed in the traditional supplicant gesture. How could I miss the two thin scars on her jugular? And why is she asking for me?

Can Vassals become someone else’s supplicant? Is this adultery?

Vassals are special, they are not cattle or prey but trusted seconds and aides. I feel towards her the barest hint of what I felt towards Baudouin: an unwillingness to harm, as if touching her were taboo. I now understand one of the most vital facets of their personalities: Vassals are willing. Dalton chose me of his own volition, fully knowing who, and what, I am, and this woman is the same. She seeks my help because I am a vampire, and to her vampires can be trusted.

It is decided, I shall assist her if I can guarantee my safety. Good Vassals are precious things and protecting one for a fellow denizen of the night is a matter of... Let us say professional courtesy. Although nothing compels me to do so, I shall assist if only for the goodwill it will get me.

Yes, I can feel it in my soul. I am no longer in danger. A supplicant is harmless to me, for they seek my power and in exchange, I will always be able to ask enough to protect myself.

“Speak.”

“My name is Inez. I came here as an envoy for my Master to attend to some business matters. Unfortunately, I was followed here by my previous husband.”

Fear, no, stark terror mars her face. Now that I look further, I notice that she has a scar on her right brow and the telltale of badly fused bones. She also bears faded marks or her left cheekbone and her lip. I do not need to see her body to know that she has suffered some terrible abuse.

“I take it that you did not part amicably?”

Inez lets out a strangled laugh that quickly turns into a sob. Annoying. WEAK VASSAL. WOUNDED. Well, I can protect and calm her down, I even know how to do it.

I approach the woman and place my hand on the top of her head. I caress her skin with the lightest touch and let my claws part the strands of hair. Slowly, she regains some measure of inner peace.

“Thank you, Mistress. I… he, he is here for me. With his brothers and servants. I saw him. I left to hide but he will find me. He will never let me go!”

“Shhh. Your master is protecting you, I presume?”

“Yes. Rodrigo was warned and even punished, but he never takes no for an answer and never will. Oh, when my Master hears of this… Ah, it matters little. My nemesis is here now. I will not survive to see revenge, for his twisted sense of honor calls for my death! If I am not his then no one else can have me, he said.”

“Focus, Inez.” I add quickly. “And ask your favor.”

“Mistress, I cannot ask for mortal protection. Most judges believe that marriage is until death and many would return me to my husband to be disciplined! Please protect me!”

As expected.

“If I guarantee your safety for tonight, what will you give?”

“Not blood, I cannot… I have nothing…. A favor Mistress? Please, I beg you. Lord Suarez always pays his debts.”

I have never heard from this man, which means he is probably one of the Charleston vampires. I am in a unique situation to create a bond I may use in the future, at the low price of defending this mortal. This is most likely a boon.

“A favor and secrecy from you and your Master. I do not want my presence here to be known.”

“Yes, I can promise this. If you save me your secret will be safe with us! Lord Suarez will agree, I would bet my life on it.”

“Agreed. Now hide behind the bed, quickly. You too Dalton. Now.”

They obey with commendable swiftness like proper Vassals. I sigh as I unbutton the top of my dress and slide it off my shoulder. Whatever happened to relaxing evenings? Is this a continuation of the Bingle effect?

Is the man contagious?

Footsteps close in on us, the same footsteps I have heard noisily checking rooms for the past minute. My door is banged open by a tall and virile man dressed in black. I take in warm brown eyes, a mustache, and an anchor beard before I turn with fabric hiding my bared breast.

“Oh no! Lo Siento!”

A little bit late for apologies mister.

“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!!!!!”

The intruder slams the door closed and takes off, leaving his prize and his dignity behind. Let’s make sure he does not return.

“PERVERT! HELP! HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELP!”

I hear swearing in the distance. I rush to the window and see a form disappear in the tree line at a corner of the manicured garden.

I finish buttoning my dress as the Vassals emerge from their hiding spot. Dalton looks quite proud.

“I think we will not see him again tonight, Mistress.”

“And you would be mistaken, my dear Dalton. People like him do not give up.”

We drag Inez to the bedroom opposite ours, mercifully empty, and order her to lock herself in until she hears from us. The butler who introduced me is walking towards us with thunder on his brow by the time we are finished.

“Was it you who screamed like that? What happened?”

“A stranger entered the bedroom I was using to readjust my dress! This is scandalous!!!”

I describe the intruder with pleasurable anticipation. I could, of course, follow the man and incapacitate or even slaughter him. There would be a risk, even should the bodies disappear.

There is no need for this, however, I do not even have to dirty my hands. There will always be opportunities for violence and good hunts. Now is the time for an elegant solution.

“Are you saying that there is an intruder? Here? In the house of the Tillersons?!” answers the butler with outrage.

“I looked out the window and saw a shadow approaching the wall sir. I am so scared! Are we not safe even here, in this beacon of civilization?”

If the man inflates his chest any more, he will surely explode.

“This shall not stand. Rodgers, to me, let us see what this is all about.”

“I beg you sir, be careful!”

We go back the way we came. Before reaching the kitchen, we turn to a side door that is apparently used for deliveries and cross it. While I and a few servants wait on the sideline, the butler, a strong old man and Dalton walk stealthily into the treeline.

Less than a minute after. We see them rushing back.

The butler reaches us, looking a bit lost. My ever-useful Vassal takes the lead.

“There is a full carriage Mistress Ariane, with quite a few horses. I counted four men and there are probably more around the property. They have clubs and sticks.”

“We are beset by bandits! I must warn Mr. Tillerson.”

“No, they are not bandits. They only sent one man to look around and they have weapon to beat, not kill. They are looking for someone.” I add.

The butler looks at me with no small amount of confusion. Before my expertise in illegal activities is looked into, I lead the conversation towards more interesting grounds.

“It is time to call for reinforcement sir. I suggest we ask the soldiers for assistance.” I say, and turn to leave. Dalton immediately follows and the poor man is carried by the wave of the small group of servants we have gathered. People are starting to whisper excitedly.

We turn a corner of the mansion and reach its back. As expected, the party has spilled over and a large group of inebriated soldiers and male landowners is currently watching a weasely corporal in an ill-fitting uniform juggle an impressive number of knives.

“Hrm, gentlemen, please!”

Over twenty people grant me their attention.

“I am terribly sorry to impose upon your evening, however circumstances dictate that we beg for your help.” I add meekly. I then turn to the butler at my side.

“Hrm, yes! Gentlemen, my name is Jonathan and I am the butler for this estate. We have spotted a group of ill-meaning…”

I watch him recount his discovery and the inebriated minds of the group turns to violence with commendable speed. I am moving towards my goal and I have yet to use any of my vampire powers. This is fun and flattering! As soon as the butler is done I decide to stir the crowd in the right direction.

“Please, will you brave soldiers defend us? Who knows what those rogues are after!? They could be here to abduct women!”

“A threat!? A challenge!? Now that’s my kind of party!” yells a red-hair lieutenant with a waxed handlebar mustache. “Wilkins, take your men to the back entrance and circle around. Jackson you and your lads do the same from the delivery road. The rest, with me. When we start the scrap, jump them.”

“Yes sir!”

The drunkest group moves straight forward with surprising stealth. I follow at a good distance while Dalton and the butler, and a quite a few civilians, join their improvised squad.

A moment later the line of men disappears into the trees except for the weasely man who climbs one of them. A minute passes and my hearing picks up hard breath and rustling until the lieutenant’s voice breaks the relative silence

“WHY GOOD EVENING LADS!”

Immediately after, the sound of war cries, charge, counter charge and a merciless melee starts and dies within the span of twenty heartbeats. It is not long before a procession returns to us from the garden gate. The soldiers line up with a few trussed up captives between them and I take the time to congratulate them and listen to their boasts one by one. WELL DONE PUPPETS. I AM PLEASED. Yes, quite pleased. This was done without anyone seriously hurt. Poor Jonathan has the beginning of what is going to be a spectacular bruise yet it does not seem to diminish his pride in the slightest. Well done my minions, well done indeed.

“You are making a mistake! We are here on a mission of honor to reclaim a liar and a whore! She will not escape her fate!” says Inez’s ex-husband.

“So you are after the women!” I retort before he can take back any control of the situation. The accusation is met with the righteous roar of the assembly. Yes, how dare they sneak about to steal your women...

“Don’t worry, "friend", you’ll tell us everything we want to know real soon. Come on lads, to the barracks!”

With a victory cry, the soldiers leave while the happy civilians toast their resounding victory and battle prowess. Soon, the enemy troops numbered in the dozens, were all the size of Goliath and carried enough swords to equip a regiment of hussars. Ah, what beautiful tales we get when male pride and liquor intersect.

I cross my arms, satisfied. And that, as they say, is that.

29. Like Herding Cats Pt. 2

I am walking back to the manor when Rose storms out in a panic. She immediately spots me and rushes to my side. From the red in her cheeks, I can tell that she has been running for a while.

She still stinks of tainted blood.

Gah, what is it with tonight? Can I not enjoy this party in peace? Is it too much to ask that the world polices itself for one evening?

“Miss Ari, your uncle asks for you, he has been challenged to a shooting competition and turned it into a three-on-three public match. Everyone is waiting!”

Seriously...

Seriously!

I raise my eyes to the Silent Watcher and think “can you believe this?” I get a vague feeling that it is not impressed. Fair enough.

“Dalton, take Inez and make sure she stays safe. There could be more of them.”

“Yes, mistress.”

“And Dalton? Be careful my Vassal.”

“I will be.”

He leaves without a word. I am lucky to have him around. How did I manage society without his helpful presence?

Ah, yes, I have been living like a recluse for six months. I was not managing anything.

I stride towards the front of the house and notice in passing that the ballroom is empty. This explains the lack of reaction we got when the soldiers returned victorious. The other revelers did not hear us.

The garden in front of the manor is a meticulously kept lawn. The party-goers have gathered in a semi-circle around two targets. My uncle and his three giggling girl friends are forward and to the left while Captain Lannes and his three stooges mirror him on the right. In the middle of it stands Cecily, currently playing the violin. In the distance, someone set up two target practice dummies. They are at least thirty paces away from the crowd and surrounded by lit torches.

I cannot believe my own eyes. They are serious about this.

Loth notices me and has the audacity of winking. I roll my eyes and join him on the lawn, feeling the heavy weight of the crowd's attention weighing on my back.

I turn around. The center of the semi-circle is occupied by our hosts and Bingle, the guest of honor. He seems a bit upset though when our eyes meet, I am graced with the most awkward and exaggerated nod I ever received.

Cecily finishes her piece, a respectable performance, and joins her parents. Loth untangles himself from his improvised harem and struts forward. His booming voice soon fills the clearing.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, fine people of fort Barrington, good evening! My name is Loth Delaney and I have the honor of being yer guest tonight, as well as yer entertainer for a very specific event. And what an event it will be! Indeed, ladies and gentlemen, my martial abilities, my very skills as a marksman have been questioned! Can any Southern Gentleman let this challenge stay unanswered? Nay! And what better way to dispel such a notion than a good and proper demonstration, I ask? There is none! For deeds speak louder than words! As the provoked party, I took the initiative to select a format that will, I hope, garner your approval! Three of us will take the field, for three opponents of captain Lannes' choosing."

That rotten twat, of course.

"As my champion, as my second, I humbly beg the assistance of sir Bingle, the hero of the hour!"

"And you shall have it!" replies the adventurer with a resounding voice that matches Loth's tempestuous barytone. The crowd roars its approval at the theatrical display. It is just the start.

"Thank ye sir, and for my second champion, I ask the only other person of my blood present. My niece, Ariane!"

It is rude for a proper lady to raise her voice and so I merely curtsy. The announcement is welcomed with equal part excitement and disapproval, or is it merely surprise?

"As for the rules, we shall take turns shooting at the targets before us. Each person gets one shot. Shots to the head are worth ten points, the body seven and the limbs four. The team that after three shots has the most points, wins! Now, let us begin, and may fortune favor the bold!"

Applause fills the air as Lydia Tillerson steps forward with two engraved muskets. I pick one and a sneering officer with black hair picks the other.

Well, aren’t we confident?

The crowd is still cheering, partly due to Loth’s limited eloquence but more, I suspect, because of alcohol. I do so hate when Loth is bored.

A solid looking soldier with greying sideburns goes first. He loads the musket with practiced ease, patiently lines up the shot and fires on his target. The roar of the weapon is accompanied by womanly yells of dismay. Yes. Firearms are loud...

Lady Tillerson steps forward and verifies that indeed, it is a square hit to the chest.

The assembly erupts in polite congratulations and I spot Cecily inscribe a big seven on a piece of blackboard brought for the occasion. The man is a cautious soldier and with the distance, it is not so easy to guarantee a headshot. For humans, that is. I judge his decision as wise with the limited information he has access to.

Bingle steps forward but Loth will not have it. He jumps to his feet and bellows:

“As the eldest, I claim the first shot!”

The facetious Dvergur then winks to me and stumbles as he takes the musket from my hand. He makes a show of loading the weapon and even has the paper cartridge brought to him by a blushing beauty.

Loth aligns the sight, takes the time to give me a radiant smile then pulls the trigger. I roll my eyes just as our target’s head bounces back.

Dead silence spreads over the clearing. Unfazed, the lady of the house inspects and announces.

“Headshot!”

The front of the house resounds with yells and cheers. On the soldier side, Lannes eyebrows creep up in astonishment. A smug ten appears on our board, outlined twice by a vengeful Cecily. The advantage is with us.

It is the captain’s turn. He loads his musket with slow and deliberate movements. Several seconds pass as he aims. The tension is palpable.

A loud bang heralds their own target’s head reeling back. The screams of excitement eclipse even the sound of the discharge. What started as a bet has turned into a memorable show. Let us see if I can make it unforgettable.

Bingle detaches from the family and picks the musket and cartridge I offer him with a tense look. He, too, loads according to the manual and lines his shot with deliberate patience. Yet another cloud of blue smoke lifts in the air and after it clears, Lydia shouts the result.

“Body shot!”

Again, the crowd cheers in delight. Both teams are now tied and everything will depend on the last competitors.

Bingle chose not to take risks, nor to offend the soldiers. How politically minded of him.

In perfect silence, the smug-looking officer loads and shoots with the ease of the veteran marksman.

“Body shot!” Yells the mistress to everyone’s delight.

It is my turn. I step forward and look at Loth. His smile is vicious and predatory as he points his finger towards the space between his eyes.

I slightly turn to Cecily who makes a long and very obvious gesture of slicing someone’s throat.

Alright then.

With the ease of experience, I hold the musket horizontal, bite the paper cartridge and pour powder into the pan. Spitting the piece of paper is accompanied by some whispers of disapproval from the traditional fringe of the assembly.

I close the frizzen and place the butt of the weapon on the ground. I shove the cartridge in the barrel and push it down with the ramrod which I quickly reattach. I lay the weapon horizontal with a flick of the wrist, line the shot and fire. It took me around ten seconds which is fast but not inhumanly so.

I wait for the hit to be witnessed. It does not happen.

Eh?

I turn around to a wall of shocked faces. The only one who isn’t surprised is Loth. He is currently laughing to tears and drying his eyes with a handkerchief.

“Well well well niece, I believe you are half an inch wide to the left.”

Oh, he dares!

“You were wide as well!”

“Aye, I overcompensated.”

“It’s a headshot!” Yells Lydia with astonishment.

It starts slow, ripples between groups and inflates until the acknowledgment of my prowess becomes a deafening ovation. Loth is looking like a cat who found the pot of cream. This is less about the result, more about playing the crowd.

In the end we have a supernatural advantage and the experience to back it up. The soldiers including Bingle will aim for the center mass because it is enough to incapacitate any human they hit. We, however, train to hit quick-moving monsters. A stationary target at thirty paces is child’s play.

My eyes meet Cecily’s. She is glowing with pride and sated revenge. Our victory is announced on the blackboard with broad letters. Lannes’ group is less than pleased. I believe that once the rumor spreads, the loss of face will dog them for years. It does not matter that two of us and one of them pulled a very difficult shot. People will only remember that they were beaten by a girl.

A pale girl with blond hair and deep blue eyes that came out of nowhere.

Heavens, I hope this does not spread too far. I would not want someone to add two and two. Loth, what have you done? And why?

Everyone spills on the ground to congratulate the victors. Our target is brought forward and the three black holes in the cloth held for all to behold. Our victory is proven beyond a shadow of a doubt and the few dissidents are quickly silenced. I meet eyes with the soldier with grey morse mustache and he salutes me. I find the move touching and quite sportsmanlike, and curtsy in return.

For a while, I am forced to handle everyone’s attention as politely as I can. Bingle comes to compliment me on my shot with Rose on his arm, expressing his complete trust in me. This man is unbelievable. His pride extends to those he sees as allies, and my success is a cause for joy. Truly a relic from the past. He should have sat at the round table.

It takes a while for things to wind down. I find myself shooting another two times in friendly competition, while teams form up to emulate the original show. Loth may have created a trend here.

I am about to follow my irresponsible pseudo-uncle inside the mansion when my nose picks the group's heavy musk. I decide that I would leave them a few hours of intimacy before we have that discussion.

When I turn around, a flash of light catches my eyes.

Only a few people notice and then immediately dismiss it. Unfortunately for me and with how the evening has been going so far, I know I must investigate.

I discreetly reach the tree line and rush in the direction of the sound. It doesn’t take long before another flash of white light illuminates the undergrowth and soon I am close enough to hear a commotion.

Oh, no.

No!

How could this happen?! We are still far from everything, practically at the edge of European expansion. This should not be possible. There shouldn’t be another vampire here, and yet there is no mistaking this cold aura.

Flash.

A hiss of anger.

Impossible. Sinead was spotted? We are far from everything!? Is this bad luck or some cosmic joke?

I could just leave...

I promised Sinead safe passage. That doesn’t mean that I need to protect him...

No! If he falls now I will never get his blood. That won’t stand. This blood is mine. MINE!

I run through the dense copse of trees until I see movement in the distance. I move forward and am immediately noticed.

A man slowly steps out of a mass of ferns. I call him a man out of generosity for he is more beast than kin. He is also the vampire I felt.

Some affliction took him over only to leave behind a tortured husk. His cloth is ravaged and stained. The stench of rancid blood overwhelms my sensitive nose and so does he. It is as if he had turned, like spoiled milk or vinegar. His pallid skin slouches lightly and instead of our needle nails, he sports true talons of malformed chitin.

Is this what happens if we let go too completely?

“Followed me to the prize did you? Can’t have him can’t have him. Mine. MINE. Took everything you did. This I’ll keep and when I come back you will all pay pay pay pay. Should not have cast me away. Not sharing this treasure, oh no. All mine.”

This man is far gone. He licks his lips when I reveal a white leg and does not even seem to notice the knife I retrieve from its sheath.

I move first.

I rush his left side and take a jab at his heart. His claw misses the blade yet at the same time he twists on himself and the blade only slides against his flank.

“Little girl, you’re young. Should have stayed with the others.”

We exchange a few blows, me with my weapon and him with claws. I am quickly pushed back.

His strength is insane!

I fail to deflect completely and his left hand slices into my shoulder. At the same time, I rotate and manage to catch his face with the tip. We separate.

I got his left eye and he doesn’t care a bit. Thick black blood seeps from half a dozen superficial wounds I inflicted using my superior range, while the one cut on my shoulder stings horribly.

“Young, too young. Don’t know you. Not a Harcourt, not an Erenwald.”

I rush him again, more carefully. I use my superior speed and range to harry him and even manage to slice off two fingers. If my strikes do something it doesn’t show.

“You’re not one of my pursuers then. Too inexperienced. Let me show you how I could run away.”

He dodges back and places two feet against the trunk of a tree and pushes. I yelp in surprise and duck, not a moment too soon.

My foe barrels over me like a cannonball only to smack into a nearby tree with the noise of broken bones.

“How stupid can he be?” I think as I turn to stab him in the back. We’re in the middle of the forest, of course he…

The man is already pushing his feet against the trunk he impacted.

Too late, can’t…

He crashes against me. All air leaves my lungs as I am propelled backward and against something solid. His claws dig into the bracer of my left forearm which I placed in front of my heart. His other hand digs into my fingers, trying to pry my knife off. Only his missing digits prevent him from carrying out his plans.

So strong!

Slowly I manage to angle my blade to slice into his hand yet at the same time, one of his claws reaches the bone.

Hurts.

TRAPPED. WOUNDED. BITE.

His torso is against mine. I have no leverage. He is so powerful that a human would have had his arms ripped off already. Even with enhanced strength, I feel things tearing! I must escape this.

With an impatient grunt, the man arches his back and head away from me.

His forehead smashes against my cheek. I only managed to turn my head at the last moment.

He arches back and I move and bite into his face. My mouth closes around his nose.

DEVOUR.

He tastes bad, sour, but not toxic. Power. Power is good.

My foe once against shows his disregard for pain. He still pulls away and something rips. I spit the flesh and prepare to bite again.

Something is wrong, the air shimmers around us.

Instead of attacking me, my foe recoils in horror. His mangled hands raise up reflexively.

Won’t get a better chance.

I stab him and he still manages to move at the last moment. I try to compensate and fail.

It hurts.

The blade still bites deep in his chest. I just need to slice and…

Both of his hands smash down into my forearm with enough strength to shatter the bone.

PAIN.

I lash out with my left claws and dig deep in his face. Both his eyes are red ruins now. I just need to slice his throat…

He angles his head down and when I stab forward, he bites down. I managed to move away and only get scraped by his canines.

I twist away as he slices me but not quick enough. I was too committed. He catches me under my right breast and the strength of his strike lifts me off the air.

I see the ground getting away. My ribs cracked.

Something hits the small of my back, increasing the pain I already feel there, then another hits my head, then another hits my left leg.

I land heavily on a root and roll on the ground like a ragdoll.

“Hss.”

Owwww. This hurts! Aaaaah! Curses! STAND UP AND FIGHT.

I slowly pick myself up, trying to ignore the litany of aches I feel in my body. The broken ribs are the most painful of all.

I need to finish him off. There will be no egress for me with these wounds. On open ground, his ridiculous jumps will allow him to close the distance.

How I wish I had told Loth instead of going alone. So stupid! Gah, I hope this mistake will not cost me my life.

Just have to stand up Ari. Come on. Stand up. Up! STAND UP.

With a cry of pain, I finish dragging myself against a trunk just in time to see that accursed vampire is blindly stumbling forward towards me, feeling the air in front of him with my own dagger.

DEFILER. THIEF. FAE MINE, BLADE MINE.

“Hssssss”

“Found you, little girl. Kill you, then drink, then I’ll go. They won’t catch me.”

You, sir, are going nowhere.

“Sinead, give me noise!”

I wait because I know why my opponent recoiled in terror and who produced the blinding flash of light. Soon, the sounds of the forest are amplified beyond reason. My foe is disoriented by the cacophony of the forest.

I brace and jump above him, landing lightly behind him. I grab my chest in pain and take a second to gather myself, then I do as he did. I jump on his back.

As expected he twists at the last moment but this time I’m not trying to stab but to grab. I coil around him as best as I can with a broken arm and bite deep in his neck.

He flails and bucks as I Devour, when this does not work he jumps back and crashes me against a tree, head first. I manage to protect myself with a raised arm at the moment of impact so the shock only allows me to bite deeper.

It only takes a few more seconds for him to stop struggling.

“Devourer…” he whispers with a note of fear.

I keep draining him until there is nothing left. After what feels like ages I fall away from the corpse just as it starts disintegrating.

“It was a good Hunt,” I say and wince in pain. That was some good power if a bit sour, now I just need to…

Trying to move sends a sharp spike of agony through my gut. What is… Ah.

He stabbed me. That faithless son of a mongrel stabbed me with my own bloody dagger. Arg! The CUR!!!! I touch the handle and hiss.

I need this out but I am really tired and this is quite painful.

The wind whispers in my ears: “Hold on Nightwalker, I shall fetch your Vassal for you.”

Yes, if he comes near, the Thirst will turn me insane. Ah, this was supposed to be a GODDAMN RELAXED EVENING, and now I am bleeding out in the woods with my own knife in my stomach. Why? Why why why why. Is this divine retribution for clinging to life? For not letting those fanatics spike my heart in the foul smelling depths of the vampire fortress? I should… Just… Bah!

I slowly drag myself in a small recess just so that a misplaced root does not dig into my bruised back. I take quick and shallow breaths to fight off the pain. Damn it all, I need to staunch the wound. I use my unbroken hand to apply light pressure and realize the dress is already soaked with my blood.

If I remove the blade I will be incapacitated for sure. And when I wake up again…

Aaaahh this hurts! Dammit. I wish I could look at the Silent Watcher and meditate but the canopy is too dense.

I have stopped being a real fledgling for one bloody day and I’m already a wreck. Is there an end to this? My life hasn’t changed since a year ago. I ran away from the fortress, ran away from the Lancaster and from the Order. Then I hid with Loth and ran around to assuage my Thirst while waiting to grow. Now that I can stay awake for longer than eight hours and don’t have to spend a significant amount of that time hunting, I am running around to solve issues. I was supposed to be a leader, not everyone’s problem solver! Why am I only able to handle the things directly in front of me? Is this my fault!? Should I plan better?

And what of that vampire? I am quite sure that he was a fugitive. His words lend credence to my belief. Are there more like him? How likely am I to be found by an errant monster? Are they being tracked and could they lead others to me, or was this just the height of misfortune? So many questions. I know what I will next ask Jimena.

I wince at a pain that does not abate. I think I am no longer healing.

I close my eyes and focus on breathing. I am not dying, not like last time. I am, however, quite cold. And tired. I could just stop for a few moments. Let go a bit. Stop breathing. It does not even hurt anymore…

I have fled. I flee. I will keep fleeing. I do not need air nor water to keep pushing, to pummel the earth with my feet and leave dust and fallen leaves in my trail. So long as the tainted blood flows through my veins, the limitations of this form can be ignored.

Unfortunately, the same goes for my pursuers. I can hear them behind and to the side. They are trying to close in and box me. I am fast and I am no city bird so I have managed to stay one step ahead but it is only a matter of time before a mistake sends me to my knees and my subsequent demise.

"We will find you." They say, "It is inevitable."

I keep going.

What can I do but stay ahead for as long as I can?

Eventually, my foot is snagged by a root I saw too late. I land awkwardly and even as I pick myself up the shadows gather around me for the kill.

And then they die.

Incredible power is unleashed to vaporize all my foes. Flames of blue spread and annihilate them where they stand. When it is done, not even ashes remain.

I am paralyzed with terror as a giant with fiery hair walks past me and kneels by my side.

“Interesting nightmare, Nightwalker, if painfully classic. How I wish I could be my true self in the real world as well, and show your kind the error of their ways. I would keep you alive as a pet, of course. You are just so precious.”

His armor shines in white and blue with such an intensity that I wonder why I have not been burnt to a crisp yet. He is terrifying, a force of nature. I dare not meet his eyes. For the first time, I see someone who could take on my Master and live.

"Yes, proper respect, finally. If the Goddess wills, one day you will see it with your own eyes. Now, wake up."

I regain consciousness on the bed of my guest room. Loth and Dalton’s worried faces are uncomfortably close.

I feel fantastic despite the closing wound on my stomach.

“Please do not tell me I had fae’s blood and was not awake to experience it.”

Their eyes meet and they look just a tad nervous.

“Very well Mistress, we won’t tell you.”

“Dammit!” I say with feeling. I knew it was going to be delicious. I was truly looking forward to it!

“I’m sorry lass, I should have been there.”

“Bah, how could you know. I did not even warn you before rushing into danger. I only have myself to blame for this mishap. Aah. It hurts.”

“Don’t move Mistress. We only just removed the dagger.”

“Ah, I wish I knew how to use it better. I got stabbed with my own blade...”

“Not everyone can boast such an intimate knowledge of their weapon Mistress.”

“... Right. And what of my opponent?”

“We have spread the ashes lass. We are still unnoticed.”

“I cannot believe it. I have used the full extent of my physical powers no less than five times in the past week and Bingle and the others are still unaware of my true nature. It’s miraculous, truly.”

“If you say so Mistress, I personally believe the word you are looking for is ‘gullible’.”

“As you say, Dalton. By the way, I missed the opportunity to say farewell to the adventurer. We are parting ways tomorrow after all.”

“Ah, he did mention it. Let me see if I can wake him up lass.”

"I’m sorry for having you raise at such a time.”

“Think nothing of it Ms. Delaney! It is I who should have remembered your, hem, condition. Besides, I am to blame for your next task. Are you sure that you do not want company? I can catch the next ship, I assure you.”

“Oh Mr. Bingle. Your solicitude moves me. I promise you that I will be well defended.”

“Ah yes, your uncle assured me that you had past dealings with the savage and that he was a man of his word.”

“Yes, and I will have a chaperone in the person of his sister.”

Possibly.

“Indeed?”

If Bingle‘ eyebrows raise any higher they will take flight. It is my fault for trying to make this situation anything less than absolutely scandalous. For the unmarried daughter of a good family to go gallivanting in forgotten ruins in the company of natives will never be acceptable in any country of the globe. At least Bingle does his best to mask his disapproval.

“Hum, truly you have the soul of an adventurer Ms. Delaney. I hope you will travel to Europe at some point. The Royal Museum would certainly be of interest to you. Why, I dare say you could teach the curator a thing or two!”

I misjudged him again. This man is too pure for his own good.

The discussion ends in pleasantries and extended farewells, which I hate. Bingle is dejected and tears shine in his eyes. I don’t understand why he would grow so attached in such a short time.

Finally, dawn approaches and torpor makes me stumble. This pushes the poor gentleman out of the room so that I can rest, at last.

30. Charm

“And what is this?” I ask as I get out of the carriage.

We are in the middle of a meadow off the beaten path. Besides Loth’s moving fortress there is also another one, an actual coach of outdated but solid make.

“That’s yer ride. I need to keep Asni and the wagon with me, ya know?”

“Yes yes, I was referring to the man.”

A prisoner kneels between Loth and Dalton. Sinead is standing a hundred paces away, busy drawing a pile of something in a notebook. From the smell, I assume it to be carrion.

“We were set upon by bandits, if you would believe it. We thought you might want some breakfast.”

The captive’s eyes widen in surprise. Having someone hunt for me feels like a bad habit to develop but I would not want this man's life to go to waste. I can indulge for a night, I suppose.

I draw closer and take in the man’s appearance.

Is this some sort of test?

“Is something the matter, Ari?”

“Loth dear, do not tell me you have not noticed what is wrong? This man is no bandit.”

“Excellent.” Whispers the wind.

We all turn to Sinead as he makes his way to us.

“I was afraid that you would simply miss it, Nightwalker. I am pleased that it is not so. As part of our agreement on safe passage, I believe I still owe you a bit of information and so I have decided to turn it into an impromptu lesson. Consider it a mark of appreciation for yesterday's timely assistance.”

The Fae pockets his book and pen then turns to me with his hands against the small of his back. There is an intensity and fire to him that even his gaunt figure cannot dim. He smiles, pleased like a well-fed cat.

“Trickery, lies, and deception. Those are the greatest tools of your kind. It is not the strength of your arms that moves nations against one another, but a well-placed letter, a forlorn love or a single word at the right time. We both know why it must be so, do we not?”

It is so because we would lose ourselves then lose our lives to a united humanity. There is no need to voice this, however.

“And how do they unravel, those plots and conspiracies? By the pull of a single thread. Find one inconsistency, unmask one perpetrator and the whole scheme falls apart like a house of cards. This is why it is so exciting, no? Patience and meticulous planning against paranoia and observation. The eternal balance of the secret battlefields. Tell the class, oh dweller in the dark. Tell us what you saw. And then I shall guide you on the next step.”

I am loath to indulge him, however I am quite eager to learn from his experience.

“This man smells like soap and his clothes are rumpled but clean. His beard is trimmed and I can smell wax. Expensive. His skin is too healthy for someone who spends much time outside in squalor. Finally, his self-discipline is admirable. He is ex-military and lives in town. This is a mercenary.”

“Precisely! Observe the clean shoes as well. Amateurs always get the shoes wrong. And the guns! Too expensive. Too modern. Outlaw outfits rarely manage to obtain uniform gear. No, we have been deliberately attacked.”

Dalton and Loth are only surprised but for a moment. Soon, their gazes turn calculating and our prisoner fear turns to stark terror.

“And before you two lovable meatheads take out the pliers and hot coals, I would ask your patience. I wish to instruct the Lady of the House in the subtle arts of suggestion.”

Oh, this is going to be good.

“What annoys me the most on this forsaken plane of existence is not the fact that your kind enslaved my own. It is not even my unfulfilled wish to regain my true power so that I may turn my jailors into quivering piles of flesh for all of eternity, no. What truly sets me off is how pathetically primitive your mind techniques are. You had millennia of existence to come up with something fun and still miserably failed! I know that good techniques are wasted on mortals, but still, for the love of art! You should not settle for mediocrity! It is thus my greatest pleasure to introduce you to this most hallowed of pursuit. Now, Nightwalker, how do you perceive your own Charm?”

“Like a rope.”

Sinead turns into the living embodiment of condescension. I need to learn how to draw properly so that I may immortalize the arrogance on his face if only to have a frame of reference when I eat him later.

“A rope. Truly. I expected so little and am still disappointed. Well, do you notice that this rope changes as you proceed with the manipulation?”

“Yes. It can be strong or weak, taut or loose and it frays under pressure, just like my tolerance for rude behavior.”

“Yes, hrm, a fair point. Obviously the strength of the bond reflects the depth of the relationship. Time and genuine care will improve it better than brute strength. The frays appear when you force your victims to do something against their will. The more unreasonable or absurd the request, the more they will fight it. Even the frailest human mind will buckle and fight if you, say, ask them to kill their own child.”

I hope he does not speak from experience, that would be rather distasteful.

“You will, if you focus, notice colors and patterns in your... rope. They are the marks of emotion. Not all bonds are the same. I find that love trumps all, though terror is a close second. Now, the basics. What do you think is the most important thing in manipulation?”

“Subtlety?”

“Wrong, though not entirely out of topic. The answer is: the other. You are not stabbing a target, you are painting a masterpiece. Every working is different even when it involves the exact same person. You need to understand your target to some extent so that you may obtain the best results. A proper session is nine parts eloquence and one part magic. Without eloquence, you will not even understand which are the best questions to ask."

"Let me take an example. You, Vassal, what is the first question you would ask our guest?"

“Hum, do you have mates and are they on their way here?”

“Not bad! I’ll give you three out of ten. The proper question is: am I in immediate danger? What tells you that his 'mates', as you call it, are the only things that threaten your life? Hmm? What’s your name lad? How should I call you?”

The man struggles a bit before admitting to himself that this is not exactly vital information.

“Hendricks, sir.”

“And Hendricks. Do you believe me to be in immediate danger?”

Silence.

“Maybe a little bit eh?”

The man reluctantly nods.

“It’s not that the knife would have saved you. You saw us fight. Do you believe yourself fast enough to capture a hostage? Indeed not. Now be a good lad and drop it on the ground.”

Dalton pales as an open straight razor drops from the captive’s bound hands. Loth seems a bit displeased.

“First thing I’ll teach ye when we’re back is how ya frisk properly.”

“I’m sorry sir.”

“Now, now, do not let yourselves be distracted! Remember, open-ended questions! Do not let your preconceived ideas get in the way of the truth. Do not demand a flower when you could inquire about the whole bouquet.”

“What are you doing to me?!” Asks the mercenary in a panic.

Sinead considers him for a second as if remembering that this is an actual living being and not just the point of his demonstration. How does the puppet dare speak out of turn?

Before things can get any further I step forward and our eyes meet.

I smile kindly and brush a strand of errant hair behind his ear.

“Shhh do not worry, my friends are a tad strange, but I am here for you. You are safe now as long as we get what we want. You want to help us, don’t you? Help us then leave?”

“Yes...”

“Hendricks was it?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“My name is Ari. These men here just want to protect me. Do you understand?”

“Yes Ari.”

“You are strong. And courageous. Are you an army man?”

“Yes ma'am, I was a Marine before I signed up with this outfit.”

“A Marine eh? You served aboard a ship then?”

“Yes ma'am, I had the honor of serving aboard the USS Wasp!”

“Indeed! And you signed with 'your outfit' afterwards then?”

“Yes, ma'am, seven months ago, hrm. The pay is very good. You understand, I am sure.”

“Of course! Soldiers are never well paid, even during a war, are they not?”

“Absolutely ma'am. A disgrace is what it is.”

“And I understand that your current employer would better reward a man of your talents?”

“Yes, they do what needs to be done and they know who to hire for that.”

Keep him talking, keep him saying yes, build a rapport, make him talk about himself. Those are all things that I learned from my dad and from Achilles. I understand now that this is the heart of Charm. My ability to mesmerize is only one more tool in my arsenal and if I am not careful it will become a crutch. I will have to use it now, however, if I hope to reach the next part of our conversation. I place my hands on the sides of his head. He is close now. My cool breath ruffles his dark hair.

“It sounds dangerous.”

“Why yes, it is, obviously...”

“You have been placed in danger, my good Hendricks, by incompetent people,” I add with a frown.

“Yes, in danger.”

“They don’t know how to work with you. They didn’t know how to use your skills. Yes?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t you think it’s unfair? You’re so good at what you do, and they waste your potential so...”

“Yes...”

“Truly unfair. We should do something about it. We are friends, are we not?”

“Yes.”

“And friends protect and help each other. Yes?”

“Yes, protect and help.”

“So we should go and see them, those that sent you here.”

“Yes, they are not far.”

“Truly?”

“Yes, they wanted us to bring you to them.”

“Us as in....”

“Either the bearded one or the blonde woman.”

“And that is why you were hired?”

“Yes.”

“They showed themselves to you?”

“Yes. Two officers from the continental army. Bunch of pricks.”

“I bet they looked arrogant and thought they were better than anyone else.”

“Yes. Yes! Just because they are still in service. As if they didn’t buy their rank! Hah!”

“This place is desolate. How would you ever find them?”

“Easily Ari, just follow the road west until you come across an abandoned farm with brown brick walls and a burned down barn. They are waiting there.”

“Thank you, Hendricks. Gentlemen?”

“I want to talk to those fine gentlemen promptly. Do hurry.”

“Go ahead lass.”

“Bon appétit, Mistress.”

Normally, feeding is an intimate experience. In this specific case, I make it quick and lethal.

There is something empowering about draining someone to death while surrounded by three killers. Even if the act of drinking should make me vulnerable, I am not afraid, because they are on my side. All those present know what I am and accept it, well, all those that will survive anyway.

I am making a statement and I like it. Out of those killers, I am also the deadliest. My feeding shows my lack of concern. It is as much a show of self-confidence as it is one of trust.

I have achieved much in the past year.

“We are expected, gentlemen. Shall we?”

“Aye lass, can’t wait to see those twats again.”

“Language!”

“Yeah yeah.”

We are polite monsters. Sinead kindly requests to sit next to me to continue the lesson which leaves poor Dalton to eat our dust.

“No worries Mistress. Just make sure you learn all you can!”

Good Vassal.

We sit down next to Loth and Sinead immediately turns to me with a smile.

“You are a natural, Nightwalker, but you miss the point. You are far too ruthless, too result-driven. Charm is an art that should be enjoyed for the sake of it. Aaaah, how many masterpieces has my race created over the eons, games millennia-long won by those we never even suspected of playing? How pleasant the retelling! Ah, but I digress. It will come to you in time I am sure. The young ones are always eager to go for the immediate reward instead of one matured to perfection. No matter. Now I shall teach you how to force a mood, then we shall move on to memory alteration and defense bypasses. The basics, really.”

We spend a good hour working on each other. Sinead feels like a genius swordsman fighting with a spoon. He is blocked from most of his capabilities and yet his skill is undeniable. His insights are keen beyond compare and I feel myself progressing with incredible swiftness. I believe that he simply is the best Charm teacher on the planet at this moment, and my opinion of him improves drastically. We only stop when we are in sight of the abandoned farm mentioned by the dearly departed Hendricks.

“Excellent. Now let me see you apply this lesson to your next target.”

All four of us silently sneak through the overgrown edge of the farm. I lead the way by tracking the smell of fresh sweat and bad cologne while Sinead manifests a light that only we can see.

Without surprise, we spot Captain Lannes and his arrogant subordinate smoking nervously in the lunar shade of a great pine tree. I can smell the musk of their anxiety with the barest onset of panic. They are perfectly ripe.

“Someone wants them?” I whisper.

“I think you need them for practice, Mistress, lessons applied on the spot are the easiest to remember.”

“I concur with the mortal.”

“I want to watch ye at work lass, make it fun.”

I stealthily move up and around. They have horses in the distance and more interestingly, a few unlit torches on the ground.

“I don’t like this, they are taking too long!”

“Shut up, Jenkins.”

Aha! I did not know the other imbecile’s name. Since they have their back to me it is trivial to steal one of the torches as well as a match. It takes me a few tries to light one, however when the sound of burning Sulphur reaches their ears, they turn just in time for flames to shed light on my pale visage.

Both men freeze with their hands on their pistols while I smile cordially.

I do so love this moment when it dawns on them that the nature of the hunt is not as it seems, that their condition is not that of the predator. My fangs are still hidden, and my claws tucked away, but they know. Deep inside, they know.

“Why the cold shoulder, gentlemen? Was I not expected?”

I walk slowly to the side as I speak. The predator in me taught me how to walk better, and it has become increasingly easier to bring this skill forward. My step is as assured as it is silent. I still walk as a human in public but here I do not have to. I know the feeling I give, more sinuous. Predatory.

Lethal.

The men instinctively take a step back. Lannes knows something is wrong. He is hesitating. I can hear the cogs turning in his panicked brain:

'We have been found out and the sellswords defeated, but why is this woman here? Why is it not Loth holding me at gunpoint?'

'And why am I so afraid?'

I know the answer. Their well-honed instincts are telling them something is wrong while their societal mind tells them I am harmless.

“Well?”

Lannes takes out his pistol and cocks it threateningly. My eyes meet his and Jenkins’ and I capture their attention.

Following Sinead’s advice, I taste the connection. I still visualize it as ropes but this time there is a hint of colors and more details on its strength. There is fear here, as well as disdain and mistrust. I could brute force attraction, perhaps, but it would defeat the purpose of the exercise. I am here to learn how to properly Charm someone and as my improvised mentor said, it is an art.

“You are under arrest! Now tell us where Loth Delaney is!”

The rope on Jenkins’ side vibrates as a new emotion runs through it. I recognize it well. Discomfort and embarrassment.

“Under arrest? For what crime and under what authority, pray tell? Do you claim to serve justice as you lurk in the dark like a highwayman?”

“You and your ilk may have fooled the Tillersons and most of the garrison but I know better, oh yes! You are criminals and traitors of the vilest sort!”

“So you are acting on your own! Breaking the law by ordering hired thugs to abduct citizens? Are those the actions of law-abiding men? Is this not the sort of thing our fathers fought to end not two decades ago?”

Yes! I knew it, Jenkins does not approve. With the lightest touch, I fan the flames of paranoia in both their hearts. It is difficult to affect two people at once but I still manage it with patience and concentration. With minute detail, Lannes’ second reaches for his own gun while keeping a wary eye on his commanding officer.

“I do what is necessary to protect us from outside influence!”

“Whatever are you talking about?”

“Do not play coy with me! You are foreign agents!”

“Those are preposterous accusations that you pulled out of your hat! You have no reasonable cause to insult us so!”

I lace the challenge with the barest hint of suggestion, just enough to make him choose outrage over caution.

“Schaffer was a spy!”

What!? Oh my GOD this is Bingle’s fault! Again! Aaaarg!

“…Who?”

“Flora Schaffer! The woman your British scoundrel followed was an asset for Prussia and your so-called adventurer knew it. Why else would he track her all the way to this god-forsaken mudhole?!”

“Love of course, you monster. He was madly in love with her!”

I do not even need to act for Jenkins’ discomfort to turn to doubt. Few people would be comfortable placing “Bingle” and “intelligence”, foreign and otherwise, in the same sentence.

“And what a strange thing to assert, Captain. Your covert actions do not strike me as those of a man mandated by the government! Where do these accusations come from, I ask? Not from our own spies I’d wager!”

“You! I do not have to justify myself before a scandalous woman of dubious origin!”

And now we have anger, the last primal dye to add to this first painting. It only takes a nudge to set the stone in motion.

“As a matter of fact…” says Jenkins. “I would like to know from whence this belief came, sir.”

“You dare!” adds Lannes, incensed, “I will not be questioned by the likes of you!”

Oh, this is almost too easy.

“The likes of me!?” screams the second man in outrage.

“You are naïve, Jenkins! People like me are what stands between our country and tyranny. We are the shield of civilization against the machinations of the old world and its darkest creations!”

“So you admit being part of a conspiracy!” I add with delight.

“It is no conspiracy! We protect the nation!”

“In secret and against our will! That is a conspiracy! Hah! Who is the traitor now?”

“The Brotherhood of the New Light is no group of rakes you wench! And you…”

Lannes takes a step back from his subordinate and his pistol sways towards the man’s chest but the righteous Jenkins has had enough. He jumps and manages to seize his opponent’s arm. Both of them fall and struggle on the ground with grunts of effort and anger.

I watch, fascinated. Admittedly it got out of hand before I could learn more but I don’t care. This is… Beautiful.

A shot rings under the canopy with the distinct sound of gored flesh.

Ah, oops?

Jenkins recoils in horror from the mangled form of his superior. Only a gurgling scream can be heard in the dead silence, coming from the ravaged half-face of his victim. The sinus and other cavities are exposed to the air. One eye has been burnt from its orbit and as I stare, arterial blood splurts from the ghastly wound with every heartbeat.

Ah, what a waste.

With a step, I walk to Jenkins and use his pistol to finish off the Captain cleanly, as the Hunt demands.

And now I have a whimpering and guilt-stricken human to handle. This is so annoying. He tried to kill you, he failed, and you killed him. The logic is sound. You were not even friends!

“Jenkins… It’s over calm down.”

“It’s over, it’s all over! I committed a murder!”

“No. Jenkins, look at me. There. Good. You defended yourself against someone you thought you trusted.”

“Hah,” he sobs, “as if it mattered in a court of law!”

“There will be no court of law.”

“What? But… I killed him.”

“No, I killed him. I pulled the trigger.”

Jenkins stops to consider. I use this and the barest hint of suggestion to talk about conspiracy and duty, how Lannes' associates must never know that they were found out and some such nonsense about sacrifice, the good of the nation and whatnot.

“You are correct miss Delaney, I must uncover this vile plot! I shall return and head a discreet inquiry, starting with this traitor’s personal correspondence. But… What of the body?”

“I came here to get answers but my companions are not far behind. The mercenary’s ambush made them irate, as I am sure you understand. If you leave quickly I should be able to convince them to let you go, and take care of the remains beside.”

“But what should I tell the others?”

“Nothing. You know nothing of this man’s desertion. I am sure that a thorough search of his personal effects will shed some light on the matter.”

“Yes… Yes you are correct. Thank you Ms. Delaney, thank you! I shall return, and should I find something I will keep you and your uncle in the confidence. I will get to the bottom of this yet! Goodbye Ms. Delaney! Cecily was right, you are a true heroine.”

Then the brave soldier takes his horse and leaves in a gallop.

A true heroine, huh, at least he did not mention God this time.

As the sound of hooves pounding the ground recedes in the distance, I hear a slow clap. The trio of men exits the undergrowth with a grinning Sinead at the head.

“A capital performance young Ariane. Aaaaaah it is so pleasant to see a new talent enter the scene. A first rendition of “the False Egress” and “the Turning of the Friend” in a single night! That is two out of the five basic plots as described by Arakus the elder in his famous anthology. You need but “the Unrequited Love”, “Brother Bane” and “the Apprentice” and you will have completed an important rite of passage for us Likaeans. I am most pleased, most pleased!”

I am not sure what to do so I curtsey awkwardly. This is the first time Sinead does not address me as “Nightwalker” I believe. I will take the compliment.

“Let us travel together tonight so that I may impart a few more pieces of knowledge upon you, then we will split ways. Fate will bring us together again in the future. Of this, I am sure!”

Before we leave, we draw straws to determine who will bury the bodies and I lose. From the other’s innocent faces I highly suspect foul play, yet I decide not to press the issue. I made this body after all. As I dig and later, as we travel, I soak up Sinead's knowledge for all I can until dawn and exhaustion creep upon me.

31. Winternight

First comes the smell, then the buzz of flies, and last is the sight of a desiccated limb covered by loose strands of fabric. The bright colors of the improvised shrouds turn the bodies into macabre puppets.

This one is a child, I note idly. They were the second to go, after the sick and wounded.

“Another one?”

“Yes.”

We have been following the trail of the lost Three Rivers tribe for two days now, and my patience is running short. Nashoba insists that we catch up with them together, or the shaman who called for his help might simply attack me out of fear. I am concerned that by the time we reach them, there will be no one to interrogate.

This splinter of the Muskogee people was expelled from their land by settlers a month ago and since then they have wandered West. A vision sent to my, well, “employer” I suppose, spoke of a terrible beast stalking them and devouring their members. I now believe that this is the least of their worries. We have come across no less than ten cadavers in a single day of travel and they all exhibited signs of starvation. The bodies were husks, curled up on themselves by a devouring pain. I do not envy their fate.

“We...We should really...”

“For the last time Shaman, you can do this on the way back. The longer we delay, the more bodies there will be.”

“He was just a child.”

“Yes, yes, I am sure that the adults wanted to live too. Listen Nashoba, our arrangement was that I hunt a monster for you, not dig a mass grave.”

“Ah, of course. You are correct, I am letting my emotions interfere with our task. There may be others that still draw breath.”

I want to roll my eyes but I refrain. Nashoba is only mortal, and he at least did not involve God nor smother me with speeches on the importance of grief and other inanities. I can understand his anguish, although I do not share it.

“Mistress, we should stop the carriage here and continue on horse.”

“Your Tushka is right. Road very small.”

Nashoba gained mastery of the tongue through a dream quest apparently. The contrast between his flawless Akkad and his broken English is jarring.

“Then you take the horses.”

“There is something in the air, Daughter of Thorn. We are close, and late.”

I sniff a bit and detect nothing but pine, mountain air and the stench of a decomposing body. Noticing me, Dalton adds:

“It is cold Mistress, unseasonably so.”

“We are halfway up the Appalachians. Is this not normal?”

“No, Mistress.”

I already noticed that the place is too quiet. There are clearly magical shenanigans afoot and time is therefore of the essence.

“Then you take the horses and light the torches. I will scout ahead and guide you. Hurry.”

For an hour we climb up the twisted path. Scrawny pine trees and dried up vegetation with the occasional corpse make the place desolate and the trip unpleasant. All my instincts tell me that this is not natural. There are no spells here, nor creatures nearby. The influence is more pervasive. It is like an old grease smell that would leave an oily taste on my tongue.

We make good time despite my companion’s exhaustion and the path finally clears up as we reach a small plateau. Large slabs of granite covered with lichen alternate with diseased ferns. The remnants of a large camp can be seen in the center. There is a fire, still smoking a bit, as well as broken tents, pottery and baskets, and the shattered remains of a loom.

No corpses.

The others join me, and I raise my hand in warning.

The plateau is rather small at the base. It could contain perhaps an encampment of a hundred people at most. The stone plane climbs up to the left and falls steeply on our right. The few trees offer little protection against the chilling wind.

Nashoba stays on his mare while Dalton arms himself before disappearing in the darkness. I track him by sound until he stops moving. That means he found a vantage point.

I turn back to Nashoba and point to my nose, then to the left. I follow the stench of unwashed bodies and rancid sweat to a hollow in the face of the rock. I lean forward and look in.

The light reflects off the eyes of a dozen people huddled under grimy covers. A dying fire barely emits any heat. The smell is eye-watering.

Under the abominable odor, I detect a mage power gone rancid. It is close in nature to Nashoba but with a most sour aftertaste that reminds me of the fallen vampire I slew a week past. It appears we found our shaman. Whether they are still sane is open for debate.

Nashoba approaches the hollow then recoils in disgust. Perhaps I should have warned him of the revolting musk. I am much less affected by it than mortals both by my nature and by virtue of not having to breathe.

The shaman places a scarf around his head and starts speaking to the miserable band. His inquiries are first met with silence, then answered by a wizened woman with a bone headdress sitting at the back of the group. Her gnarly fingers grip a staff adorned with a crow skull and she speaks in a deep gravely voice.

I do not need to understand to feel the pain and terror in her tale. The remaining tribe members recoil under my gaze and refuse to look up. They feel like people who have given up on everything. They truly are a sorry lot, and I note in passing that there are no children left.

This tribe is done for. Few could remain sane after going through what they suffered. Their best bet for survival would be to splinter and join other people, praying to their gods that they can forget the horror of their existence.

Not that I care.

I wait patiently until my companion is finished and I note that it is lucky that the female shaman can speak Choctaw. It is easy to forget that the natives are made of several people with their own culture and dialects when most of us white folks refer to them as savages. Being a vampire has certainly changed my perspective on the matter.

After a few minutes, Nashoba walks without a word to the center of the clearing and restarts the fire using kindling and a few pieces of dry fabric.

“Forgive me Daughter of Thorn. Could you kindly help me gather some wood? I ask this as a favor.”

He has no right to demand it and his specific phrasing shows his acknowledgement. With that said, Nashoba is one of the few mortals I respect. He is also tired and lame.

“Very well.”

I can show kindness to those I favor. I also deduce from his anguished expression that the news is not good, and he may need some time to process it. We have found the survivors of the tribe and extracted the knowledge that we sought, after all. Some more delay is acceptable.

I go around gathering firewood and, in some cases, making it. I find snapping the trunks of those weakened trees surprisingly easy. I suppose I have no more use for an axe, now. After three trips Nashoba informs me that I have gathered more than enough and places a large pot on top of the fire which he fills with water from his canteen.

“Should we not give them our rations if you intend to save them?”

“Not directly. Those who starve have a weak stomach and eating solids could kill them. Their body can only tolerate a broth.”

“I see. While we wait, you should share what you learned.”

“Of course, Daughter of Thorn. I have delayed but too long. They left their lands with little food and this was soon exhausted. They did their best to forage but without knowing the lay of the land, feeding seventy mouths is impossible. It is at this time of great distress that the beast struck. Like carrion birds circling a bleeding beast it harried them. One after the other, the hunters started to disappear. Of course, the tribe started to send people out in pairs or even larger groups. It was all in vain. The beast would then take more and the food situation kept deteriorating. First, the weakest members perished then the children started dying too. Despair took over them. Women started to hunt as well, and some would come back hurt. A few people took their own lives. The survivors decided to flee up the mountain in hope that the beast would give up or that they could at least confront it. They built this fire you see here and waited.

They say the beast came. They say it was taller than the tallest man and dressed in a patchwork of skins. That its face was like of a rock cleft in two and that its teeth were like the canines of a wolf. All of them. They say arrows and spears bounced off it like toys and that it killed a man with every swing of its mighty arms. They say they could no more stop it than they could stop winter. After it killed enough people, the rest fled higher up while this small group hid there in the hopes that it would look them over, or at least that the cave would be too small for its massive frame. That was yesterday."

“So, the beast is still up there?”

“Yes, and so are the survivors if there are any.”

“Then I’d better be on my way. Can you ward your fire?”

“Yes, I shall do so immediately.”

“Will it be enough? It seems this other shaman could not stop it.”

“She is old, weakened by hunger and her tribe lost its land and its way. Her powers are so diminished they might as well be nothing. I should be able to keep a monster at bay until you return. If I am in danger, I will fire the pistol you lent me in the air.”

“I hope for your sake that it will be enough.”

Before I leave, I discreetly reach Dalton’s hideout and discover he hid himself with fallen branches. In the dark and covered with greenery, he is barely visible. I tell him not to engage unless he has no choice and follow the trail up the mountain.

Without the mortals I can move much faster. A first inspection reveals no tracks, so the creature probably has some way to mask its presence. That would also explain why no hunter managed to escape it. Undeterred, I rush up the steep incline with as much celerity as I can without leaving myself open. In two minutes, I find my first body.

It is a man, quite old. As expected, he is covered with bite marks that show a jaw several times larger than a human’s. The beast devoured the muscles on the legs and arms, the back and most of his entrails. I am about to leave when I notice something peculiar. There are no defensive wounds and the reason is made clear when I push the head to the side with my boot. The man has been brained by something blunt before being devoured. My theory of the monster being able to hide increases and I feel the onset of paranoia as all my senses grow to their sharpest. I even spot rabbit’s fur in the hunter’s hand, proof that the beast left nothing that could be easily swallowed.

A few meters away I find a mother and her child, still holding hands. They were killed the same way.

I continue quickly, making a conscious effort not to run in a straight line and checking regularly behind me. I see nothing out of the ordinary, only abandoned personal effects and a mess of human tracks. In a few more minutes, I notice embers glowing in the distance.

The night is silent.

I approach from a side. Nestled among trees are the remains of the last campfire of the tribe. There is nothing left, not even a body, but the smell of old blood is pungent and after circling I see no tracks going further up. The lack of remains worries me a little. What manner of beast can do that?

I walk warily forward. The unnatural stillness of this place is getting to me. Besides the freezing wind nothing stirs, not even the grey ash covering everything like stained snow.

Massive bloodstains dot the site. They are only a few hours old. I am about to circle around to look for tracks, hints, anything, when I spot something among the embers. Curious, I approach.

A branch snaps behind me.

I roll forward and slice behind me at the same time only to hit air. There is nothing to see, which means...

I turn, claws up and ready.

Still nothing.

I circle. Still nothing. The quiet sound of a breathing rabbit comes from the pines.

I am jumping at shadows. I still move in the clearing so if the creature tries to rush me, I would still have some time to react.

This foe is proving to be troublesome. It can hide and is probably quite strong and resilient. The dagger should be enough to hurt it and am confident in my speed, however it will be of little use if I am caught off guard.

Tracks on the dust show signs of a massive scuffle. So many human feet, and what is this near the camp fire?

Bones.

Human bones

Hundred of bones shattered, their marrow sucked dry, as if...

As if...

Well, that is curious, and illogical.

Wait.

No, it could not be.

And yet...

The hunters disappearing one by one, caught by surprise.

The lack of anything but human tracks.

The remaining tribesmen slaughtered in one spot instead of fleeing a large opponent.

Cooked human bones…

I need to be sure.

I jump in the bush looking for a very specific set of tracks and eventually, I find it. Multiple humans heading down the path. Now that I know what to look for it is easy to notice.

God Bloody DAMNIT! Played for a fool! Aaaarg!

I run down the mountain like all the hounds of hell are on my heels. Come on come on come on. Let me be there in time. Let me be there in time...

A gunshot. That is not a pistol but Dalton’s rifle.

I move even faster. My chest is almost to the ground and the very wind pushes my hair away and back.

With every step I dig furrows in the loam and fly forward ten paces. Faster. Faster!

I will be on time.

I’m here. In a single moment I spot Nashoba in the middle of a magical circle with his pistol discarded on a rock. He is surrounded by the cannibals who silently slaughtered and devoured their own kin. It appears they lost their humanity in the process.

Long, gaunt forms of white skin and bones are now revealed by their discarded blankets. The little flesh they have is twisted and taut like steel cable. Their face is human down to their upper lips, then it turns nightmarish. They bare distended maws of crooked and yellowed teeth to my companion’s ward.

Five of them press at the edge of a shimmering circle. The Three Rivers shaman is standing at the edge, still clad in her rotten regalia. She is dancing and croaking while waving her ominous staff. A seventh abomination is prone on the ground with a smoking hole through the torso.

Dalton’s handiwork. He must have shot as they were creeping on the Choctaw man.

There is little time.

I move faster than I ever have. I need to push them out of the way! I reach the first creature without slowing down and punch it in the gut.

With a ghastly sound of shattered bones, the thing folds around my stretched hand like a wet towel. The momentum catapults it against two of its fiendish allies and they are smashed backward like pins.

I finish the move by throwing my entire weight in a swipe. The first target’s chest disappears in a curtain of gore. An instant later, the fifth creature’s head just disappears.

I finish the sequence with a silver throwing knife that shatters the enemy mage’s headdress and sends a splatter of blackened blood flying.

This will do for now. I crash into the thicket with all the subtlety of a herd of buffalos. A second gunshot guides me to Dalton. As I arrive, he unloads his last pistol in the face of the last standing foe. He must have missed the brain as the creature jumps on him with claw extended.

Oh no you don’t.

PUNY WEAKLING. BOTTOM FEEDER. SCUM. YOU DARE RAISE YOUR HAND AGAINST HE WHO IS MINE?

I dig two talons in the thing’s neck and swing it over my head with a furious roar, sending it careening head over heel.

The creature’s short flight is interrupted by a large stone on which his head bursts like an egg, then a trunk, before finishing in a ravaged heap on the ground.

Dalton is fine, if a bit stunned by my sudden appearance.

I sprint back to the clearing and take out my dagger. I quickly finish off two wounded before turning to the enemy shaman.

It is pressed against the wall of the cliff by Nashoba’s staff. Its filthy yellow talons dig into the rock and her shrieks make my ears ring, yet my ally does not budge.

“So, you want to interrogate it?”

“I know all there is to know. I kept the thing alive so that you could feed.”

“... Do I have to?”

It reeks like a pox-ridden pigsty. Nashoba glares at me in silence. I suppose I should not behave like a spoilt child. I can certainly use the power.

I grab the thing’s arm. It tries to fight me but compared to the fallen vampire I faced a few days ago, I feel I am wrestling a toddler. I still break all its fingers for good measures. Why take a risk?

I bite down.

I am so hungry, so hungry. The pain in my belly is relentless. It digs into my entrails with its serrated fingers. There is nothing but the devouring agony.

I led them here. I led them to their death. We should have fought and died on our feet like warriors, not hunted and starved like animals. The children... what have I done? The visions I sent were sent too late. By the time the tortoise shaman of the Choctaw comes, there will be nothing left of the Three Rivers clan.

Today I ate my finger. The pain of tearing down the limb was less than that of starvation. It was hot and juicy, if terribly bony. Now I remember what food feels like. I feel clarity of thought drift away. There are others like me, who tasted the forbidden flesh. I can feel their eyes on me and on each other. I do not want sanity. Sanity is what brought me here in the first place. Let me be mad. Let me be lost, but above all, let me be sated.

We are silent. There is no need to speak just as there was no need to listen to the dying cries of our kin. We are still starving despite the heaps upon heaps of flesh we pushed down our gullets. It is fine. Tomorrow we go down the mountain. There will always be more villages and more hunting parties. Always.

I back up from the shriveled form of my victim. That was strange, though not entirely unpleasant. Both sour and tasty like pickled fish, and the power was good. On par with an experienced mage, I would say.

I suspect Nashoba is interested in my vision, so I share it with him as Dalton joins us.

“Yes, Daughter of Thorn. I know of what you speak. They are called Wendigos. I heard the tale of a mighty hunter called Anwe the Slayer who was the first to find them and purge them from this world. I never thought the stories were true...”

Nashoba limps back to a stone and sits wearily. I must remember that they traveled through the day and it is now past midnight. They will need to sleep soon.

“They are Hunger,” he continues, “they are what happens when men and women succumb to it. Those of the stories were lazy hunters who would take the wives of their victims as their own. This was not the case here. The Three Rivers tribe fell because it was chased away. They fell because they chose to flee as an act of desperation.”

The shaman is having a moment, which I can respect. Dalton has tied a scarf around his nose and busies himself piling the Wendigos while I feed the fire and wait.

“There will be more of them. Every month, your ships spill their cargo of men and machines on these shores. We are getting pushed West slowly but surely.”

“Will you fight?”

He scoffs.

“Some of us will. At least, they will die on their feet. There is no facing your people’s weapon of fire and steel, not without our own. We would need schools and mines and factories and armories to compete and when we have all of this, we will have become you. This is a tide that cannot be stopped.“

Powerlessness. I know this feeling all too well.

“We achieved something today.”

“A drop in the ocean. Those we saved may one day join the ranks of those we just freed.”

I wish I were drunk so I could join in his melodrama.

“You think too highly of yourself, shaman of the Choctaw. We are droplets ourselves. Did you not say that we were weeding roots of destruction? That is what we did tonight. Do not look at what you cannot change and despair. It serves no purpose but to invite madness.”

“Forgive me if I cannot appreciate your perspective while I stand in the ashes of seventy men, women and children.”

I shrug. I cannot share his emotions and I would not care to, but I can respect his grief and give him the time he needs. The Hunt is done, after all. It was interesting although the Prey was a disgrace to its own kind.

I assist Dalton in building a funeral pyre. Thankfully material is abundant. Our native companion joins us as we light it.

For a moment, all is quiet, then he starts singing.

I do not understand the words and I do not need to. The song carries regret and impotent rage at first, then melancholy and finally, a measure of peace. We stay there watching warm winds carry motes of light to the sky. It no longer feels so cold anymore. Somewhere below us, an owl hoots and the fire crackles.

At some point, the two men fall asleep. I make sure they are covered and when dawn approaches, I stand up to go. As I take a step, Nashoba shifts in his covers.

“Thank you, Ariane.”

I nod and leave.

32. Old Money

When we return to Higginsville, Sinead is long gone. Loth does not tell me where he went and I do not ask. The Likaean prince did leave a few things for me, the first being a letter.

My dear Ariane,

You are not a bad sort for a Nightwalker, and I am sure we shall meet again after you have grown into your new self. I look forward to it, and I have left you two things as a gesture of my appreciation.

The first is a primer on the proper use of Charm including quite a few tricks, meditation techniques, and my favorite subtleties. I wrote it in the space of two days as if in a trance! When we next meet, we shall have a little contest that I may see what you learned.

The second is half a gift and half an apology. I realize that you may not have drunk my blood the way you wanted it, and so I had Loth draw a smidgen of my essence and capture it in the precious receptacle you will find attached. Keep it on you, always. If one day you are in danger of dying, no matter how grievous your wounds, drink it and it will undoubtedly save your life. This contains the essence of a Fae Prince, given freely. Do not squander it! I will know!

Until we meet again, poppet.

Sinead.

I resolve to keep the tiny silvery tube around my neck, always. It hangs next to the pendant containing my father's message. Those two are my lifelines, one for the body and one for the soul.

The following months see us fall into a healthy routine. I spend most evenings helping Loth with various tasks related to research, both magical and mundane, as well as metallurgy. I even assist him as a nurse when his hospital sees an increase in traffic. My complete lack of queasiness is put to good use as my dear friend would insist that some of the tasks I am requested to perform will “forge the character”. I soon learn that the expression is a hypocritical substitute for “It is revolting, and now that I have an underling I don’t have to do it anymore.”

Loth also tests the limit of my physical power by, naturally, having me carry heavy loads for him. His final conclusion is that I am “as strong as a gravid troll and marginally better-looking.”

How he manages to sweet-talk all the county’s widows into his bed with that tongue of his, I shall never know.

The rest of my nights are spent in various activities. I continue my study of the Western standard rune system and look into several forms of shamanism as well. I also pick up drawing as a hobby despite Jimena’s advice to try music. My disastrous attempt to practice the violin at the tender of age of seven still weighs heavily upon my soul. I work on Movement by running around the woods as fast as I can and through knife-throwing and marksmanship training with Loth.

Dalton adjusts to his new duty with perfect ease. He has a way of appearing unimportant to people unless he wants to be noticed that makes him fit everywhere, and when he needs to make an impact his dark charisma is enough. He quickly endears himself to both the male and female population of our little town. The only issue is the rumors surrounding us, not that I mind much.

His presence makes bounty hunting trivial and fun. No longer do I have to work around my lack of acceptance. I only handle the fun part and my Vassal dutifully takes care of the rest. Many times, we cooperate to capture our mark in an entertaining way. This quickly gives him an ambivalent reputation, as well as a lot of respect. I also use this opportunity to practice both Senses and Charm.

We continue like this for a while until I receive a letter from my dear Jimena.

My dearest Ariane,

I cannot express the many emotions I went through upon learning of your latest adventures! A pierced heart? A rogue vampire? I have not felt this anxious since I helped in your escape. Please show some consideration for my poor heart, young one, and some more to yours as well! A fledgeling is not supposed to have theirs destroyed and particularly not twice in the span of a single year! Truly, if you were not of the Devourer’s line, I fear we would have lost you already.

Before all else, I should advise you on things I would have mentioned in previous letters, had I imagined that you would challenge Courtiers trained in the arts of war! Those matters concern armed conflicts between our kind.

The way to fight a vampire differs from the way we fight anything else. There are very few beings that can match our speed, therefore vampires slain in battles with other races are taken down by overwhelming damage. Vampires, on the contrary, will always aim for the heart first and foremost. Even the smallest wound will spell your end.

When we next meet, I shall train you in ways to protect yourself through martial techniques. Until then, do not practice mortal methods as you will develop bad habits. We do not move nor fight like humans, and thus their arts are not suited to us. It will be easier if you come to me with no preconceived ideas.

There are ways to improve yourself, however. One of them you already know. Those treks under the moon you mentioned will help you get accustomed to your body and will improve your natural dexterity. When it comes to moving, follow your instincts. I also strongly advise you to wear a suit of armor around your torso when you go to battle. You will find a blueprint for a standard Harcourt chest protector enclosed in this envelope. I am sure that your friend can assist you in its making.

It bears repeating that your bloodline can progress fast if fed with the blood of mighty foes. This makes your natural abilities on par with an experienced Courtier. It does not give you the experience of one. The creature you faced was unarmed and half-mad and so it was not in any way equal to the manner of opponent you would face, should a clan decide to take you down. Should you be discovered, I beg of you, flee. As long as you leave their territory, the other side will likely abandon pursuit and merely report your presence to the Knight chapter in Boston. I hope you heed my warning.

Now that this is out of the way, allow me to be the first vampire to congratulate you on reaching adulthood! Ah, but I remember it as if it were yesterday, a timid and lost woman standing awkwardly in my training ground! Even then, your personality shone bright and set you apart from the rest. And now, you have come into your own! My heart fills with pride, and I wish I could celebrate this auspicious night with you.

Now you are a Courtier and do not let anybody tell you otherwise. This means that the next step in our plan is a go! In eighteen ten, just over five years from now, there will be a major conclave of all vampires in North America. I shall use this opportunity to petition the current Speaker for your induction. If it is accepted, we will be allowed to register you as a member of an independent House under the Accords, and you will be beyond the reach of the Lancaster forever. Constantine will surely give you a task or two as reparation for being on his land illegally, though I would not worry about it too much. He is known for being a tolerant ruler and the new Continent is as much a place of opportunity as it is one of refuge.

I am pleased to learn that you want to use your time to build both expertise and capital. The pursuit of excellence is a defining attribute in the Followers of the Path, the faction the Cadiz clan belongs to. As a new vampire, I would advise you to learn an instrument. Art helps us maintain our humanity and Music most of all.

You also need to consider building your wealth. As you can imagine, mortal institutions are ill-suited to our needs and so I advise you to travel to the port city of Savannah where you will find a small branch of the Rosenthal Consortium. They are a neutral entity in the supernatural world, and they are as reliable as they are efficient. Open an account with them and remember that we all started small.

Lastly, we are fairly certain that the order of Gabriel no longer keeps an eye on your father, so you may now correspond more freely.

Aintza and I miss you, Ariane. When time permits, I shall meet you again in person. I must be careful as most of my actions are currently under scrutiny, indeed, I have been given a chance to regain my status and join the ranks of the Knights once more! My next mission will carry me to the everglades and last for a few months. If all goes well, I will be given a task and upon its completion, I would be reinstated. I cannot express how important this is for me my dear. Wish me luck!

With sisterly love,

Jimena de Cadiz. September 7th, 1804

February 1805, Savannah, Georgia.

The Rosenthal Consortium building is fairly small, barely bigger than my childhood home and yet it manages to draw attention from a full block away. I would call the local architecture basic, only because I am feeling generous. The most common adornment is a coat of paint slapped on the ubiquitous horizontal planks, even for public places such as the Town Hall.

The noble institution’s house is orange.

Yes, orange.

Its walls are made entirely of vertical carved white stones and bricks of the fiery color. It stands like a jewel, or a pustule, amongst its prude neighbors. The barred windows and the reinforced gates only reinforce the impression of being an outsider.

Without a word, Dalton fades into the shadows while I approach the guard.

He pretends to ignore me until politeness demands a reaction. He looks quite solemn, dressed all in black with a white shirt, and his pale face sports an impressive beard. I smell gunpowder from him and, quite interestingly, spelled items though he himself is not a mage. I taste it and recognize a specific aura. When the man meets my eyes, my suspicions are confirmed. The protections are designed to ward off influence, which extends to Charm.

Finally, an occasion to practice some of the tricks Sinead mentioned!

The rope between us glances off a smooth shield. I slowly change our bond’s color by matching it to his current mood. He is distrustful yet unworried. In the space of half a second, the string becomes one with the shield and goes through.

I give the man a polite smile with just a bit of suggestion, which he returns.

It worked!

“Good evening sir, is this the Rosenthal Consortium, Savannah branch?”

“Indeed miss, and we would be happy to assist. Unfortunately, we are closed.”

That is fine, I will work on him until he believes me important enough to warrant special treatment.

“That is a shame, I was led to understand that you would operate after sunset.” Or so Jimena claimed.

The guard’s reaction is unexpected. He pales visibly and his pleasant smile evaporates.

“Ah yes, my apologies madam, we were not expecting you.”

He turns to the entrance and bangs a pattern on the door. He then takes out a key from a recess in his coat and manages to turn it in after a few nervous attempts.

The door opens invitingly.

“Go ahead, madam.”

Hum. How queer. Did they infer my nature from one comment? This would not be a trap, would it?

Unlikely. Jimena would not have sent me here without a warning otherwise.

I walk in a beautiful lobby. I thought the exterior gaudy and I was wrong.

The floor is entirely made of polished black stone with a massive white circle five paces across in its middle. Golden runes I do not recognize surround its edge. The walls are of the same black stone at the base, before going up in shades of bronze. The room is narrow and leads up to a high mahogany counter, behind which a teller is hard at work. Apart from the desk, there are only a few chairs and a medieval piece of armor holding a halberd as visible furniture.

Beside the door I just crossed, there is also one on the left, another on the right wall as well as, curiously, a barred window. I also spot a corridor on the far wall as well as stairs going up.

I immediately stop. This place is packed with magic. I already triggered some sort of alarm when I crossed the threshold which could not be avoided. I can also feel a significant amount of power coming from the circle, the suit of armor, the many doors and surprisingly, the counter.

The man behind it stands up, notices me and freezes. The barred window to the right opens to let another frowning man with a gun look through it. Upon seeing me, he also stops in his tracks.

Well, this is rather awkward is it not?

“I am here to open an account.”

I would rather make my intentions clear before the set of armor starts moving on its own.

“Ah, hm, I…”

The man behind the counter is what I would expect an accountant to be. He nervously tries to replace the monocle on his nose, but his trembling hand knocks it out of the orbit and it falls against his chest.

Silence fills the place. I wait.

Soon, footsteps can be heard from the stairs. They are slow and measured.

A moment later, a man calmly reaches inside the room and walks in my direction. He is slightly shorter than me, with combed back black hair and piercing grey eyes. His traits are sharp, aristocratic, and his expression is that of polite respect. His black suit is exquisitely tailored and shows understated good taste. He is also a Courtier, a powerful one. I would place him at the edge of something greater. His aura is also one of the most disciplined and controlled I have ever felt.

“Greetings milady, and welcome to our humble establishment. I am Isaac of the Rosenthal. I welcome you here tonight.”

“Thank you, Isaac, I am Ariane of the, well, Nirari clan.”

A complex set of emotions moves his otherwise unflappable countenance.

“Truly? Splendid, splendid! It is an honor and a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. Please, follow me.”

I take his invitation and we walk side by side. You could hear a pin drop here as neither of us makes a sound when our feet touch the ground.

He leads me up to the second floor and to his office at the end of an alley. We enter a spacious room lit by a single candle. A large window situated at its back gives us a view of rooftops and the clouded sky. Two comfortable leather chairs are on opposite sides of a large desk that speaks of hard work and obsessive organization. Stacks of folders are neatly arranged in wooden dividers and not a single document is currently out in the open, a necessity when one’s guest can see so clearly. Bookshelves filled with writings on law, economics, and philosophy give the place a cozy feeling.

“Take a seat. Make yourself comfortable.”

He sits with dignity and gazes at me for a while then leans forward with mild interest.

“Before we begin, I would like to ascertain your identity. Would you mind, ah, forgive my impertinence, would it be acceptable for you to show me your fangs?”

I wait for signs that he insulted me before admitting that this is not an unreasonable request. I am not carrying identification papers after all.

“Ah yes, all eight of them. Incredible. I had the honor of seeing your Master half a century ago in Geneva. He caused quite the ruckus!”

“I was told he tends to do that…”

He gives me a pointed look.

“Yes, yes indeed. An apt euphemism. Let me just say that I am delighted to see you. We were informed that lord Nirari had sired a new Spawn and I was rather miffed when I heard you were slain.”

“Rumors of my demise were exaggerated.”

“So it would seem! And now you come to us to open an account, bringing the number of Nirari holders to three. This is a historic moment for my clan.”

“Yes. Before we begin, I had several questions if you would not mind?”

“Of course not. If it pleases you, I can explain a list of our services, terms and conditions. Then, I would be pleased to go into more details if there is anything you would like to know.”

“That sounds perfect. First, however, I want to make something clear. My existence is not, let us say, approved by the current authorities of this land. Could this become a problem?”

“Ah, yes. Your concerns are understandable. We are a fully independent entity with ties to all governments and no obligation to enforce their rules. Privacy is valued enough that our autonomy is protected by consensus. As such, not only can I offer you our full range of services, I can also guarantee that your very existence will be kept confidential until you see fit to, ah, enter Society as a debutante.”

His expression is solemn.

“That is reassuring sir. If you please, I would like to know what services you propose.”

“Excellent, excellent! We offer a full range of financial services. This includes all manner of personal banking, assets and wealth management, transactions and safekeeping. We also offer legal advice, administrative assistance such as new identities for our long-lived patrons, which I assure, you will be needing at some point. We also deal with matters of insurance and inheritance…”

Isaac’s full presentation lasts an hour and is rather exhaustive. I doubt that I will need ownership of a company transferred between two fake identities any time soon, though it is still good to know that the possibility exists. In the end, I choose to create a checking account and invest the rest of the money I brought in a fund with a high, if volatile return rate. The crafty man offers me access to a strongbox as a commercial gesture which I accept but do not make use of. My most precious belongings all fit around my neck and in holsters after all.

I go down and signal Dalton to join me with our stash. I have almost four hundred dollars in total from bounty hunting and helping Loth with various tasks. It is easy to save when one does not need to spend on food and lodging, even after granting my Vassal a fair share.

Isaac invites me back up as we wait for my stash to be counted.

“I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions?”

“Naturally miss Ariane, naturally. Though I must warn you that I may not share anything that would violate the privacy of our other customers.”

“I understand. You have confirmed that I have a sibling, and I would like to know if there is anything you could tell me about them.”

“Yes, easily. I forgot that you have been so far isolated from politics. Your brother is Svyatoslav. He is currently the most dominant figure in Saint Petersburg.”

“Truly? Is Russia part of one of the main factions I heard about?”

Isaac thinks a bit before continuing.

“Clans seldom respect borders, miss Ariane, therefore we never refer to ourselves as “Portugal” or “Switzerland”, but by clan or alliance name.”

Ah, first question and I already revealed myself as a yokel. Well done Ariane.

“Russia is home to two factions. One of them is a gathering of bandits, witches and cultists and is an alliance more in name than in reality. The second group is decidedly martial, and their closest allies are the Knights. They call themselves the Vityazi and dedicate themselves to the culling of dangerous magical fauna. I had the opportunity of visiting their headquarters in 1756 and I admit to being pleasantly surprised.”

“You have a good memory.”

“It is the defining trait of my bloodline. We all have a tidy mind served by an eidetic memory.”

“Forgive me for saying so sir, but I have only joined you for less than two years and there are already many things I would rather forget.”

“Not at all, not at all. Fortunately, we are able to take some distance from our worst recollections. Else it would make pain resistance training unbearable, I’m afraid.”

The delivery was so deadpan that for a moment I believe he spoke in jest, yet his face betrays nothing. I think Isaac just opened up to me a little bit.

“We are getting distracted. Your brother acts as a buffer between local groups of interest. His friendship with various key decision makers usually suffices. When it does not, well, he reminds everyone of the dangers of provoking him.”

“Is he that strong?”

“He is seven centuries old, miss, he was a prince of the Kievan Russ Confederation.”

Wow. If he lived for that long and fought as much as I believe he did then he must be a force of nature. This is my reality now, something I forgot for not spending time with my kin. Some of us have lived to see Rome fall. Perhaps they even participated.

“I could send him a message on your behalf, if you wish.”

Do I want to meet someone who would remind me of MastEr?

“That will not be necessary, thank you.”

I hate him and love him and hate him and… And I am being a bAd giRl. I should gather enough money to get a ship, look for his resting place and dig him out So tHat wE… No!

Dammit!

“Miss?”

“It is nothing. Ah, is there a way for you to petition the… Speaker, so that my presence here is, shall we say, legalized?”

“Unfortunately, we are not a signatory of the Accords. We cannot petition them for what is essentially an internal conflict within clan Lancaster, if we are being strict. We can, however, pass along a message. I can tell you now that without anyone to vouch for you, getting recognized as an independent House under the Accords will be difficult.”

“What are the Accords?”

“They are a set of rules regulating the rights and duties of all vampires residing on the New Continent. They are rather lax. Most of them focus on protecting individuals and preventing distant conflicts from spilling over here. Are you aware that the three alliances are at war?”

“Yes, although I do not know the specifics.”

“And neither do we as alliances shift long before news reaches us. Under the Accords, local branches are forbidden from participating and so far the locals have managed to remain uninvolved.”

“How are those rules even enforced?”

“The current Speaker, lord Constantine, has a handful of troops and can call some more. No local clan has reached a critical mass yet and none are capable of offering a real challenge. For now.”

“Fascinating. This place is really meant for exiles and refugees. Ah, I meant no disrespect.”

I have no idea if Isaac is offended. The man has as many facial expressions as a marble statue. This would be unnerving were it not for my habit of doing the same to Loth.

“None taken. Truth be told, I am here on vacation.”

Huh?

“On vacation? Truly?”

“Truly.”

I look pointedly at the meticulous desk and piles of papers. This man could visit anything from the Niagara falls to Key West and he chooses to stay here and do paperwork? In Savannah of all places? The Silent Watcher save me from this lunatic.

“Do not let the circumstances fool you. My workload is very light, especially compared to home. I am catching up on quite a few books I have been looking forward to reading for a decade.”

“I was aware that Bankers work hard of course…”

“That is an understatement, and it is during relatively normal circumstances. Right now, Europe is burning from the fires of Napoleon’s wrath, we are anticipating trade war measures within the next year. The Masks are in the middle of a civil conflict and Eseru and the Followers of the Path are at each other’s throat. Trust me, I needed a pastoral retreat. When I learned my clan was looking for someone in a remote place for a two-year position I jumped on the occasion.”

That is the first time I have seen a real display of emotion from him. Even then it was mild, at most.

“I see. I only wish my country had more to offer than… This.”

“Not to worry, I have my books. The only thing I was missing was the company of my kind, and so your visit is most fortuitous, most fortuitous indeed! Say…”

“Yes?”

“No… No, I should not. I am being terribly unprofessional. I beg your forgiveness.”

How queer! This is unexpected. This man came out as extremely polished and should I say, a bit pompous and now he is talking like a rake about to pull some villainous scheme? I am intrigued!

“Isaac, now that our business is done, I ask you, not as customer to member of the esteemed house of Rosenthal but from one lone vampire to another, what is it? Out with it.”

He looks flustered.

“Ah, well, hrm. Let us finish here and then perhaps we could resume this conversation outside?”

Curiouser and curiouser. The unfazed banker is suddenly losing his composure? All my expectations are destroyed. I follow the odd man outside through the lobby and out the main door with Dalton by my side. The guard gives a surprised look, though he refrains from commenting.

We soon arrive in a small flower garden, empty at this time. Isaac turns towards me and stops. He strikes me as someone who dispenses words carefully, therefore I give him the time he needs to formulate what I am sure will be a request. Vampires cannot be Supplicants because they can defend themselves, therefore it needs to be an equal trade between peers. I look forward to hearing it.

Finally, Isaac takes a deep breath just as Dalton starts to look a bit worried at our unnatural immobility.

My patience is going to be rewarded! I am sure it will be quite a tale.

“Ariane of clan Nirari, I would like you to provide support as I kill someone.”

Ah.

33. The science of the Hunt

Forget about gentle reserve, this man is utterly scandalous! Who would ask something like that on the first night? This is bold, quite bold in fact!

“Isaac! How outrageously daring of you!”

His face scrunches in displeasure. His shame must be great indeed for him to display it so.

“Of course, Ariane, I must apologize for being so very forward, yet I beg you hear me out before you pass a final judgement. My awkward request is dictated by the current circumstances.”

“Well, I admit to being surprised. You do strike me as a man of exquisite manners so I imagine those circumstances you mentioned must be great for you to breach protocol so.”

“I have never hunted in my whole life.”

“…”

WHAT?! He… What? A vampire that never!? Are my ears deceiving me?

“Surely you are jesting Isaac, you mentioned being alive in seventeen fifty-six. I refuse… I simply CANNOT accept that you… That is impossible.”

“Ah, your reaction does not surprise me. On the contrary, it shows you are the best person on the planet to fulfill my request.”

“Isaac! Hunters is what we ARE. You cannot not hunt! It… Gah!”

My companion smiles sadly and it occurs to me that in my surprise, I have insulted him.

“Forgive me Isaac, I meant no disrespect. I assumed you had someone specific in mind?”

“Yes, although I do not know who or more importantly, how many. What would you ask in return for this service?”

“I know not what you can offer.”

“How about this: shall you manage to garner enough support to petition House status, and should you commit no atrocities, I will add my personal recommendation to the pile. Although I am not part of the Accords, the reputation of one such as I would be of use to you.”

“I do not know the value of this recommendation.”

I will only consent to a fair deal. Isaac and I are not friends like I am with Jimena, therefore I owe him no favor but the courtesy of listening.

“When your petition is heard, your survival shall be made public with all the consequences that entails. When the Lancaster inevitably seek to regain custody over you, they will not be able to invoke your master’s agreement with them since you successfully escaped their grasp. However, they shall surely claim that you are a danger to the community and yourself and must be placed under strict control, theirs obviously, as they managed to prevent you from rampaging for six months. There will be a trial of sorts during which I shall attest that we met, and that you were polite and composed.

Constantine has a rational mind and we have a reputation for impartiality. He will know that both the Lancaster and your allies are biased. We of the Rosenthal bloodline are known for our reliability and impartiality. This will have a major impact on his decision, I assure you. Please do note that if you start slaughtering villages, I will no longer stand at your side. You understand, I am sure.”

“You are offering a conditional, future and intangible reward to an immediate service.”

“I solemnly swear that I believe it to be to your advantage.”

“Hm.”

For anyone else I would refuse, however a vampire that swears an oath is telling the truth. Isaac does believe it to be to my advantage and his knowledge of our political system far outstrips mine. I would be wise to take this into consideration.

“I accept.”

“…Excellent.”

He does not move.

“So? Who are we killing?” I ask with burgeoning impatience.

“Right, yes. For the past three months, women have been disappearing around the city. At least seven of them, though it would be difficult to know for sure due to the low social standing of the victims.

Normally, I would not be involved, because we operate under strict principles of neutrality, and because my Master is particularly insistent on us never fighting.”

“Truly?”

“Yes, this is our tradition, our values. We are meant to be withdrawn from the conflicts of the world and focus on arbitration and preservation. Our power comes from our wealth and alliances; as such we are encouraged not to draw blades ourselves.”

“That sounds… Tedious, and frustrating.”

“It would be an impossibility for you, Ariane. Your line is not called that of the Devourer for nothing. Your extra fangs that allow feeding in the midst of battle are for one thing only: to keep killing, again, and again, until you are the last ones standing.”

“Hold on… Hold on… Are you telling me that only we can Devour?”

“Indeed! As we are meant to be the depository of knowledge and records through our superior mind, you are made to stand alone against all.”

“…It does not seem to be going well for us.”

“That would be because your Master cares not about you, unfortunately. In any case, I… Have not yet managed a hunt from one end to another. Master would disapprove.”

“They do not have to know.”

“Oh, she will. The Consortium’s mortal employees report to her.”

“…”

Being spied upon by one’s own followers? This is absolutely unthinkable. How can he not slay them, unless… Ah, he is compelled to follow his master’s orders.

“Should you not be more worried?”

“Listen, I have served the clan faithfully for more than seventy years. I obeyed every order without fault and made major contributions to our success. Now there is a killer on the loose in MY territory, and my servants have so far failed to apprehend them. So, I will solve the problem myself! If my Master has objections, she can voice them when I return…. Thirteen months from now.”

“Your defiance is admirable, I suppose, though I hope I will not share your punishment, as your accomplice.”

“Ariane, I am sorry there is no pleasant way to put it… You are not important enough to warrant her attention.”

“…”

Well, that is humbling. Now that I am finally reconnected with other vampires, I am reminded that I am but a discarded ex-Fledgling in a Frontier region with no connections and no power. Perhaps living isolated for so long has made me forget where I currently stand in the Night’s pecking order. I find myself wanting to remedy that at some point in the future. I will not stay at the bottom. I refuse.

“Very well. Now as I mentioned, the latest disappearance happened at nightfall. If we hurry, we may be able to gather clues from the crime scene.”

Clues? Crime scene?

“I am not sure I follow.”

“We shall inspect where the victim disappeared and infer the nature and identity of the culprit from... things he may have left behind.”

“Oh, I believe I understand. You are taking a scientific and methodical approach to crime solving. Yes?”

“Indeed. You... do not?”

“No. This must be necessary in big cities but is superfluous in smaller communities. If the town you live in has two hundred inhabitants, the list of potential lawbreakers is extremely short. It is either one of the handful of troublemakers or a traveler passing by. A quick interrogation is normally enough to clear any doubts.”

“Ah, naturally, yes, naturally. I hope it will be that easy this time. Let us depart promptly.”

Shadowed by Dalton, we arrive in the poorer area of Savannah fifteen minutes later. The houses there grow like uneven teeth. Some are barely bigger than shacks. The smell of humans and their refuse is mitigated by the cold, though not much. Behind that I also smell woodsmoke, soap and food. We walk to a small home, barely more than one room under the scrutiny of all those we come across. Our clean appearance and wealthy clothes set us apart at a time of suspicion. This is not right. We are meant to stand out like roses in a sea of grass, not like sore thumbs. The whole process makes me uncomfortable and only the urgency of our task prevents me from asking Isaac for the opportunity to get changed.

We stop in front of an edifice of unpainted and unadorned wood and stone no different from the others around it. The sickly browns and greys of what passes as architecture here is so dreary that I believe putting the entire district to the torch would only improve its appearance.

My companion knocks. Inside, I can hear three beating hearts belonging to two children and a crying woman. Perhaps we can hear what they have to say?

“Go to hell!”

Well, we’re off to an auspicious start.

“Excuse me madam, we are here about the missing woman.” I say in a calming voice.

I hear a brief inhale, then heavy footsteps until the door opens with a bang.

“Who the fuck are you?!”

I give her my best disarming smile and extend the courtesy of not tearing out her throat for provoking me. She is, after all, grieving.

“This is Isaac Rosenthal, a concerned citizen and Conall Dalton, the best bounty hunter in Georgia. I understand that there is a person missing?” I ask as I capture the woman with my eyes.

I lightly push despair at the forefront.

“She’s gone! Nobody believes me, nobody! The coppers say she is just a whore turning tricks somewhere else but I know her, she said she would be home and she’s always where she’s supposed to be, and the room was a mess, and...Waaa.”

I slightly pull the woman forward and pat her head. Her hair is dry and coarse under my touch but she smells clean.

I comfort her for a while and ask her to invite us in. We follow her into the single room.

The place speaks to me of dignity in the face of adversity. The white plastered walls are bare, the furniture all cobbled together from rough wood, some of it falling apart. What pots can be found are chipped and in the middle of it all stands a bed in a state of disarray. I can now tell for sure that the disappeared woman was indeed “turning tricks”, as the smell of tobacco and stale sex is unmistakable.

I seat the woman in a rickety chair under the worried gazes of two young children, a boy and a girl. They have the lost expression of those who know that something tragic has occurred, yet do not understand the implications.

“Are they here for mama?”

I was mistaken, they do understand.

“Yes, we are. Now go sit on the bed while I talk to my new friend here.” I add with a hint of suggestion. I am bound to find the victim, that does not mean I have to suffer the presence and constant nagging of her spawn.

“Now tell us what happened.”

While our host babbles, I steal a look towards Isaac and I immediately understand how he could maintain his sanity all those years. His very mind is predatory.

Dalton looks aloof, taking in a few details but generally acting as a sentinel. By comparison, my kin is like a bloodhound. His gaze shifts from one element to another with absolute concentration, noting every detail and cataloguing them before switching to the next with a logic that only he can follow. No one here exists. He is in a world of his own where his intellect peels apart and dissects every bit of detail, every information his mind can capture.

It appears my role has been decided, I shall calm the mortal down while he does his thing.

I find the thread of hope in the woman and pull it. Immediately, her tears dry and she tells me her tale. I make sure that she keeps her eyes on me.

My host’s name is Suzanne and her sister is, or was called Christine. She lived alone with her two children and survived mostly through odd jobs. I also learn that it was common for her to place them under her sibling’s care while she was practising the world’s most ancient profession for a few more coins. When Suzanne returned today, she found the house empty and partially damaged. She knew immediately that something had gone wrong, but the neighbors had heard nothing out of the ordinary and seen no unusually suspicious people. The nearby road lies between warehouses and the docks after all, and traffic is heavy even late.

When she finishes, she glares at me as if daring to comment. I understand why she is defensive. Her sister is a cheap prostitute and a scullery maid. She sits at the bottom of a vertiginous social order and there is no reason for us to care, at all.

I find that I care, as much as I care about any other mortal. Those people are on the food chain just like the landowners, the soldiers, and everyone else, and just like everyone else they have their place, beneath me. They have value in what they can bring me and I shall not discard anyone solely because of their social standing.

That is their intrinsic value and it does not even take into consideration the circumstances: that woman was not killed, she was abducted. Nobody died here, at least recently and I know why she was selected.

Somebody went through the trouble of abducting a woman from her home. It is a risky endeavor even with meticulous planning. It speaks of means, will, and some measure of competence. I would be curious as to what motivated this decision.

As to why Christine in particular, it is obvious. She was extremely vulnerable, an outlaw in the most literal sense of the word: someone who the law no longer protects. I would bet good money that the majority of the other victims share a similarity.

If one day I must build myself a nest, those are the people I will recruit, not the posh nobles out for some thrill or the influential merchants, but the outcasts and the fringe members who life has not broken yet, for what they lack in power and influence, they make up in tenacity and scorn. Even now the defiance is Suzanne’s eyes will not be extinguished. They are survivors, like me. I can buy influence and I can influence money. Nothing will replace that sheer will to live.

Completely oblivious to the situation, Isaac suddenly walks up to a curtain and draws it to reveal a back door. He barely pauses before opening it and stepping outside.

Not one for pleasantries I see. Our host certainly looks a bit out of sort at such a cavalier attitude.

Well, time to go. I stand up to leave, Dalton in tow.

“We shall look for her and return to you when we have news.”

“But...Wait!”

“Stay here and take care of your niece and nephew, yes?”

“Yes… Yes, of course.”

Outside, my fellow vampire has crossed a vegetable patch and kneels in front of a path, barely more than a mud trail. A stone wall, refuse, and stacks of firewood block the view in every direction.

Wordlessly, Isaac stands and follows it back towards the warehouse district.

“We are following a carriage?”

“Yes Mistress, there was no indication that the entry was forced so she let them in. It would have been risky to exit a well frequented street with a wrapped body however, so they probably dragged her out of the back door.”

They? I look at the ground and indeed, besides our footsteps I count three more. One of them is very well defined, which hints at quality boots. It is unfortunate that the abductee would let men in without too much fuss as a matter of habit. The kidnappers chose their victim well.

“Isaac, should we not ask the neighbors what they saw?”

“No need, I know more than enough. The woman was neutralized quickly by three men she allowed to enter, then taken out the back and placed in a covered carriage of small size”

Quite confident about the details, are we? I shall see if it is warranted.

I expected us to lose the tracks, this being a busy place, however I was mistaken. The kidnapping was only a few hours ago and it is quite late, so only light traffic was in the street. The distinctive marks have not been entirely erased yet.

We search for an hour. When the tracks are covered, such as in the middle of a busy intersection, Isaac simply inspects every possible exit road until he finds the trail again. Sometimes, men with hungry eyes follow the richly dressed and distracted passerby until a look from Dalton dissuades them. He has grown and filled out quite a bit in the past six months thanks to regular meals, and the glint of a pistol’s handle makes for a compelling argument.

Eventually, our guide leads us to a more remote part of the docks. It is perfectly silent at this time of the night and I am reminded of when I cleared the warehouse as a first task for Baudoin. I assume that just like then, this area is worked by people who know better than to ask questions.

Isaac is inspecting a puzzling set of interlocking tracks when I decide to intervene. I lightly touch his shoulder and he turns around, frustrated. Silently, I tap my nose.

He breathes in and his eyes widen in understanding. It smells like tobacco, more specifically of the same quality as the one we were subjected to while in the hovel. This time, however, it is still burning.

We follow it to its source.

We know we reached our destination when we walk past a city guard in uniform. Red embers from a cigar illuminate his sallow face and his eyes follow us until we leave his sight.

There is no discernible reason for this man to guard a private property, alone, at this time of the night.

So that is how the kidnappers managed to access Christine’s dwelling without a fuss. Not everyone would trust an officer of the law but few would openly defy one. That is especially true for vulnerable people, like those that were taken. He must have demanded that the door be opened to them and they thought better than to cause a commotion. Here, their respect of Justice and its agents were used as a tool by criminals. Truly, fate can be ironic.

We know how and what, now is the time to learn why. I see two possibilities. Either they were abducted for the pleasure of a monster wearing human skin, in which case the Hunt shall end here, or they were taken to be sold or used elsewhere. Breaking in silently will grant us the most options.

I push the men in a side street. I first turn to Dalton.

After working together on quite a few bounties, we have developed a way to communicate by gestures that I am rather proud of. I sign the message slowly and deliberately: Isaac, I, up, hunt, kill, you, go, sentinel, silent, warn, incoming.

His answer is prompt: condition, enemy, come, kill, silent, agreement?

I nod in affirmation. He can eliminate incoming threats at his discretion. I trust him.

With this, Dalton leaves like a shadow and I take a moment to appreciate his skill. After he turns the corner, I climb the wooden walls of the nearest building and stride across the roofs, Isaac in tow.

“Who is that man to you?”

I turn with no small amount of curiosity. Can he not tell?

“That is my Vassal.”

“Impressive. Vassals are the first step towards the creation of a true human servant. You are fortunate to have found one so soon, and powerful for binding him so early in your new life. I admit that your Master’s acumen in selecting candidates is as good as they say.”

I frown in anger. Of coUrsE thE mAstEr was rIgHt to choOse mE… Wait, no, what does he mean? Have I been insulted?

“Please, I meant it as a compliment. You see, most clans are so focused on turning those that are the best soldiers, artists and bankers that they forget to turn those that will be the best vampires.”

What?

“Forgive me, I am getting distracted. Onto the matter at hand.”

I doubt that his bloodline wants for attention span. Either my status is more interesting than finishing the hunt or he was delaying. No matter.

We jump across the narrow ledge separating us from our target. I kneel, close my eyes and focus. Under the creak and groans of wood and the various sounds of the night, there are three heartbeats. It is too difficult for me to discern at this time if the victim is one of them. I need more practice.

The advantage of hunting with a fellow vampire is that I do not need signs. I can whisper and his acute hearing will pick it up while the mortals are none the wiser.

“Three inside. Shall we take out the officer first?”

“Only if we have no choice.”

A strange decision. I do not understand his logic. Why make things complicated? We should just locate the women and kill those that infringe on his territory. Anything else is just… Bah, enough. I agreed to help him. My word is given.

At least avoiding the policeman’s attention should offer some measure of challenge and make the Hunt interesting.

I am an old hand at breaking into warehouses, sadly. The first step is always to scout it.

I walk to the back and lower myself in front of a filthy window. I manage to glimpse the interior through the stained glass.

Three men are playing cards under the light of a lantern. They are sitting around a table in the center of a mezzanine overlooking the ground floor. On the far end, just above the main entrance, I spot a small office. It is barely more than a cage, but it should suffice. I hoist myself back up and invite Isaac to follow. After stopping in front of the office window, I drop down and hang in front of it with my feet in the air and one clawed hand firmly planted into the wall’s wood. Then, I close my eyes.

The noises of the game come into focus. A few hands are played in relative silence until one gets especially heated. As a triumphal “Hah!” echoes in the room, I dig my claw in the frame. My finger pushes through cleanly.

It hurts a little.

I wait in silence as they continue. I remain so far unnoticed.

I slowly lift the lock with my finger and take it out, I then place four claws under the lower rail.

I wait until the next commotion to lift the entire stile. This time, the noise was not entirely covered.

“Did you hear something?”

“No?”

I still go to the roof as a measure of precaution. A few seconds later, it is not the players but the police officer who comes to check the source of the disturbance. I was heard from the outside. Fortunately, it is too dark for him to notice that the window is still open.

After a perfunctory examination, he leaves.

I admit that this is fun. My foes may be no match for me in a straight fight, but to outwit and outmanoeuvre them so completely is gratifying. Perhaps Isaac did the right thing after all.

As soon as the coast is clear, I quietly slide into the office. The game of cards has resumed though it is more subdued now. I climb over a desk and down to the dusty ground to find that the room is cluttered with a strange hoard of everyday items including tools, ropes, pots and even a toy horse. Someone managed to create a path to the door.

Isaac slides in behind me and his eyes latch on the pile of papers in front of him. Before he can get too absorbed, I whisper.

“Should we not interrogate them? The woman is not here.”

“It would be too noisy, besides, I can get all the answers I need from here,” he answers dismissively.

“Did you, or did you not come here to hunt?” I hiss quietly.

“If you can make them talk without alerting the whole quarter with the commotion, be my guest.”

He then turns and starts sorting and arranging the documents, completely absorbed in his task.

Very well then, you insufferable bookworm. SCARED OF HIS TRUE SELF. WASTE OF ESSENCE. Yet I gave my word, so he remains in charge. He did, however, challenge me.

The walls of the room are nothing but a small separation, they do not even raise all the way to the rafters. What was a handicap when trying to break in discreetly has become an advantage. I jump to a wooden beam and grab it with both talons and knees, then follow it out of the enclosed space. I am now hanging upside down and moving slowly towards the small group. Blood does not rush to my head, making the position strangely relaxing.

Now to choose.

The dominant male is a cruel-looking giant of a man with a respectable pile of coins in front of him. His clothes are grubby and there is something insane about his smile. The two others are wary of him in the typical way of people expecting violence. The second man is dressed as a docker and shows the stigmata of unfortunate souls whose mothers drank heavily during pregnancy. The last man is quite promising. He is a weasely fellow wearing a respectable but ill-fitting suit. His legs are locked around his stool in a death grip; I can also spot dirty and decrepit shoes.

Perfect.

This one is the archetype of the cowardly social climber. He will squeal the most and will likely have observed more than he should have.

I reach the edge of the meagre circle of light, then fish a coin from my pocket.

I throw it at a copper plate placed against the wall.

The coin lands with a small clang as I am already dropping on the ground.

The three men turn their heads away from me.

I move.

My left hand closes around the docker’s neck and shatters it as my right lightly punches the weasel’s throat.

I jump across the table and dig my index in the brute’s breastbone.

The pain steals his breath. I grab his shoulder and summersault over his head, grab it and bite deep with all eight fangs.

I devour the man’s life force. I am not feeding, I am making a point.

All the while, my eyes are on the weasel gripping his throat and struggling to take a deep breath. He stares at me with unmitigated terror as his bladder empties under him.

I drop the lifeless body.

Between my toss and now, less than four seconds have passed.

I walk to the weasel with the grace of an immortal predator and lean before him with a red-tinged smile. I am close enough that my breath makes him flinch. He desperately crosses the air in front of him with a trembling arm in a pathetic attempt to ward me off. My smile only grows wider. It is a bit late to try and convert.

“I have some questions. You will answer me, yes?”

He nods frantically, still trying to catch his breath. Rivers of tears fall down his grimy face and from his throat comes a weird keening.

Good.

I grab him and drag his mewling form up.

“You are the ones who took the woman tonight?”

Nod.

“And the other women before?”

Nod.

“Were they taken here first?”

Nod.

“Do you know where tonight’s woman was taken?”

Nod.

“Were all of them taken to the same place?”

He shakes his head.

Hmm.

I walk back to the office and open the door. Isaac has classified and reordered all the books and free papers and is in the process of organizing them, apparently. When I reach him, he turns around and whispers excitedly.

“Ah, you are back, I have found some fascinating tidbits of… Oh.”

Isaac takes in my captive, still hanging from my hand. He is turning a delicate shade of purple.

“The others?”

I smile. He looks a tad uncomfortable. YES, THIS IS WHAT A TRUE HUNT LOOKS LIKE. PAPER DOES NOT BLEED, WEAKLING.

“Tell him where you took the girl, little man.”

“The.. The Frederickson estate.” He manages to croak.

“Good, good. That is consistent with what I found so far. If you just let me...”

“Enough of this Isaac, if you want to find the girl before they move her, we need to act now.”

“Hold on, I just discovered a large illegal human traffic ring, there is...”

“That is not our agreement! You asked me to help you kill the one responsible for tonight’s abduction, not to overturn an entire conspiracy!”

“This is far more important!”

“Are you changing the terms of our agreement, Isaac?” I ask with a deceptively soft voice.

He is about to raise his voice but something in my countenance must have warned him. He pauses instead, then admits with no small amount of reluctance:

“I am not, and my current behavior is defeating the purpose of this whole exercise,” he sighs, “ Let us go, then.”

“Excellent. Do you mind?” I ask as I point to our captive.

“Not at all.”

He gathers a notebook and a few of the papers under his arm and leaves.

Hold on, disposing of the bodies is part of my attributions now?! This little escapade is proving to be increasingly frustrating. Oh well, at least I will face the night with my belly full.

34. Ring Breaker

I manage to convince Isaac to grant me enough time to get changed before our assault on the Frederickson Estate. I have cobwebs on my nice blue dress just because of that stunt on the beam. If possible, I would rather avoid bloodstains as well. Cobwebs can at least be brushed away.

I decide against taking my rifle. It is useful but unwieldy, and thus unsuitable for infiltration. The sad truth is that I have difficulties moving around when burdened with it. I would sometimes crawl forward and forget its very presence, only for the barrel to clang against a doorframe.

Embarrassing. Perhaps I just need more practice.

Nothing will make me forfeit my pistol, however. I am a woman of elegance, refinement, and black powder. Try and stop me!

Our carriage arrives at the previously agreed meeting point. As I exit, Isaac comes out from behind the shadow of a tree. We are now at the Western edge of Savannah and even the most miserable hovels are giving way to barren fields. The chill in the air is biting and Dalton’s breath shows in small icy clouds.

The vampire’s eyes widen when he sees my outfit. Loth and I worked on it for more than thirty hours and it shows.

It is a dress, black as night. No parties will it see, nor dance nor revels. It is a tool of death, an instrument of the Hunt, and a statement. It is enough to glance at it to know that its wearer has not come to parlay. It is mine and I love it.

The outfit covers me snugly from neck to foot. Light metal scales held by silk threads cover most of my torso, arms, and legs. My heart is protected by a fully integrated Hastings-designed chest armor, while bracers of dull steel go over my forearms, strong enough to stop a blade. There are also holsters for my blade, throwing knives and a pistol. Dark boots and a skirt complete the ensemble, although the skirt is just me not feeling comfortable wearing man trousers. The cloth is snug so that when I move, there is no sound of fabric flapping in the air to betray my presence. It was designed and created for me.

I walk to Isaac just as Dalton takes out a monstrosity of a crossbow, another one of Loth’s creation. My Vassal has taken a liking to the ungodly contraption. It might be slow, but it is silent and the draw strength is terrifying. It was designed to kill werewolves, after all.

“Greetings, hrm, Ariane, the, hrm, estate. Just that way. Over the hill.”

I should add distracting to the list of the armor’s quality. Perhaps it is just a bit too close-fitting? Particularly, around the bottom?

Surely not.

Leaving those considerations behind for the moment, I look up to our destination. There is nothing to see, just an empty field going up. The road continues away to our right, and to our left, a small copse of trees hides the carriage.

It appears that Isaac expects me to lead and so I do. I walk a bit to the side until we find a path. I do not intend to walk through the actual field. Vampire or no, I would end up with enough caked mud under my soles to start my own plantation.

We follow the path in silence, and I keep my ears open for trouble. Soon, the edge of the Estate comes into view.

Now, I admit to being a commoner. I even admit that the “glorified peasant” insult I heard from Lady Moor hit a tad too close to home, so I am not the best one to judge other people’s properties. With that said, if this qualifies as an Estate, then I am the queen of Spain. This is a decrepit farm, nothing more.

Isaac seems to share my concerns.

“Is this… really the place?”

“Undoubtedly,” I answer and point forward.

The farm is surrounded by stone walls that go around and along the buildings. I see a house, servant quarters and a barn through a pair of opened gates. There is some activity in the courtyard, and I can spot the distinctive glow of lanterns.

“Could they simply not be doing peasant things?”

Really? REALLY?

“In the middle of the night?”, I hiss, “In February? And they need guards for this?” I add as I point to a pair of sentinels around the door.

“…I suppose not.”

This man has been sheltered beyond belief!

“I assure you, they are the right people. Now, before we proceed, are we in agreement that everyone here needs to die?”

“I would prefer to capture a few so that I may interrogate them at a later time.”

I grab my temporary employer’s shoulder before I lose the last remnants of my temper. I stare him in the eyes, all the while trying to formulate a message that will not be perceived as unnecessarily rude.

“No need for formalities Ariane, speak your mind.”

“Very well. You requested that I offer support while you eliminate your foe, now foes, with the clear purpose of protecting your territory. Those are the terms of our arrangement, sir. What happened instead is that I killed your opponents and extracted a location from our prisoners. I assumed that you needed a little nudge and I was, obviously, mistaken. You will assault this farm. You will kill its inhabitants and reclaim your place as its apex predator, and I shall only step in if you find yourself in danger. Only then will you have experienced a true Hunt. If I do everything for you, what was the point in coming?”

“Yes, yes, you are correct.”

“Why are you reluctant to kill? Is this not one of the easiest things for us?”

“As a group, I suppose,” he replies with a hint of impatience, “the issue is that I was trained not to do it. We Rosenthal learn how to dodge, avoid and flee because any conflict we get stuck in is one we should not have been involved in to begin with.”

“Then it is time to rely less on your training and more on your instinct, is it not? Look at those men, look at them.”

Isaac turns to the pair of grumpy guards. They are complaining in low voices about their assignment and the cruel treatment the weather is inflicting on their gonads.

“Do you know what they are missing?”

Isaac frowns and looks them up and down. I can imagine him going through a checklist of what he expects a member of a kidnapping ring should have. I sigh.

“Fear. Isaac, they do not know fear. They are here on your territory in the dead of night, and they know no fear. They even have lights up and strut around noisily because they are not even afraid of the militia, and why should they? How many of them are in their pockets? They have been poaching from you with impunity for who knows how long. Like rats. Does that not irk you? Is this how things should be?”

“No...”

“You do not need training to tear necks and crush bones, you just need to do what feels right. Yes?”

“Yessssss.”

“Then show me.”

He slips into the shadows and moves around to approach the sentinel from the side. I watch him with a bit of concern, soon proven to be unwarranted. He remains quiet.

The only issue I ever had with my instincts was that I tend to overestimate myself when I, let us say, succumb to them. Isaac’s predicament is beyond comprehension. What manner of vampire fears his own power? I can only presume that I am missing a vital element that would let me understand.

I return my attention to the present. Isaac is moving along the walls and will strike shortly. I signal Dalton and whisper in his ear.

“Go around to the front gate. Kill all who escape.”

He taps my hand in understanding and leaves.

Working for Isaac only increased my appreciation for the faithful Vassal. He is not only competent; he is also obedient and proactive. The Valiant Companions would have been a force to reckon with if he had been a part of their leadership. Their loss, my win.

I keep looking as Isaac uses a lull in conversation to grab the first sentinel and smash him backward into the wall.

Disappointing.

Of course, the second sentinel hears the impact and turns around. The outlaw and the vampire face each other.

And stop.

Come on! Do something! I walk forward and grab a throwing dagger. I would prefer if the alarm were not raised. If we get spotted too early, it might turn into a chore to chase everyone, not to mention entering the house if anybody calls it their home.

Just as the sentinel raises his musket in alarm, Isaac jumps.

I recognize that move. I first used it by instinct in the Henley residence, back in New-Orleans. It is a great opener and finisher.

The vampire’s claws dig into the man’s chest, stealing his breath forever. Blood erupts in a geyser and paints my companion’s face crimson.

I do not understand. He could have avoided this easily.

He slowly passes his hand over his face, as if to clean it. A fruitless endeavor as they are both covered by the crimson liquid.

He stares at his drenched hands. His eyes narrow, considering.

He licks his lips.

He raises his face to me and for an instant, I see a drop of baleful purple reflected in his tame brown, and then he’s gone.

I rush to the wall and jump on it. The courtyard is mostly empty but for a few crates. The doors of the barn are wide open and a small cart with a narrow frame is parked in front of it. A few lanterns scattered around allow limited vision to the mortals.

A horse neighs in fear. I hear the sound of torn flesh and exclamation of surprise and dismay. My ally is savaging a downed man under the shocked look of a handful of other humans. I cannot see his face from here, I should...

I should what? Why would I stop him?

Because we need at least one prisoner in case an invitation is required. Curses.

I jump down as the first musket is fired. Isaac is hit and that seems to stop his frenzy. He turns to the offender and moves, crushes his throat with a hand before throwing the corpse at another man. His movements are quick and savage but utterly inefficient. He spends far too much time on each victim and would have risked being overwhelmed if his enemies had been trained and equipped to stop him. I find myself disappointed again. I would have loved to see another one of my kind in action against someone other than me, for a change. This performance is rather lackluster.

One of our opponents has the presence of mind to jump on the nearest horse to flee as his associates are slaughtered by the strangely resilient madman in their midst. He rushes to the front door and something must have reflected just right because he turns to me and our eyes meet.

I smile lightly and point forward. He turns around just in time for a quarrel to appear in his mount’s chest.

They collapse in a heap. A magnificent shot, as always. Now I just need to select one of the survivors... ah, it appears that it will not be necessary.

The front door of the house is banged open by a veritable mountain of a man in dirty coveralls. From here I can smell the stench of alcohol and old sweat, a revolting mix that speaks of decadence and neglect. He carries in his hand a large butcher knife covered with old blood, some of it human.

Behind him comes the leader of this place.

I know authority when I see it.

The ringleader is dressed in a conservative grey suit that would not be out of place in a courtroom. His dark eyes sweep the courtyard without a hint of care for the fallen. He is not worried in the slightest, only angry that someone would dare assault his operation.

Both men notice me at the same time. The tall one smiles with a most dreadful expression, while the leader only shows cold disdain.

“A woman.”

“Very astute sir, I commend you on your keen sense of observation.”

They both frown. Ah yes, it is difficult to reconcile me with what they know of the world. In it, I should be cowering in fear like all the vulnerable people they kidnapped from their home.

“Get her.” Says the leader with a bored voice.

I let the tall man approach me. The ugly smirk on his face would have had me worried two years ago. I am no longer that Ariane.

His grubby paw reaches to grab my shoulder. I quickly stab his arm and dance away, ripping his artery open lengthwise.

He recoils in pain and surprise. I do not understand his astonishment. I did not move, did not show fear. Did he truly expect me to stay there and wait for the cruel treatment his countenance promised?

“You bitch!”

He advances with fury while his hands try to stem the flow of blood. I step back. This is my favorite moment.

Fury turns to concern when he sees the puddle of blood that already escaped his doomed body, then to genuine fear and then to panic. He ties a filthy handkerchief around the gaping wound as if it could stem the tide.

“Boss, help me!”

The “boss” grinds his teeth in frustration and takes out a gun. He does not even spare a look for his poor subordinate. Ah, a true monster in human skin with no empathy and no honor. I shall enjoy toying with him.

The brute falls on his knees as the other man passes him by. He is white as a sheet while the earth under him turns a beautiful shade of carmine.

For an instant, I take in the beauty of the moment. The red, the black and the white highlights. Life and death intertwined for one fleeting moment. A wonderful trio of a dying man, one walking to his death and a woman who died and came back, each a victim of a fate beyond their knowledge and control. I sometimes miss the daylight, but times such as those make it all worthwhile.

The second man reaches me and the painting fades.

With a sneer, he lifts a pistol and shoots me in the face.

Or at least, tries to.

How very forward, and quite rude besides! Why, these Savannah people certainly are a brazen bunch.

I move my entire torso to the side as he pulls the trigger and the smoke ignites. There is no need for me to dodge the projectile, just the man’s aim. The bullet skims past my left ear like an angry hornet.

Ow! Ow ow ow! So loud! This is quite painful! Why do I not have this issue on our house’s firing range!? Is it because this time I’m on the receiving end?! Gah!

I force myself to keep smiling even though I want to RIP HIS THROAT OPEN. I just wanted to appreciate a little “Memento Mori” instant in peace, is it too much to ask?

Bah, I cannot kill him. Really, it is forbidden by my agreement with Isaac.

The cold man in front of me shows a bit of wariness for the first time since we met. Fascinating. Seeing his men dead or dying should have clued him in, and yet it takes his own failure to realize his predicament? Hubris. The failings of a man used to seeing talent in himself only.

“You have no idea who you’re messing with. You and your friends are already dead.”

“Unless?”

The “boss” scowls in frustration. Somewhere behind us, a man begs for his life.

“Go on. You were going to finish your sentence with something, no? You will all die unless you let me go? If you leave I will only ask for reparation? My many powerful friends will destroy you and your families? Do continue, I think I've heard most variations of the classics but sometimes, someone still manages to surprise me.”

“I will teach you respect, whore!”

Boring. Oh well.

The man unsheathes a rapier from an ornate scabbard and lunges immediately. I take a simple step back to avoid the tip of the blade while grabbing my own and swipe up to deflect a follow up that does not come.

After his attack failed to hit, the man simply fell back and now circles me warily.

“You know, you might be decently trained but you lack real-world experience.”

“Shut up!”

I dodge two more lunges, then bat the third to the side. Instead of using his superior reach to his advantage, he stops again. Another mistake.

“Shooting the head is good in a competition. Soldiers know better and aim for the center mass. Less chance of missing, that way, and the target is just as disabled, not that it would have helped you.”

“I said, shut up!!! You wench! I’ll have you entertain the whole barrack!”

“So only three men, no, two now.”

This man is trained to fight in a fencing room so I simply move more across the battlefield. He tries to follow as I dodge and weave around crates and bodies.

“You’re too focused on me, keep an eye on your surroundings.”

“You slut! Once I get my hands on you, your friends will let me go and then I’m coming after all of you! You don’t know who you’re fucking with!”

I smile. Typical.

“Watch the leg,” I warn as I parry. The rapier slides on Jimena’s gift above my head as I move forward and down. He jumps back in reflex and stumbles against the extended limb of one of his fallen comrades.

“I did not mean yours. Ah, this has been a disappointment. Crow was much more entertaining than you, puppet. Perhaps I should have offered a wager?”

“This isn’t over!”

“If you look left, you will see that it is!”

The man cannot resist, his eyes flicker to the left just as Isaac smashes into him from the right.

“Oops! I lied,” I say, then I stop.

Something is wrong.

Isaac’s posture has devolved. He is hunched like a beast and his snarls and disorderly strikes send plumes of crimson into the air as he slashes ineffectively. His clothes are in tatters and the cold and orderly aura I associate with him has turned sour.

Just like the vampire in the wood at the Tillerson estate.

Bloody hell.

I move forward, grab Isaac by the shoulder and push him away from his mewling victim. He rolls and faces me. I see no sign of intelligence in his brown eyes. His entire face is coated with blood. Oooh this is bad.

“That is enough, get a hold of yourself.”

“MINE!” He growls in answer.

He hisses and I do the same. Trying to ASSERT DOMINANCE? WEAKLING. NOT EVEN ABLE TO CONTROL HIMSELF. WORTHLESS. I WILL PUT HIM IN HIS PLACE. And non-lethally. I may not warrant the attention of clan Rosenthal now, but should I slay one of its scions I certainly will.

Briefly.

He lunges and I move and duck. As he glides above me, I stab his solar plexus with five talons to stop his momentum. Then I slam him on his back. I aim for his heart and he grabs my wrist in panic. My other hand is already reaching up.

I lift him and as his body leaves the ground, I find the opening I need. Two claws dig mercilessly into the back of his neck. He stops moving.

“Isaac, look at me.”

He growls softly and shows me fangs. DEFIANCE? YOU CANNOT AFFORD DEFIANCE. Two spikes of black chitin pierce the bone of his spine.

He whimpers.

“Isaac. Look at me. Isaac.”

“Yes... I am Isaac.”

He closes his eyes in meditation and slowly, his body relaxes. The cold aura slowly loses its sour note until nothing is left but perfectly ordered strands.

I haven’t moved, and I still do not move when he looks at me, nor when his hand grabs the one I left resting on his chest. The intimacy of the moment gives me a peculiar feeling though I am not afraid. I made him submit. For tonight, our hierarchy is clear.

“Thank you, I would like to stand up now.”

I drag him up. He looks beyond exhausted, even while his skin is smooth and his eyes clear. It is a fatigue of the mind and of the soul.

“How do you do it?”

“What?”

“How do you keep it at bay, the great Beast, the one that needs to dominate and destroy. I tried so hard to hear it through my conditioning that when I succeeded, there were only screams in my head. Nothing mattered but to terrify and slay the mortals. It wanted more and more. Your voice is the only one that could pierce the veil, make it go quiet.”

“You just remind yourself of what your purpose is. The violent part of us lacks self-preservation. It needs to be tempered.”

“Is it?” He chuckles madly, “Is it really a part of me? That thing that only craves death and subjugation? How do you live with it, Ariane, how do you live with its constant whispers?”

“There are no whispers. There has never been anyone in my head but myself. This is not some mysterious evil entity, Isaac, just a part of you that needs to be controlled so that it can be used as one more tool in your arsenal. I have always been me. ‘It’ has always been a part of me, nothing more and nothing less. “

My companion looks mortified as if I had just condemned him to death.

“What about him?” I point to the fallen leader to change the topic. “Did you not want to question him?”

“I have an inkling as to what his business model is like. I do not feel like saving his life just to end it later.”

“You should drain him then, bring tonight’s Hunt to a proper end.”

“I cannot, I...”

He throws up. Black, disgusting liquid with not a shred of essence spills on the muddy ground. I step back so it does not stain my boots.

“I cannot.”

Isaac stands straight and wipes his mouth with a dirty handkerchief. He takes a deep breath and addresses me with impressive solemnity.

“Ariane of clan Nirari, I, Isaac of clan Rosenthal declare your contract fulfilled. As a token of my appreciation, I offer you the prize of the Hunt”

Magic washes over me, reminding me of my deal with Loth. This is the power of the oath and in this case, of a promise fulfilled. A wave of pleasure creeps up my spine with the purity and certainty of things made right.

I smoothly go to the pitiful head of this defunct operation, brought low in a single night. I ignore his babbles and empty promises as I hoist him up. I disregard his cries of fear and pain as I bite deep.

I feed.

Yes, even in the relative serenity of my mind’s fortress I can feel the power rushing into me along with the vitality of the vanquished. I can feel Isaac’s presence at my side, waiting respectfully until I am done. It is empowering, flattering, and just a little arousing.

I hope his nose is saturated by the stench of blood.

When I am done, I throw the body away.

“I must leave now, Ariane. There is much for me to consider, and I feel unusually tired. I will handle the cleanup, do not worry.”

I nod.

He pauses briefly to consider something in silence.

“You really are good at this, you know? Being a vampire. Some of us lose ourselves to our instincts. Somehow, I figure this will never be a risk for you. Seeing you fight so naturally has been... enlightening. I thank you and wish you all the best. Do write when you have the time.”

I nod again and he departs without a look back. When I am convinced that he is out of sight, I finally relax.

“Teeeeeeeeehehehehehe that was sooooo fun!”

Damn it, I’m drunk again.

35. Blood Ties

Following our heroic return from opening a bank account and killing six people in the process, Dalton and I continue much like before. As a charming lad with good prospects and a secured income, Dalton starts receiving several discreet inquiries from good families to see if their daughters could be a match. He systematically turns them down. This only gives wind to the rumor mill. Now everyone says we are an item. Fortunately, we are protected by our good reputation and we are therefore seen more as an exotic pair than a couple of sinners.

This leads me to consider a relationship with him. I am certain that he would not hesitate. I am also certain that our lovemaking would be pleasant and concern-free and yet, I decide against it. Although I cannot reclaim what Master took, what I give is still mine to choose and I want my first consensual intimate moment to be like what Agna and Loth shared. I do not want to indulge; I want what they had. My feelings for Dalton are not that of a lover, and so we cannot have what I desire.

In the meanwhile, I, ahem, still have a way to entertain myself.

While I wait for the conclave and for Jimena to submit my petition, I am not idle. My present circumstances give me access to a wealth of resources to work with. Following Jimena’s recommendation on the pursuit of art, I am taking drawing classes.

Well, that is not entirely correct. Upon Jimena’s recommendation, I have picked up drawing. It is upon Loth’s recommendation that I am taking classes for it, under the benevolent mentoring of old Margie Mitchell.

What occurred, is that after a brief period of self-study, I showed Loth the fruit of my labor. He was not impressed. His very words were: “Don’t ye worry about yer lack of talent lass, ye got centuries ta learn. Now explain ta me how ye think that’s a house. Please, I could use another laugh.”

Rascal. Fortunately, my other pursuits are going better.

My study of magic runes and their arrangement has progressed enough that Loth started showing how to build, avoid, and disarm magical protections and alarms. It will at least allow me to know what things can do, and then, break them. Casting even the most basic ward is still completely beyond me.

When I ask how he knows so much about breaking and entering, Loth grows suspiciously evasive. He mentions something about a girl, a crown, and his good cousin Okri. I leave it at that.

Bounty hunting has become interesting. There is a new market for escaped slaves and after learning of it, Loth offered me a trade. I would hunt down the fugitives and instead of delivering them back to their owner, I would lead them to isolated houses or lost paths, where others would take them. Loth explained that he was part of a secret network called the Underground Railroad dedicated to helping slaves travel North towards Canada or West to Mexico. Ah, Loth, always the bleeding heart.

The rest of the bounties are the usual conmen, thieves, murderers, and rapists. Which leads me to tonight.

May 1805, Georgian Wilderness.

“That’s them, Mistress.”

Dalton points to a small gathering of people off what passes as roads in these parts. I see three wagons and three groups around one campfire. They unfortunately have a dog.

I study them. There is a couple of young farmers, probably married since the woman is heavily pregnant. I also note a larger family with many children being fed by a heavyset woman while her husband smokes a pipe. He is dressed in the black attire of a preacher. The last two members are a crone in a rocking chair attended by a woman with the absent face of a simpleton. None of them look to be Mr. Darius Hill, charlatan, and thug.

I like charlatans, they always have the best stories.

“And you say none of them saw your quarry?” I ask.

“Or so they claim, and they seemed honest. The thing is, it should be impossible. Hill followed the same path, and nobody remembered him in Salt Spring. Unless he went off-road before he came across this group, they should have seen something."

I keep looking. I don’t think they saw anything. They are traveling together for safety but there is no friendship here. If anything, the young couple and the simpleton are both wary of the preacher. He probably bashed their ears with threats of divine punishment during the whole trip. There would be no reason for a coordinated lie.

It looks like a trek through the wilderness is increasingly more likely, though that does not fit what I know of the man. A conman cons his way through travel. Murderers are more likely to go brave the wilderness.

Unless...

No way! This is just precious.

I stare a bit longer until I am completely convinced I am right, and then stand up.

“Mistress?”

“My dearest Vassal, you have yet things to learn! Follow and observe.”

“Yes Mistress, I bow before your superior wisdom,” he deadpans.

How many vampires get sass from their Vassals I wonder?

We make our way to the camp from the road. The dog is the first to hear and smell me. His furious barks alarm the assembly, and both men grab a musket.

Dalton reaches the edge of the campfire’s circle of light. The flames reflect on his deputy badge, making it glint.

“You again?!” Roars the priest with outrage. Dalton remains unfazed.

“Hsssssss.”

The sound is too low for human ears. The dog barks, whimpers then falls silent.

Good.

I sidestep Dalton to get closer to the group. It is time for an exciting lesson.

“My dear Dalton, when following a prey, you must remember that...”

“Who gave you leave to speak, wench?”

We are going to have a problem. I consider killing their dog as a warning when Dalton intervenes.

“I did. Now stay silent.”

The priest stands up with rage at his treatment and opens his mouth but nothing comes out. The distinctive sound of a cocked pistol silences everyone.

“You would not dare firing on a...”

“Yes. I very much would. Now shut up, you are interfering with the duties of a deputy Marshall.”

Nicely done Dalton, now I won’t have to kill anyone.

“As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted,”

“You dare!”

BANG!

The priest falls backward with a yelp and his family panics, for one second, until it becomes evident that Dalton fired a warning shot in the air.

When everyone’s attention has turned to him, my Vassal calmly holsters his pistol only to take out another one from his other hip. His countenance is perfectly at ease.

“The next one is for your knee.”

You could hear a pin drop.

Good Vassal.

“... many imbeciles only see danger when looking down the muzzle of a gun. And so those that prey on others have found ways to make themselves appear harmless until it is too late.”

I walk around the camp and stop in front of the simpleton.

“However, most criminals are stupid, and the disguise is often flawed. For example, senile women do not smell of cigar and liquor.”

I snag the hat from the “crone” head to reveal a bald skull. The wig has remained stuck to the coiffe.

“YOU BITCH!” screams Mr. Hill as he attempts to extract himself from the reclining chair with a face twisted by rage. An instant later, his hateful glare is buried under Dalton’s leather-clad foot.

Hill falls back down and screams. The simpleton screams, the couple screams, the priest’s family screams. My poor ears.

“Darius Hill you are under arrest for assault with a deadly weapon, battery, larceny...”

I watch Dalton work as he shackles the criminal. All this fresh blood dripping on the ground... I feel the Thirst awakening. I have been feeding on chalices for the past three days, and it is time for Mr. Hill to contribute.

“What is the meaning of this?!” yells the priest as he tries to regain some authority.

“You shared a campfire with a felon and a transvestite, that’s what it means.”

I smile and prepare to leave until I notice that Dalton is staring at the man, considering.

“You know, when I asked you the first time you said that God would reveal the soul of a sinner. And yet here he is, sharing a fire with you. Strange is it not?”

“What are you implying, you insolent scoundrel? Do you know who you’re talking to?”

“No, but you’re going to tell me. Name, surname, and place of origin please,” replies Dalton.

“I’m the Reverend Luther Boone of the Baptist church of the United States, with the grace of...”

“Date of birth and place of origin.”

“I beg your pardon?!”

“For the last time, you will give me your date of birth and place of origin, sir, or are you refusing to comply?”

“This is an outrage! I have never been treated like this! I’ll have you know...”

“You harbored a fugitive and now you’re refusing to cooperate with a deputy Marshall of the state of Georgia. You will answer my questions, or you will be detained. Is that clear?”

“!!!”

“IS. THAT. CLEAR?”

There is a moment of tension when I almost believe that the priest will lose his temper, until Dalton takes out another pair of manacles. The priest quickly looks around as if seeking support, however, the couple is looking at him warily and the simpleton is still sobbing on the ground. He swallows his pride and sits back down.

What follows is a short interrogation during which Dalton asks a few pointed questions. The others do not realize it, but I see what he is doing. His tone and phrasing are not inquisitive, they are degrading. Interjections such as “Is that so?” and “care to repeat that?” constantly destabilize his interlocutor, giving the vague feeling that Dalton does not believe a word he says. The treatment lasts until the red in the priest’s face no longer comes from his anger but from his humiliation.

When he’s done, Dalton turns away and before leaving, delivers a parting shot:

“I will be verifying these claims, sir, and if they are not to my satisfaction you can expect another visit.”

And then we disappear into the night, captive in tow.

The impression is only slightly ruined when the simpleton runs after us, bawling her eyes out.

“I think she likes you, Mistress.”

“Don’t even start.”

Our carriage is riding back towards Coolidge, the city where the now slightly anemic Hill was last seen. I believe that he grabbed the simple woman there and used her as a cover. We will drop her off as soon as we locate her abode.

Said simpleton can speak quite a bit when she is no longer so scared. I learned that she lives mostly alone in a shed and that she really likes rabbits. Tonight’s sortie is getting stranger by the minute.

“Dalton...”

My Vassal sighs heavily, not meeting my eyes.

“I am sorry Mistress. It won’t happen again.”

“Oh, no, far from me to rob you of your fun. It was a pleasant surprise, although, you understand my curiosity…”

I see something rare in my precious ally, embarrassment.

“It happened long ago...”

“Then at least tell me what caused your ire. You are usually so stern…”

Dalton takes a moment to gather his thoughts then he begins.

“There is a kind of person who enjoys being in power. They enjoy it so much, in fact, that they will try to make everyone around them less so that it remains. They beat their wife, they beat their children, they crush their spirits so that all there is around them is a bunch of broken cowards too afraid to stand up for themselves. Growth does not interest them, only control.

Now some of those men, like this despicable cad from before, they found a religion. That religion tells them that they are the chosen of God and they know the one truth, and that places them at the top of the bloody world. How happy they are. Now when they beat their family it’s to protect them from sin. And how do they know it’s sin? Well, since they are the chosen of God, if they don’t like it, then God must not like it either. And so it goes. An entire village of self-righteous feckless mongrels weeding out everyone who could cast a shade on their happy hegemony. “

It does not take a mastermind to understand where his resentment comes from.

“You did punish him beautifully.”

“Oh, no Mistress. The punishment is only getting started. You see, I did it in front of his kids. Now they know their father is fallible. Just an angry little man, really. When they are of age, they will remember this, and that one could face him and win.”

“The seeds of rebellion?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps none of them will have the guts, or they could all be like him. It doesn’t matter. I gave them something to consider. That’s more than I got...”

With this last statement, Dalton grows unusually subdued. I decide to leave him to his musings. The rarity of his displays of emotion could be a cause for concern in others, it does not bother me. The unity brought by our bond cannot be faked, nor destroyed.

“I will not let my resentment endanger our cause, Mistress.”

“I know. I trust you, and I believe I understand now why you trust me, trusted me, that day in the Valiant’s camp.”

“Yes,” he replies with a smile, “I will take an honorable monster over a hypocritical human any day of the week.”

We share a knowing smile and fall into a comfortable silence as the carriage takes us back.

Savannah, October 1805.

The guard opens the door the moment he recognizes me. The nervous accountant who handled my money last time trots up and speaks with reverence.

“Welcome back, Lady Ariane. Master Isaac will be with you shortly. If you would take a seat? Would you like something to dr... Uhhhh.”

“I am fine, thank you,” I tell the paling man.

Yes, a poor choice of words. I would not take him up on his offer anyway, it would be quite rude towards Isaac. Not to mention that I liked the sound of “Lady Ariane.”

The bean counter scurries back to the illusory safety of his desk while I take some time to study the magical protections of the place. I now recognize the set of armor as an animated golem, currently unpowered. The book Loth lent me mentioned that they were indefatigable and did not know pain. They are a good defense against a vampire although their slow speed can be a liability. The easiest way to deal with them is to outmaneuver them. Barring that, they have a core that would need to be destroyed.

The glyph on the ground is also interesting. It is a seal of Solomonic tradition, and although its full purpose escapes me, I believe it is related to the disruption of foreign magic.

“Studying the competition, Ariane?”

I stand up and curtsy before my host. My answer dies in my throat when I take in his presence.

Something has changed.

The cold aura that marks him as my kin has increased in power by a significant amount. Moreover, it seems to be in flux, growing as I look, and despite all this it is still as organized and disciplined as before.

“Well! Are congratulations in order?”

“Indeed! Indeed, they are. Let us be on our way and I shall regale you with the tales of my latest achievement.”

I refuse to take his offered arm which he accepts gracefully. We exit the building and leave on foot away from the docks, towards the more affluent part of the city. Dalton follows us at a short distance, ever vigilant.

“Your power feels like that of a Master.”

“Yes, after our little outing I came home and immediately collapsed into a long slumber. I learned much from that night, much more than you think. The insights I gained were enough to tip me over the edge. You are looking at clan Rosenthal’s newest Ascendant!”

“Congratulations once more. So what is the custom? Should I offer you a coming of age present?”

He shakes his hand dismissively.

“Normally there would be a ceremony and yes, gifts. Do not fret though, your contribution was already more than I could ever ask. And there is something else.”

“Yes?”

“Well, those gifts would usually be very precious and as your financial advisor I strongly advise against any excessive spendings at the moment.”

“... Did you just call me poor, sir?”

“Of course not! Of course not, I was merely looking out for your best interest. As is proper.”

Isaac’s perfect poker face only betrays his inner smirk. If he were honest, he would have apologized profusely.

“Well, excuse me.”

“You are forgiven.”

I hiss playfully. Loth, Sinead and now Isaac, it appears that loners end up being comfortable in my presence. How else to explain the ocean of sass I must deal with? Even Dalton teases me on occasion. His deadpan deliveries can be scathing when something manages to stir his emotions.

Perhaps I am a refreshing breeze for them, someone who they know will not commit a betrayal. I suspect Master’s reputation could get him some allies, or even friends, if he weRe not sUch a...

Better not go there.

“We are almost there. As promised, the location is secured. You have my word.”

“Thank you Isaac, I knew I could count on you.”

“Indeed! Indeed, say Ariane, what you have is extraordinary. I am happy for you. Cherish the memories you make tonight.”

“I will. Thank you.”

“Enough of this, on you go!”

I enter alone the lobby of a small hotel. Signs of age and constant use mark the desk and furniture. Instead of being decrepit, warm colors and the smell of soap and flowers give the room a homey feeling.

The place is empty but for a heartbeat coming from the dining room.

I step in silently. If my own heart were still in motion, it would be fluttering right now.

He is sitting at a table, his back to me. His fingers tap a nervous dance on the scratched wood as he tries in vain to focus on a shipping manifest.

I sneak up on him with childish giddiness. Oh, but I haven’t felt this human in months! I place my hands on his eyes, covering them.

“Devine qui c’est!”

“Ma petite fille!” He roars with pleasure.

“Let me take a good look at you!” He jumps to his feet and catches me under the armpits. He lifts me in the air like I am made of straw and turns me around like a weird animal. I realize with pleasure that he regained his normal strength, though his hair has more grey in it than I remember. I try not to let it get to me.

After a few seconds, he returns his verdict.

“You’ve gained weight.”

“Lies! Calomnies!” I sputter.

“Hahaha fine, fine. Come on, sit down here and tell your old man everything.”

I give him a light recounting of the events after I left the house. As expected, I am interrupted almost immediately.

“Those damn fanatics hiring a mage? Typical hypocrites. Fucking pricks, I hope you gave them hell.”

“I did. Also, language!”

“Give me a break, daughter. Your aunt isn’t here.”

“So I can start swearing too?!”

“Do you want to?”

“That’s not the point!”

“Do as I say, not as I do, such is the privilege of every parent!”

I hiss in jest. When I realize what I have done, I freeze. I did not intend to show this side of me, however, my expectations are dashed. Instead of being alarmed at the inhuman noise, Papa steps closer.

“Can I... Can I see them?”

I hesitate.

“It’s fine if you don’t want to Ariane, I appreciate that it can be difficult.”

“No, it’s fine.”

Papa takes my hand in his and rubs the talon, careful not to cut himself on the edge. At the same time I open my mouth and allow my fangs to show. He lowers his head to inspect them.

“Hrm.”

We both jump in surprise when we realize Isaac is in the room.

“Jesus man, don’t you scare me like that!”

“My apologies Mr. Reynaud. I merely wanted to tell you that everything is in order. You will find the signed contract in your quarters. And with this, I bid you a good night.”

He bows with perfect professionalism. I’m never going to live this down, am I? We stare in silence as he leaves.

“You entered a contract with the Rosenthal?”

“Yes, they were looking for a trustworthy contact with significant storage capabilities. Our location allows them to bypass other clans’ areas of influence.”

“That is good I, wait, hold on, wait, how do you know all of this?!”

“Hmmmmmmm.”

“Papa?!”

“I’ll tell you if you tell me why Lucien asks me about you when his parents are not around.”

“Ah. Aha. Wellllll.”

My father crossed his arms and raises a brow which means I’m not getting out of this one.

“When I came looking for you, I passed by the manor first. Roger came out and Lucien trailed him.”

“They saw you? Roger never said...”

“I asked him never to mention me.”

“I see. As for why I know so much, well, your letters came from a vampire and I managed to get in touch with her.”

“What?! She never said so!”

“I asked her to keep it secret, I did not want you to worry.”

“Father, this world is dangerous!”

“And closing my eyes to it won’t save me, not since they took you. In any case, Achille has expanded the business and a lot of transactions we thought strange make sense now that we can account for hidden groups of interest. Also, Achille does not know it yet, but I am planning to leave you your rightful share of inheritance.”

“Papa....”

“Tut tut, I fully expect you to look after your nieces and nephews, and their children after that. I want you to be around for a long time and I am charging you with protecting the family in the future.”

“... Alright, I promise.”

“Speaking of which, Achille’s wife Nicole is expecting their second child! And so is Constanza.”

The discussion continues on my family until I resume my tale. Eventually, I mention Dalton.

“We mostly hunt bounties together.”

“Is that what kids call it these days?”

“Papa?!”

“Hahaha joking. Well, remember to tell me in advance for the nuptials. I have to make arrangements.”

“Even if I did, we could not find a priest.”

“Aaaah who cares about that, I could do a pagan marriage. With that Nashoba lad attending us.”

“Pass.”

“Alright, alright.”

After that, I have Dalton himself join us. They take the measure of each other and immediately hit it off. We finish the night on a pleasant note, and with plans for the future.

I have not felt closer to human Ariane in a long time. I wonder if it will be a weakness and I realize that I do not mind. If I manage not to get killed, I will be forced to see all my family die of old age. Perhaps their children too. I need to enjoy the present moment while I can, and safeguard those memories. It feels important.

I also realize that I am in a position to look after Achille’s descendants. I am too weak to make a difference now, and the descendants in question are mostly yet to come. This is still something to consider in the future.

This is all making me out of sorts. I know what I need, a good Hunt.

36. Cloaks and Daggers

“I already hate this Hunt.”

“Ye’re just a sore loser, lass.”

“Just because I end up being a loser a bit too often for my tastes...”

Loth looks like the very picture of innocence, which I find extremely suspicious. I insist that we change the way we select who will go first every time, and yet I still lose. Surely, Loth is not capable of cheating at every game.

Surely...

“Wipe that smirk off your face, mister. “

A howl interrupts his answer.

I know how wolves sound. Their songs are eerie, beautiful and if you are outside, frightening. It does not compare to the grating abomination I am hearing now. More importantly...

“Loth, there are two of them.”

“Aye, I heard.”

“We need to help him.”

“No, we need to trust him.”

Loth is about to hold me back with an extended arm then thinks better of it. Our eyes meet briefly.

“I hope that you can provide me with a good reason, Loth.”

“Aye, this is the lad’s first outing. Don’t clip his wings. Let him give a good accounting of himself. Have some faith, Ariane.”

I grind my teeth in frustration. I don’t want him to get hurt, I need to LET HIM HUNT IN MY NAME, yes, that seems fair. He is my Vassal, he will take down those CURS LIKE THE MONGRELS THEY ARE.

In the clearing in front of us, torches burn at regular intervals centered around a butchered horse covered with three chalices of human blood. Dalton stands straight with Loth’s latest iteration of the Wolf Slayer in his steady hands. A boar spear with a silver inlay is dug into the ground at his feet.

Even my vampire senses can barely pick up any fear in him, only anticipation and the thrill of the deadly struggle to come.

My Vassal chose the location himself, with the rationale that a clear line of sight was the most important thing to have. Loth did not comment so the idea must have merit, although I would prefer to HUNT THEM MYSELF AND MANGLE THEM LIMB FROM LIMB, except, I gave my word. Dalton drew the short straw and the attempt is his.

They come. I lean forward in anticipation.

Wood creaks and groans under the push of a massive body. Dalton turns and kneels.

The Wolf Slayer is a massive crossbow. Its draw strength is guaranteed by an elegant system of pulleys and taut metallic strings. It must be heavy for a mortal, though looking at Dalton, you could not tell. He holds it with ease born out of rigorous practice.

A hulking abomination crashes through the vegetation into the clearing. It spots Dalton.

Dalton aims, and waits.

The werewolf runs to him on all fours, its strange gait an obscene parody of nature.

Dalton waits.

The creature screams its rage and its thirst for blood, claws digging furrows in the tortured ground. Forty paces away. Thirty.

Dalton waits.

Twenty-five.

I hear the twang of strained cords finally released, I do not see the barbed silver quarrel leave its slot.

It is simply too fast.

The werewolf’s head explodes in a cloud of blood and brain matter. Its body drops in a tangle of monstrous limbs.

Dalton stands up and brings out two pistols from the holsters on his hips as a second dark shape overtakes the first. He fires one second before the thing reaches him. The werewolf raises a paw to his ruined eyes but does not stop.

The yowling form barrels past him as he rolls to the side, grabbing the boar spear. Before the blinded beast can recover, my Vassal buries his silver blade deep under its armpit. The creature shivers and struggles in vain. Dalton manages to keep it at bay through power and balance. With every movement its wound only becomes more grievous. Carmine blood soon spreads in a pool around it.

With proper preparation and deadly skill, Dalton took down two of the most dangerous supernatural creatures of the land.

“Come and partake Mistress, before it is too late.”

I move to his side with pride in my chest. He did so well!

I feed quickly. It tastes exquisite, like a hard-won prize. An offering worthy of any king. When I come to, Loth is congratulating Dalton on his aim and his courage.

“Ice-cold lad! We’ll make a sharpshooter out of you yet.”

“Thank you, my dear Vassal, for the show and for the meal. Now, I shall… Wait. Shhh! I hear something.”

Both men immediately fall silent, even their breathing grows subdued. I close my eyes and focus on listening.

I hear the beating hearts of my companions, fire burning softly on the torches, the many sounds of the forest, and behind that, footsteps.

A group of creatures is approaching us. They are confident if cautious. I focus on them.

For a single moment, my ears are cleared of everything but them, then a furious headache makes me recoil. I scowl at the discomfort. There is still much for me to learn, but now I know enough.

“Group of men, three or maybe four. I heard creaking leather and metal so they must be armed.”

I turn to Loth and so does Dalton. Tonight we went hunting at his behest and this is his territory. By right the decision should be his.

“We hide and observe.”

I fetch the quarrel while the others take the boar spear and crossbow. We run to cover. We do not have to wait long before the intruders make themselves known.

Three men in the now familiar leather outfit of the order of Gabriel trudge through the undergrowth and stop at the edge of the clearing.

I lean towards Loth and ask:

“What do you want to do?”

“We need to kill them all.”

Reasonable.

Just then, I catch a whiff of them. Sweat, fear and under this, one of them is... Now that is interesting.

“Can I try something?”

“Sure thing lass, it’s your turn, but they don’t leave the clearing alive.”

“Very well.”

I move out of sight to my backpack and change into my traveling dress as fast as I can. I enter the clearing from the side just as the others do. I crawl between the rings of light cast by our torches to a spot on the ground not too far from the two werewolf corpses.

Now that I think about it, I did not know they could hunt in pairs. Loth never mentioned it was possible.

Bah, it probably is just an anomaly. Nothing to concern myself over.

The trio walks towards the center of the clearing with one man looking back at all times. I find it striking that they would adopt this formation, clearly designed to fight werewolves. The corpses of the two monstrosities are squat between two torches, clearly visible from where they are. The death of their prey as well as the presence of torches should hint that their enemies, if indeed they are enemies, use tools. With this logic, walking slowly out in the open and in sight of everyone is the last thing they should do.

I focus on hearing again and confirm that they are not being followed.

It appears that ancient vampires do not have a monopoly on rigid mindsets. I should not be surprised. Once more, I am putting too much effort in a confrontation that could have been solved at the speed of the crossbow’s muzzle velocity.

Ah well, at least I can make it interesting. I feel the threads of a beautiful rendition of “The Turning of a Friend” blooming before me. Improvised, of course, but still interesting.

The trio reaches the two monster corpses. One of them touches the body of one of the beasts.

“Still warm...”

“We should...”

I sneeze. Three lanterns turn on me with blinding glare. I lift an arm to shield my eyes.

“Please... Don’t hurt me!”

Heavy footsteps draw close. A hand closes on my wrist and drags me to the floor. I yelp in surprise and pain.

“No... Please!”

“A woman? Here?”

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” says the one who manhandled me, now on my left.

I whimper in fear, my eyes still closed. I am but a poor defenseless woman in a dark and isolated forest. Three men have me at their mercy. Anything could happen. I am terrified.

“Calm Gamelin, can’t you see you’re scaring her half to death? You, woman, what’s your name?” Asks the man in the middle.

“M... Mathilda, sir, Mathilda Wallace.”

“What are you doing out there at this hour, huh?” Says a bitter man on my right.

“It’s not my fault! I did not want to be here, but he took me...”

“Who? Who took you?”

“I don’t know! A man! I don’t know him!”

“Hold on, start from the beginning. And you two, keep a look around. What is this, a picnic?!”

With the lanterns away from my face I raise my eyes to their leader. I blink rapidly to clear them. He is an older gentleman with sideburns. More interesting is that I cannot Charm him.

All three men are surrounded by a sort of cocoon centered around their cross. There is no bond between us, and when I try to force it I only receive a jolt that feels distinctly like a warning. Something like the taste of ash at the back of my tongue.

Very well, the old-fashioned way it is.

“I... I was on my way to Hull. Not far from here.”

I wave my arm South. We crossed the hamlet on our way here.

“Then this tall man covered with weapons jumped out of the woods! I was so afraid!”

“What sort of weapons?”

“Well, I saw, hmm, guns!”

“Women...” adds the bitter man. I am pretty sure he is the one with the interesting smell. Just you wait, you yellow-livered halfwit.

“Dale will you shut up for one blessed second, please? Miss... Wallace was it? What sort of guns?”

“Well. At least two pistols. Maybe more.”

“Go on?”

“He also had a strange sort of bow. With a handle.”

“A crossbow?”

“I don’t know sir, I did not see a cross.”

Dale sniggers. With a supreme effort, Sideburns refrains from cuffing him.

“Anything else?”

“Yes, he had a spear. It was a hunting spear I think. I saw my father use the same.”

“That’s not one of us.”

“Dale, one more word and I will use you as live bait. Miss Wallace, the man, what did he look like.”

“A very tall man, strong as a bull he was. He had a big red beard, flat nose and a ring above his right eye.”

I just described Rolf Stonehead, possibly the dumbest of Loth’s relatives. Somewhere in the treeline, someone chuckles softly.

“A ring, you say?”

I nod frantically.

“Why should we believe that hussy. Any respectable woman should be in bed at this hour, she probably followed him here for a tryst.”

I may be a scared lone woman but those accusations sting my pride and so I must show it.

“That is not charitable of you, sir!” I claim. The fear of the demon-like creature must soon reassert itself, however.

“Ooooh, this is a nightmare! This cannot be real...”

“Miss, look at me.”

Although the leader of the squad affects kindness, his eyes remain calculating. This one is sharper than the rest. He can feel that something is wrong.

“Tell me, what happened after.”

I lower my head and close my eyes, doing my best to remember.

“Hum, he grabbed me. He was strong and I was scared so I did not fight him. It didn’t hurt. He said he needed bait.”

Dale and Gamlin exchange whispers.

“Who might he be, an independant hunter?”

“One of the devil-worshippers perhaps?”

I go on.

“Then he dragged me through the woods. He did not answer my questions, or my pleas. He only told me to... To shut up.”

“A wise decision.”

Sideburns stands up and floors his subordinate with a powerful right hook. I cover my head and yelp at the sudden violence. I have to admit, it was done beautifully.

To my inner delight, Dale growls.

A flicker of doubt crosses Sideburns’ otherwise stern expression. In typical fashion, he dismisses it almost immediately.

Yes mortal, you are so close to understanding, and yet you dare not face the truth.

“Then what?”

I swallow with difficulty, intimidated by the clearly dangerous man in front of me.

“And then... he brought me here. There was a horse carcass. And torches.”

“Go on.”

“When night fell, he used a syringe to draw some blood,” I say as I massage the crook of my left arm, “and he just spilled it on the body. I thought he was a lunatic and he would do some evil ritual.”

“What tells you that he didn’t?”

Ah, a solid observation. This would destabilize many a liar.

“I don't know? He dragged me to the side and he just stood there. Did not say a word until... until...”

My voice quivers and I grab my head and collapse on the ground. My breath comes hard and fast and one of my hands is on my heart, as if to calm down its panic.

“Are those demons?”

“They are godless creatures. That is all you need to know.”

He turns to leave. What, going so soon?

“Wait! Please.”

Sideburns would ignore me but leaving a woman defenseless is more than he can tolerate. I have a short window of opportunity.

“Do you live nearby? Can I come with you?”

“No, we do not. And no you cannot.”

“Don’t leave me here please!”

“Listen, they’re dead now so we should be safe.”

“What if there are more of them?!”

“There are none. We have been tracking those two for three days now. There are no others.”

Ah, so they already fought those creatures and that is how dear Dale ended up cursed. The fact that they have been traveling for three days also means that their base is relatively far. Perhaps Loth knows more.

Now for the finish.

“Then at least come back to Hull with me for the night. You will be able to rest. You should not walk around with one of you bleeding like that.”

They all stop.

Oh, yes. This is so precious, the fateful moment when the seed of doubt blooms into a beautiful, tainted flower.

“What did you just say?”

“Nothing! Nothing! I’m sorry! I did not mean to imply anything!”, I yell in terror. Sideburns grabs me by the collar and hoists me up. My, quite daring!

“Who! Who is bleeding?! What did you see?!”

I just have enough time to raise my hand protectively before Sideburns’ head explodes in my face. My dress is soiled with blood and pulverized brain matter.

Ew.

Also, really? I was expecting a fierce argument ending up in a fight. I did not expect Dale to be so trigger-happy. Oh well.

“No!” , screams Gamelin, taking out his own pistol, “How could you!?”

They throw themselves at each other in a mad tangle of limbs, trying desperately to angle the barrel of their guns towards soft flesh.

“I need to go back to Elise! I have to! I know what you will do to me!”

“Traitor! Did you not swear an oath like all of us? Are you so ready to forfeit your immortal soul?”

“Screw this! I’m not cursed! I can’t be! I’m God’s chosen!”

Yes, yes, God’s chosen. Father Armand also used to tell me God loved me and yet here we are.

I watch with interest as they wrestle on the blood-soaked ground until it looks like Gamelin has the advantage. He slams Dale on the ground.

Instead of fighting both his previous colleague and gravity, Dale suddenly pushes his arm down. In the brief moment of leeway he has, he aims his gun up and shoots.

The bullet misses Gamelin by a wide margin.

The cloud of ignited black powder, however, does not.

The poor sod recoils and reaches for his eyes. The turncoat does not hesitate. He grabs the discarded gun, turns it on the man he called his brother and fires it at point-blank range.

Gamelin’s head whips back. He collapses, dead.

I am sobbing and crying on the ground. Only my pathetic mewling and Dale’s heartfelt curses break the silence of the grave that has befallen this clearing.

Eventually, he stands back up and walks to me.

“No, please, please! I haven’t done anything!”

“I know. I am sorry. I have no choice.” he says, while aiming one more pistol at my head. He turns his head away with an expression of pure guilt. On his cheek, a single tear trails down.

He pulls the trigger.

After the echo of the gunshot has died, he falls to his knees. For a long time, there are only bitter tears of guilt until finally he bellows his pain to the heavens.

“Why?”

“Because you broke your oath.”

Dale turns in fright as I stand up and brush the grass from my knees. Now the travel dress has stains of blood, brain and soot. What a chore it will be to wash.

“What? No! I don’t understand! Who are you? What is this?”

“This, is a passable rendition of The Turning of a Friend, with you in the role of the traitorous companion, and me as the puppeteer. Although, to be fair, you made it too easy.”

“How are you still alive? I shot you in the head!”

“Correction, you shot at my head. You missed.”

“It’s impossible... I am insane, completely insane, this is just a dream, yes just a dream.”

What an interesting development! He is losing his mind. I approach and kneel in the grass in front of him. The cross on this man’s chest burns my hand when I grab it but I still manage to tear it off.

“It hurts right? All of this.”

“Yes, please make it stop make it stop make it stop. Let me wake up.”

“I will make it all better, little oath breaker. Just hold still...”

He tastes like a play led to completion, and a hint of curse. Not bad.

Loth and Dalton clap politely as they enter the clearing. Dalton piles the carcasses, Loth checks the priests’ belongings and I gather firewood to build a pyre.

Dale was a traitor and a fratricide. I look down upon him while I respect Sideburns, whose name I never learned. It is curious that I would harbor the least resentment to those who could have harmed me the most. I only feel respect for those who follow their beliefs to the end, even if it means that they need to destroy me. Perhaps it is...

“Ari, are ye tipsy again?”

“What? Psh, no, absolutely not. I would if I drained three people and I only drained two. So there!”

“Are you sure? I remember that werewolf blood is potent.”

“That was only one werewolf and half so it doesn’t count.”

“Ye are being contemplative lass. You are contemplative when ye’re tipsy.”

“Am not! I am perfectly fine!

“Alright, sorry. By the way , why are you adding their muskets to the bonfire?”

“...”

“...”

“Technically, they are made of wood. Mostly.”

“Right, lass of course. Go sit down for a minute or two aye?”

Acting is hard.

The towel is hung, the tub is empty, and my bedroom's secured doors are locked tight. Loth retired after a last attempt at creating a magical skeleton key, his latest project. Dalton is long asleep.

I walk naked to my bed, not the sarcophagus, and plop onto its soft mattress. It smells of soap. I smell of jasmine and the subtle spice of vampire skin. The canopy covers me in soft blue tones.

I run a finger down my torso. The claw trails against my skin without breaking it, until my hand stops just below my navel.

I turn my head to the nightstand upon which rests another of Jimena’s gifts. It is a rare print of a story about a shepherdess and far too many handsome noblemen.

I am going to have myself some “me-time”.

I open the book with one hand and start a new chapter titled “In which our Heroine absconds to the woods with don Miguel…”

What a delightful turn of events.

“… and don Rodrigo.”

Oh, my!

Alas, as I start reading the bell rings. The urgent bell. The one that signals that Loth has an important matter that needs to be addressed immediately.

Perhaps I can rip it from the wall and pretend it was an accident?

With a resigned sigh, I pull on a nightdress and undergarments, don a pair of slippers and promptly exit my room. As expected, the house is dark and deserted. No fire, no intruder and generally, nothing that warranted me being disturbed at this most inopportune moment. I swallow my annoyance and climb upstairs. I hope this is truly important.

I find Loth in the smoking room in a fine silk robe and a lowball glass full of whiskey. An empty bottle lies on the table at his side. The dying fire reflects in his dark eyes.

Sensing the mood, I silently sit in front of him and wait.

He slowly brushes his hand over his face, then pinches the bridge of his nose. When he can no longer delay, his voice starts rough from stress and the burn of liquor.

“It’s yer fault, ya know?”

He sounds defensive.

“Many things are my fault. You will have to be more specific.”

Loth puckers his mouth, moving his great beard in comical fashion and finally hands me a rumpled letter, which I open. The text is entirely runic. My study of his magic system allows me to decipher a few key elements: wife, ship, arrival, a few runes that refer to people as well as a time coordinate which I realize is three days from now.

It does not take long to piece the puzzle together.

“Loth?”

I shake the paper like a flag.

“How long have you had this?”

“Grmgmlmlmrgmrl.”

“Loth!”

“A month!”

The Silent Watcher save me from procrastinators.

“Am I to understand that your correspondence has been fruitful?”

“No! As soon as Leikny, that be me wife, found out I was alive, she managed to track me down and now she’s on her way ta Savannah! With that damn Rollo!”

“Rollo who showed his posterior to the king of England or swine-kisser Rollo?”

“Neither of them, it’s a third one I never mentioned before.”

“Ah?”

“Aye, see, he’s a wee bit of a cunt.”

I splutter in outrage but Loth cuts me off.

“Don’t ye start. I’m wroth, and I’ll damn swear if I feel like it. DAMNIT! I have ta confront them. Else they’ll come here and I’ll never hear the end of it.”

I can imagine the commotion. All those widows coming here for a roll in the hay, finding out that their paramour is still married. Scandalous.

Well, more scandalous at any rate.

“I feel a bit responsible. I could… Convince them to head back.”

Loth’s eyes are reduced to slivers under his thunderous brow. I had to needle him before the temptation to cut and run could grow too strong. Now his pride will not let him retreat.

“I can solve me own damn problems thank ye very much. Just…”

“Yes?”

“Can ye come with me? For safety?”

“Of course.”

“Hold on lass, ye think I’m being metaphorical. Am not. That Rollo is three snakes in a gambeson.”

“You suspect foul play?”

“Suspect? No. I expect foul play. So you and I are going ta make a short list of contingencies in case I’m not as paranoid as ya think. Aye?”

“Of course Loth, I shall endeavor to assuage your fears.”

“Assuage? Come on, Ariane, stop being so damn respectable for one damn second.”

“No.”

“Please…”

“Bah, fine, but just this once! If they dare touch you, I will fuck them up.”

“Thank ye lass, but did ya mean ta say that ye’ll shove their heads up their…”

“Do not press your luck.”

I never knew one could infuse so much meaning in a single gesture. Some smiles are worth paragraphs. Loth’s sigh spells an entire book.

Regret, anxiety, shame, hopelessness, resentment, disappointment, the list is long. We have set up a meeting point in a rather expensive inn at the edge of Savannah. Three people just arrived. Four had gone down the walkway a day before, carrying with them a massive crate. Big enough to contain an oversized man, like Loth for example.

It does not take a genius to suspect that they want him back with a bit too much enthusiasm.

“I am feeling out of sorts Ariane. I am not quite sure what to do.”

“What does your heart desire?”

Loth turns to me and I am reminded of the warrior in my vision, the one who had laughed as he had buried his axe into another man’s chest.

“Let’s not go there, aye? What my heart wants now even you would object, say it dishonors the Hunt or some such.”

I feel a rush of excitement. This is not about the Hunt, this is about retribution. Those kin of his intend to commit some terrible offense, breaking their oath in spirit, and to their own blood no less. They would accept his offer of peace with ill intent in their hearts.

Oath breakers. We should make an example out of them. PEEL THEM OPEN ONE BY ONE, EXTRACT THEIR SECRETS LIKE MARROW FROM A BONE. SEND BACK THE DREGS. LET THE REST WITNESS THE COST OF TRANSGRESSION.

“Do not tempt me lass, I beg of you, do not tempt me.”

I wipe the ghastly smile from my face and retract all of my fangs. If Loth were after justice, his wife would be dead. He is after closure. I do not want to push him to do something he might regret. He deserves better from a friend.

“You want to confront them?”

“Spring the trap? It’s bloody stupid, is what it is.”

He mulls it over for a while, like prodding a wound to see how painful it is. When he finally turns to me, all his emotions have been boxed in tight. Only cold anger remains.

“I need ta know.”

I look through the window.

The inn is suspiciously empty. Only one table is occupied, around which Loth’s relatives and spouse are sitting. The stocky blond must be Leikny, and she looks nervous. The other two share my friend’s muscular frame and lush beard. The one on the right is an apprehensive red-hair, the one on the left has hair as black as night, curled in an elegant do. He has a vicious countenance to him and I would bet solid gold that this is Rollo. As I look, he reaches mechanically for a bulge on his side and I see the glint of chain mail.

“They are armed, and armored.”

“Of course they are.”

Loth moves back from the cover of the carriage and stretches. Joints and bones pop like a military fanfare.

“Well, here goes nothing.”

“Loth? I was thinking…”

“Yes?

“Is it really kin slaying if they are your in-laws? Surely that should be acceptable.”

“Heh!”

The large man only graces me with half a smile, but he feels less brittle. The raw grief is now covered by a veneer of fatalistic contempt. Before leaving, he turns to me one last time.

“Thanks Ari, and… I am counting on you.”

I nod in acknowledgement. Leikny’s party is not stupid. They must have planned for Loth to resist and have measures in place. If they are not fools, they will have many.

It is time for me to fulfill my end of the bargain. I circle the inn out of sight, find an empty alley and climb on the wall. In a few short hops, I am next to the inn’s roof.

Now, if I wanted to bring Loth back to his country with me, I would first try to convince him peacefully. It would only cost time. That is why Leikny is here herself. Failing this, I would make sure he is tranquilized. That is why the shadow I see detaching itself from the second floor window is here.

So much treachery just to try to get him back. If they truly understood the man, they would know that five of his cousins and a two weeks drinking binge would do the trick.

The silhouette moves enough that I recognize the shape of a man. I am intrigued. I cannot feel a single flutter of magic coming from him and yet there are clearly some occult shenanigans at play here. A concealment binding?

I have difficulties seeing this person work. His actions come out as a jumble of movement that I find hard to follow, not because they are fast but because they are confusing.

I manage to perceive more by not staring directly at him. He dangles from the roof and slowly lowers himself in front of a window. I see a glyph being hung on top of it, and then he rolls back, giving me clear access.

Runic inscriptions of the script Loth favors are engraved into a transparent disk. They circle a pale blue stone in intricate patterns. I see several iterations of the same instruction: stop, surrender, sleep.

If Loth jumps out the window he will drop like a stone.

The strange man now lowers himself on top of the door.

If I wait, the cloaked man may go back inside. If I attack him and I am heard, Loth may burst out of the door and be instantly incapacitated.

What should I do?

I decide that the ability to escape is more important. I wait for the man to get back in through a window and jump silently on the inn’s roof. I climb down the wall using claws and study the first glyph once more. It has been fastened to the top rail with an adhesive substance. I also taste a small spell. There, next to the glyph is a small rune of alarm. It will warn its user in case of tampering.

That will draw the stranger man out.

I move. I rip both glyphs from the wall and rush back up, first on the roof and then on top of the window. I hide myself and focus on my senses.

For a full minute, nothing happens, then the barest sound of well-oiled hinges tickles my ears.

Coming from behind.

Ah, curses! I stride silently across the roof until I am atop another window, lean down, and then wait.

The light sound of the pane opening stops and stills. I wait.

Then something small appears in front of me. It looks like a small silver disk at the end of a metal rod. The disk rotates.

This is a mirror, which means...

I move forward and over the edge, as I spin down I grab a gloved hand and pull it down. The window pane crashes on the side as a hulking form barrels past me and into the streets below.

And that, is... Wow!

I roll to the side to dodge a bolt. I start moving too late, fortunately the arrow head pings harmlessly against my arm guard. As I watch, the figure twists on itself and lands on the ground with perfect grace.

I must not underestimate that one.

I jump down the ledge. As I fall, my foe fires another quarrel. This time I am prepared and barely manage to block it again. I rush him, dodge to the side as he slashes me and stab him in the leg.

Or at least, I try to. The man grunts and stumbles but when I withdraw my blade, there is not a drop of blood to be seen. I move and dodge as several silver knives whistle past me. As I step back, my opponent throws two knives at the same time, I almost miss the small flask that follows them.

His aim is off so I simply duck and move forward. Then something explodes behind me. Incredible heat basks my back and I’m sent tumbling on the ground.

I’m on fire.

I’m on fire I’m on fire I’m on fire. No! NO! MUST RUN. Must not run. I roll on the ground to extinguish the worst of the flames, jump back on my feet and sprint away.

I turn the street corner. There, a water barrel. I lift it and empty it on my head.

Immediately, a cool sensation spreads down my body, it brings me clarity of mind, and with it, the pain. It stings quite a bit.

The acrid aroma of cat pee then assaults my delicate nose, it seems that the barrel contained more than just rainwater.

Marvelous.

Fair enough, you sorry excuse for a devious scoundrel. If your armor can stop my blade, then I shall have to teach you the meaning of blunt force trauma.

I spot a half-sawn rotting beam placed against a nearby wall and dig my left hand claws in it. I ignore its mushy consistency and run back.

The shadow warrior is hobbling to the inn when I approach. As I watch, he discards an empty vial, probably a potion of some sort. His movements are still harder to spot the more directly I look at him.

I sprint silently and I swear he must have felt my eyes on his back. He twists and shoots at the same time. Another quarrel is soon embedded in the beam, which I use as an improvised tower shield.

When I reach him, I swipe the heavy piece of wood in a circle aimed at his legs. As expected, he jumps up. As he is still in the air, I simply continue my motion until the circle completes, and goes on.

The second passage does not miss. The beam hits him in the side and knee. At the same time, I reflexively twist as something rakes my chest.

A blade cleaves the scales of my armored dress, parting them like water before stopping at the limit of my heart protector. The solid steel barely blunted the blow. I cough blood. A second later, the pain makes itself known.

I hiss in agony, a sensation that only increases when a burning sensation spreads along the wound. KILL NOW. CRUSH THE HEAD AND DRAIN THE OTHERS.

At this point, both of us stop.

Something happened inside, something that was bad enough to trigger an event both awesome and terrible.

Loth is angry.

Perhaps the word pales to reflect the reality of it. Truth be told, Loth is mad with anger.

A fierce bellow, less human and more like the clarion call of a great horn pierces the night’s tranquility like thunder from a cloudless sky. Loth is angry. He is in danger!

“Hsss!”

I need to move. I need to ignore the pain. I take one slow step forward, another. Loth needs me. I WILL NOT FALL. Especially not by one who thinks he can dwell in the shadows. THE NIGHT IS MINE.

The shape turns and lobs something at me, I throw the beam.

A vial breaks against the wood with a sizzling sound. An instant later the heavy object lands on its target with the ominous crack of broken bone. Acid eats at the darkness until it turns back into a screaming person. An armor made out of strange leather covers him entirely, and a few runes on his chest are being damaged by fuming acid. His head is covered by a helmet that would make Loth proud.

Well aren’t we covered in expensive gear? Let’s see if we can put it to good use.

I lean forward and grab him by the ankle before moving back to the entrance with the prisoner in tow, just as the sounds of broken furniture and crashing glass herald the start of a true rampage. As I reach the window, I throw my fallen foe through it.

Damn it it still hurts. Gah. Note to self, move conservatively until the wound is somewhat better.

I carefully hoist myself atop the broken sill, then fall heavily on the ground. I push myself up and stand witness to devastation the likes of which I had never seen before.

Every piece of furniture but for the counter has been reduced to splinters, shards of broken glass litter the floor and the room is still lit by virtue of the lanterns being stuck to the ceiling. The red-haired man has been planted to his elbows through a wall of cheap plaster. Rollo is frantically trying to remove the chair leg embedded in his hand while Leikny is hugging the wall with tears in her eyes.

In the middle of it all stands Loth.

His presence weighs on the back of my mind as if he were three times the size. I know for a fact that he still fits in the inn but when I look at him, I see a giant. His elegant vest is now torn and scruffy. Breaks here and there show corded muscles flowing faintly with the twists and planes of tattooed runes.

When he sees me, I fear for a second that he will not recognize me. A blink later and I am apparently in the clear.

“Number two, please.”

I collect a secured vial of antidote from a pouch on my belt and pass it to him. Because of the continuous pain, I almost miss. Loth removes the silvery cap and swallows its contents down in one gulp.

Then he crushes the metal container as if it were made of paper.

Loth walks to the leather clad form on the ground and holds it by the neck. With a beautiful arc, he slams it on the counter, which sags noticeably under the brutal assault. A moment after, the helmet comes off.

My opponent is a rather handsome man with a clean-shaven face. A vertical scar runs down his face on the right side, barely missing the eye.

Loth’s anger turns cold. He addresses his wife in English with a deceptively low voice. If those people were not part of his family, they would be formless meat on the ground by now. Even then, I do not know if we will finish the night without a death.

“Skjoll. You brought Skjoll with you. You intended to kill me?”

The blonde woman blabbers in their native language.

“You have lost that right. I will not sully our tongue by sharing it with the likes of you. Now I am going to ask you again. Did you truly mean to kill me?”

“Loth,” I interrupt, “he placed stunning glyphs on the door and window.” I finish the sentence and then cough some more blood. I spit reddish phlegm on the ground. So unladylike... Ah well, this is not the time to worry about such things, really.

Just then I hear footsteps outside. Slowly, I try to get to my feet and wince. Nevermind, let me stay there for a little while longer, unless my assistance is required. Thankfully the wound has healed a bit and the pain is now barely tolerable.

A fat guardsman and four others at his side crash through the door with all the authority and outrage they can muster.

“Now what is the meaning of... Of...”

The squad falls silent as they take in the damage and, square in the middle of the room, the cause of it.

“Hey.” I say.

Five pairs of eyes turn to me and I grab their attention like one grabs a handful of stalks. With that many people, I will not be able to work any subtlety, nor do I have to. Few entities could stand before Loth now without feeling a bit of apprehension, and these guards do not qualify.

“Flee.”

They leave with commendable speed. Amusingly, the head guard takes the time to dip his hat in polite farewell before slamming the door close. He has more self-control than I gave him credit for.

The woman speaks in anger and disbelief. Loth’s answer worries me. He might hurt them in his fury, and he already did, but what I hear now is different. He has gone full cold.

“Aye, she is a vampire. And as to why I favor her over you, I shall tell ya.”

With each sentence, he comes closer to her.

“She does not demand I stop being who I am.

She does not demand I stop liking what I like.

She does not demand I forget the past.

She did not come to abduct me like some cheap highwaymen.

She did not poison my bloody drink.

She always has my back, and last but not least…”

Their faces are only a hand apart now.

“She did not shag my brother for power, aye?”

She protests.

“I don’t care why ye did it, only matters that ye did. Now, whose brilliant idea was it ta kidnap me and bring me back ta the country trussed up like a dead boar?”

She closes her eyes and cries.

“Ye don’t have ta answer. Ye don’t have the guts, Skjoll never starts anything and Haardrad is far too daft.”

Loth goes for Rollo, who was crawling on the ground towards the stairs. He grabs him by the back of the neck and casually smashes him in the far wall, then he takes each arm and calmly breaks them at the elbow.

This is savage even by my standards, though this vengeance is not my own and so I remain silent.

When he is done, he pulls him up by the collar. Rollo tries to say something, only to be cut off by a terrible right hook.

“When I took the title of Jarl, I made an oath never ta shed the blood of my kin. Just as ye made an oath ta always protect the interests of the clan.. Well, lucky ye, we will both hold our promises in our own way, I suppose.”

Loth encircles his treacherous relative’s head in his massive arms. Once it is locked, he twists right, then left.

The sound of shattered bones echoes through the room, soon joined by Leikny’s horrified sobs.

He is not done.

Loth drops the corpse like it is garbage and walks to her. He takes something from his pocket and throws it on the filthy ground. It’s a golden ring, with beautiful inlays.

“Consider yerself divorced.”

He turns away and leaves.

When he sees me still on the ground, he kneels. I did not notice but the front of my dress is slick with glistening black blood. The wound is not completely closed yet.

Without a word, Loth grabs me under the shoulder and takes me up in a princess carry. I let him. I trust him.

We reach the door and he kicks it down. The crowd outside lets us pass in wary silence.

We reach the carriage with no one stopping us. Loth helps me up and after signaling Asni, and waiting for a few seconds, we depart.

I do not move. I do not even pretend to breathe. This is technically my fault. Had I not pushed him, he would not have contacted them and he would not have been forced to kill one to make a point. There would have been no ambush.

I thought I had done well.

I thought this would help him.

I was wrong.

There was nothing to gain from facing the past, only scars to be reopened and old blood to be shed anew. Ariane, dimmest vampire on earth. Bah.

“Why are ye so down lass? It should be me.”

“How can you even tell?”

“Ye got perfect poker face, what with not breathing and looking like a statue, but when ye’re sad ye bend yer back a bit.”

I chuckle lightly. Is this how I manage to lose every game I play with Dalton and him?

“I should have stabbed myself in the foot the day I told you to send the letter.”

“Nah, ye were right. This had ta be done.”

“You’re not mad?”

“I am mad. At them, at myself, at this fucking world that took Agna and left me with those rotten fucking snakes, but not at ye. I was stupid, too afraid and in a rush ta just get this over with. I forgot all I had learnt those past decades.”

“And what would that be?”

“Politics. Like it or not, I’m a public figure. I can’t just waltz in with a smile on my face and expect those twats to leave me the fuck alone. If I want to enjoy the presence of my kin without being used all the time I gotta prepare, gather allies. Only when I have a chance to be my own man will I return. Constantine showed me how to do it, but I was not ready. You may have noticed, but I am not the most subtle man around.”

Understatement of the century. I somehow successfully hold my tongue. My, but when Loth is incensed, he is quite foul-mouthed.

“I, Ariane of clan Nirari, will assist you in this endeavor. I may have access to a safe way to send your letters.”

“Why thank you. And now oh Ariane of clan Nirari, the mighty vampire, care to explain why you stink like cat pee?”

“...”

“...”

“...”

“I was on fire! I had no other choice! There was this barrel...”

“Right.”

37. 1812, Overture.

I open my eyes to an embroidered canopy. In the distance, the pops and hisses of the hearth’s fire welcome me. I know where I am. This is my mind fortress in all its slumbering glory.

I hear a deep sigh coming from outside. I walk down a flight of stairs to the grand entrance. The gates open as I pass.
Under the serene gaze of the Watcher, flowerbeds extend on manicured lawn according to a bizarre pattern. I make my way to the nearest wall of towering thorn trees and they part before me.

The clouds of the in-between flow past all around before resolving into a familiar sight. Nashoba is leaning against the shell of his giant turtle. He holds his head between two hands, his knees close against his chest. He looks more vulnerable than I have ever seen. I walk to him and sit on the ground.

“Why the sorrow, shaman?”

“Ah, Daughter of Thorn and Hunger. I did not mean to interrupt your torpor tonight.”

“Think nothing of it. Are you in danger?”

Nashoba is one of my favorite humans. I would be displeased if he were to die before his time.

“No. It is not that. Do you remember what I said about planting and weeding seeds?”

“You remove threats before they do too much harm?”

He smiles sadly.

“It is so much like you to forget the growing part, though you cannot be blamed. What matters is that I failed.”

“Perhaps it is not too late?”

“It is. The winds of war are blowing, Ariane. I see crimson clubs raised high to the North. Nothing will stop it now. It is inevitable.”

“North means the Muskogee. If they seek war, it will not be against you, no?”

“You miss the point. Every year more of your kind spills on the shore in search of fortune and every year the newcomers head west to look for land. They find us. This conflict will give your chiefs the cause they need to impose yet another treaty, ancestral land swapped for a few crates of goods. Ah, look at me, trying to hold back a river with two twigs and my bare hands.”

Nashoba sighs heavily once more.

“Never mind that, Ariane. There is more to discuss since you are already here. Yes. Let me worry about what I can still change.”

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. The tortoise behind him rumbles lightly.

“Death is coming, of a scale that this land has not seen before. We must stop it. You must seek a key that breaks.”

I remain silent for a moment, expecting him to go on. He does not.

“How unusually cryptic of you.”

“I know. The foe only started moving its pieces and something obscures my sight. You must pull on the threads of fate, Ariane. Whack the bushes and see what comes out. If you uncover enough, a pattern will emerge.”

“I appreciate the trust, old friend. I only fear that you overestimate my reach.”

“I do not. This much I know: you will be instrumental in this struggle. Should you fail, this evil will run its course. Test the limits of your hunting grounds, daughter of Thorn. Do not leave the initiative to our foe.”

Nashoba stands up and stretches, looking slightly better than before.

“I must leave you now, we will speak again later.”

The man moves his hand, the tortoise opens one blind eye and I fall backwards into slumber.

17th of July, 1812, Higginsville, Georgia.

It has been nine years since I became a vampire.

I cannot agree with my kind’s way of measuring age. I am twenty-eight, with all the experience and knowledge I gained during that time. I draw as much from my human years as I do from what happened after.
I lift the top of the sarcophagus. Soft blue light shines on my bedroom. I lift an arm and look at the black nails that end it.
If I had not gone to the ball on that fateful night, my body would be different now, marked by childbirth and the passage of time. Instead, it appears exactly the same as the night I died, to the last strand of hair.

Appearances are deceiving, however. The human Ariane could not eviscerate werewolves.

What has visibly changed is my room. I used to think it spacious, back when I had three items and a broken backpack to my name. It is now cluttered with books and trophies representing my various pursuits. I stuck my best works on the wall: portraits of Dalton I draw every year, as well as one of Margaret Mitchell I made before she died, a Muskogee on his farm, a black child asleep outside of his house, a Choctaw dance. All of those are painted as seen by my vampire eyes, colorful and vivid even in the dead of night.

In the middle, I placed my most ambitious work, a partial rendition of the Silent Watcher.

Drawing the vampire aster is difficult. When I look up, I reach a state of serenity that is not conducive to the observation of physical objects. Rather, I can focus on parts of it but never the whole. After three days of fruitless attempts I reached the conclusion that it simply does not obey the laws of physics. I will never be able to draw it as it is, for even if my brain could comprehend what it perceives, my tools would not allow me to do it justice. And so I tried to draw a feeling instead of an image. I found a set of colors between purple and red and after almost a month of frantic efforts, I finally succeeded in capturing a glimpse of what it feels like to be in its presence.

Dalton and Loth did not like that, not one bit. Merely looking made them extremely uncomfortable, they said. I count that as a major success.

On either side of the wall, I placed bookshelves. They are filled with copies of Loth’s own books, as well as quite a few others I managed to acquire courtesy of the Rosenthal consortium. I am now well versed in several mage traditions and systems although it is still completely beyond me to work anything myself. I also purchased books on hidden history as well as magical fauna and flora. I also have my own notebooks, packed with references and observations on subjects as varied as shamanic magic and gun smithing.

Finally, the center of the wall is occupied by a desk containing my current subject of study as well as important letters. The most precious one is written in the tongue of Akkad by a steady and refined hand. It reads like this:

Ariane of clan Nirari,

Your request to join our community as an independent House under the Accords has been approved. You will present yourself as well as all relevant witnesses at the 1820 conclave taking place in Boston, Massachusetts, where you will be given the opportunity to argue your case.
I wish you good fortune in this endeavor.
With regards,

Constantine.

This specific letter is currently my most precious possession. It is the hope that soon, I may come across one of my kind without having to fear slavery or death. I owe it to Jimena, who submitted my request at the previous gathering two years ago. It is unfortunate that such events only occur every decade, and yet it perfectly reflects the laissez-faire attitude of the current Speaker, the same attitude that may allow a Devourer reject to reach legal status. The wait is a small price to pay, all things considered.

Next to it are the correspondence with my father, Jimena, Isaac who is back in Geneva as well as a few business contacts and even a scholar or two.

The table holds a single fiction, a work by one Cecil R. Bingle titled: “In the clutches of the Blood Cult.”, with an engraving of the man himself on the cover. He looks dashing and holds in his arms a fawning woman thankfully inspired by Rose. It does star as a side character the ‘sensual and mysterious Adrienne, beset by an evil curse because of the sins of her father.’

Loth still laughs about it sometimes, although he slowed down on the “Oh ye sensual and mysterious lass, pass me the number three wrench” since I “accidentally” dropped it on his foot.

Bingle, the mark of your passage still haunts me eight years after.

With a sigh, I get dressed and leave the vault. Loth has dropped two letters in a small basket by my door. I grab them and head up. I reach the smoking room and sit next to the man himself, busy snacking on a handful of nuts.

“Good evening Loth.”

“Evening lass, any good news?”

“We shall see in a moment.”

I open the first letter and read its content. Our good Bingle is well in Sussex, and Rose is expecting their third child. He takes a moment to mention something I was not aware of.

“Loth, why is Bingle lamenting the unfortunate state of affairs between our two great nations?”

“Ah, yes, we are at war with the Great Britain.”

“WHAT?! Since when?!”

"June. I just got the news. Something about illegal trade restrictions, arming the Indians and abducting sailors.”

“War! How are you not worried? This country has no real standing army!”

“This country, as you say, is not our worry lass. Its citizens will kill us if they learn of what we are anyway.”

“And this mindset will be of little help if a regiment of dragoons turns this entire town into a pile of cinders now, will it? Not to mention the Lancaster may want a larger piece of the pie if their home nation takes over.”

“Ye worry too much, they’re busy in Europe right now. And broke. We’ll talk again if they make landfall.”

I do not reply. Loth is right, I do not have a squadron of ships of the line handy so right now my ability to contribute to the war effort is laughable. I turn my attention to the second letter. I do not recognize the writing style and there is no return address. How peculiar. Well, let us see what this is about.

“Miss Delaney, if you are reading this, then I am dead.”

Well, we are off to a great start.

“I set an arrangement, so that if I were to fall, you would receive this letter as a measure of security. My name is captain Alexander Jenkins. A few years back, you set me on the trail of the Brotherhood of the New Light, after revealing to me that my superior at the time, Captain Lannes, was a member of this most sinister organization.”

Lannes... Lannes...
Impossible. The Tillerson estate party! Is this act giving dividends after so many years? This is incredible!

“What I discovered went beyond anything I ever thought, or even dreamt to be possible. Alas, it is the truth and no matter how strange my claims, how outlandish my accusation, I ask of you that you believe me. Heed my words and heed them well, for we are all in terrible danger. The purpose of this community of people is not to gather wealth and power, nay, it is to achieve eternal life by means most foul! You must find allies you can trust and take up the torch! For if we fail to stop them, I fear that we will witness horrors the likes of which civilization should have left behind.”

How very ominous. Nashoba, and now the dearly departed officer warning me of some impending doom? This is no coincidence.

“Please find in this enveloppe the key and deed to a safe box in the first South Carolina bank in Charleston, where I secured my latest findings. I am sorry I could do no more. Good luck, and may God be with you.
Yours,
Augustin Alexander Jenkins.”

Here go my plans for the week.

“Something the matter Ari?”

“Somebody died and left me with inheritance.”

“Oh? And what would that be?”

“The burden of stopping a mysterious and dangerous conspiracy whose monstrous pursuit will leave uncounted victims in its wake should no one step up to face it.”

We ponder this for a few moments.

“I find that leaving money is usually better received.”

“Mmmmmh.”
“Anything I can do to help?”

“I need to go to Charleston.”

“Ah. Charleston. The third seat of power for vampires in North America. That Charleston. The city Jimena unambiguously told you to avoid. That one, aye?”

“Yes.”

“And what will you do there?”

“I need to retrieve some incriminating documents from a safe.”

“Oh, a heist! I love me some good heist!”

“No, Loth, I have the key.”

“Oh.”

He looks disappointed.

“You know Loth, if you absolutely must commit grand larceny, why don’t you just do it?”

“It’s the stakes. It’s not the same if there are no stakes, ya know?”

This is how I feel about Hunts.

“I do. Now, I need to reach this bank, go in and out and leave with no one the wiser.”

“Ah finally we’re talking! We’ll get to proper planning, right after we celebrate your birthday! Death day! Ah, whatever.”

Loth rings a bell. I hear the sound of something being wheeled to us as well as two heartbeats. An instant later, Dalton rolls in with a trussed-up captive on a sick bed, holding a lit candle in his manacled hands.
Oh, so thoughtful!

“Happy birthday Mistress!”

“Happy birthday lass.”

“Mmgrgnfmmmlf.”

“Oh, you shouldn’t have, thank you, thank you!”

July 23rd 1812, abandoned house on the outskirts of Charleston, South Carolina.

I once thought New Orleans imposing. I believed it to be a major trade hub for slaves and agricultural products, a cosmopolitan metropolis to match European towns. How naive I was. Charleston sprawls before me, covering a fang of land nestled between two rivers as wide as a lake. Lines of ships reach and leave its waterfront through a channel heading East, into the ocean.

The city has more than fifteen thousand people in expansive districts, more than half of them black. The rest comes from Scotland, Ireland, France, the Caribbean, Prussia... the list is long. The streets ring with the sounds of a veritable Babel’s worth of language. There is a marketplace made from stone, an exchange and even a bank that was built to be a bank, like on the old continent! Truly, a beacon of civilization. Countless slaves, bales of cotton and other goods pass through it every day.

I wish I could spend more time in it, walking its roads and browsing its stalls. Alas, that would be unwise. As the maps would say, Hic Sunt Dracones, except here the dragons are real and will kill me for trespassing on their territory.

And so, we are reduced to a “smash and grab”, as my friend would say it.

“It’s been a long time since I prepared a heist, feels nostalgic, ya know?”

“It’s not a heist! I have a right to that box. I have the key!”

“We’ve got a plan, disguises, and exit routes. Sure feels like a heist to me, aye?”

“Bah! Nonsense...” I grumble without much conviction.

“Go over the plan one last time, Mistress.”

Dalton is serious tonight, even more so than usual. I have tried to hide my apprehension at coming across a Master or even worse, a Lord. I would not bet on my disguise over whatever Senses they have at their disposal.

“I go to the bank on foot and come in from the front, completely ignore the people keeping an eye on the entrance and get access to the box the normal way. Then I exit from the side entrance and make my way South to the pier. If I am followed, I go through the designated ambush points. I take the rowing boat across the river to James Island and we meet between the two blue lanterns no matter what two hours from now. The most important thing is not to alert the local vampires of my presence, and so I will limit myself to human abilities unless discovered.”

Dalton nods and goes on.

“Is everyone ready?”

“Yes, before ya go, I have something for ya.”

Loth takes out three ceremonial knives and gives each of us one.

“It’s a tradition back where I’m from, for good luck. Stab one into the table. It will be waiting for you to return and so return you will. Go ahead.”

We stab our respective blades in the old wood and leave the room without a look back.

The difficulty, I believe, is to stay in character. I am carrying three magical items right now: Nashoba’s earrings, said to protect me from tracking, Jimena’s blade as a safety and a small pendant made from cut glass. The last one is Loth’s most recent prototype, an attempt at reproducing the runes he saw on Skjoll’s armor. I did ask him how he managed to pay attention to those while smashing said Skjoll into the furniture, and as usual the answers were rather evasive. The result is worth it. The creation should mask my cold aura from any casual viewer for the duration of the operation. I would have to come face to face with a vampire for it to fail.
If I do not demonstrate any strange ability or otherworldly speed, no one will suspect a thing. The local vampires should not even imagine that their territory was breached.
I am sure everything will go according to plan. I don’t even know why I am nervous. I am going to the bank to retrieve something that is mine. There is no cause for concern.

Really.

I am greatly concerned as I walk to the bank’s door through a small plaza.
The building is large and solemn, made of sandstone and beige plaster interspersed with white. The windows of the second floor are tall and proud, looking down on the people below underneath a church-like cupola. There are no first-floor windows, and the customers enter the building via a single round-arch gate that looks solid enough to resist a battering ram. It takes all of my self-control to ignore the three goons looking at the entrance like hawks. Three is far too many, and I wish to believe they are not there for the safe, and yet I cannot ignore the obvious. If I had eliminated Jenkins and wanted to ascertain that my plot is still secret, what better way than to capture those who will inherit his notes? It is also likely that they would not dare breach the vault themselves to retrieve its contents while they can have some poor sap do it for them.

Jenkins, what on earth have you stumbled upon?

My disguise gives me the appearance of a middle-aged woman. It is heavily padded, except around the posterior, which according to Loth needed no modification. All my hair is hidden under a conservative bonnet and I look to everyone like a matron huffing and puffing her way through a late errand. A touch of makeup helps with the general impression.

A doorman in uniform with a truncheon tips his hat as I pass by, and soon I find myself inside.

The main lobby is soberly decorated with landscape paintings and wood panels. At this late hour, only one counter is open, behind which a fussy young man with a monocle is working. The lights are subdued, casting the interior in long shadows. A guard struggling to stay awake is the only other occupant of the place.

“Can I help you?”

“Good evening young man,” I say in a lower pitch than normal, “I would like to access my safe, please. Here are the deed and the key.”

The man inspects the key with apparent disinterest until he sees the number. His eyes widen in excitement and fear for a single instant. He mechanically licks his lips.

He knows.

This is bad. The bank has been compromised.

“Of course Madam, of course. Please follow me. Barney? Barney!”

“Sir?”

“We are going to the safes.”

“Very well sir.”

There is no mistaking the brief pause before the guard acquiesces. I am now on borrowed time.

I follow the short man deeper into the building, through a door and down a set of stairs. At this late hour, the place is mostly deserted and gives an eerie feeling of emptiness. After unlocking and relocking a few more barriers, we enter a small room under the watchful gaze of a heavily armed guard. Boxes cover the place, set into the wall. We quickly locate mine.

“We will now give you some privacy.”

“That will not be necessary,” I answer as I open the safe. It contains a notebook, as well as several plans and letters in a great bundle, which I place in a secure briefcase provided by Loth. It should protect the documents well enough provided I am not set on fire.

I quickly close and lock the safe then turn to my guide.

“I am done, thank you.”

Drops of sweat trail down the paper pusher’s brow and he practically fidgets. The armed man looks from him to me with a curious gaze. Whoever he is, he is not involved.

“Shall we?”

“Ah, yes of course, of course, please follow.”

So far so good, it is now time for the next part of the plan. As we return to the first floor, I wait until he locks the door before addressing him again.

“One moment please sir. Circumstances dictate that I take measures to guarantee my safety. Do you have another way out?”

The man’s attention flickers towards the corridor behind me. As expected, there is a direct way to the bank’s side entrance there.

“Yes, however it is for employees only… I do not believe that…”

“Please sir, I am quite certain that there are people after me.”

He laughs nervously, panic making him practically sway.

“I don’t, I think, hum…”

“I am afraid I must insist,” I add, cocking a small pistol I took from my pocket.

It is too much for the poor sod. He hiccups a few times at the sight of the firearm, then stares at me with tears flowing freely down his face. He completely lost his composure at the mere possibility of violence. So, he is fine leading me to a trap and yet one physical threat and he crumbles like a house of cards.

Typical.

With no small amount of impatience, I turn him around and push him in front of me. We walk down the corridor towards the exit. I am about to turn left when I hear heavy footsteps. I grab the man and shove him in a side room, then follow him promptly.
We listen in silence as a guard making rounds passes us by.

My prisoner tugs insistently on a sleeve and so I let him whisper near my ear.

“I cannot stay here, this is the women’s restroom!”

I straighten and turn to him.

Really.

This is what you are worried about?

Without me having to reply, he lowers his face in shame. How meek. Dalton truly is a rarity; I should show him some more appreciation.

After the guard has left, I resume my escape and we quickly reach a square vestibule leading outside, with an adjoining changing room. I open it and shove my unwilling guide inside, stun him with a light hit at the base of the neck and abscond with his keys.

Good, now I only need to get out and reach the docks.

As I step outside, I take in my surroundings, then I turn around to lock it behind me and take a second to think.

There is a bank guard eyeing me suspiciously, and a fourth goon in plain sight. Really, this is too much. I am out of options, I need to run. At human speed.

For a second, I am almost overwhelmed by my instincts. I want to Charm the guard into hitting the goon. I want to draw the goon into a side alley and feast on him. The temptation is strong, and yet I do not yield. The stratagem must be followed to its completion.
I throw the keys at the guard who catches them by reflex, and I walk away calmly.
There is around a second and a half of incredulity before they react.

“Hey you, halt!”

I take off with both men on my heel. I grab the bag between my hands and run at the upper limits of what the human body can achieve. The guard is soon distanced; however the goon is not.

Something strange is going on, something unnatural. The man is gaining on me, which should be impossible. I can also feel a trace of magic from him. He is no mage, nor is it something he carries. I am curious, but not curious enough to risk discovery. I turn South towards the piers and through the traffic. Even at this time, pedestrians, horses, and carriages navigate the streets in clumps. People turn towards us, but not many react beyond the odd shout. My pursuer is still gaining on me. I need to gain some time.
I strafe left across traffic and turn onto a side road just as the goon is about to grab me. I skirt a horse coming from the side. The man, much heavier, smacks right into it. A neigh of pain as well as quite a few curses tell me I have earned a few seconds. I keep going and turn South again, weaving across clumps of people.

“There she is!”

I glance behind me to see, to my surprise, half a dozen horsemen bearing down on me. Well, this complicates matters.

I focus on my hearing. We are not far from a marketplace. If I can last until there, I can hopefully lose them along the stalls.

I run low to break line of sight and weave in and out of traffic. The pursuers struggle to follow, until their leader just pushes his way through a group of slaves without care. I jump against a tall fence and hoist myself in a garden just as he reaches me. Without pausing, I run diagonally across a carefully tended vegetable patch, frightening a nanny and a small dog. No time to stop. I cross the opposite wall into a minuscule side street, not even wide enough for a cart.

Something makes me turn my head back.

The horseman circling the house spots me and stirs his horse to a fast trot. On his face, I see a smirk of triumph, and of contempt.

“Light will be shed!” he screams fanatically.

I do not move.

A feeling of heaviness assails me, of inevitability. The pursuer draws closer. When he is fifteen paces away, reality takes a breath and the wall to his right explodes in a shower of splinters.

Something just blasted their way through a wall.

When the shards clear, a tall man is holding the goon by his throat. The horse is collapsed on the ground, dead.

The newcomer is dressed in finery and has the countenance of nobility. His face is dreamy and regal, and his brown eyes are fixed on his prey with the arrogance of the mighty. When he speaks, his warm voice cuts through the din of the city with supernatural clarity.

“Buenas tardes, gentlemen. Finally, you reveal yourselves. »

Then he drops whatever it was that masked his aura.

Power, glacial and overwhelming crashes into me. I recognize this specific feel, like standing in front of a frigid wind roaring in my face.

Oh. Oh, no.

That is a bloody vampire lord of the Cadiz.

I turn away to run just as the rest of the pursuers enter the alley. A man follows the lord through the crater he just ripped in someone’s business. The newcomer is slightly shorter with a barrel chest and not quite as handsome. The vampire barely spares me a glance before turning towards the incoming cavalry charge. I can hear his words as I start running.

“Get the girl and bring her to me, alive.”

“Yes, Master.”

And off we go. Wonderful. An actual Lord. If I wanted stakes, now I have them, for if this man approaches me, I am absolutely done for. I do not stand the ghost of a chance against that.

I keep running South at the very limit of what would be suspicious. So long as I appear human, I may not be worth the effort. The person behind me is one too, and I can feel in my soul that he is the lord’s Vassal.
I should feel lucky that this is not a vampire and yet I am not. The reason behind his Master’s trust is soon made apparent as my pursuer displays an incredible aptitude at moving through an urban landscape. I cannot compete, I simply lack experience. While I run around stalls, he jumps over them. When I pass a horse, he slides under it. He avoids crates, boxes, and bales with a sure foot and skirts gracefully across groups and individuals alike.

I cannot lose him.

Worse, I cannot hurt him in any way. My very being revolts at the thought. I even hesitate at throwing something in his path. In desperation, I start focusing on the movements of people. My perception slows and I follow a path that closes behind me, running at the edge of moving groups and passing carriages. Even then, he is about to jump on my back when a large man carrying a case of wine bottles abruptly turns and smashes into him.

Both of them collapse in a tangle of limbs and broken glass. I can hear their exchange as I disappear into the night crowd.

“WATCH WHERE YE’RE GOING!”

“Lo siento, senor! I must find that…”

“LEAVE WITHOUT PAYING FOR THE BROKEN STUFF AYE SURE WHY DON’T YE ALSO COME TO ME HOUSE AND SHAG ME WIFE WHILE YE’RE AT IT YA FUCKIN WALLOPER?!”

A most timely rescue.

Wait, do I smell blood? BLASPHEMY, WE HURT HIM. No, No! He’s fine. Completely fine. Please…

Ah, dammit.

The feelings of pain, surprise, and distress must have gone through the connection because something cold and absolutely massive is barreling down the avenue like some sort of natural disaster. I think he is running over the bloody roofs. Damn it. I need out. I need out now!

I sprint low and fast across the street straight to the piers without stopping. The presence behind me stops for a handful of seconds, probably to ascertain the well-being of his protegee, and then it starts after me.

Curses curses curses, I accelerate just above human speed as the docks finally come into view. Stone pavement stops at the edge of the harbor and ships of many sizes rest lazily on the placid waves. I turn right in the direction of the rowing boat, knowing full well that I shall never reach it in time. I need an alternative. Thankfully, there are few people at this time, so I slide left behind a pile of crates and go over the edge. I grab the wall with a clawed hand, then lower myself into the water. I keep the small document briefcase on the top of my head.

A few seconds later, the Cadiz lord lands on the street. His aura bursts out like a miniature winter sun and I huddle against the brick wall praying the Silent Watcher that Loth’s rune works. I do not move, I do not breathe. I even close my eyes.

“Spread out, search the ships.”

The man never raises his voice and yet he can always be heard. I hear no other footsteps, which means that he gave those orders to vampires.

There are a few choice words I heard Loth say that would be really appropriate right now.

I need to cut line of sight. I spot a piece of flotsam and lightly place the precious documents on it with all the gentleness I can muster, then I fully submerge and turn face up, under it.

The edge of the pier is distorted by the squalid water, but I can see and they cannot. With agonizing slowness, I drift along the wall towards my destination. Every time a shadow crosses the light’s halo, I completely stop. I pass under bows, between wooden beams and through piles of detritus without a sound.

Suddenly, a pair of boots appears just above me.

I freeze.

Please do not look down, please do not look down…

A moment later, there is a sort of disturbance in the water not an arm's length to my right.
Ah, it appears that I am being urinated on. Wonderful. If I feel a warm draft, this evening will truly be a complete experience.
My unwitting abuser shakes his… Thing, spits for good measure and leaves. I wonder, with all those cotton bales hanging around what are the odds of burning the whole city to a crisp? I am genuinely curious.
At least he was not one of the vampires.

Fortunately, the rest of the trip is uneventful. I do get a good sample of what Charlestonians throw into the sea, however. Forget fire, I fully intend to flay the entire populace alive and sew a giant flag out of their skins spelling the words: “No littering.”

I need a bath.

I also need to forget.

Eventually, I reach the rowing boat and drag it South fifty meters before daring to climb up. The trip South takes another fifteen minutes of solid rowing. Who would have thought that a river could be so wide?

When I see the two blue lantern I almost cry. Loth and Dalton are waiting with worried expressions, turning into unmitigated relief when they spot me.

I get off the boat and submerge again before joining them. Loth picks up the briefcase from the rowing boat while Dalton simply waits.

“Long night, Mistress?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

I really hope this was worth it.

38. Learning curve.

August the 3rd 1812, Higginsville.

I look around Loth’s study number three, the one he usually uses for storage and long-duration experiments. It has now been cleaned, emptied and placed at my disposal for my first complete project. Time and time again, I have conducted my own studies, written my own dissertations and run experiments. This time is different. This time, I am handling this task from beginning to end.

And what a project it is, to go toe to toe with the mysterious Brotherhood of the New Light and prevent it from achieving its nefarious goals.

I will not tolerate this sort of competition.

Sadly, the room is mostly empty at this stage, although this is about to change.

We have a basic map of the South Coast with a pin on Charleston and a few tentative ones in other cities showing possible Brotherhood presence.

We have a list of names, ranging from bankers to officers with possible or proven associations with the group.

We have movements of goods, people and funds, most being sadly outdated.

Finally, we have the object of their current activity and the reason for Jenkins’ demise. His last notes speak of an auction for the sales of a surgery set (mostly intact) belonging to one Andrew Exeter, as well as a shipping manifest for the Leucadia on its trip to New Orleans, dated 1792.

The dearly departed officer mentions that most members know very little about the plan of the whole group, and so rather than going blindly from assumed location to contact and leave a trail of blood, I decided to exert subtlety, for once, and have Dalton consult the Port Authority archives in New Orleans.

Alone, this time.

“I can start whenever, Mistress.”

My Vassal looks a bit rough around the edges. He has been riding for three days straight. His thin moustache, which he has taken to grow lately, is scruffy and his large amber eyes are bloodshot.

“Make your report and then you should catch some rest.”

“Yes, Mistress,” he replies, not quite rolling his eyes.

If I am without artifice, Dalton looks slightly older than me, perhaps like a big brother. This has made him more daring in public, going so far as to give me suggestions! How very daring of him…

I ring so that Loth can join us and soon, we begin.

“I obtained the information we sought without difficulties. The man in charge of the archives is an old bugger with a sharp mind by the name of Kilbride. The first thing to know is that we were not the first to ask about the Leucadia. Some suspicious people came to inquire about the ship not a month ago. He answered fully and politely, though their dubious behavior was suspicious. Lo and behold, two weeks ago he had a break in: two masked men with knives. He burned the brains of one and skewered the other with a cavalry saber from his days in the light dragoons. The curious thing is that they were quite strong and did not attempt to steal anything. It is obvious that there was an attempt to silence him.”

“That is very thorough, my Vassal. If we have further need of him, we may need to offer some measure of protection.”

“That will not be necessary Mistress, I know all he knows on the matter.”

Dalton straightens up and clears his throat before continuing.

“The British Merchant ship Leucadia was due in New-Orleans in October 1792, however it never arrived and was believed to be lost with all hands. The crew manifest from a previous voyage mentions one Andrew Exeter as ship doctor. This implies that the Brotherhood is after something, or someone, who was on the ship, and that the wreck itself must have been located for the surgery kit to resurface.”

“I checked the shipment manifest, there was nothing of note.”

“There were also no mentions of the ship taking passengers both in the archives and on the notes we recovered. That does not mean that there were none. I suspect that the Leucadia may have been used by smugglers or even the Brotherhood itself to transport sensitive goods or individuals. Illegal transport was and still is prevalent around here.”

“So, we know that they were after what the ship transported. That does not tell us what it was.”

“No, lass, it does not, but do let the boy finish.”

Dalton nods in approval before continuing.

“We were fortunate in having the Archivist survive. He recognized his dead assailants as the men who had come to ask him questions and reported it to the guards. The lawmen, however, saw the dead bodies and considered the matter closed.”

“Typical.”

“Indeed, and while they gave up, Kilbride did not. He was understandably miffed by the attempt on his life. He found out by asking around that the trespassers had come from the North on a direct coach from Milledgeville.”

We have been to this brand-new city a few times. It was founded just after I started living with Loth and the role of state capital was forced upon it during its infancy.

“He did not pursue, the risks were too high for his tastes.”

“Then we have two matters to look into. First, we need to find who sold Exeter’s surgery kit to that auction, and second we need to go to Milledgeville, find out where the goons came from and ask some pointed questions.”

“I need to go to Savannah to pick up some orders lass, I will stop at the Rosenthal consortium and request their assistance. There is no way someone held an auction without them knowing about it. As for ye, ye should go and ask those questions yerself, ye’ve been a wee bit tense since we came back from the heist.”

“For the last time it was not… Augh! Fine, I suppose that you are correct.”

I had to run away and hide like a cockroach. I thought it would not matter, but my instincts disagree. I need some action to take my mind off things.

“Very well. Dalton and I shall leave tomorrow evening.”

August the 6th, Milledgeville, Georgia.

“I do not know what would have occurred without your help my dear Magdalene, you and your husband have our most sincere gratitude,” I say as I lightly pat the woman’s hand.

I am currently acting the part of Mrs. Langford, of the Savannah Langford. I wear travelling clothes bearing the subtle marks of wealth, in light blue. The conservative apparel and my impeccable posture give me the air of the scion of a very good family. I complete the deception by sitting with confidence in the middle of the eating room like a noblewoman holding court. Poor Magdalene has ruddy cheeks and covers her distended belly with a sack-like cotton dress. They are a humble family of honest workers. Her husband is laboring at the forge to repair our coach despite the late hour, and the woman is doing her best to play the part of the gracious host. A gaggle of children peeks curiously from the door when she is not looking.

“Think nothing of it,” she says with a blush, “it is my honor, hem, I am happy I could receive you. Oh dear, please forgive the poor reception, I have so little to offer!”

The woman is suitably flustered.

“It is I who should apologize for dropping by unannounced, alas, Man plans, and the ‘lord’ disposes.”

I can actually quote the bible if I don’t think too hard about which lord I am referring to. Saying “God” will, I assume, remain an impossibility forever.

We make small talk for a while, during which I praise her for her clean house and the impeccable morals and values it represents. Magdalene likes being the center of the conversation, especially while in my hallowed presence. She has much to say about Milledgeville and its most notorious citizens. Eventually, curiosity spurs her into asking the question that had been at the back of her mind since she invited me inside.

“And what brings you here in our beautiful city?”

“Oh,” I scoff, “a most sordid affair, but I do not wish to burden you with the details, I do not know if it is even proper to mention them.”

I can almost see the fire of gossip burning bright in her honest eyes. An affluent midnight visitor? A sordid affair? Her fame in the parish will be made for a decade, sharing those juicy tidbits.

“Do not mind me Mrs. Langford, we are hardy folks here, I am sure I have heard worse.”

I am sure as well. I reluctantly share my anger and outrage at being swindled so. Two men from Milledgeville, coming to lodge at our family-owned flophouse and leaving with the strongbox. The audacity! What manner of ruffians could do such a thing?

Magdalene is at first ashamed and displeased, until I mention that every city has its undesirables, and that it in no way impacts the respectability of its law-abiding citizens. We go on a tangent blaming the Indians for their raids until I specify that the scoundrels were clearly of European decent. No, they were not mulattos. Yes, they were white white, not half-white. Were they Irish? Perhaps.

Excited, Magdalene starts a long list of all the people she has grievances against starting with her cousin who married a catholic, to that thief of a tanner. Eventually, she mentions some disreputable persons at the warehouses and even out there among the plantations.

It is at this moment that she stops in fear.

“If those men came from the Baxter estate, I beg of you, you must desist.”

“Pah, I am accompanied by a marshal, what do I have to fear?”

“No miss, you must not think like this. We may be the capital, but we are still a frontier town. This attracts all sorts, even the worst and there are dark rumors circulating around. There are some who say that they are cannibals!”

“They eat people!? How monstrous!”

Heh.

“Those are just silly rumors miss, do not take them at face value, I would still recommend that you exert great caution. The marshal’s star will be of little use if you disappear without a trace.”

“I shall take this into consideration. Let us forget about this,” I add with a hint of suggestion, “and talk about more pleasant matters. You said that you enjoyed sewing?”

My host shows me some of her work, fearful of my judgement. It is precise and expertly made, if unimaginative. I congratulate her and she acts pleased as can be.

After an hour, Dalton and the husband inform us that the task is complete. I decline their invitation to stay under the pretense that we are already expected in town and we soon depart. Dalton leaves them a suitable bonus.

“We are delayed Mistress, the inn’s main room could be empty. I will make discreet inquiries tomorrow.”

“My time was not spent idly, my Vassal, there are already places for us to check.”

We successfully located the base of the Brotherhood of the New Light at the Baxter Estate. The members make a show of being isolationist and hostile and so their neighbors leave them alone. Careful observation, however, reveals insignia, strange handshakes and a myriad of other behaviors that betray their allegiance. They are not even remotely discreet about it, nor do they have reason to. The Baxter estate covers easily forty acres of land with exposed access points and several patrols. No less than twenty-five men work on it and tread in groups of three, with attack dogs. This is less a safe house and more a fortress.

This would not trouble me much in normal circumstances, however we are trying to get information and I will not obtain it through bloodshed. We need a careful approach, and to infiltrate the place properly. Abducting and interrogating somebody who might, in fact, know something remains a daunting prospect. The only one who displayed signs of authority is Baxter himself, who rarely leaves his enormous house.

It is time for an abduction.

August the 9th, Milledgeville, Georgia.

I walk from shadow to shadow, ten paces ahead of Dalton. I guide him through copses of large oaks and sugar cane fields. On the outskirts of the property the place is mostly deserted. This will change soon.

My ears pick up a sound and I click my tongue. Two clicks answer behind me. We retreat deeper into the woods.

In front of us, three guardsmen and a dog walk the road. Despite the late hour, their attention is fully focused on their tasks and rays of light from lanterns swipe over the surroundings. The men do not speak.

For this infiltration I dabbed peppermint oil on my neck and wrists. The smell is overpowering, and it should fool the hounds long enough for us to leave undetected. For some reason the perfume is fading very fast however, and I suspect that my nature is to blame for this.

The patrol leaves none the wiser.

I still wait for thirty seconds before signaling Dalton that we may go. The plan is simple. I will lead him to the Estate, which he will enter alone as I would need an invitation. Dalton will use a simple charm Loth made to disable Baxter and get him out, as well as gather any incriminating documents we may find. We will then escape and interrogate the man at a remote hunting cabin, where we will also dispose of his remains. This is a basic scheme with little opportunity for errors. It does depend on us remaining undetected, at least until our target is in our hands, though I am not worried. If needs must, I have a petrol bomb which I may use on the silo of molasses we located close to the house. The subsequent fire should give us a nice distraction should we need it.

I skirt one of the last fields to take a side path going around the property. With Dalton behind, I hasten my step when suddenly, something metallic snaps under me.

I jump in fright and am still in the air when steel teeth join where my leg was but an instant before. What in the?!

“Mistress?” whispers my Vassal.

I walk back to him and mutter in his ear.

“Bear traps! On the path! How paranoid can these people be?!”

“Not enough, it seems.”

“Hmf! Given the average lout’s memory, I’m surprised they don’t lose a leg a year, at least!”

“Those groups do tend to have a high turnover. Shall we?”

“Yes, I will keep an eye out for freshly turned earth, do be careful though.”

Dalton smirks ever so slightly.

“I will just walk slightly off the path. And if I see you bounce like a scalded cat again, I will know you found another one.”

Bah! He used to be so cute, looking up to me with adoration. Whatever happened? Truly, familiarity breeds contempt.

We continue quietly until we reach a fence. The Estate proper lies before us and in its middle, the colonial edifice Baxter calls his home.

The entire area is flat and devoid of any form of cover. The well-cut lawn is just an excuse to deny any covert entry. I spot a sentry near the roof, as expected, and three more groups patrol the area with their dogs. Torches placed on sconces provide reliable light sources at regular intervals.

There is no good approach here, I will have to brute force my way through their defenses.

I signal Dalton to stay put and crawl forward, close to the ground. I move slowly and patiently along a tortuous path. I avoid the most lit areas and always keep an eye on the sentry.

So long as the sentry looks the other way, I move quicker but not too fast. Humans are good at spotting rapid movement at the edge of their line of sight. There is no need to make a mistake trying to save twenty seconds.

After a few good minutes of slow progress, I freeze as yet another patrol turns the corner of the mansion. Their path will lead them in front of me. I stick to the ground and wait.

They pass me by and are about to go on when their hound stops and growls.

Ah, this might be an issue. Thinking quickly, I reach for the bottle of perfume and open it, spreading some on the ground. In a few moments the unfortunate dog stops growling and starts sneezing instead.

Thankfully, I am upwind.

The men mumble and drag their whining charge forward.

I take a breath in order to sigh in relief, a habit I have not managed to shake off yet, and regret it instantly. The assault on my nostrils is unbearable. Pwah! If I smell peppermint again before the end of the century, it will be too soon!

When the last torch disappears around a corner I rush forward and start climbing the plaster walls to the sentry’s crow's nest, it is nothing more than a repurposed balcony. I only tolerate one gaze watching me, and it is not his.

I jump over the ledge and as his mouth opens in surprise, our eyes meet. I keep his attention captive as I choke him. As he loses consciousness, I release him and wipe the memory from his mind. I would prefer to leave as little evidence as possible. The man will simply believe he fell asleep.

Once this is done, I take out a sort of whistle and blow it. The call of a bird of prey rings in the empty night.

I watch Dalton’s form run forward to join me. He stops and hugs the ground halfway to let a patrol pass through. His dark green coat is barely visible against the short grass.

When he reaches the wall, I lower a rope and drag him up. He quickly joins me and immediately opens the window leading inside. As expected, it is unlocked to allow the sentry access.

Dalton sneaks inside.

I wait. Only someone who lives in a house can invite me in, so long as its inhabitants draw breath. We have determined that Baxter’s study is most likely a room near the roof given that it is sometimes lit even at night. Dalton will try that first, then check the bedroom around for the man himself.

I settle in to wait.

This is the part I hate the most. I am not waiting for prey or for an opportunity, I am waiting for something beyond my control, and I hate it. It does not matter that Dalton is one of the most competent infiltrators in the entire country thanks to Loth’s and my training. All I know is that he is inside, and I am out. Even his heartbeat is beyond my ability to hear, masked as it is by thick walls.

He is grown up now. I will not be the one to break his wings. In the meanwhile, I keep an eye out but besides the patrols, there is not a sound.

Until I hear a gunshot.

Even muffled by the walls, the deflagration echoes through the night with unmistakable clarity.

Then there is this single second of silence, when the world takes a deep breath, and everyone stops to make sure of what they heard. After that, all hell breaks loose.

In the distance and towards what we identified as the barracks, a bell rings frantically. Shouts erupt left and right and the night shines red with lit torches. I can see the dancing lights of lanterns rushing in the distance, all aiming towards us. The closest ones are about to reach the clearing. Hidden by the wall, the main entrance of the mansion is banged open by irate men.

Dalton is fine, I can feel it through our bond. He will not stay that way if we make a break for it. I cannot kill them all before they shoot at us. We need a diversion.

With apprehension, I take out the petrol bomb I prepared. I take out a matchstick and light it.

Come on Ariane, it’s just a small FIRE, that will help us, really no need to BURN… Gah!

Fighting my own instincts, I light the fuse which sends angry sparkles everywhere and throw it at the molasses silo at the edge of the lawn.

The projectile arcs beautifully into the night sky, leaving a trail of red embers. It lands and a small pool of incandescent liquid trails down the wall.

I don’t know what happens next. I think it touches an existing leak. No matter the reason, the fire spreads along a line to the ground and to the side with tremendous speed. In only a few moments, the entire structure is ablaze. The cries of alarm turn to sheer panic when a barn beyond our view catches fire as well. A cacophony of squeals, shrill and ear-shattering, soon smothers every other noise.

It is the worst sound I have ever heard in my entire life.

I get a sense of deja-vu, an echo of something that happened years ago…

Something Jimena mentioned…

I think it was in her advice letter.

Oh yes, do not use pigs set on fire as a distraction. It never works as intended.

Surely, she was exaggerating. It cannot be that bad?

Right?

Something breaks open under the onslaught of porcine panic. Quadruped forms charge through fences, through the grass and into the building, rolling around and hitting things. Maddened with pain, they leave trails of flames everywhere, which spread like the plague. Some people in the distance open fire and I can already hear cries of agony. One patrol in the distance is charged by a crazy animal and fall like pins. Two of the men catch FIRE. FIRE EVERYWHERE. MUST RUN. No, I need to wait for Dalton.

The window behind me opens and he runs out, cradling his arm. He’s bleeding. MUST KILL THE FOES, no, I must protect him, we need to leave. Now.

I do not wait. I grab him in a princess carry and jump off. He screams in surprise. I manage to land properly and not break his spine. Without waiting, we start to run.

The bowled over patrol is almost directly in our way.

I move forward. I need to protect him, and so they need to die.

They see me and move as well. I almost stop in surprise. They are inhumanly fast!

Well, nowhere as fast as me of course.

I charge the first one as he aims his musket and just as I reach him, the silo explodes.

For a single instant, it is day. Then the noise and heat reach us. We are all sent to the ground, head over heel, by the shockwave. Flaming debris rain everywhere. In the distance, some of the forest ignites.

Something warms lands on my back. Hot, HOT HOT! I roll on the ground before I am burned to a crisp. The budding flame is immediately extinguished but it still hurts like hell.

NEED TO GET OUT. Damnit. I pull a shaky Dalton on his feet and drag him forward. One of the guards sees me and reaches for a holster.

Oh no you don’t.

I jump on him and grab his neck, then I Devour him. Perhaps this will stop the pain.

So little. This man has almost no vitality! I have drained ancient grandfathers with more strength than him. Bah, no time. We need to leave now!

Dalton has almost reached the edge of the forest. I quickly finish off the patrol with a knife to the throat, thus also masking the bite marks, then I join him. We dive under cover. Copses on both sides are already engulfed by the raging inferno. Crimson embers reach for the stars.

We rush out without a word, only stopping to let running men pass us. Thankfully, Dalton’s wound is not serious, and he already staunched the bleeding. Eventually, we make it out and back to our hideout and hunker down for the night.

August the 13th, Higginsville, Georgia.

“Lass, I did say ye should ‘ask some pointed questions’. I never mentioned blowing up their property!”

“It was an accident! I just wanted a diversion! It’s those accursed pigs!”

“Pigs? You set pigs on fire?” asks Loth with dread in his eyes.

“What’s with all of you and the devil-cursed pigs? Huh?”

“Ye NEVER set pigs on fire! Even as a diversion! It never works as intended!”

“For the last bloody time it was an accident!”

“The place had pigs, and you set it on fire! What did ya expect!?”

“Enough with the damned pigs and the damned fire! I got it already!”

“Fine, fine.” answers Loth, deflating, “we all need to do it once to learn anyway.”

“Augh!”

I throw my hands up in frustration. I planned this whole operation and it was a complete disaster. I sit heavily on the chair. Dalton has not joined us. He is in bed as recommended by Loth after being not only wounded but also inhaling smoke.

“What happened?”

“Baxter, our target and the leader of the cell, happened. He resisted the charm you made and overpowered Dalton. He even rushed him while my Vassal had a pistol drawn.”

“A strong man…”

“No. Baxter was five feet two, grossly overweight with a potbelly and he smoked. The Society’s members outside also demonstrated supernatural speed, on par with a young fledgling, I would say.”

Charlotte had been that fast, although she was truly the bottom of the barrel.

“Did ye not mention that the Brotherhood member in Charleston was faster than even a strong human?”

“Yes, and when I consumed that guard, his vitality was extremely low, as if he were dying.”

“Do ya believe…”

“Yes, they have a way to temporarily boost their physical abilities, at a high cost to their life expectancy I would wager. I wonder how they do it.”

“I am sure a dissection would shed some light on this mystery.”

“Oh, I would be delighted to procure one for you. If Baxter is any indication, they are fanatics. It is getting one alive that will prove difficult. In any case, the raid was not completely fruitless. We did acquire a few things.”

“Oh? Do tell.”

“Dalton stole documents, coded, I already started working on them. It seems like a basic substitution cipher. Even then, there is no guarantee that it will be something useful.”

I shrug.

“He also recovered a Brotherhood insignia as well as a special ring from Baxter, and we observed and recorded sets of signals they use. With this, we may be able to infiltrate a cell if we manage to locate it.”

“That is not so bad. I lost my temper a bit here. In my experience, any raid you can walk out of is a good one.”

“I would not be quite so sure.”

I shake my head in frustration.

“It does look like a spectacular failure to me. I thought I was fast and efficient and instead I ruined what could have been our only chance at information, all because I misjudged our mark. Had I been more patient, more careful, I could have Charmed my way to more information.”

I sigh heavily.

“Everything is wrong. This is my first true project. I thought I was ready…”

“You are. Ariane, listen. Ye mistake lack of experience for lack of talent. Ye may be good at being a vampire, but that does not magically turn ye into an all-knowing spymaster, ya know? Ya grew up the lady of a good family, not a swindler or a con artist. Give yerself some time and it will all come to ye.”

“We may not have some time…”

“We do. I am here to help. We’ll succeed together. We will hunt them and erase them from our territory. Where ya see a failed attempt ta acquire intelligence, I see a partial success and the complete elimination of a major cell. No doubt this will set them back and put some fear in them. And you accomplished that with two people and in less than a week.”

Loth is always supportive, and that is perhaps what I need right now.

“Perhaps you are right... Yes, it will not do to dwell on my mistakes. We still have much we can achieve. Speaking of which, were you successful in uncovering the origin of the surgery kit?”

“Sort of. Isaac’s replacement knew exactly what I was referring to. He is human by the way, and he said the kit was sold in a semi-legal auction. Many items were most likely acquired by smugglers. They are also looking into it and he will tell us more in exchange for a service, as soon as he knows more.”

“Very well then. In the meanwhile, there are more documents to go over. I should get started…”

“Did I ever tell you about my first real raid?”

I turn to him with no small amount of curiosity. Loth is always secretive when it comes to his past.

“We made landfall and I isolated myself to, hah, get myself some privacy. We had been stuck in the ship for two weeks and I was young, ya know? Anyway, the camp was attacked while I was otherwise busy. We were not prepared. Would have lost half our numbers normally. I did not even take the time to pull up my pants and just charged them from the flanks. I was screaming in fear and fury, totally naked from waist down and sporting a raging hard-on.”

My imagination helpfully supplies a few images, which I could have done without.

“I assume your story has a point?”

“Aye, I thought I did poorly. I left my people behind to have a wank and charged the enemy without a plan and with my erect dong flapping in the wind, so ta speak.”

“Loth!”

“And they ran away. They all just ran away. A half-naked madman charged them with a battle boner, and they scattered in panic. I thought I was a failure but the psychological impact on them was incredible. It became a clan legend. My point is this. Don’t just think about how you perceive what happened, think also about what the enemy perceives as well. Their base burnt to the ground, many men dead, all at the hands of a mysterious foe. Do not show weakness and you can capitalize on this in the coming battles. Turn an apparent failure into a resounding victory.”

That… Is some good advice.

“Thank you Loth, I really appreciate it, although your description of the events…”

“Aye ye always get flustered when I talk about naked men, let an old man have his fun, aye?”

“I knew it,” I grumble without much conviction.

39. The Righteous One

The documents we recovered at the Baxter Estate turn out to be rather useful. It appears that we found the main base of operation of the Brotherhood in Georgia. This makes our failure to recover its leader intact that much more regrettable but also allows us to learn quite a bit.

Many of the notebooks detail transfers of supply and money to various local cells, and by checking against records we ‘convince’ merchants to share, we identify three hideouts in the span of a month. Dalton manages to convince the third one that he is a member of the Brotherhood for long enough to learn a few things before we neutralize it. We confirm that they are on the trail of the wreck of the Leucadia, and that the ship was used by their sister organization in London to transfer a relic of great significance. There is no doubt in my mind that this is the ‘key that breaks’ that Nashoba was referring to.

Unfortunately, it soon becomes clear that those Brotherhood members are but low-level agents. They know barely enough to accomplish their objectives, a cautious policy that proves the experience of our foes in the business of secrecy. We still have no idea about who their leadership is and what they aim to achieve, or indeed what the relic really is. Some of their notable members may know more, though going after such public figures will require some preparation. I do not want to leave a slew of murdered high-profile targets. There is no surer way to attract the attention of powerful forces I would be unable to face.

September 9th, Higginsville, Georgia.

I am in the planning room reviewing notes when I feel panic coming from Dalton. I surge to the door and come across him in the entrance.

“What is it?”

“Mistress… There is a vampire outside!”

Ah.

“Only one?”

“That I can tell. They are wearing a mask, and they are dressed in grey.”

My mind, which was on the verge of panic, immediately calms down and I smile happily.

“Grey, you say?”

“Mistress?”

I open the door outside and take in the newcomer. Masked, she is dressed in a form-fitting lamellar armor of exquisite make. The whispers of powerful enchantments come from her armguards and the sword at her waist, a blade I recognize easily.

“Jimena!’

“Are you going to invite me in?”

Her voice comes clearly and carries a hint of a smile, yet it also sounds tired.

“Of course, I offer you my hospitality.”

“Thank you, Ariane.”

I lead her up the stairs, Dalton has gone to warn Loth.

“You have a Vassal?”

“Yes.”

“At such a young age too, I am impressed.”

I do not reply, and we soon find ourselves in the smoking room. Jimena takes a seat with a sigh that betrays a wariness that is not physical in nature.

“I need to ask you something, Ariane.”

“Yes?”

“I need your help infiltrating a major army camp and killing its general, no questions asked.”

“When are we leaving?”

Jimena lets out a short laugh, bitter, yet relieved.

“I knew I could count on you. Pack your things and bid your farewells. Your companions must stay here, your Vassal too. We will be back within a week.”

Ah, so we were going to kill the commanding officer of a local force. This is troublesome. Murdered public figures attract a great deal of attention, something I could use a lot less of. Without a word, I leave to prepare, meeting Loth and Dalton on the way. I confirm that it is safe.

In anticipation of a possible evacuation, I have an ‘emergency bag’ ready for a quick departure. I grab it and add a few personal effects, travelling clothes, and my rifle. I also take a silver bullet with a piercing glyph, courtesy of the master of the house. When it comes to assassinations, long-range weapons are always a safe bet.

When I return to the entrance, I find all three people talking in quiet voices. Dalton is telling them of his latest arrest involving a duo of conmen pretending to be Castilian nobility. They did not speak three words of Spanish between themselves.

“Ah, you are here. Loth, Dalton, I am sorry but I cannot involve you in this.”

“Don’t worry, I understand. Just make sure ya bring her back to me in one piece aye?”

“Yes, I promise, though I would not worry too much. I am sure she can defend herself.”

Her tone is dismissive, her demeanour, distracted. I am deeply concerned. All the vampires I have met learn very soon how to school their expressions and keep their emotions under control. Beyond politeness, it is a question of survival. That Jimena would give it up fills me with worry.

She politely bows to Loth and Dalton both and turns without a look. With a last goodbye, I hurry to follow.

“Hum, Jimena, I have a sarcophagus we could use to sleep safely…”

“I have my own and we can share it.”

She stops in her tracks and turns to me. For the first time this evening, I detect a hint of hesitation.

“Ariane, I know you are not… Like me and Aintza. I will not force anything upon you, I give you my word.”

“Ah, yes,” I reply with tremor. I will have to let her touch me, probably. It should be fine. I trust her, I think.

“Worry not, the secured container is wide enough. I understand that you need space. Listen, Ariane, I, ah, no, I will tell you in a moment. I apologize for the confusion. As you can guess, I feel a bit out of sorts.”

Understatement of the year. She seems so lost, almost like a human. This bothers me more than I would like to admit. I still trail her without pause.

We exit Loth’s grounds and find a black carriage at a crossroad. I am surprised to see horses again and I remember that Lambert used to ride one.

“I never asked, how are those horses not afraid of us?”

“They are called Nightmares, a special breed. Quite expensive.”

And that is it. Proper conversation is a lost art, it seems. It would be easier to pull rotten teeth from a grizzly than to draw words from my companion tonight. I give up, and we depart in silence after she covers her conspicuous armour with a cloak.

I expect us to make good time and I am soon proven wrong. After less than an hour of travel Jimena leaves the Eastern road for a side path, and we soon arrive in front of a concealed lake lined with wildflowers.

The landscape is so enchanting that I have little doubt that she selected it on purpose. The view of the stars and moon in the cloudless night sky is breathtaking. Tendrils of baleful purple reflect on the surface of the placid water, turning it into an exotic composition enshrined in a green background. The sounds of life and the movements around us only understate our immobility, a proof that we have more in common with what is above than what is around. Vampires in general are mostly static, until we are not.

Jimena removes a ceremonial knife from a recess in her grey armour and turns it in her hands thoughtfully. The blade is not metal, but a crystalline and irregular form. I give her the time she needs to gather her courage. Eventually, she does and makes a conscious effort to meet my eyes.

“When you left New Orleans I wrote you a letter. In it, I called you blood sister. It was… Presumptuous of me to say that. I gather you do not know what blood bonds are?”

“I am sorry, I do not.”

“There is no need to apologize, my dear. Blood bonds are promises of friendship between two vampires that transcend allegiance. To claim one is a great privilege, for they are precious things. Few would dare to commit themselves to such a deep oath.”

Jimena takes a deep breath before continuing.

“I offer and ask that we join as one.”

I pause, surprised. And where does this come from? I cross my arm in front of me in what I know to be a defensive gesture. I care not about showing signs of weakness in front of her. Apparently, we are past that.

“What does it really entail?”

“There are many words I could say, yet they matter little. The essence of the bond is that we will protect and work in each other’s best interest when asked and when possible. The words of the oath themselves are vague but the meaning is clear. We will become as sisters should be.”

I ponder this for a moment. I like and respect her as a friend, I do. I owe her my life and freedom and quite a bit besides, and none of it matters. This oath, it is not one that stems from obligation. It requires free will in its purest form.

“I am no Mistress, you know this. When Nirari returns, his will shall crush mine and there is nothing I can do about it.”

“If he does return, then it will be so. We do not ask the impossible of each other, we ask that we act when it matters.”

“Why do you want to take the oath, really? You already did for me more than I could ever ask and I never hesitated to join you. We act as if we were sisters.”

“Yes, and this would make it official. You will be able to claim this bond, as will I.”

“You are taking a risk with this, are you not?”

“With all due respect, I do not give a dead rat’s ass. I came and asked for help. You answered. You did not even stop to think about it. That is all I need to know.”

A sister. I never had a sister, yet if I did, I wish she could have been like Jimena: unconditionally supportive, fearless, and caring.

“I accept.”

Jimena blinks in a show of powerful emotion. She swallows with difficulty and slices her palm with the glassy blade, then shoves it in my face like a bashful teenager at her first outing.

“In joy and despair, in feast and battle, in triumph and death, one of heart.”

My, so brusque. She really isn’t one for long ceremonies…

“One of heart,” I reply, and slice my hand as well. We join and for a beautiful moment, I feel the deep bond of kinship that we just created. We stay here for a while, enjoying the deep trust between us and the ephemeral beauty of the scene around us, and I…

“Alright let’s go.”

Ah? Why you tomboyish lout! Can I not enjoy the moment?!

“Are you this much in a hurry!?”

“S-sorry, I am not good at this sort of thing. Sorry!”

She rushes away, towards the carriage. The fugacious satisfaction I had fades like dew under the sun, and my mouth curves into a pout. It really isn’t fair. This is the sort of memory that lasts a lifetime, or several in our case, and she went and ruined it. Seriously…

When we depart once more, she will not meet my eyes. I settle into a sulky silence and wonder what it will take for her to share what is troubling her so. Only then would I be able to “untwist her panties” as Loth would say it.

We ride past sleepy hamlets and harvested fields in silence. I consider taking out my notebook and reviewing either runes or our latest progress and eventually decide against it. I have not been out here for a while, just enjoying the landscape as we pass it. This activity lacks the frantic pleasure of running outside that I do enjoy so much, and yet I find it relaxing in its own right. Perhaps I needed this. We have been focused so much on tracking the Brotherhood, that not an instant has passed that I did not think about it. This distraction is a boon in disguise.

It is long past midnight when we come across a small patrol carrying torches. Two men on horses with muskets at their back ride to us. We are hailed by the lead.

“Hold! State your name and business.”

“We are travellers and our business is our own,” replies Jimena testily before I even manage to consider a diplomatic response.

Hem, that is not the proper way to handle this situation.

“It is my business if two women are out there at this hour around those parts. Where are your fathers and husbands, I ask? Proper, God-fearing ladies have no cause to wander around after the light is out.”

“And proper gentlemen have no cause to accost women, after dark and otherwise. Now step aside and I will remind you to mind your manners.”

“I will not allow a woman to teach a man, she must remain silent!” replies the man with a triumphant sneer. At this stage, both the second patrolman, who is a young man with a frizzy moustache, and myself share a moment of horrified fascination.

“But I tell you that anyone who looks at a woman lustfully has already committed adultery with her in his heart,” retorts Jimena with deadpan delivery, “See? Two can play that game.”

Now that both parties have shown their ability to quote the Bible when it suits their purposes, we enter the next phase of any doctrinal dispute: violence.

The man sputters in fury and pushes his horse to my sister who looks at him with the immobility of the gargoyle. I can feel the turmoil in her aura. Oh, oh no. I really hope she brought a shovel.

“I’m going to teach you some respect, wench!”

He grabs for her shoulder and pulls the other hand to throw a punch. Faster than even I can see, both his arms are imprisoned in a steel grip.

“By what right? By what right will you teach me a lesson? Because you are stronger? Because society allows it? Well, go ahead. Punish, oh mighty one.”

What is wrong with her? Jimena releases one hand, and her assailant throws a hook in her cheek.

“Let me go, you crazy hag!”

Jimena’s dismissive slap cracks against his head, Blood gushes from his mouth and falls on the dirt below. His horse starts to panic.

In front of me, the second militiaman looks on stupefied before grabbing his musket.

Oh, well, it was nice meeting you. I jump. In a single bound, I cross the distance that separates us, then throw him on the ground and stab his panicked ride in the brain. I jump down as it falls and catch the downed man by his ankle before he can crawl away. I then drag my screaming captive under the cover of the trees.

At least my need for blood is momentarily solved.

Before leaving to a more secluded place, I turn back to a somewhat bashful Jimena. She holds her own prey in a choke and has the decency to look embarrassed. I make myself frown to clearly mark my displeasure.

“Do not take too long.”

If she lets his horse go, I swear I am not running after it. What was this all about anyway? Ah, never mind that. Let me enjoy myself first.

“Would you mind explaining what is going on?”

“This is nothing to concern yourself about,” says Jimena with a grunt as she digs deeper. The hole required to bury two horses is very deep. It will take us the rest of the night to finish. Well, it will take her the rest of the night. I have elected not to help.

“It is, if you are going to act like a blood-crazed fledgling with a grudge. I thought we were in a hurry? This was entirely uncalled for and you know it.”

Jimena sighs deeply and leans on the shovel.

“I am loath to bother you with it. You are already helping me tremendously and I offered you sisterhood partly for this. With our bond now made undeniable, you can claim me as sister and when the time comes, call for my help as well.”

“This is not just about backing. Being your sister means that we share our concerns, not just use each other’s support for clandestine operations. There is a step between partners in crime and siblings.”

She lowers her head in shame.

“You are right, of course. I am sorry. So many things have happened in the past few years that have challenged my beliefs, and now I am facing some uncomfortable truths about the world and myself. I realize now that I am dragging you into this. I can tell that you are facing your own struggles and still I bother you with my concerns...”

“Will you stop this already? Just spit it out woman, do not force me to extract the information out of you.”

“Oh?” she replies with a bit of mirth, “and what will you do if I refuse?”

“I’ll sing.”

Jimena laughs at what she believes to be an idle threat. A short rendition of Auld Lang Syne for the departed patrol later, she quickly reassesses the danger her ears and sanity find themselves in.

“Alright, I’ll talk, just please, stop. Oof. I see that you were not bluffing. Now I must ask, when I suggested music, did you follow through? Please say no.”

“I am not a fool. I picked up drawing and painting.”

“Thank the Watcher. I know that you potentially have decades to practice, but…”

“You are trying to change topic dear sister, and I would qualify this latest remark as a low blow. Perhaps I should pick up where I left off?”

“No no no forgive me! I will speak.”

I close my mouth like one sheathes a blade. For the umpteenth time tonight, Jimena sighs loudly and painfully. She resumes digging and starts her story. At first, her tone is hesitant, almost shy, and she often lifts her head to look for a reaction. Then, she forgets about everything to let her story flow.

“In order to explain my distress and the situation I find myself in, I have no choice but to tell you of my story. I know of your past, and it is now time for me to share mine as well. "

"I was born in a village in Catalonia in the year sixteen eighty-six. And before you interrupt, yes, I know you have no idea where this is and so I will elaborate. Catalonia is a region in the North East of Spain. Now, when you think of my homeland at that time, you probably imagine galleons filled with gold, fiery soldiers full of bravado duelling before a field of wheat while clad in garish colours, yes?”

“I blame the book you sent me, the descriptions were fairly vivid.” I answer.

She snickers but the sound comes off wrong. It is cold and empty, just a human gesture produced out of habit and politeness with no real substance. There is not a trace of mirth in it, and I soon learn why.

“Spain at that time was hell on earth. It was a corpse ravaged by war, famine, droughts and plagues. Bandits and mercenaries scoured the land and milked it to its last dregs, and its people were facing suffering the likes of which had not been seen in centuries. There was no longer a state. Justice could not be obtained but by the strength of one’s arms. The inequality of status between the mighty nobles squabbling like vultures and the poorest commoners cannot be understood by one who was born in a republic.”

Jimena’s shovel arcs in the air, sending a plume of rocks and mud that falls like hail on the branches of a nearby tree.

“Look at me, using all those complicated words and setting the scene like we are going to the bloody opera. Let me paint you a clearer picture. I was born from the daughter of a coalman and a passing soldier. She had many other children and we all grew up together with others in this small village at the edge of a forest. We were hungry all the time. We were also destitute, and insignificant. My favourite half-brother died when he crossed the road in front of a viscount and forced him to slow down. The man shot him in the head there and then. My younger cousin was found by bandits as she was foraging for food at the edge of the road to Tarragona. They had their fun then slit her throat. She was thirteen. In winter we had to take turns going out because we only had enough clothes for three children at once. The rest had to huddle naked under a pile of filthy blankets. We had to dump our dead outside and bury them in spring because no one had the strength and willingness to dig into the ice. Every year, we lost family to disease and exposure. Every year the remaining ones would rut like beasts and every year, the tired women would pop out screaming runts into the world, and would latch them to their barren breasts in the hope that this one would survive to adulthood. This was my life.”

“In our village, there lived an old priest. He was the third son of a merchant who fell out of favor with his hierarchy for one reason or another. He liked to gather the survivors and tell us stories of a time when our nation was rich and mighty. He told us we used to be the pride of Europe, that we cut the Americas between ourselves with another country called Portugal. He told us of the Habsburg empire and how massive it was, ranging from the Mediterranean to a land far to the North, beyond the Pyrenees. I was full of questions. I asked him why we were suffering. Were we punished by Him? He said that yes, we had lost our ways and that we used to follow the values of Christianity and were being punished for our conceit. He told me of the heroes of our past including El Cid, and his wife Dona Jimena Diaz who shared my name. I thought about that a lot. Perhaps if I lived a better life, the human god would bless me and I could save myself and Spain like El Cid saved Leon and Castile from Ibn Yusuf.

A few months later, my little band found a wounded noble on a hunting path we were using to poach rabbits. Most of us wanted to rob him but I alone argued against it, and since I was taller and stronger than most, we brought the man to a refuge we used to smoke the meat and dry pelts. When he woke up, the first thing he did was to beat me black and blue and accuse me of assaulting him. He then decided to teach me a lesson. I was lucky, my strongest cousin came back with an early catch and got him off of me before he could finish. Then, I took his dagger and I stabbed him, and stabbed him, and kept stabbing until he stopped moving.”

I know how this feels. The powerlessness, the unfairness, the pain, the guilt.

“We buried his body and I took his purse to the closest city. A few boys and I bought bags of grains and meat with the coin we had found. For a week afterwards, none of us went hungry.

This is when it came to me. I had followed the will of the church and lost my virtue, then I followed the will of the world and got a full stomach. I got a lot of respect out of the plunder from the ankle biters of the village. I could beat most boys in a straight fight, I could come up with plans and I did not belong to any man. That was enough to become a leader.

The next time some lowlives came by to take our food we waited until they were drunk and asleep and killed them all. We took their weapons and used them to prey on travellers and merchants alike. We were cautious and patient, and we left no witnesses. And so I became a bandit queen.

We had a good run. We chose our targets carefully and would spend entire seasons without attacking anyone. With this, we were able to get things for our village. Men had the strength to work, women would not starve so much and many more children made it through the winter. It lasted until that fateful night we tried to attack a single mark. A noble carriage with no escort drawn by two black horses.”

“Ah.”

“Yes, this is how I met lady Urraca, my sire, and the only lady of the Cadiz clan.”

Jimena’s mood turns contemplative after that. I know that upon reaching masterhood, vampires are freed from the need to obey the one who turned them. It does not cut all ties, however, and it appears that her relationship with this Urraca lady is more harmonious than what I have with… MastEr.

“She was so impressed with a band led by a woman that she only killed two of us. The others were let go under the condition that I would enter her service. And I did, gladly. Now, you may wonder why I would serve a monster willingly. You have to understand, I was certain I was doomed. ‘Thou shall not kill’. I had broken the most cardinal rule. It was a damned soul no matter what and I fully expected, in my heart, that one day my luck would run out and I would end up trying to hold in my entrails on the side of some muddy road or with my corpse hanging from a noose and crows gobbling up my eyes. This is what the world had in store for me, and I did not know, did not hope for anything better.

"And then this woman came.

"She was not a member of the nobility, yet she was rich and clean and smelled so good. Fat merchants and pompous counts alike would fight over her favours. She was a woman and yet she was a fierce warrior learned in the ways of the blade. She was not a believer and yet she seemed at peace with the world and herself. I was told this was impossible. I was wrong. I wanted to be her. I loved her. No, I adored her. She was the world to me.

"She moved through the night granting gifts to those who deserved it and punishing those that abused their power. All those validos parasites were but dead branches that she carefully pruned from her domain, like one tends a garden. Their pathetic plots were seen through and unmade in record time. This is it, I thought at that time, this is what a true heroine is.

"When she selected me to be turned, it was the most beautiful day of my life. I was convinced then that I would live among vampires a life of honour, following our strict code of conduct and carving a place for myself at the tip of my sword. The days of corruption, nepotism and petty politics would end with me. Oh, don’t look at me like that. I was eighteen and lady Urraca was the only one of us I had ever met.”

Jimena looks older than eighteen. The life of a highwaywoman must have been harrowing, or perhaps it made her mature faster. For all her apparent candour, I did not miss the moment she said they left no witnesses.

“You can imagine my disappointment. Disillusion is a dangerous emotion for us, but still I fought on because I realized there existed a group that shared my beliefs.”

“The knights.”

“Yes. Clad in grey to show that they shed their erstwhile allegiances. A unified army with strict rules, fighting to rid the world of its worst elements.”

“This is a bit ironic considering vampires can be seen as the world’s most dangerous elements.”

“Do you really believe that?”

Jimena’s question is a valid one. I think for a moment. Do I believe myself a blight on this world? Not really. I have killed, yes, many times, and yet I have also protected my territory from worse threats. We are the lesser evil, I believe. Were we to rule the world, there would be less freedom, and also less senseless slaughter. Something to keep in mind.

“No, I do not.”

My sister nods as if there ever were any doubt. As someone who has seen the worst humanity has to offer, we must seem mild to her in comparison.

“I joined the knights and for a while I really believed I had found my place. Squads and individuals were dispatched to bring order and discipline, relentless in this pursuit. Then I was betrayed on a protection mission.”

“Betrayed?”

“Yes. I was charged with bringing a fledgeling to Geneva for judgement. We knew she had committed an unsanctioned massacre, but her master’s involvement was still under debate. She was to be put to the question.”

“Fledgling cannot countermand their master’s order. If they ordered her to be quiet, she would not talk.”

Jimena stops digging for a second and leans on the shovel, as if under a great weight.

“There are… Ways… To break the compulsion. A vampire’s body can endure inhuman amounts of punishment when their spirits cannot. Even the Ekon and their legendary pain tolerance will eventually succumb to agony and the truth can be extracted from a shattered mind. As I said… It has been done, and will be done again.”

“Goodness…”

“Yes, in any case, I gave our route to a fellow knight who was in the vicinity, requesting support, unaware that he and my charge’s master had been lovers.”

“You did not know?”

“It was not common knowledge. He leaked the route. We were ambushed and the fledgeling was slain. An inquiry revealed the knight’s duplicity and he was punished then exiled. My own failure was judged less harshly, and I was only demoted.”

Jimena stares in the distance for a while then resumes her digging.

“When you found me under the keep, I was bitter. The emotion carried by your tears allowed me to deal with the frustration and anger at the unfairness of it all. It led to the belief that this was only a one-time occurrence. I had to accept that knights were fallible. As I mentioned in one of my letters, I was given the opportunity to regain my rank by the head of the knights in Boston, a man named Wolfgang. I must accomplish several tasks and if successful, I will be a knight again. Only…”

“Yes?”

“There are two other squires in this land and one of them has been sabotaging my work. You can imagine my present state of mind.”

“Oh, my, this again. I must ask though, are you and those other squires in competition?”

“Implicitly. The length one has to remain a squire can vary according to their ranking.”

“Have you considered that Wolfgang may have left instructions to test whether or not you learned your lesson?”

She freezes completely.

“What lesson would that be?”

“Don’t trust anyone, not even other knights?”

She puts the shovel down.

“You are implying that he would cripple his own operations on purpose?”

“Perhaps, perhaps not, but what better way to see if a fallen knight can be redeemed than to make her face what caused her failure, the betrayal of her own side, once more?”

“Then it means I made a mistake when asking you for support. We are not to share the details of current operations, I am already stretching the rules as it is, by asking you to come to back me up out of concern for a trap.”

“Or perhaps you are using an outside and reliable ally when a fellow squire is not.”

“Yes… Yes, you are correct. I know I can count on you because I know you. I am right to follow my instincts. Just as I should have followed both my instincts and common sense before. This is a test, one way or the other. Thank you Ariane, this was enlightening."

“Hum, I do believe you are giving me too much credit.”

“I am not. I was bitter because nothing has changed, and I was wrong. I cannot make the world perfect, but I can do what you do.”

“Eating one’s enemies?”

“No! Well, yes, but not just that. I meant the way you see the world. You understand the bigger picture, yet you always genuinely focus on the most immediate issue, the one you may yet solve. Instead of being dejected that some knights do not conform to my standards, I should instead work on purging them from our ranks. Yes, that is what I should do. Thank you, Ari, thank you!”

I am not convinced that I should take any credit in this whole affair. I still nod in recognition.

“I am glad to be of assistance. There is just one last thing.”

“Hm?”

“I think you can stop digging now,” I say as I indicate that the hole is now deeper than she is tall.

“Ah. Yes. This is deep enough. We just need to put them in and refill.”

“No, dear sister, you refill.”

“Bah, fine!”

As fate would have it our target is near Fort Barrington, location of my last meeting with the honourable sir Bingle. I am tempted to check on Cecily and see if she found a good party, unfortunately we are “here for business” as Loth would put it, and so I stick to Jimena and the plan.

When she told me our target was in a military camp, I was imagining rows of tents and men at parade surrounded by earthworks and wooden towers, like I saw in those patriotic recollections distributed around town. I was mistaken. This is no temporary bivouac of an army on the march, it is for all intents and purposes a town.

Fort Barrington proper lies on a fortified hill surrounded on two sides by rivers and on the last one by a complex of fortifications and redoubts. We have no issue passing those in our carriage, and I soon understand why. Beyond the first ring lies a mess of wooden huts of simple, but solid make. Between them and even at night, a crowd has gathered around an improvised marketplace. Sutlers operating from wagons provide men on leave with tobacco and alcohol. Women collect used uniforms and return them sewn and laundered. The smell of food is everywhere and the sounds of sex coming from a two-story building shows beyond a doubt that the world’s oldest profession is practised here. There are at least five hundred people around us as we make our way to what seems to be the designated parking space. Some soldiers even walk around with their wives and children.

“Hum, how many combatants are we talking about here?”

“The third line infantry regiment and first regiment of Georgia militia with some horses and artillery, a bit over three thousand men in total. Access to the general’s quarter is restricted at all times, therefore we will have to infiltrate the base itself.”

“I see. And the target?”

“General Chester Floyd, commander of the seventh military district. He dies tonight.”

We park between two empty wagons and I get down quickly.

“We will proceed with our task when most mortals have fallen asleep. You should not show yourself too much. People will remember tonight and strangers most of all.”

“Hold on, I have an idea. I will be back in ten minutes.”

True to my word, I run my errand, making sure to Charm my memory away from the cloth merchant and return promptly to my accomplice. When Jimena sees me, her brows creep up ever so slightly.

“Ta-da! What do you think? In the darkness, we could pass as soldiers! It should help our infiltration!”

Jimena blinks several times as she takes in my uniform.

“Ariane, turn around please.”

I grumble and comply. Those trousers are entirely too tight where it counts and I am afraid that the seams will just pop open should I attempt to crouch too fast. When I am facing my sister again, she is biting her lower lip.

“Is something the matter? It’s a good idea!”

“Oh, Ariane, it is certainly an excellent idea. Revolutionary and… eye-opening. Unfortunately, ah, how should I put it? You are too shapely to pass as a man.”

“It will be dark!”

“Anyone who spots you in this uniform will inevitably notice that it is being worn by a woman. I am sorry, Ariane.”

“Aaaw.”

I was really looking forward to being disguised too…

“Well, I suppose I will have to return them.”

“Ah no no no wait! Give them to me please, I want Aitza to try them on.”

“Jimena, surely you would not ask her to infiltrate a base?”

“What? Oh, of course not, hrm, don’t worry I will make sure she removes it… Promptly. You have my word. It will be for a good cause.”

Curious. Oh well, it matters not.

“Rather, I can lend you one of my squire armors. They are adjustable.”

“That will not be necessary, I would rather move in the outfit I am comfortable with.”

In the next few minutes, we compare our murder apparels in an impromptu fashion meet.

“And the blood washes so easily!”

“What a marvellous contraption dear sister, and you say the dress has the heart protector I recommended?”

“Indeed.”

“Stupendous, I wonder if Loth of Skoragg would be inclined to make one for me, against compensation of course?”

“I am sure he would be delighted to have your business.”

We promptly get prepared. I keep my Talleyrand in a black shoulder holster to prevent light from shining on it while we move, and though my sister frowns with disapproval, she does not object me bringing it. I would sure hope so! Next to poison, ranged weaponry is a great way to get rid of targets safely and we are hunting a human. Truly, my rifle is the optimal solution.

Jimena has me memorize a basic map of the military camp itself and we settle to wait in companionable silence. The sounds of the night grow progressively more subdued as the crowd drifts to sleep. A little past midnight, she stands up and declares that it is time.

We run through the village in perfect silence, easily avoiding the occasional late revellers. We soon reach open ground and accelerate towards our target. When we reach the first earthworks, Jimena easily jumps over it and I follow her immediately. As she lands, she seems to remember me and looks with worry, promptly turning to relief as I stop beside her. This situation is repeated a few times until she realizes that I have no difficulty matching her speed. All those nights spent running around have finally paid off.

In the next few minutes, we weave and sneak our way through the base like ghosts. We step behind patrols, between pickets and above the walls of redoubts. Neither rocks nor spikes can stop vampires. Nor can eyes and ears catch us as we make our way through mortal defences with perfect discretion, unmatched and unbothered. The entire facility lies open and I use this opportunity to inspect it. Rows of wooden barracks housing a squad each alternate with smithies, armouries and barns. I have issues wrapping my head around the number of fighting men present here, and they only represent a fraction of the forces that would be brought to bear against an invasion! I can only imagine major battles involving tens of thousands of troops. What a spectacle it must be! How unfortunate that such actions only occur during the day.

Without incident, we approach the general’s quarter from the side. He lives in an old house that predates the camp by a few years, surrounded in turn by a square fort with guard towers on each corner. We easily jump up the wall and after making sure that the sentries are looking elsewhere, drop down. I immediately follow Jimena in the shadow of a small cabin built against the palisade.

In the middle of the open ground stands the refuge of the man we are here to slay.

It shines in my eyes like a city’s night sky, while several squads stand at attention.

“I knew it,” whispers my companion and indeed her suspicions are confirmed. The stone edifice is covered in wards and spells of all kinds. It is enough to make it almost impregnable. Only someone warned beforehand would set up such an intricate and expensive work in place. This represents several days of effort for a team of experienced mages, and a small fortune in materials. Jimena was indeed betrayed, by someone with a connection to spellcasters.

“Can you break the protections so that I may get in?” she asks.

I turn to her dismissively.

“What are you talking about? We are not here to infiltrate, but to end a life.”

“We would need to drag him out of this death trap.”

“Inaccurate, sister, I only need to see him, and I know the way to do it.”

I examine our surroundings and locate what I expected. The fort is designed to be autonomous under siege even if artillery would make short work of the walls, therefore it contains a powder reserve.

“Here is what we should do,” I whisper, and share a simple plan.

At first Jimena is reluctant. Her old-fashioned approach to operations conflicts with my method, and yet she cannot deny the allure of such a pragmatic solution.

“Very well, sister, I shall follow your lead in this matter.”

She is about to leave when she stops and adds in a whisper, without facing me:

“When you came to me in the keep, you said you were a fair shot and I ridiculed you for it. I owe you an apology.”

“Then do so after I succeed. Good luck.”

I breathe in and out with absolute calm. The two men on the guard tower slumber at my feet, their willpower no match for my full-powered Charm. The night is silent but for the flames of open torches and the heartbeats of tired men.

I wait.

A hundred paces in front of me, Jimena slips behind a bored guard and slowly lifts a set of keys from his belt. She turns and opens the door to the armory. It turns on its hinges in silence. She disappears inside and emerges a few moments later with a barrel of powder.

I wait.

She skirts the outer wall in the darkness to a shed facing the general’s bedroom.

I wait.

A fire erupts from it. It quickly engulfs the small structure while Jimena slips away. Screams and sounds of alerts erupt left and right.

I wait.

The shed explodes in a rain of fire and shards. An alarm bell rings in the distance. At my feet, one of the guards stir. The air is filled with yells and screams. The camp is waking up.

I wait.

A trumpet blares in the darkness while a crowd of half-naked men rushes out of their beds, weapon in hands. They spread out. Additional torches redden the night, casting shades on the ground that shake and twist as if dancing in madness.

I wait.

The shutters open to reveal an old man with short hair wearing an open shirt. His eyes are a striking blue and a small scar on his left cheek are all that remain from a Creek arrow.

Hello, Chester, and goodbye.

I pull the trigger. With unerring accuracy, my Talleyrand rifle sends its payload into the night. Loth’s engraved silver bullet shatters the wards as if they were flimsy glass. A red flower blooms on his forehead and I know his brains now splatter the inside of his bedroom.

I take a second to holster my weapon. My task is accomplished.

“W-what?” mumbles a sleepy guard. I backhand him into unconsciousness again. I could just kill him, but I love the idea of leaving only one victim. The message is that much more potent. It shows that all those guards were so useless we did not even bother taking them out.

As Jimena reaches me, we jump out and vanish into the night.

The next evening.

“You are incredible Ariane, I have never seen a young Courtier move as well as you did, I never expected you to keep up with me so easily! And this is not just your physical abilities that do you credit. It was a brilliant idea to use fire as a diversion and the risks were calculated. I was hesitant at first, because I have had unfortunate experiences in the past. Obviously my concerns were unwarranted.”

“Yes, I had Loth teach me a bit about fire management after I too made a bit of a disaster,” I add with a wince.

“Well at least you did not try the flaming pigs. I swear this was the second worst idea I ever had. I am glad that you could learn from my mistakes.”

I wince once more, not meeting her eyes.

“Ariane...”

“Please no, I do not want to be reminded of that debacle.”

“Ariane I quite specifically told you...”

“I know alright? It was an accident!”

“How can it be an accident?! You used fire! There were pigs!”

“I did not know they were there specifically!”

“How did you not anticipate this development, I ask?”

“Halt!”

We turn around to a strong picket of men checking the camp’s exit.

“Am I disturbing you ladies in the middle of an argument?” asks the head guard with a smirk. He is an imposing sergeant with the countenance of a man who has seen much. Black pockets under his eyes are a sure sign that his shift should have ended long ago. With the assassination of its highest-ranking member, the camp is in disarray, and by now most soldiers only remain upright by sheer frustration.

“Of course not, sir.”

“And why are you leaving us so soon?”

I capture his attention and realize the man is frustrated, he most likely believes the killer to be either a turncoat in hiding or long gone. He is also dismissive, as in his mind two young women could not possibly be the culprits.

“Our business is done, we are heading back to our village, sir.”

“Your business huh…” he adds, and I realize I was mistaken. He thinks us courtesans heading back to wherever we came from after entertaining officers. Our fresh faces and subdued clothes, coupled with the fact we travel alone, place us firmly in this category,

I smile sheepishly. Yes, my good man, you caught us.

“Will you need to search the carriage?”

“How do you know we search carriages,” he asks with a frown. Jimena turns a worried eye to me but I reply without pause.

“You searched the one in front of us, and now you stop us. Sir.”

My voice is candid and without arrogance. I slightly push on the feeling of dismissal and the sergeant soon turns around and waves us off.

I nod and we depart.

Jimena smiles appreciatively after we are out of earshot.

“That was quick and efficient, Ariane. You are full of surprises, and just as resourceful as I hoped.”

“Yes dear sister, it is extraordinary how much can be achieved when one does not antagonize a figure of authority in front of its subordinates, is it not?”

Jimena ruminates on that before continuing.

“I think I liked you better when you were not so sassy.”

So, this is how Dalton feels when he gives me lip? My situation is hopeless, for he will never give up that beautiful vindication.

We spend the trip back in stories and humorous bickering.

40. Masquerade

My dream palace melts in a phantasmagoria of shapes and colors. Awareness comes and goes with the ebb and flow of the riotous tide that pushes me forward. I know in my soul that I am here for a reason, an important one. An evanescent feeling of purpose. It calls to me from beyond the mirage swirling around my essence.

As I think this, I breach a sort of membrane and fall forward into a body that is not my own. I do not have the time to consider any of its physical properties for my mind is swallowed by an overwhelming sensation.

So much power.

The might of a demigod courses through my veins, begging to be used. I tower above all and none can match me. The clouds of shifting illusions coalesce and turn dark. A scene unravels before me. I am standing there and I am… I am…

I am bored.

Plumes of smoke rise into the night sky as fire ravages the husk of a fishing village. Nets, baskets and jars litter the ground alongside armor-clad corpses. There is not a labourer in sight. All those who lie here are warriors, or rather, what passes as a warrior in this pathetic era.

They are fools. Weak fools.

I direct my steps to a man in grey plate, still clinging to life. My feet raise clouds of ash as I cleave my way through the remains of the fallen. Men, vampires, even exotic creatures called by magic, all fell before me without showing the barest sign of inspiration, the dimmest spark of genius. Lives wasted in the pursuit of mediocrity, now fated to be lost to time, their memory stained by their ultimate and pointless failure.

This one was their leader. His dark beard is stuck to his face by thick black blood while the red flame of one of my spells slowly digs into his flesh. He raises mismatched eyes to me with the empty courage of men who have nothing to lose.

“I won’t say anything! You might as well slay me, beast.”

“You think I want to know why vampires and mages have united against me, or how you knew where I would emerge? You are mistaken, worm. I care not. The only thing I wonder is why you believed that you stood a chance.”

I pick him up by the collar. He grunts in pain as the motion makes my spell bite ever deeper.

“This is not new to me, none of this is. I have seen this alliance before. I have fought this kind of ambush before. I have slain lords and knights before. You bring me nothing. Even your flimsy excuses to stop me are rehashed arguments I have already heard a thousand times. You have been nothing but a disappointment, though I am feeling generous tonight. Tell me something interesting and I will let you live.”

“I... Know who it is you seek... You will never... Catch her.”

“I have all of eternity, and I need to be lucky but once.”

I drain him dry and throw the smouldering corpse away. Vanheim bloodline, a bit bland for a lordling.

“Are the preparations complete?”

I perceive a lithe form nodding in assent behind me. Good. I have tarried for too long and the trail has gone cold. It is not the first time and probably won’t be the last either.

“Then go.”

My servant disappears. I would eagerly depart myself, unfortunately, there is something left to do. My attackers evacuated the village before my arrival to prevent unnecessary casualties and to stop me from Devouring them, perhaps. I need to show them the futility of such actions. I need to set an example so that I am left alone for a few decades. Another tedious task.

To it then.

I dreamt today. Nightmares torture me until I wake and other phantasms always start in the heart of my mind fortress so I know that this was different, only, when I woke, the images flizzled between my fingers before I could commit them to memory. There was a man, no, I was a man, and there was also a fallen knight. He died. I killed him. I remember the taste of him. There was something important to realize, if only I could remember what it was. Can a dream really matter? Is there more to it than my sufferings and Nashoba’s unwillingness to send a letter like everyone else?

The carriage rolls to a halt, interrupting my musings. It is not yet time. We have just joined the line of people waiting to be admitted to John Fillmore’s party.

John Fillmore, self-made man and the current governor of Georgia. Also, a high-ranking member of the Brotherhood and my target tonight.

I lower my gaze to the mask in my hands and lightly caress its lacquered surface. This is the latest addition to my arsenal. Loth really surpassed himself when he made this masterpiece. The exterior is a perfect oval in lunar white with no features. Towards the middle, two discrete holes allow me to breathe in when I need to sample scents and the lower part can be removed, but is otherwise alien in its design. The total absence of feature makes me look like a true monster, and only serves to accentuate what I painted on it.

I drew what can only be described as a giant mocking smile in pure black. It took me a long time to get the dismissive sneer just right, the perfect expression of amused contempt. Eight stylized fangs border the mouth in a powerful statement. There is a delicious irony in fully accepting my lineage only when anonymous.

I also drew a pair of stylized brows and eyeshadows. When I angle my head forward, for example when I am in combat, the shades deepen and make me appear more murderous.

The interior matches me completely so that it could hold even without straps. The mask leaves my ears and the back off my head free. It also contains the drawing of a rune, etched in gold, that should prove salutary. Its working masks my aura to an extent. It will not suffice when dealing with wards but individuals will have a hard time noticing me. It will, hopefully, allow me to outrun what I cannot outfight.

I put it on just as my ride stops in front of the monumental doors of the Fillmore residence and I step out to pass them, formal invitation in hand.

The open gates, the majordomo genially checking the cream envelopes, all seems to indicate that I am invited here and I go through the threshold without issue but not without apprehension.

It worked.

I move forward to the ballroom as the first revellers turn to take in my sight.

For this operation we have forfeited discretion and gone for maximum impact and I must say that without the mask, I would not have had the gumption to carry this out.

My attire is provocative. There is no other way to say it. I am wearing a black dress with long raven feathers covering the collar and shoulders. High gloves ending in chitinous talons cover my arms and while I show very little skin, the attire is form-fitting. Shards of obsidian are sewn in hypnotic patterns along my side to attract and distract those that dare look.

Wearing this dress is a statement I have no choice but to own. And so I weave my way to the crowd, haughty as you please. I dodge and slide and strut and stalk with a grace that no mortal can hope to match, and leave in my trail envy and just a tiny note of fear. Those who look will know I am a predator. For a woman to walk thus should be unthinkable in good society, and the same rule that should constrain me does not allow the attendees to challenge me aloud. The sensation is almost intoxicating. Tonight, I am not Ariane the demure daughter of a landed gentleman, who was chaste and attended church every Sunday. I am Ariane of the Nirari, the daughter of Thorn and Hunger, she who carved a bloody path to freedom through vampires and werewolves alike. That Ariane does not care for peer pressure and the judgement of the cattle. She already has her place in the world, and friends she can rely on.

I ignore the whispers, the gawking yokels and the dancers stumbling their way in the middle of the floor. I grab a flute of champagne from a passing waiter and make my way out towards the garden. From the corner of my eye I see the master of the place, leaning to the side to ask some questions to a second majordomo. I am no betting woman but I would match peanuts against solid gold that it concerns my identity.

With the bait set, I step outside.

It so happens that Mr. Fillmore likes young and confident women. I am also not someone he has ever met, having obtained the invitation through one of their business partners. If everything works well, he should approach me himself. I only need to hold on until he makes a move and I would rather avoid getting too stuck in discussions before it happens.

I step outside and walk down a set of stairs on a gravel path surrounded by perfectly cut lawn. The garden expands before me, deserted at this hour. It is surprisingly vast.

I slowly make my way alongside carefully carved trees and geometrically placed flower beds. Cubic hedges line the path forward.

I recognize the marks of a French formal garden with its obsession of symmetry and control over nature. It used to be my favorite when I was younger. I had found its controlled lines and deliberate design soothing. Recently, I have found myself craving something a bit more on the wild side and the design of my mind fortress’ ethereal park reflects this change of taste. There are more hidden paths and sinuous ways. The flowers have thorns and sprawl lazily where they please, covering strange rocks.

My feet lead me to a small copse of trees, the only part of the property to have escaped man’s controlling grasp and I am for once surprised. There is already somebody there.

A bit curious, I dodge under a branch and become the uninvited guest to a most peculiar show. A man in a satyr mask with two horns jutting upright is playing a silent melody on a transverse flute. I quickly understand the lack of sound. The strange musician has placed the end of a light scarf on the embouchure and lip plate, so as to prevent his creation from escaping. His fingers danse a light gig on the silvery metal until, as I watch, they tangle and stop.

“Overly-complicated pretentious bullshit,” he swears with emotion.

“Is that the name of the piece good sir?”

The satyr jumps in surprise at my voice and grabs his heart.

“Good lord, milady, please knock on a trunk next time,” and without missing a beat, “you are as quiet as a whisper milady, please forgive my manners, I had not seen you.”

He then bows smartly with his flute held to the side like a saber.

“You are forgiven, dear satyr. Though if I might ask, this is a strange place for a rehearsal.”

I draw closer and study the weird human. He is probably quite young, dressed in a green suit adorned with leaves and vines in dyed fabric. His feet have been covered by a hilariously large set of fake hooves. Dark eyes without guile study me from behind the mask. A curtain of wavy black hair fall from it on both sides.

“Would you believe me if I said I am offering my songs to the goddess, hoping that Artemis herself will interrupt her hunt and descend from the firmament to bestow upon me the secrets of the night and perhaps even, her favor?”

“An exciting proposition my friend, though satyrs serve Dyonisos, songs are the domain of Euterpe and, sadly, Artemis is forever a virgin.”

“Curse classical education. My lies have been undone.”

“To be fair, overly-complicated bul… Poppycock, sounds like a poor offering.”

“Nothing can escape your keen senses. Very well, I at least owe you the truth for submitting your ears to this unsightly display. I am hiding.”

“From whom?”

“Have you perhaps seen a woman in a brown dress rushing around? Wearing a dog mask.”

“I cannot say that I did.”

“She has been hounding me.”

I groan at the poor pun, yet cannot help but smile. The delivery was top notch.

“It is true! Her name is Margaret Hart, daughter of a local furniture merchant, and she decided that we were destined for each other. I had no say in this decision, mind you. She has been courting me quite aggressively ever since.”

“Has she captured your heart yet?”

“No, though not for lack of assaulting it.”

“I see, and this mask will not protect you?”

“Oh, I cannot hide, I’m afraid. Despite the disguise, we remain recognizable. We are an insular folk here, and have known each other for years. No thick cloth nor masks will rid poor cousin Francis of his unfortunate tendency to scratch his ass in public for example. Ah, pardon my French.”

“You are forgiven for your language, sir, but not from bringing this to my imagination. I am inclined to retaliate by bringing your pursuer’s on you.”

“I am at your mercy milady. Though, I would like to point out that she would devote some of that attention to you.”

“As a rival?”

“Assuredly.”

“That seems far stretched, we only met.”

“The poor girl is craving excitement, and the appearance of a mysterious and beautiful woman will be enough to name you an enemy for life.”

“You must be exaggerating.”

“Her most favoured gossip remains her aunt’s unwanted pregnancy.”

“It... Does seem like a serious affair?”

“Not if you consider that it happened thirteen years ago. The boy is almost as tall as her, though obviously not quite as heavy. This is, to date, still the most exciting thing to happen in her life.”

“Oh my, how dreadfully boring.”

I would rather spike myself and face the dawn than to live such an existence.

“Now you can imagine my worries.”

“Marrying her would be a death of the soul. I understand. By the way, how do you know I am beautiful? I could be a gorgon under this guise.”

“This is a masquerade milady, I can choose to think you pretty and you would have to break the rules to prove me wrong. Besides, there is something in your countenance, something that speaks of confidence. This is not the mark of an ugly woman.”

“Oh my, how insightful. But tell me, is your suitor not beautiful herself?”

“I am afraid that she fell off the ugly tree at birth and hit every branch on her way down, then landed face first.”

“Surely she has a redeeming quality?”

“Her stature can only be called willowy if said willow has been cut down and turned into a barrel. Her temperament would suit Hades better than Persephone and if she ever had a moral fiber, it has long since dried out and been turned into a basket.”

I cannot help but laugh. What fun he is! I have not had such a pleasant and carefree conversation since… Since…

I cannot remember. I have been fighting and hiding for so long, even social events were only the setting for another intrigue. Come to think of it, this one is too. I still have a little time however, I must not rush this operation and besides, this is so entertaining.

Yes. I missed this. Just a nice evening out with a pleasant conversationalist. Witty retorts and fun exchanges. It is lucky that he would be here alone, and he smells quite good, like soap and sunshine on clean skin. His heart beats so strong, a bit faster now. I could see him touch me and not be terrified. He would be tender and patient, and I would BIND HIM TO MY SERVICE… No!

I take a step back and retract my eager fangs. The mask saved me from doing something regrettable. This is not the time to be shopping for new followers. I have a mission to complete!

And I would lose him.

This man would not do as a vassal, I would have to bind him and after each feeding, he would grow ever more placid and obedient, and even less himself. A hollow shell. Cattle.

My hand, which was about to touch his shoulder, falls down by my side. His own hand retreats and I can tell he is a bit disappointed.

“I am sorry. I do not know what came over me.”

“Haha, there is nothing to apologize for. I wish whatever came over you had stayed a second longer. This was… Pleasant.”

“I would not want to be too forward.”

“Think nothing of it, I can handle unwanted attention, and this was not it.”

I say nothing for a while. I liked this moment. I liked him as well, but now the spell is broken and I remember why I am here and what I have become. There is still something more I could steal from this evening.

“Regarding your unwanted suitor, I do believe you have been approaching the situation the wrong way.”

“You think so? I am open to suggestions. My next step was to unleash the dogs when she would next visit.”

“Nothing so crass I assure you. Think of your poor dogs. No, what you need is to stake a public claim. The humiliation will prevent her from pursuing the matter.”

The man’s stance shows hope.

“What would you suggest?”

I lean forward ever so slightly.

“Invite me for a dance?”

He licks his lips nervously.

“Yes. I see how this would be an excellent idea.”

I place my arm in his. I am daring tonight! Constanza would be squealing if she knew.

My mysterious friend leads me back inside and to the dance floor, chest puffed with pride. I realize that he is most likely much younger than me, an occurrence that will only happen more often as years go by. We enter under the curious glance of more than one attendant, line up with the other dancers and move with the sounds of flutes and violins.

Dancing is ever the social activity. The slow rhythm invites flirting, though the presence of so many people around prevents anything too bold from happening. There is no physical contact except the occasional hand clap, though it does not stop me from making myself noticeable. Even the most minute change to someone’s balance can make a twirl awkward or perfect and I am, to them, perfect. Every step, every twist is flawlessly timed, and I let my partner guide me and guide him in return. As the music goes on we become the centre of attention for none can match our display. From the corner of my eye, I notice a plump woman in a dog mask storming out of the room.

“It seems our little ruse has worked, your suitor just left the scene.”

“I would rather make sure, would you grant me the next dance as well?”

I laugh happily. What my companion lacks in experience, he makes up for it in enthusiasm. Alas, I can see the next step of our plan unfolding and it will soon be time to get back to work. I must cut our amusement short.

“I’m afraid I must decline my good sir. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned after all. I must prepare for my exit.”

He is about to protest when I break protocol and place a finger before his lips. The gesture is enough to make him miss a step, thankfully promptly corrected. The poor lad looks completely dejected.

“Will I see you again?”

No, we will not meet again. This was an experience born of the moment, and perhaps a sign that I can move on a bit, retake what should have been mine.

“Who knows?”

When the orchestra stops, I merge into the crowd, leaving him behind, and make my way to the middle of the room where I am intercepted by another majordomo in a frog mask.

“Milady, forgive my impertinence. Mr. Fillmore would be delighted if you could join him for a moment if it pleases you.”

I nod and follow. Our plan has borne fruit.

I thought I would go to him directly upon arriving, however Loth said it would be preferable to be invited. Since my purpose is to be alone with him, it will require us to depart the room, which is better done without too many people’s scrutiny. I harbored doubts and voiced them to Loth. How could I, a woman without much experience in flirting let alone seducing, end up alone with a notable man such as Mr. Fillmore? Especially in one night? Is he not overestimating me?

The tall man had simply raised a brow and retorted:

“Aye how could a powerful man be convinced to be alone with a beautiful woman in his own house? Big difficulty that is. Guess ye’ll have to impress him with yer knitting first, ya know? Engage in jolly conversation? Jokes aside, use yer instincts and Sinead’s lessons. That man wants ta be seduced, so since ye’re wearing a mask, use it ta be a little daring aye? Trust me, I’m a man. It will work.”

And so here we are. I just hope he will not be so vulgar as to touch me in public. That would be catastrophic for everyone involved.

The crowd parts and I finally see our benevolent host. He sits on an actual throne, in a suit of cream and gold. A sun mask adorns his face, held in place by a golden crown. By his side, a large man with a clean shaven head stands at attention.

This is the most blatant show of megalomania I have seen since leaving the Lancaster clan.

“Ah, good evening miss, I do not believe we are acquainted?”

“Naturally, sun king, this is a masquerade after all.”

The man chuckles, though his eyes remain curious.

“How should I address you then?”

“Melpomene.”

“A muse! Dare I ask to see your cothurnus?”

Cothurnus are shoes worn by classical Greek actors in tragedies. Achilles mentioned it once, thankfully, else I would look ridiculous right now.

“Surely you would not want me to be indecent at your own party sir.”

“Of course not, haha, of course not...”

Right.

“Say, milady…”

The following conversation is a careful exercise in patience. I immediately start by engaging Fillmore on his favorite topic: himself. At the same time, I remain mysterious and use a light touch in my attempt to keep him entertained. Any heavy-handed attempt might be detected by someone with his experience in social matters. I stay careful and do not overestimate myself. A light laugh here, an amused and snarky remark there, little by little I make him more comfortable and after his guard has let up a bit, I insert a bit of Charm in my eyes. It is then that my caution proves warranted as Mr. Fillmore is wearing a protective magical charm.

How interesting. It appears that my dear guest has fingers in a great many pies, to be linked both to the secret society and to mages.

Following Sinead’s method once more proves to be a boon. I carefully align the essence of the bond linking us to his current feeling and I start to dig through the magical shield. This charm, however, is powerful. Much more so than the one the Rosenthal guard wore. I must now focus on both my conversation and the breakthrough. Thanks to hours of practice, I quickly succeed and get a glimpse of his thoughts.

Unsurprisingly, my host does not hold me in high regard. I do not detect any feeling of respect or concern in his mind, he does however harbor no small amount of lust. It is only tempered by careful self-control and… Apprehension. It cannot be that he knows what I am, the feeling is far too diffuse for that. Then what?

Ah, of course, social pressure. My host is a widower, and although it would not be unacceptable for him to search for a new party, being seen going upstairs alone with a younger woman could become a stain on his reputation. This fear is a boon if I can carefully reduce it. Fillmore is clearly worried about his mind being tampered with, and any sudden increase of sexual desire may be regarded as suspicious. Instead, I will simply weaken his inhibitions. Nothing liquor could not have achieved, had he indulged a little more.

Soon we reach a tipping point in our exchange. He had been boasting about a collection of Renaissance paintings he had shipped from Italy at great cost when he suddenly stops and turns to me. This is it. Tonight’s crux. If he leaves, I will have lost my opportunity to enter his inner sanctum. We would lose weeks of work.

I have to try it.

“How I wish I could see it. I am a painter myself.”

“You are?”

“Yes, though I do not claim to have any talent in it. I did not study Renaissance much, I prefer Baroque. Do you know why?”

“Do tell.”

I lean forward and my arms press my modest bust forward. It is not much, but I can see a flicker in his eyes as he takes in the view.

“They capture the moment. Bernini paints David as he throws the stone and Vermeer paints the girl with the pearl earring as she turns towards him. They play with light and motion to make their work come to life.”

“Fascinating… Yes, the moment. You do make a good case, and I would appreciate your opinion on my modest possessions.”

“I am quite tempted, although, I would be loath to hog you at your own party.”

“Think nothing of it. It is not everyday that I have the pleasure of entertaining a guest of such refined tastes.”

I bet.

“Shall we?”

He stands up and the majordomo and bodyguard both mask our exit in what appears to be a well-rehearsed maneuver. I follow him up a flight of stairs to a corridor where we inspect the paintings as we go. Fillmore prefers pastoral landscapes and nudes. Very few of the works displayed are religious in nature, and Greek mythology is prevalent. This might explain how he dared use “cothurnus” in a conversation without suffocating under the weight of his own self-importance.

Cothurnus. Honestly.

“And now, the prize of my collection.”

We are alone in a room filled with curios and art. Fillmore’s acolytes did not follow us up the stairs and I will not get a better chance.

“Impressive…” I say, as I drag a nail along his collar. I discreetly dig out the pendant’s chain and easily snap it between two claws. My prey breathes faster as his desire gets the better of him. He does not even notice his protections being stripped away.

I let go of any subtlety and crack his mind like a nut. I have been Charming him for the better part of an hour. He does not stand a chance.

“You want to satisfy me, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you keep notes related to the Brotherhood of the New Light?”

“Yes. Notes and blackmail material.”

“Where is it?”

“Some of it is in my safe, in my office. The rest is spread across the county.”

“Lead me there.”

I do not need to maintain eye contact, though I cannot leave him alone for too long. We quietly leave for his quarters and he unlocks his study, making a rather complex ward disappear with an intricate key.

Fillmore’s office is all gaudy displays and hard work. He clearly does not owe his success to anyone but himself. I have not seen such discipline and efficiency since Isaac helped me open an account. I shove, without reading, everything I can to a secured inner pocket on the side of my dress. It will make a bulge, but I do not expect a great many people to notice. Owing to my experience in Charleston, it is also insulated against water, fire, smoke and even to some extent, bullets.

There is also more than five hundred dollars in obligation, which I pocket.

Spoils of war!

I remember a derogatory remark from lady Moor about looting and dismiss it immediately. That pompous goose earns everything through prior investments and by smuggling alcohol. She and Melusine can go sunbathe in a volcano, this money is mine.

“Is there anything else of value for you?”

“Yes, my setup in the basement.”

“Wine?”

“No, the secret basement.”

Oh my! He truly is an opera villain.

“How do I access it?”

It turns out that the concealed entrance is hidden behind a false wall in his bedroom. I have him drink a few decanters of an excellent whisky I found on his desk and follow him there.

“There are several exits, all easily accessible from the cellar heading out. No traps.”

I order him to open the way for me, close it behind and then fall into deep slumber. I wipe most of the memories of the past hour, leaving a blurred image tainted by alcohol. He should wake up realizing he has been robbed by a woman whose face he never saw, and the embarrassment should keep him mostly quiet. I doubt that he will complain to his secret society brethren, as I can easily imagine how they handle compromised elements.

I follow a narrow set of stairs in semi darkness. I do not bother with lamps, and why would I? The passage carries me three floors down. I can still hear violins and the whispers of conversation through thin walls, signs that the party is in full swing.

On the last landing is a secured door, with no wards this time. I open it and lock it behind me.

What in the name of the Watcher is this?!

I turn around and my eyes confirm what my ears and nose picked up. I stand in the middle of a vast room with a packed dirt floor and support columns. Steel doors lead further into this space, but what attracts my attention stands in the middle. There are four cages fastened to the floor and ceiling by steel chains, and in each cage is a woman.

Fillmore you disgusting pervert, I underestimated your depravity. What an incredible setup! This is almost vampire-like in its nature, though terribly amateurish. I could mention three improvements off the top of my head.

All the cages have covers, a jug of water and a chamber pot. In the first to my left I see a short Asian woman fixing the ceiling with an empty gaze. The second contains a very young black woman cradling her knees. A native girl turns her back to me in the third cage, this time to my left, and the last cage is occupied by a redhead who stares at me in disbelief.

My, my, my, what should I do with this lot?

I notice a desk by the entrance covered in notes and conduct a summary inspection of all his notes. It’s sex. All of it.

I should not have come here, this is a waste of my time.

“Psss! Please, I beg you.”

I should just go.

“Miss. Please…”

Sighing, I approach the red-haired woman. From up close, I realize she is even younger than I assumed. She is surprisingly clean, but exhaustion and misery are clear on her face. Her paleness serves as a contrast to the red of her eyes, the black of the pockets below and the blue of the numerous bruises I see on every spot of naked skin.

“What is it, supplicant?”

The alien word makes her recoil and she flinches in anticipation for some sort of punishment. Seeing none coming, she gathers her courage and continues.

“Are you with him?”

“No.”

“Then… Please help us escape.”

“And why would I do that?”

The black girl’s sobs turn to a panicked whine. I do not react and instead consider the girl in front of me.

Resourceful. Daring. Not easily broken. I feel a kind of kinship with this one. She is a survivor, like me.

“I’ll serve you. I can cook, clean and sing. I can swing a bat with the best of them. Please miss, I’ll serve you with all my heart, you won’t regret it.”

“Deal.”

What will Loth say? Ah well.

“How do I open the cages?”

“Sir, I mean, that man who owns the house. He has it.”

Damn it, I should have been more thorough in my interrogation!

“Any other way?”

She shakes her head, licks her lips, thinking fast.

“He could keep a spare somewhere around?”

I nod and look around. Besides the desk, there are also several wooden apparatuses that would not be out of place in a torture chamber. A rack holds tools I do not recognize, though their shapes speak of a tragic tale. Should I free this woman, Fillmore may not survive the night.

I return to the desk. Unfortunately, a more thorough search only gets me a hidden knife. I am certain that there are no secret compartments. A quick search beyond the two steel doors only reveals the concealed exit and an actual cellar as large as a warehouse filled with crates and cleaning supplies.

I return to the red-haired woman, who is starting to tear up and grab the door.

I pull.

“It’s steel, miss…”

The metal creaks and groans, the hinge pops and the door opens.

“Hoooly shit!”

“Language.”

“Sorry!”

I turn to the others. I could do the same or keep them as snacks perhaps?

A noise comes from upstairs, heavy footsteps rushing down. What should I do? If I drag her now, they will rush us before I can open the concealed exit.

Indecision takes the decision away from me.

“Stay here, pretend the door is closed,” I manage to whisper before the door bangs open and Fillmore bursts in with three men in tow. One of them is the bodyguard I met before, still as expressive as ever. The other two are more interesting. There is a tired looking old man with a graying beard and fat man with a red jacket stained with grease, pasty face red and out of breath.

The two newcomers are mages, very likely the ones who made the pendant and set up the wards.

“You will—wheeze—return the documents—wheeze—now!” says my host while brandishing a gun.

Instead of answering, I run towards the darkness. Fillmore does not pull the trigger, not that it would stop me, but even the most soundproof ceiling will not stop the thundering blast of a gunshot.

Instead of reaching for the exit, I enter the warehouse, lock the door behind me and jump up. I use my claws and feet to stick to the ceiling and wait.

“She went left?”

“No, right, idiot.” answers a gravelly voice. Probably the older man.

The trio bursts into the room. The older man had the presence of mind to take a lantern and the bodyguard now has a club.

“We search the area, you go right I go left and we meet at the end. Alister you guard the door and catch her if she tries to make a run for it.”

“Do we really have to? We could just...”

“Shut up. Yes you really have to. Now go.”

“I don’t have a light.”

“Then make one.” answers the leader out of patience.

The fat man grumbles and complies.

“Light!”

A pale orb rises and shines on me. They do not look up. No one ever does.

The two men split up and start their search. Theirs is the only source of illumination here. With the clutter, it is easy to hide if only for a minute or two.

“Come on out, don’t make it too hard on yourself. You know you’re trapped.”

I wait until they are a few meters away before dropping on the bodyguard. I may still spare Fillmore to avoid a major scandal. These men are expendable.

I silently kill the bodyguard with a finger through the neck. I pull him down to avoid noise of a collapsing body and hide his form in the shade. One down, two to go.

“Don’t be ridiculous girl, it can only end one way.”

“What makes you quite so sure?”

Both men swing around, one with a yelp of surprise and the other with his gauntlet raised.

“He got caught huh? Nicely done, but you are only delaying the inevitable.”

“Again I ask, what makes you so sure?”

“There is only one thing that could stop me with no weapon, girl, and you ain’t it. Now down on your knees.”

I am delighted to see that this rune does indeed mask my aura quite well. Loth will be pleased.

I press a small indent at the base of my mask. It slides open to reveal my really, really pointy smile.

“Think again.”

“Aw FUCK!”

I move. I almost behead the fat man before he can do more than open his mouth in surprise.

“Spike!”

Translucent spines start to appear on the old man, before he can do more I am on him. I dodge to the side and grab him by the heel where his defenses have so far failed to appear and swing him bodily into the nearest pile of crates.

The wood explodes under him. He gasps in pain as red foam taint his lips. A bar of rusted steel emerges from his battered chest.

He gives me one last bitter smile, which I return in kind, before I Devour him.

“It was a good Hunt.”

That was easier than I anticipated. Unfortunately, my short pleasure is interrupted by a gunshot. Bah, can a woman not enjoy her drink in peace? What manner of party is this?

Then there is another gunshot, then two others.

Oh. Oh no.

I replace the mask and when I step outside of the room, a squad of men has gathered in a defensive circle around a shaking Fillmore and two others. A beautiful woman in a daring green dress and crimson hair stands with her eyes closed. Besides her, a tall man with black hair and a well trimmed beard is calmly reloading a pistol. He has the understated charm of old nobility and is clearly in command.

The four girls are dead.

The supplicant is sprawled on the ground with brain matter leaking from her shattered skull. Her one remaining eye is staring at the ceiling and freedom that never came.

I... failed? I failed! I said I would free her and she died, under my care! The supplicant is dead, killed while I was feeding?! God dammit.

I feel revolted. I was careless and arrogant and because of this a supplicant I swore to protect lost her life. Fulfilling my word should have come first! I should have massacred those idiots where they stood and forced my way out instead of trying to be smart. Or I should have refused the deal! Instead I went half-cocked and look where I end up. Pah! Ariane the fool. Ariane the conceited. Ariane, queen of three papers and a corpse.

“It’s her! Melpomene!”

I return my attention to the men in front of me. The squad surrounding Fillmore is armed with muskets all pointing forward.

“Imbecile, don’t you know that Melpomene carries a knife? She gave you the hint and you did not take it... Typical vampire humor. You lot, fire!”

I dodge left and down as a storm of lead clatters against the bricks behind me. I charge forward immediately.

“Belinda!”

I brake and manage to slow down by digging my talons in the packed earth as a circle of silvery fire raises from the ground. The woman has her eyes opened, and a ring aimed at me.

“Bolt!”

I barely manage to dodge the white hot beam coming from her. I am probably as surprised as she is though I certainly do not show it.

“My God she’s a Master, up, up the stairs, now! Cover Belinda!”

I take my dagger from a holster on my leg and stab into the barrier. The red-haired woman grunts but does not yield. The pain I feel is manageable in comparison to the deeply unsettling shame now coursing through my mind.

Failure.

I am forced to back off when one of the soldiers fires at point blank range. A small twist allows me to reposition but it is clear that this tactic will not succeed. Instead, I retreat to a torture table and grab it. The witch was practically sneering when I was falling back. Now that she sees me lifting the piece of furniture in the air, her countenance breaks.

“Shit. Inferno!”

The spell goes off and she collapses in the arms of a soldier who drags her up. A moment later, the piece of furniture slams into a straggler and pulps him against the unyielding steel door, now closed.

A wave of delayed heat explodes outward. I upend a table and take cover as it moved forward, igniting everything in its path.

FIRE.

Dammit. I need to get out. Now!

I rush over ground shimmering with heat and don’t bother touching the reddening handle.

“Yah!”

I boot the door opened the way Loth showed me. The rectangle of steel bangs against the wall and I roll inside.

“Hot hot hot aaaaaaa!”

The temperature keeps increasing, I manage to operate the locking mechanism and jump through the opening into the blessedly cool night.

And then I run away.

Fillmore will have rescinded his invitation so I cannot finish off my enemies, even if I were willing to take the risk. I got documents we will have to decrypt. In return I let them know they face a vampire.

Ah who am I kidding I know what I lost, a supplicant and even perhaps a potential Vassal. As I disappear in the darkness, this night feels like everything but victory.

41. Stand your ground.

Normally upon waking I immediately exit my sealed sarcophagus. There has been a lot to do recently, and time is precious when one is slumbering for as long as I do. Now, my hand reaches for the lever and hesitates.

I need a moment for myself, to think.

Last night was full of lessons. The first one is that my romantic life will require me to stop myself from eating my partner if he is a mortal. I can see that this would be problematic. The easy solution would be to court or let myself be courted by a vampire, and that is not going to happen any time soon.

A problem for another time.

The second important lesson was how easy it was to dispose of two mages and a guard. I butchered them in an instant. They did not stand a chance. Even a prepared group with a defensive circle did little more than delay me for a few seconds. I need to reevaluate the impact I can have when battle is joined in the future. I must remain cautious, of course, but I can see myself slaughtering my way through an entire squad if I catch them unprepared.

I should be flattered by the progress I made, yet I cannot rid myself of the oppressive weight of my own failure. Even the overall success of the operation pales in comparison to the loss of the one I had sworn to protect. I am left bitter and deeply unsettled.

I exit my protective shell and join Dalton on the driver’s seat.

“Good evening Dalton, how are you doing?”

“I will be good for another few hours. Asni will have to drink at some point. It would be best if we stopped in a few miles.”

“Very well..”

I keep silent as we trudge forward. Dalton once again shows his ability to read the mood and stays quiet. Letting me work through my problems. With no distractions, I submit myself to a pointless game of what ifs.

What if I had decided to just finish Fillmore off?

What if I had dragged her out the moment I heard footsteps?

What if I had hidden completely and made them believe I had left by another way?

I churn and mix scenarios in my head again and again until I am interrupted in my self-destructive musings.

“What happened Mistress? Talk.”

“How do you know that I am upset?”

“You lean forward and occasionally scrunch your nose when you rehash something.”

“Bah!”

I will have to work on my composure when I enter vampire society. Being read like a book sounds like a terrible liability to have if Lancaster clan’s byzantine politics are any indication.

“Well?”

I dramatically sigh to convey my annoyance.

“I failed a promise.”

I recount the night and focus on the supplicant’s death. Dalton takes the time to reflect before asking me a question I had not considered.

“Does failing hurt your pride and esteem or does it bite deeper? Your kind follows strange rules. Perhaps breaking them hurts you as diseases and age hurt us.”

Is he correct? Breaking an oath is, for me, unthinkable, but perhaps vampires can be forced into situations when they see no other choices but to do it. What if two promises conflict one another? Then this would strike at our very essence.

We are supernatural creatures and Loth has already demonstrated the importance of will and purpose. I dare not imagine what would happen to a vampire oath breaker.

Then what about me? I did not let her die on purpose. Then why? If this is about intent and belief, then what do I believe killed her?

Greed.

This is it, is it not? I was not committed. I tried to both complete my task in an optimal way and to protect her somewhat. Indecision and greed were my sin. I focused so much on planning and long-term benefit that I forgot this simple truth. I am not a Master yet, to have plans within plans. If I give my word, I must pursue it with all my might, probably.

“Yes Dalton, it hurt me. If I had only tried to save her and killed Fillmore on the spot, this would not have happened.”

“Perhaps, or perhaps we would have the entire Georgian militia trailing us even now, looking for a red-hair woman with bruises on her face. Do you realize the ramifications of violently slaying a Governor, Mistress? Do you think me able to manage the situation during the day, alone and without plan as the nation’s most wanted outlaw?”

Now that he put it like that…

“I was born North of here in an isolated hamlet.”

I completely stop. I turn to Dalton and look at him with wide eyes. In our eight years together, he has never, ever mentioned his family even once. I know what food he likes, what music he prefers, even how he ties his shoes. I still have no idea about his origin and I did not pry. This revelation is simply unprecedented.

“Lots of religious folks moved to the New World because of persecutions and I got to give it to these European lads, many of them were correct. Some beliefs should have remained in the dark ages. Let me give you an example. You have a community. Each wise and holy man has several wives, and plenty of children. When women are of age, when they have their first blood, they are married off to other wise and holy men. When the men are of age, they are invited to travel the world, witness its debauchery, and accomplish some nigh impossible tasks. Do you see where I am going with this?”

“And if the young men return too early or do not conform, then something happens to them?”

“Nothing has to happen to them. The village elders shun them, and the entire community follows suit. There is little need for violence when you have absolute control, and they did. We were told that the outside world was unholy and monstrous, we were told that the wise men guided us for our own good and since some of them were our parents, we believed them.

“When my little sister turned thirteen, she was set to be married with the leader of our community, a man by the name of Holden. Holden was seventy if he was a day and something about this bothered me greatly. My sister was scared of him. I made the mistake to voice my doubts to my father. I was immediately ostracized, publicly humiliated. I was asked to repent. I was told that I was the victim of evil souls. My friends avoided me, all because I voiced some concerns.

“I did not even oppose the marriage. In my mind, this man was a saint. This ordeal opened my eyes to a series of petty abuse that was so unchristian that I confronted my father about it at dinner, as he was hurling insults at me.

“We came to blows. I was surprised but eventually, I won. I knew I had to leave and I offered my sister to come with me. She refused.

“That is the thing that bothers me to this day. She refused because she was scared of the outside. Because they had fed her with lies and manipulated her from birth, she could not envision anything else. It was preferable to have this ancient man touch her than having to face the road, uncertainty, starvation perhaps.

“She refused because she adored them and they could do no wrong, and they could do no wrong because if they had, her entire world would collapse.

“And that is why since this moment, I follow no one blindly. Nobody is free from mistakes, Mistress, not even you. Maybe not even God.”

Until that point, Dalton eyes have been fixed forward as he reminisced those painful memories. Now, he turns to me with a fanatic light in his eyes. I never took him for a believer in anything and I was wrong. My Vassal has a set of values that is so deeply embedded in his personality that I could never tell he had thought them through.

“You can be wrong Mistress, and contrary to the others, you have an eternity to learn from your mistakes and make progress. Neither of us can say which would have been the better path. Only experience will tell you and you will get it, if you live. So stop blaming yourself, you did what you thought was best and failed. You cannot succeed every time, what matters is that you follow your values as best you can and never stop improving.”

I never thought I could be so impressed by him. Dalton is usually so reserved, I sometimes tend to forget that his mind is no longer that of the shy boy I took from the Valiants.

“Those are words to live by, my Dalton. Thank you.”

“We are here for each other Mistress. As you know.”

“Indeed. Have you ever thought about returning?”

“Yes, and no I will not. I would find her comfortable in her existence and her place in the world, surrounded by a gaggle of children. And yes, I know there are other girls, but even if we go and break the walls of this prison they would only curse us for it, and rebuild them higher. It takes a lot to question one’s value Mistress. Most people here tend to forget that the pursuit of happiness does not equate the pursuit of freedom. Liberty is a burden that not everyone is willing to carry.”

“Oh I know. In fact, I am counting on it.”

“Shopping for cattle, Mistress?”

“Eventually. We will depart the nest at some point. Carve a kingdom, maybe?”

“I want dibs on the ministry of justice.”

“One thing at a time.”

After a few more jabs at each other, we continue in silence. Dalton’s lesson makes me feel better. I made a mistake, yes, and that is normal. Vampire are hunters, not protectors. There will be a learning curve.

I wake up to the ring of a bell. I hastily dress and leave my bedroom to see what the emergency is this time. As soon as I reach the main floor. I know that something is different. All shutters are drawn and the protective wards along the walls are on standby, humming quietly and filling the air with the promise of retribution. I count no less than twenty-five heartbeats upstairs and stop in my tracks. Loth voice reaches me from the smoking room.

“Ari? Please join us.”

Still a bit wary, I climb up the stairs and spot men in a strange uniform equipped with long muskets. They salute smartly as I pass. There is a hint of fear in them, hinting that they know what I am. As I approach the door, I feel a familiar aura that surprises me to my core.

“Isaac?!”

“Hello Ariane. Excellent, you are here, yes, excellent. Please, do come in, there is much to discuss.”

I enter the room and take the gathering in front of me. Loth is lounging in his favorite chair in full battle regalia, minus his steel armor. Facing him, Isaac sits upright with a mortal standing by his side. The man has a close-cropped beard and the bearing of a veteran. His mature face is frozen in a mask of disapproval and his eyes dart around the room, evaluating and gauging.

Dalton is next to my seat. He is armed to the teeth and shows a few bruises but appears otherwise unharmed.

“Splendid, now that you are here, I can explain the situation in earnest. I will be using English for the benefit of Loth, Mr. Dalton, as well as Mr. Venet here, who is the head of my security detail. Be aware that I am here as the official representative of the Rosenthal consortium as it relates to the matter of the Leucadia. Now, your competent Vassal noticed two suspicious men circling the property and attempted to apprehend them. They turned out to be Brotherhood members and he put them down despite their physical prowess.”

I turn to Dalton and realize now where the bruises come from.

“They can’t outrun bullets Mistress, not like you.”

His smile has a vicious quality to it that I mirror with pleasure. Those imbeciles tried to take down my precious Vassal. A quick death was too good for the likes of them.

“Yes, well, their bodies are downstairs and we managed to dissect them.”

“Wait, you were awake during the day?”

“Yes Ariane, masters wake up increasingly earlier as they grow, though our vulnerability to sunlight remains and we are extremely weakened while it is out. Please focus, time is of the essence. Moving on, we found out that they have runes inscribed in invisible tattoos upon them. Those are mostly shoddy work and allows them to perform incredible feats at the cost of their life expectancy. They can momentarily increase their speed, strength or endurance. Never more than one at a time. Loth and I estimate the average lifespan after inscription to be around two and a half years, though that will certainly not be relevant to us. There is no known way to deprive them of this power.”

It is still fortunate that we found those two. The members of cells we had encountered while clearing secondary rings had not been marked. I suspect that only their trusted muscle will have access to runes and that can only mean one thing.

“They are onto us.”

“Yes. We are expecting them either tonight or tomorrow. Loth of Skoragg decided to make a stand and, though we do not approve, we will offer assistance this once.”

Ah, I thought that the tension was due to the imminent arrival of our enemies, but it seems it is a question of ego between Loth and probably Venet. If the head of security thinks he can convince the old Dvergur to give ground, he is sorely mistaken. The only person on the planet who can convince Loth of Skoragg to retreat is Loth of Skoragg. I presume that my dear host felt no obligation to explain the extent of his formidable defenses to the newcomers. They have no idea, and neither does our foe.

“In the meanwhile, I shall explain the reason for my coming and the importance of the mission that is ours and by extension, yours. What we are looking for, is this.”

Isaac removes a drawing from his briefcase and places it on the table in front of me with reverence. The paper is yellow with age and depicts an ornate black box with silver engravings. The lower right corner has been painted a deep black with a frantic hand, wild strokes of the brush contrasting with the realistic depiction of the object.

“Your painter had a stroke?” asks Loth with little humor.

“No… This is deliberate…” I add without thinking. I lightly caress the black surface. Frantic lines, a sudden urge to render something that cannot be rendered, I know this effect all too well.

“He tried to draw it but did not have the tools.”

Isaac looks at me with naked curiosity.

“Yes, very insightful Ariane. This is an illustration of the box containing the Gate of Beriah. It was drawn by Mr. Matthys, an artist under our employ during the late sixteenth century. We believe that the Gate bled through its containment and affected him. Matthys was an extremely rigorous man. When questioned, he insisted that his depiction was made faithfully. For the very same reason, we have no idea what the item looks like in reality. Scholars who got their hand on it have described it in confusing terms. Al-Din describes it as, and I quote, an aperture into the unfathomable path up and in. “

A key that breaks. Nashoba’s prophecy is now confirmed.

“Let me guess, they all turn mad?” asks Loth.

“Curiously, no. All those who study it have been witnessed to be functional adults, or at least as functional as this sort can be. Their notes, however, grow increasingly cryptic and yet it appears that they understand them. Regardless of the Gate’s true nature, it is an artefact of great power that is said to unlock man’s true potential. The thing is that it requires energy to function, life energy to be precise.”

“Like the runes?”, I ask, “Is this a coincidence?”

“It is not. Ownership and study of the artefact allowed the Brotherhood of the New Light, or Ascendency as they are called in Europe, to develop this extremely crude method. Let me finish, please. The artefact has been partially charged during only two events. The first one was the black plague and the second, the seven years war. The reason why we did not notice immediately is the staggering amount of deaths occurring at the time, as well as the general hysteria. Simply put, we are still uncertain of how it kills, only that it does and turns its victims into mindless creatures craving the vitality that was robbed from them.”

“Wait, what?”

“If the Gate is acquired and triggered, all humans in its vicinity but its bearer will be robbed of both life and sanity. They will turn into short-lived but murderous lunatics. At the same time, the survivor will acquire the strength to defy a Lord, if they manage to repeat the process enough times.”

“By the Watcher.”

“Indeed. The item was stolen from a secret vault by means unknown and later purchased by Ascendency. Before we could act, it was shipped to the New World.”

“And the ship was lost...”

“Precisely. And now, it has been found. Lady, and gentlemen, my task is to secure the artefact and return it to Rosenthal custody, I would appreciate your support in this matter.”

Not that we have much choice anymore.

Loth and I meet eyes and I start:

“I have questions.”

“Go ahead lass, I will ask mine later.”

“Thank you. What is the consortium’s stake in all this?”

“The secured vault was ours. We have a responsibility to stop them.”

Isaac gives me a pointed look, as if daring me to question his integrity. I shift my posture by the barest amount in a display of annoyance, a gesture that mortals will not pick up. Isaac returns an expression of contrition for a mere tenth of a second before his face turns back into a mask of professionalism. I let the matter go.

“Have you located the wreck of the Leucadia ?”

“Not yet, but we have found those who have. I will elaborate further later.”

“Fine. I am done for now, Loth.”

“Alright. Ye said ye wanted to stop them aye? Those Brotherhood twats?”

My talons click on my seat’s wooden arms but I refrain from commenting. So long as there is an outsider here, I will not castigate Loth on his foul language.

“Yes.”

“You and what army?”

Before Venet can object to the remark, Isaac raises a hand to stop him and replies with a conciliatory tone.

“Venet’s company is well trained and they have the full trust of the consortium. If more men are required, up to a hundred will join us from Savannah. I did not bring a full company to a social visit, I am sure that you understand why.”

“Who did you say had the wreck?”

“Well that’s the thing. The vessel that sold the surgery box belongs to a faction we have no influence on, more specifically, the pirates of Barataria.”

I can scarcely believe my ears.

“Excuse me? We are to confront pirates?!”

“Indeed, my dear, indeed. Pirates and smugglers. We know where to locate them, and we will depart once we have repulsed the Brotherhood assault.”

“Oh, I’m going ta repulse them alright, don’t ye worry.”

“You think they will come tonight?”

“Aye lass, they don’t want us ta escape, ya know? If ye’re discovered ye have to launch the raid immediately or retreat. I don’t know about ye but I don’t see them half-brain fuckwits falling back. They think they’re strong and canny and we’ve been pissing them off for weeks now.”

The wood under my hands creaks ominously in the silence that follows that statement.

“Ahem, yes Loth, indeed. I’m going to prepare for the fight. Will you help Loth, Vassal?”

“Yes Mistress, before that I have a question as well. Mr. Isaac. Sir.”

“Ask away.” Answers Isaac with a pleased smile.

“You said the Brotherhood is related to Ascendency. Any chance of those guys coming here like you did?”

“Yes. A very good point, very good point indeed. We have ways to track them if they come from Savannah in great numbers, but yes, we can still expect them to receive reinforcements. The consortium is monitoring the situation and I will be advised if we are to face more enemies. In the meanwhile, our task is to locate the Gate first and make sure they cannot obtain it. Now, let us discuss tactics.”

I leave and let Loth and Venet sort it out. I am not a tactician, or rather my tactics are radically different from theirs, and I am content to leave the squad planning in their expert hands.

When Dalton and I return armed to the teeth, both men have managed to temporarily shelve their massive egos and align a little bit. Venet looks furious which, I assume, means that my host got the last word, possibly with a variation of 'ye can do as I say or ye can take yer gear and f… and go away'.

Isaac sits comfortably in his chair and harbours a genial smile. I know who I have to thank for a quick agreement.

Loth explains the battle plan. Three of Venet’s men would watch the back and two, the sides, while the remaining fifteen would gather around windows on the second floor and attic with the shutters closed. At the right moment, I will fire a flare to provide illumination and that will be the signal to shoot on the intruders. With the door locked and a clear view of our opponents, as well as Loth’s surprises, we will turn the front of the house into a cross-fire field of death. I would deal with any surprise they may have.

The plan has the merit of being simple and sound, and we take positions. Loth disappears into his first floor workshop under Venet’s disapproving glance. I know what Loth is up to and find myself smiling inward, hoping that the Brotherhood sent enough men to annoy the grumpy giant.

A little after midnight, they come. Six figures emerge from the tree line and sneak towards the house in dispersed order. I fire the flare gun and immediately line a shot.

“Now!”

As the angry spark flies in the air and basks the lawn in furious red, I pull the trigger on my rifle and see the lead foe’s head snap back. An instant later, the crack of gunshot rings into the night. I reload with vampire speed but as I watch, our targets are sprinting back with unnatural swiftness. Most shots miss as a result with only one other intruder falling. Just as they reach cover a thunderous boom resounds, taking both a man’s head and part of a trunk. Loth has decided to open with his lowest caliber weapon, it seems.

From the safety of the forest, red flowers and plumes of smoke erupt. Five, then ten, then forty muskets answer our challenge, their bullets clattering uselessly against the protective steel barriers now covering the windows. I aim and shoot at an exposed man but they are so many.

“I can’t see them Mistress.”

I grunt and reload the flare gun, doing my best to forget that shooting myself with this will turn me into a torch. I angle the small weapon and send an incandescent light close to the enemy line. With them illuminated, our side resumes firing.

Undaunted by the futility of their attack, our foes keep shooting. I am not too worried about our ammunitions or defenses. What worries me is the implication of such an attack.

They do not care about publicity.

There is no way to hide the assault of half a company on a doctor’s house. There will be an investigation. So why, why would they take such an insane risk?

Just as I line yet another shot, they suddenly retreat and silence descends on the clearing. This is strange… I would expect them to storm us…

As I think those words, a deafening explosion erupts from deeper into the copse and a small cannonball smashes against the main door. It pings, bounces back and digs a furrow in the ground.

They have artillery?!

I tap on Dalton’s shoulder and scream: “I’m going out!”

I drop from a window on the left side wall and rush to the cover of the trees. Just as I reach a large oaken trunk, I jump up, thus avoiding a furious swing from a tall man wielding a cavalry saber. The weapon buries itself in the wood as if it were butter.

His eyes widen in surprise.

“Above you,” I add teasingly before stabbing him. I am immediately on the next man.

There are six of them and they do not stand a chance. Even their improved reflexes are not enough to match me. Compared to father Perry, who had struck where I would be instead of where I was, those men are but awkward children. In only a handful of heartbeat there is only one left standing.

He raises a musket and I decide to try something. As our eyes meet, I use Charm. Instead of my usual attempts at subtlety, I simply crush his mind like a rotten apple. He blinks and lowers his arm in confusion. Not waiting for any further results, I close the distance and take his head off.

Huh, it worked! One more tool in my arsenal. I could even use it to destabilize a foe at a critical moment.

My distraction does not last. Loth’s wards may be sturdy, but not sturdy enough to repel sustained cannon fire.

I move right towards the forest at the front of the house and the enemy artillery hidden within it, keeping my head low. Perhaps I should have painted the mask black.

I finally hear heartbeats in front of me and take a close look at the men regrouping in the tree line and the defences arrayed around them. I am so surprised by what I see that my mouth hangs open. Only the sound of a second detonation a few heartbeats later manages to draw me out of my surprise.

This is bad.

I should fall back. I should fall back and warn the others and yet, I have an opportunity to learn more and to repay a debt.

Just a minute.

I sprint forward, trigger a proximity ward and jump up. I scramble up the tree like a squirrel as a man’s voice gives an order in a commanding voice.

“Now!”

Men erupt from the ground, shedding their camouflage in great sprays of mud and leaves, to find… Nothing. The man from Fillmore’s cave steps up from a dug-up shelter. He is dressed in luxurious hunting gear in green and brown and holds a decorated musket. To his right, Belinda emerges similarly equipped and I notice with pleasure that she looks just a bit apprehensive. To his left is a man I have never seen. He wears a steel helmet of unknown origin and the plastron of a “cuirassé”. On his chest, a massive pendant harbouring the symbol of a tower dangles and his clean-shaven face is scrunched in concentration.

The biggest threat will have to go first, but before that…

Using the confusion, I throw one of Loth’s beacon stones next to the six-pounder pummeling our door. You just wait.

I shoot a pistol at Belinda, only for it to flatten against a translucent shield. I stare in awe. This was a silver bullet!

Belinda yelps and the leader flinches, but the tower man barely moves. It’s him. His shield has stopped my projectile. I now regret not taking one of Loth’s special bullets.

Before their eyes look up, I am already falling among the crowd. I cut a man open and claw a throat before they even register my presence but soon, they bring their numbers to bear. They all focus on speed and rush me all at once. I flip over the closest warrior and cave his skull in on the way. I land on another foot first and jump against a trunk, slashing a spine. Then with both feet against solid wood, I propel myself like the rogue vampire showed me and barrel forward closer to the mages. I land on a soldier blade first and send two silver throwing knives in the shield. It holds, though the enemy mage’s hands start shaking. I do not dare get closer as I expect another silvery circle to close around me if I did. I cannot afford to get caught in a trap.

It does not matter, MORE PREY TO THE SLAUGHTER. Yes, there is still work to be done. I jump backward and in the same motion, grab the dead enemy’s pistol and fire at the witch. As I expected, more silver. I use the backward momentum to slide under another foe’s slash and dig my left hand in his chest, raise him above me and send him flying into the shield.

“I can’t take much more of this!” screams the tower mage.

Dark joy fills my still heart. This is what I have been made for, this bloodshed, my foe’s plans unravelling as I carve a red path through their terrified ranks.

“You brought sheep to a lion hunt,” I remark.

“I’m done!” yells the witch immediately, “Blood hound!”

The world stills as reality submits to the will of the woman. A ball-sized projectile erupts from her gauntlet with a deafening shriek, leaving behind a trail of reddish gold.

It flies straight at me. I ignore the retreating vermin and dodge to the side and under cover. The spell hits a trunk and melts through it without stopping. Its trajectory changes to track my movements.

That might be problematic.

I throw a silver knife through it without much effect, it hits a branch in a pile of molten slag. Running out of ideas, I rush at the man whose spine I severed and lift his still moaning body as the sphere of death is about to hit. I throw him forward.

Spell and screaming man impact and with a thundering sound, he explodes. Blood showers all present.

Note to self: do not get hit by that.

“Shit!” screams the witch, but her leader shows no trace of concern.

“It does not matter, vampire, and you know it.”

The haughty man looks at me from behind a line of soldiers and the two mages. PATHETIC WEAKLING, HIDING. No, he is trying to gaud me into rushing forward. They probably have another trap and I do not want to risk it.

“And who might you be?”

“You can call me the Herald, for this is my purpose. Tonight, I bring death.”

He is delaying, and so am I. Very well, let us turn this into a contest. I make a show of watching the corpses around me before returning my attention to him.

“You did send a lot of your followers to the Hades.”

“And their sacrifice will not be in vain. I am so glad that you and the interloper looking into our business work together. I do so love killing two birds with one stone.”

He smiles viciously. I am unimpressed. I SHOULD SHOW HIM HIS OWN INNARDS. No, Ari, this is a trick. Think about something pleasant, like painting, the placid gaze of the Watcher, or the nice screams the Herald will give me when I shove my thumbs in his orbits. Ah, this is not working. Better move the conversation forward.

“This house is a fortress. Your pathetic band will never breach it.”

“Oh, I beg to differ. See the men behind us. Look at their uniform.”

I already saw.

“You are bluffing. Your kind works from the shadows.”

“The time of shadows is past!” intones the man with solemnity.

The next words are not for me, but for his men.

“The time of enlightenment is upon us! We will bring our full power to bear to fulfill our mission and usher humanity in a higher realm. Nothing shall stop us in this most august of tasks! You and your associates are but insects buzzing in our ears. Noisy and bothersome, but ultimately just a nuisance. Your pitiful attempts stop tonight. You see, contrary to you our reach is long, and you criminals did cause the governor’s house to burn down…”

Ah so that is it. I have to warn the others. At least I dropped the beacon in the midst of brotherhood members.

“I would love to stay and listen, but I do believe my associate has a message for you.”

Hesitation mars the Herald’s face just at the right time. For the second time, the night stills as a monstrous detonation shakes the earth and makes the very air vibrate. From the house, a large metal mouth belches a storm of steel and fire onto the forest. In a single instant, the maelstrom of incandescent death smashes into the six-pounder, its servants and everyone and everything around on a twenty feet radius. The cloud propagates outward like the Devil’s own breath. When the dust settles, all that is left behind are splintered trunks, torn earth and the shredded remains of men and equipment.

Fools, they thought they could outgun Loth. Laughable.

With an ominous groan of rotating gears, the decorated barrel angles left.

“Fall back.” orders the Herald with a calm voice. His men form a ring around him, and they move deeper into the forest.

I could go after them but I realize that I simply do not have the time. If what he says is correct, and I believe him, by morning this place will be swarming with enemies. We need to leave.

I run back up and inside. I ask Dalton to fetch Loth and soon, we all gather in the entrance with Isaac and Venet.

“We have a problem.”

“I noticed lass. It’s vaporized now.”

“Ah no, we have a real one. The cannon was indeed used by Brotherhood, but the musket line is not them.”

“No?”

“No, you see, for the past twenty minutes we have been firing on the United States Army…”

42. The Cruel Seas

We left.

Sitting on top of the box, I look behind to see what had been my home for nine long years go up in flames, embers carried high in the windless sky.

Those mortals took my lair. We live to fight another day but the need to flee leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. My instinct to turn and fight conflicts with the knowledge that there is nothing to be gained and the house being already lost makes a difference in helping me stay put.

I do not dare imagine how Loth must feel. He was quick to agree that fighting the actual army on the field and engaging in a protracted battle is a doomed proposition, and also stupid, but just like me, he is harried by his emotions.

I am angry, deeply angry. Objectively, I know that we are at war and we were simply outmanoeuvred. Vae Victis and all this nonsense. Subjectively, I fully intend to watch the Herald beg for mercy as I pull his witch's insides out and strangle his eyeless head with her intestines. Or some such. I will usher him onto his new age one limb at a time. I will… Pah. I will plan properly and win.

Behind the box are Loth’s main gun and three drawn carriages carrying the supplies of Venet’s men, who themselves trail us on their horses. Escaping was not too difficult. The house had three prepared tunnels and we managed to use the biggest ones. We piled what effects we could in the carriages, gathered the rest in my bedroom which was subsequently sealed. All non-essential items such as cheap raw materials, prototypes etc were consigned to the fire. Our ability to strike back is still intact though our lives are wrecked.

“Did you have the time to feed, Ariane?”

Isaac’s voice comes from inside the box. Venet moved him here, as it remains the most secure place in the entire convoy. My sarcophagus is there also, ready to protect me from the sun and, according to Loth, powder charge or even indirect artillery fire. Not that I would put it to the test.

“No.”

Their vitality was simply too low. It was not worth the effort.

“I should be fine until tomorrow.”

I do feel a light onset of the Thirst. I drank from a passerby on our way back to Higginsville, though not deeply, and this should allow me to continue until tomorrow.

“Good! Good. We need to keep going for a while.”

My fellow vampire probably worries about my composure, a wise decision. My siblings are not exactly renowned for their self-control. With this said, the conversation dies out. None of us are in a talkative mood.

An hour later we stop at a crossroads. Venet, Isaac, Loth, Dalton and I gather for an improvised war council around a map hastily drawn on their largest table..

“We have two priorities. The first is to get the government off your backs. Fortunately, the consortium has given me full authority to draw on our ample resources and with what Ariane told me of Fillmore’s basement, I have a perfect way to get rid of him.”

“Will he not fight back?”

“A man such as himself has many secret enemies, Ariane, people who are more than willing to withdraw their support for a shot at his position. I can have him retired by the end of the week, even if I have to ask favours from the Charleston enclave. You can count on me. In the meanwhile, I need the two of you…”

Loth clears his throat.

“Request… That the two of you go to the port city of Clarkson’s Cove to the South and talk to a man called Dennis. He will have the information you need.”

“To do what?”

“Why, to find a pirate ship and board it of course.”

Truly, fiction is no match for reality.

Clarkson’s Cove, Georgia, two days later.

I step behind Loth on half-buried planks, over desolate marshland. His broad back is a bit hunched, not under stress but because of deep-seated hatred. I do not need to ask. My companion may act the gentleman now but he used to be a warlord. The veneer of civilization has always been skin-deep on him. Now, it is cracking.

“We’re here.”

“Would you like to do the talking?”

Loth turns, his eye manic under his thunderous brow, and yet he reasserts his control in a mere moment. I admire his discipline.

“Aye lass, why not.”

Then after a pause.

“Thanks fer asking.”

I do not reply. There is no need for that between us.

We cross an open expanse to find a large one-story wooden house built on an elevated mound in the middle of the swamps. A fire burns brightly near its entrance and two sentinels relax after seeing that there are only two of us. Unwise, though not unexpected. They are armed with muskets, and quite a few blades besides. Their clothes are mostly green-dyed cotton and cured leather and they leave very little skin uncovered even in this early fall. Their bushy beards give them an unkempt, and dangerous look. They trail us as we climb up the path.

“I think you’re lost, friends.” says the first man with a nervous smirk. No one can be completely relaxed in front of Loth, especially now that he exudes barely-contained violence.

“We’re here ta see Quick Wallace.”

“Maybe Quick Wallace don’t wanna see you.”

“He does.”

Loth’s voice has an unmistakable tone of finality in it.

“Stay here, I’ll check.”

Smart.

The first goon gets in while the second steps back and eyes us nervously. As time passes by, the man becomes increasingly paler under Loth’s pitiless glare.

“He’ll see y’all now. No funny business”

I follow my friend inside to a large open room used both as a meeting place and a kitchen, apparently. The smells of roasted meat and tobacco permeate the air, the first coming from a fireplace upon which roasts a whole piglet. Men sit and lean among derelict furniture centered around a curious trio. The first is a blond man with an eyepatch, sitting lazily in the room’s throne. The second is a huge black man in leather coveralls with an oversized machete standing by his side. He is as tall as Loth, and his face is covered in what seems to be ritual scars. The last one is a surprise. He is the only clean-shaven person of the lot, has a monocle hanging from his city jacket and is currently nervously holding a bowler hat that has apparently been subjected to this cruel treatment for at least a year.

The blond man is clearly the leader. His posture is relaxed, assertive, and his brown coat is of good cut. Jewelled ring adorn his fingers. He leans forward and starts, with a smile and a cautious glance.

“I’m Wallace. This is Moise,” he points at the tall man with a stiletto he is using to clean his nails, “and this here dashing lad is Loustic. Now tell me why the fuck I shouldn’t carve you up like a pig and stick your gal on my mast.”

He smirks. I am wondering, do we really need him? We just need his crew, right? And I have a good way to ensure their loyalty.

Loth who once again proves his unerring self-control simply throws Isaac’s letter to the man. He doesn’t look at it and instead passes the envelope directly to Loustic.

“We’re not some pansy ass city folks here, we have Loustic to read for us. We have our ways. For example Moises here. He don’t part the seas, yeah? He parts people.”

We remain nonplussed.

“It’s from… Savannah, boss.”

Wallace’s face falls.

“You’re one of them?”

Loth slowly shakes his head before adding.

“Nay, she is.”

All eyes turn to me. I grab everyone and roughly push terror at the forefront. The effort required leaves me a tad dizzy and a bit Thirsty. I should not have done that.

“Now that the pishing contest is done, can we go on or do ye wankers need to jack each other off before ye sail.”

You could hear a pin drop. Aaaah Loth, you should have just told me you needed to unwind a bit.

“Bet you wouldn’t be so tough without that monster behind you.”

I take exception to that. Or rather, I would but Loth needs the relief more than I do.

I grab Loustic by the wrist in the frozen room and head for the exit. Before I cross it, I turn and add in a dignified tone.

“Don’t take too long.”

I stand outside with the strange pirate by my side still holding our letter. The two sentinels stare at us, with expressions of bovine surprise.

Inside the house, I hear the rustle of fabric as Loth carefully removes his jacket. Then the heckling start.

“Any of ye cocksuckers want ta put yer fists where yer mouths are?”

There follows the sound of feet rushing forward, of flesh hitting flesh, and that of a body impacting the wall. Then all hell breaks loose. The sound of fighting, the crash of bodies, thrown furniture and broken glass, the grunts of effort and the moans of pain form a disharmonious symphony to match my survey of the land. The composition is not so bad, all in browns and greens with hints of red. I am almost tempted to draw it later.

“So…” starts Loustic with a shaky voice, “come here often?”

A pirate’s body crashes through a window and lands in the mud, stopping after a few rolls.

“No.”

“Oh…”

After half a minute, a roar explodes outwards and scares a few bats into flying away.

“Hah, that’s Moise!” adds a sentinel with a vindictive smile.

Loth bellows. The sound, flat and pure as if it were coming from a longship’s horn makes the remaining windows shake. A duel of titanic proportion announces itself to us through the walls as if they were not here. Fists on flesh, broken wood and shattered pottery, massive bodies crashing around like battering rams. After a few more seconds the fight reaches a climax and the two men smash through the door like freight trains, sending the thing careening in the air.

Loth landed on top and he stands up without trouble. Apart from a thin line of blood coming from his temple, he appears unharmed. Moise looks a bit dazed.

My friend slowly walks to a dead tree by the path and simply uproots it. He breaks the trunk in half and approaches his opponent with his hideous, improvised club. The roots shake ominously as he marches forward.

“Remember what ye asked me two minutes ago?”

“Naw man,” replies the black man while spitting blood, “I’m stumped.”

Loth looks at the thing in his hand, then at Moise smiling bloodily on the ground, then back to the improvised siege equipment. Then he drops it.

And laughs.

Both men roar with hilarity, soon joined by the recovering pirates. Soon, bottles start to appear and the whole group down bottles of rotgut like they’re water.

I don’t understand what is happening. Is this a men thing?

Fifteen minutes later.

Wallace points at a map salvaged from under a broken table.

“This here cross marks Cotton Cove, it should harbour the Sainte Rita, one of the many smuggling ships used by the pirates of Barataria under that accursed Frenchman, Jean Lafitte, until the day after tomorrow. The ship stays anchored long enough for the crew to unload their goods, get drunk off their arses, load some more loot then fuck off. We’ll catch them with their pants down.”

Good, then I will have my fill of blood for the first time in two bloody weeks.

“To avoid detection I’ll take Loustic, Moise and the first shift crew to go by foot and take down their land-bound team. Patterson, you’ll drop us off half a mile up the coast and cut off their retreat. Milady, hm, would you mind staying with us?”

“Not at all captain.”

“Good, hrm, good. Then it’s settled. Let’s go.”

Those mortals are only a little scared of me, and they are all deferent. I could get used to this, of the normal ones knowing what I am and accepting it. I remember the creed of the Eneru vampire faction and their hidden cities, filled with people who know what they are. I can see the attraction of a symbiotic relationship.

Loth and I return to grab some effects and our weapons and board the pirate ship.

The smuggling base at Cotton Cove is very cleverly designed, I will give them that. No road goes to it and as far as I can see, it is hidden from passing ships by judicious use of rocky outcrops and vegetation. Three ramshackle buildings huddle under cover and the telltale plumes of smoke are noticeably absent. I raise a fist and the men behind me stop.

“No signs of them. Stay here, I will scout ahead.”

I move to the compound and stop ten paces away from the main entrance. I smell that lot of blood has been spilt here very recently. I detect no heartbeat.

I silently look through every window and see nothing but crates and personal effects. My summary inspection over, I return to the others and inform them of my findings. The mood turns grim.

“This ain’t good,” mutters Wallace.

“Let’s check the base thoroughly and then proceed with the plan.” I add. Ah, I was really looking forward to a good meal. This setback is… Unfortunate.

For our allies.

No, Ari, hold on. They are under Isaac’s protection and he trusted me with those enticing people. I need to at least try to keep them safe and sound and delicious. I mean, safe and sound. Ignore the Thirst. I have done it before and I can do it again.

We reach the buildings once more and Wallace and a few others remove the cover from lanterns to inspect their surroundings. I lightly tap on the captain’s shoulder. He turns with fury but flinches when he finds himself staring at my mask.

“Two people were killed here.”

He points his light at the ground, where ominous red pools spread an extinguished brasero.”

“Recent?”

“Less than three hours.”

The man swears like a sailor, which I guess he is so it should be fine really. I wonder if he would swear less if I made him more pliable. Just a small bite…

“Those torches were lit, they were doused. Milady, can you see anything else?”

I point at the largest building.

“More blood here. No one alive.”

I lead them into what turns out to be the barracks. Two double beds and a few hammocks surround a cooking station as well as an upended table. Stained cards litter the ground. Blood marks in pools and splashes cover almost everything. The stench is unpleasant.

“Still no bodies…” mutters Moise. I do not reply, instead I grab under a bed to reveal a severed hand still holding two cards. Jack of spade and queen of heart. Ominous.

Loustic runs outside to retch. I sigh.

“So they took most of the bodies. Who would do that?!” asks a pirate.

I doubt it was vampires. It is far too messy. Even a rogue one would drink his fill. Out of ideas, I inspect the wound on the limb I found. A blade and overwhelming strength cut it which does not mean much. I believe that at least half of the men present would have the strength to do it.

Are we too late? Did the Brotherhood’s muscle do that?

“We need to get to the ship.”

Loth and Dalton show no fear but the pirate crew is more apprehensive. A few mutter about monsters and one of them stops in the middle of signing himself when he realizes I am watching.

“Yea… Let’s go. Come on lads, time to earn your pay.”

Our group leaves the abandoned buildings and we follow a small trail to a pier hidden in the shadow of an islet. We find an empty rowing boat and traces of blood.

“I ain’t going! Tis some vile sorcery, it is!” mutters one of the crew.

“He’s right cap’n we don’t know what we’re up against!”

A part of me knows I should let Wallace handle the discipline. This part of me is buried by another, much more interested in this development.

“So, you are not going then?” I ask lightly.

Silence is made as eight people hold their breath. For a moment, nothing happens, then the entire squad scrambles aboard.

Good.

And also, slightly disappointing.

Men start rowing while Wallace and I stay at the prow. The night is rather dark, and his attempts to spot something on the Sainte Rita’s deck are so far fruitless. I could just tell him that there is nobody there but I do not bother. Rather, we have a small problem.

“Loth.”

“Aye lass?”

“If you use any more power to row we’ll soon complete a circle.”

“Ah, right.”

Even with Moise on the other side, the strengths of the teams are not balanced. I would need to row myself and that is not happening while MORTALS ARE HERE TO SERVE.

We make our way across the cove in relative silence. The men smell appetizingly terrified. Perhaps I should… No. I can wait a bit more.

Soon, Wallace expertly aligns the rowing boat with our target and I jump on the deck while the others climb up a netting.

Deserted, except for more blood. This one is slightly older and I deduce that whoever slaughtered the smugglers started with their ship. I open the only door to the lower level and listen.

There is exactly one heartbeat left.

The crew gathers upon the main deck with their backs to each other. The tension is palpable. I signal Dalton who relays what I found to Loth. The pair climbs down, soon followed by an irate Wallace, angry at losing the initiative.

Two men are left behind to guard the rowboat. They exchange a nervous glance and when they turn around, the rest of us have disappeared.

I wait, hidden in the sails. The smell of the sea and the sound of the waves lapping at the hull relax me. This is the waiting part.

After a few seconds, something clicks on the treated wood, I wait.

More things click on the side. Fascinating. They can at least breathe underwater.

Now eight things are crawling up towards the clueless pirates. They are standing back to back with their pistols drawn, sweeping the darkness with their lanterns.

I wait.

One of the things pops its head above the railing and I am once more surprised, and pleased. This is a man-fish! Or a fish-man. Bah, it matters not what it is called, it is humanoid. A bald head covered in scales and a flat face without a nose sits atop a powerful chest and muscular arms ending in claws. Besides the white face, the creature appears to be coloured a deep cyan.

This will be interesting.

The thing grabs the railing with two hands and repositions in what I recognize to be a prepared jump, then it launches at the two men with a scream, interrupted when I boot its head into the wooden planks.

The other four creatures already on the deck scramble and dodge instead of charging, and the two pirates miss their panicked shot as a result. If the detonations have not alerted the rest of the crew, their girlish screams will.

“What the fuck is that!?”

I shelve my annoyance and grab a thrown trident by the shaft, only to return it to its sender with interest. The strange weapon catches the fish creature in its guarding arms and propels it above the rail.

And then the one under my foot grunts a strange, sibylline cry and they all jump out, leaving me with the leader and two urine-soaked seamen.

Marvelous.

The thing is not struggling so I remove my foot to allow it to move up. It slowly does so and I take the opportunity to inspect my captive. The creature is almost as tall as Loth, though its build is lithe and sinuous. Its legs have been replaced by a muscular tail with pointy fins that slither on the ground. The white of its face extends down to its chest and only stops where the belly button would be. Its eyes are a dirty amber colour with no sclera, the black of its pupils fixed on me. It opens its lipless mouth to reveal needle-like fangs but otherwise stays put.

I, however, am quite Thirsty.

“It was a good Hunt,” I whisper with my fangs out.

“Nirari.”

I freeze in surprise. What?! It speaks?! Its voice is raspy and strange and yet there is no mistaking it. It called my name?!

Against all expectations, the creature bows in a supplicant gesture and offers its throat.

“You speak my language?”

“Nirari, submit.”

The rest of the pirate crew rushes out. Silence reigns as they take in their terrified comrades and the strange creature kneeling before me.

“It’s that devil thing that killed the Sainte Rita’s crew. Kill it!” screams Wallace.

“HSSSSSSS!”

A collective intake of breath accompanies a collective lowering of guns.

“You would not be trying to interrupt my Mistress? Because that would be a bad idea,” adds a voice from the back. Loth and Dalton emerge from the depth with a portly shivering man between them. At the sight of the creature, the madman soils himself, adding a new and unnecessary layer to the complex cocktail of odors assailing me.

Wallace does not reply. Loustic and Moise both pray, the latter in French. Their inane babbles grate on my nerves.

“Do you understand me?”

“Nirari, Mashulduru.”

An expiatory sacrifice. The creature offers his life to redeem the crime of his tribe.

“Agreed.”

I approach and bite. Slowly, the sacrificial essence feeds the Thirst.

Ah.

Yes.

Exquisite. It has been long since I tasted a blood this rich. A ritual offering made by a willing creature. It tastes of the sea, of blood and conflict, of regret. Of desperation.

I let go as soon as I received my fill. I am merciful tonight. Those creatures are hunters like me, and they submitted before the power of the conquerors, as is fitting. There is little to be gained in annihilating their leader. I would prefer to earn a favour instead.

I lick the wound clean and enjoy the strangeness of the cool scale under my tongue. The released fish-man's eyes widen in surprise when I gesture towards the ocean. It bows deeply and slithers away. A splash announces its departure.

“You let that thing go?”

“Yes?”

“Are you insane, woman? It killed the ship’s whole crew!”

I walk towards the pirates. Everyone but their captain and Moise take a step back. With my half-mask I must look alien to them, although obviously not alien enough or they would not take the liberty to question me.

“And? You think to tell me how to deal with my prey? You intend to dictate the terms of our contract?”

“It’s not about that! They are monsters!”

“And so,” I add with a smile, “am I. You are not here to decide who lives or dies, you are here to assist us in getting the information we want. Is that clear?”

“Huh, aye.”

Silence.

Is that insubordination that I see in his eyes? We will see soon. In the meanwhile, I have a sailor to question. I grab the man and drag him to the prow of the ship.

“His mind is fragile Mistress, I do not know if we can keep him sane.”

“I care not, I only need one answer from him.”

I sit the mewling man in front of me. He’s a wreck, tearing up and shaking like a leaf in the wind. His uniform is stained with sauce and I presume that what we found was the ship’s cook.

“Let me guess, you found him in the larder?”

“Aye lass, now hurry up because we have more ta discuss.”

“Is it related to their treachery?” asks Dalton.

“What do you mean? Have they betrayed us?”

“No lass, but they intend to. There are telling signs.”

“Really?! Really… I was going to interrogate one but you seem so sure...”

“Yes, we are. Tell her the signs, Dalton.”

“Well, they are not trying to ingratiate themselves at all which anyone who wants to pursue an alliance would do, their men won’t meet my eyes, and there are always at least two crewmen with their hands on their weapon keeping their eye on either of us. Finally, they are pirates. They are dishonest by profession.”

“I am not objecting, however, this could be caution and nothing more.”

“Easy enough to check lass, if they delay our landing until dawn, they are planning something that needs you to be out. In the meantime, question the lad.”

I forcefully raise the cook’s head to me. He stinks horribly, stubble covers his fat jowls and he has a face a drunk mother could not love. Drool drips down his fat lips. They let this creature prepare their food? At this stage the fish men eating them is just nature correcting itself.

I grab the arm and bite lightly, capturing his attention with my eyes.

“Tell me your name.”

“They... they came from the sea!”

“Your name.”

“Huh?”

“Look at me. Good. Now give me your name.”

“Allan Parks.”

“Good, Allan. How long have you been serving aboard this ship?”

“Three years, as a cook, mam.”

“Under who?”

“Captain Strauss mam.”

“And during this time you stopped at Savannah, correct?”

“Yes mam, three times.”

“On the last time you delivered items for an auction, correct?”

“Yes mam, from stuff they found on that accursed wreck, capn Strauss and his dumbass first mate.”

“Where was the wreck?”

“The monsters, they...”

I push harder and the rope between us starts to unravel. I grab it in the iron grip of my will and return his attention to the here and now.

“Where. Was. The. Wreck.”

“Agh! On the beach! By Black Harbor village!”

“And why did you say it’s cursed?”

“Aaaaah my head!”

“WHY?”

“They came for him! The first mate! Those crazy strong goons! And then the monsters... Nooo!”

I drop the babbling body at my feet. His mind is gone, snapped like a twig, but I have what I needed. So, some people abducted their first mate. It must be the Brotherhood, they know where the wreck is. I feel like we are always a step behind.

“Our foes know. We need to head back and warn the others.”

I snap the poor sod’s neck and we leave the prow to find the crew hard at work with sails and ropes. Loth first, we climb on the structure behind the biggest mast, called aftcastle according to my companions, to find the captain at the wheel.

“What are you doing?” asks Loth without preamble.

Moise, by him, crosses his arms threateningly as matter of habit, surely. His frown softens when he realizes who he is trying to impress.

“We’re leaving this place, I’m not using the rowing boat with those things around. My ship will escort us back to Clarkson’s Cove and you can be on your way from there.”

He is not asking for hazard pay or about the fish-men. How… Uncharacteristic.

“When do you think we will arrive?” I ask.

I watch patiently from behind my mask as a rivulet of sweat falls from his temple. Nervous, are we? Truly these people do not have the means to match their ambition.

“Probably sometime tonight, huh, that said we’re slower because we don’t have a whole crew.”

“Is that so?”

Sweaty silence.

“I was wondering, was taking the Sainte Rita part of your agreement with the Consortium?

“Huh, sure it was. I’ll settle it with Mr. Isaac. No worries.”

“Is that so?”

Even sweatier silence.

“Well, I will be below deck until we arrive.”

The man nods and when I turn around, I hear two sighs of relief. I should not be picky since those are pirates after all, but those gentlemen of fortune cannot be the sharpest tools in the shed, or in this case the saber rack I suppose? Disappointing.

Annoyed at their mediocrity and quite proud at having used ‘below deck’ in an actual conversation, I open the door leading down, a decision I regret immediately.

“Ugh, this place stinks!”

“Pirates are not known for their pursuit of hygiene, Mistress.”

“Hsss.”

“Don’t do that Mistress, or you will have to breathe more of this air.”

I hate it when he is right.

A flight of stairs leads to an open surface against the hull. Hammocks still hang from posts stained with congealed blood. Further up, a cooking space and the storage proper occupy the space. On the side are the main attractions.

“Is that?”

“Naval guns lass, yes. Four on each side.”

“They look old.”

“They are, but they are the cleanest thing on this sorry floating derelict.”

“Right, well, they shall remain unused. I will neutralize the crew and we can leave using the rowing boat as soon as it is convenient.”

“Right.” answers Loth with a twinkle in his eyes. Dalton looks strangely excited by our adventure, he inspects the interior of the ship looking for the Watcher knows what.

I hope they are not up for some dastardly shenanigans for I am not. We are going to head back to solid land and nothing untoward will happen. Nothing at all.

“I’m heading out, “ I announce and approach the hull. As expected there is some sort of opening, currently shut tight, that allows the guns to be fired upon enemy ships without first blowing a hole through the thin partition separating us from a horde of fish-men, squids, and an entirely unreasonable amount of salty water. I play with the chains to try and open it, first by myself and then with the condescending help of my two companions.

“Hsss”

“Just trying to help!”

The very picture of innocence, those two.

I climb out with my talons stuck in the salt-encrusted wood. I am close to the water when something breaks its surface. The head of the fish man I spared earlier.

He is accompanied by his whole party. Their agile bodies slice the surface and they cast unreadable glances at me before diving back under.

I suppose we are in a state of truce for they are content with just watching me. I angle myself up and climb along the wall in complete silence. I detect eight heartbeats, as expected. There are three on the aftcastle and the rest moves around, except for one that stays at the prow. I slowly make my way there until I see him. Loustic is acting strangely, opening and closing his lantern to provide light signals. We are currently moving along the coast and he is making those signals towards the sea...

Ah, of course, he is communicating with Wallace’s ship, the Red Maiden. That is not entirely unexpected and not too worrisome. I shall just wait until the message is sent and then strike.

I climb up ever so slowly as my unfortunate victim leans forward to better read the response. I push myself at the limit of the bannister.

No one is looking.

A blink later, I drag the pirate above the railing by the throat and bite, with one hand stuck to hold me and the other wrapped around his mouth. He is so close to me, intimately so. His heart thunders just below my elbow and my knee is a bit too close to his manhood for respectability. Both of his hands rest on my shoulder with all the grip he can muster. It does not hurt me and I do enjoy the light pressure.

“You have been a very bad boy haven’t you?”

The bite weakened the man’s already fleeting resolve. This is like stealing candy from a sleeping child.

Not that I would.

“Well?”

He nods frightfully.

“You wanted to do something that would anger me, yes?”

Nod.

“And that’s bad right? You do not want to hurt me.”

He shakes his head frenetically.

“I’m a bit disappointed but I will forgive you, if you tell me what you had planned. Whisper it in my ear.”

His warm breath tickles my skin and makes my hair flow. I think I would enjoy drinking him dry very much, though it would be terribly unwise. I am, after all, well-fed.

“We were not going to hurt you. We were going to seal you in a coffin and ransom you to the rich bastard.”

“And the others?”

“Them as well. We were just going to rough them up if they put up a fight. We were not going to kill you I swear!”

“I believe you,” I whisper back, then break his neck. I lower myself and the body to avoid making a splash. Just as I lower myself enough, the lead fish-man raises up from the ocean and grabs the body before passing it along. It disappears under the black wave.

Now I understand. They must be acquainted with my Master and expect its spawn to leave behind a trail of corpses. Vindicating their beliefs annoys me slightly. I am not like him. They betrayed us first. I am different.

When I reach the railing once more, I take almost a few seconds to study where my foes lie then strike.

I jump from the railing up to the front mast and break the neck of a sailor working on a rope. Before he can react, I slay his companion. I immediately jump and land behind a third man and stab a finger between his eyes. A knife at the back of the head silences a man looking at the coast.

“Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?!”

I jump on the aftcastle and rush the last sailor currently at the tiller, no it’s called a wheel, and slice his throat open in passing before burying a hand in Moise’s chest. Just as expected I need to stab behind the heart instead of the organ itself, then it’s easier to go through the ribs.

I flip on myself and throw a dagger at Wallace.

The ship lurches and my throw misses. This gives the captain enough time to take out a pistol and a cross.

With one hand I snap the pistol away and with the other, I crush his hand around the Christian symbol.

“It only works if you believe it, you imbecile.”

Truly pathetic. I can hardly believe that those idiots exist on the same plane of existence as Synead. The world is vast indeed.

“Do what you will monster, I’ll see you soon in the depth.”

Uncaring, I almost take his entire head away. How is that for a witty retort?

“Mistress, the wheel!”

Dalton erupts from below and sprints to the aftcastle. Ah yes, the corpse of the sailor dragged the wheel to the side and now we are heading towards the ocean.

My Vassal replaces the deceased, what was it called? Ah yes, a helmsman. He rolls the thing right and soon we realign. And not a moment too soon. From the other ship, a whistling sound comes accompanied by bells and the yells of men. We are discovered! Pah, I should have been more careful! If the ship had not changed course, we wouldn’t have... wouldn’t have...

“Dalton, why are you wearing a tricorn?!”

“No time! Mistress, go to the foremast and unfurl the sails!”

“Which one is the foremast?!”

“The front one!”

“And what’s unfurling?”

“Loosen them so they expand and catch the wind.”

I grumble my way and untie overly complicated knots, moving left and right like some accursed monkey. Disgraceful! I am a vampire, not a bloody deckhand!

“Brace!”

From the Maiden comes the boom of canons and a terrible whistling noise, a moment later projectiles fly over us and rip into the sea, except one which smashes into our side with a groan of shattering wood.

“Bloody hell! They’re firing on us!”, I exclaim.

“One minute a sailor and you’re already swearing?”

I slap my hand on my mouth. Aaaaa no!

“Unfurl the other one Mistress I think Loth is about ready!”

I jump again and repeat the previous unknotting, silently this time. Just as I free the last one, a gun roars from below deck.

“Was that us?”

“Ahoy!”

He’s enjoying this far too much.

The cannonball curves elegantly and maims the side of our opponent just at the limit of the sea line. Loth timed his shot perfectly, just as we were cresting a wave.

“The wind is picking up Mistress you need to reef the sails!”

“Did I not just unfurl them?! And what does a reef have to do with anything?!”

“Just do what I say!”

“Arg!”

I follow his indication, all the while pestering against all those complicated words and Dalton’s suggestions.

“No, Vassal, I do not want to be the bosun!”

“But vampirates! Think about it!”

“No!”

Loth fires once more, from a different gun this time and his aim is true. Another hole appears, slightly higher. This was too fast for a single man. I understand now, they loaded all four canons while I was cleaning house. Smart. It also means that once we are out it will take an eternity to reload.

“Brace!”

The Maiden fires another broadside. This time no less than three cannonballs wrack our flank, one of them clipping a mast. It’s only a matter of time now. Dalton still does his best to keep us more or less facing them but they are faster and it seems that their plan is working. In order to stay aligned, we are turning right. Or was it starboard? Whatever. Soon, we will enter shallow waters and possibly run ourselves into some rocks, or we will have to turn left and let them fire on us without returning it.

Loth’s third shot bounces on the surface of the sea and damages their railings, but nothing more. From the depth, a roar of anger in mixed English and Dvergur complaining about ‘garbage pig iron’, and ‘inbred manufacturers’ shakes the night. I am about to despair in the middle of reefing the other sail when I notice that our foe is starting to lurch.

“Those accursed sea dogs are taking water! Haha!”

Seriously.

Loth’s last shot strikes the front of the hull and adds another leak. It seems to be the tipping point. The Red Maiden slows down and we start to overtake her. Then I hear screams.

It appears that I made new allies. Silhouettes crawl over the tilted deck and slay distracted sailors while the rest ineffectually attempt to stem the tide of water invading their hull. The battle is won.

“Nirari. Offering.”

This fish-man is a fish-woman now that I take the time to look. She distinctly lacks breasts but her form is definitely feminine, especially around the middle. Her face is also thinner and more delicate. She is the one who threw the trident at me, a weapon now lying on the ground as a gesture of peace. She was the first to timidly climb up our side, soon followed by the rest of the raiding party, and now kneels in the position of the supplicant. I want to tell her that if they managed to keep up with a ship for that long they can just take the bodies and go because I am not swimming after them to extract payment. The language barrier is a real obstacle, however.

I sigh and look at my companions.

“What are you two even drinking?”

The men are passing along a bottle of aged glass with blurred contents. Dalton is still wearing the accursed tricorn and refuses categorically to remove it.

“Aged rum from the Guadeloupe. A delicacy. It will put hair on your chest.”

“Don’t you think you should remain sober at least until we reach the land?”

“Let us celebrate this victory lass, also, it’s rude to let a lady wait, ya know? Even if she is half fish. Just as cousin Gromling used ta say, don’t let the wet lady go to waste.”

“Loth!”

“Seriously, refusing offered blood is rude, pretty sure. Means you think her unworthy and whatnot.”

Despite the decidedly dubious explanation, he is right. I should honor her offer. It’s just that... Ah no matter, it should be fine. Yes, totally fine. Her blood cannot be that potent.

I bite.

She tastes less of the Hunt than her packmate. Hers is tradition, direction, and quite likely magic. I lick the wound clean and they are on their way.

“Right! No more idiotic pranks! We head back with huuuuh serious! And decorum!”

“Absolutely lass we’ll do it right proper. And that’s a promise.”

One hour later.

“There were two lofty ships from old England came,

Blow high, blow low, and so sailed we;

One was the Prince of Luther, and the other Prince of Wales,

Cruising down along the coast of the High Barbaree.

“Aloft there, aloft!” our jolly Dalton cries,

Blow high, blow low, and so sailed we;

“Look ahead, look astern, look aweather and alee,

Look along down the coast of the High Barbaree.”

There’s nought upon the stern, there’s nought upon the lee,

Blow high, blow low, and so sailed we;

But there’s a lofty ship to windward, and she’s sailing fast and free,

Sailing down along the coast of the High Barbaree.

“Oh, hail her, Oh, hail her,” our dread vampire cried,

Blow high, blow low, and so sailed we;

“Are you a man-o’-war or a privateer,” said she,

“Cruising down along the coast of the High Barbaree.”

“Oh, I am not a man-o’-war nor privateer,” said he,

Blow high, blow low, and so sailed we;

“But I’m a salt-sea pirate a-looking for my fee,

“Cruising down the coast of the High Barbaree.”

Oh, ’twas broadside to broadside a long time we lay,

Blow high, blow low, and so sailed we;

Until the Prince of Luther shot the pirate’s hull away,

Cruising down along the coast of the High Barbaree.

“Oh, quarter, Oh, quarter,” those pirates then did cry,

Blow high, blow low, and so sailed we;

But the quarter that we gave them – we fed them to the fish-men,

Coming down along the coast of the High Barbareeeeeeeeeeee”

“Dammit lass, I love you dearly but you really, really can’t sing for shit.”

43. Confluence

After Dalton had his fun, Loth takes over and gets us moored or anchored or whatever it is called to the Clarkson Cove pier. Nobody in the tiny port town even reacts to the obvious signs of battle damage and I am reminded that this nation is at war with a naval power. Privateers and raided merchants are almost an everyday occurrence. There are even talks of ships fighting duels, one on one, as if they were champions of old.

Loth heads out to the city of Black Harbor to scout it while Dalton and I leave to meet up with Isaac. I spend the day slumbering and at nightfall, leave him and our carriage behind to sprint across the land. I move faster than a galloping horse and a trip that could have taken a day took me only two hours.

When I arrive at the inn Isaac decided upon, I find it surrounded by a modest but orderly military camp. The mercenaries on guard do not challenge me. Instead, they direct me to the building’s main room, where I find Venet and Isaac with several officers surrounding a map of the surrounding states.

“Do you have it, Ariane?”

The men turn and notice me. I left the mask to my side behind but kept the rest. We are reaching the end of this play, and I expect us to fight at any time.

They are nervous, but not the shifty nerves of the pirates. They know that they face a creature against whom their training would not suffice. This grants me a modicum of apprehension tinged with respect.

“Yes. The wreck is one day away from the city of Black Harbor. We asked and located it. It’s here.”

I place a black claw on the map, at coordinates we confirmed with Clarkson’s Cove only cartographer.

“There is more. The Brotherhood captured the first mate some time ago. They probably know where it is.”

Venet and Isaac share a glance.

“Well this complicates matters. We have confirmed that the British have landed in Shreveport minor, here.”

He points at the map, suspiciously close to Black Harbor. It is likely that the small port could not handle an expeditionary force of this size and decided to go to a bigger port to unload troops and equipment.

“There is no doubt that this is the work of Ascendency.”

“How many?”

“By our estimates, eight hundred plus field artillery. A hundred horses.”

It takes all my experience to school my face into displaying no emotion.

“I cannot face those numbers plus their mages, even in a war of attrition.”

“And you will not have to. You will be pleased to know that Mr. Fillmore has been found guilty of abduction and other heinous crimes. He was quietly retired and the shame proved too much. I’m afraid he took his own life.”

Isaac’s voice is filled with regret, a performance I am personally impressed with. It conflicts beautifully with the air of smugness he affects. Like a cat who has found the bird’s nest.

Note to self, the consortium can retire and kill off a governor in one week flat.

“Following this unfortunate event, you and Loth have received a full pardon and we can now draw on the strength of the local military. Match their troops with our own. I took the liberty of mobilizing the 4th regiment of line and the Georgia militia. I will sign their marching order as soon as this conversation is over, and our plan set up. Mr. Venet, how do you see us proceeding?”

“We should link up with the army and force march to Black Harbor. If we take the field first, we can set up defences and force Ascendency into a disadvantageous attack. Time is on our side since they can’t get supplies easily, and if we have to attack them first, their Napoleonic war veterans will chew through our green troops like a hot knife through butter. My men can form a solid core but there is only a hundred of us and the locals won’t trust us.”

“You are mistaken on the last point, Venet, time is not on our side. This is not a battle for land but for an artefact. The first one to get it wins, no matter if his army is decimated in the process.”

“With all due respect sir,”

“With all due respect nothing. If the Herald gets his hands on the box, we lose. I do not have to explain myself to you, I need you to trust me on this.”

“Very well sir. Our initial plan remains the same then, however we will need to apply constant pressure on their forces so that they cannot send searching parties. This will be... difficult.”

“I believe I can assist with this. I will have reinforcements from irregulars.” I add.

Isaac raises a brow in a public display of curiosity.

“The Choctaw and the Muskogee will fight by our side.”

“We don’t need help from savages.”

“Hssss”

Silence.

Isaac coughs lightly to lift the tension.

“I agree with Ariane of the Nirari Mr. Venet, we need all the help we can beg, borrow or steal. The land around Black Harbor is heavily wooded and native fighters will be of tremendous help.”

Venet agrees reluctantly. His pride is misplaced, for beggars cannot be choosers.

“To summarize, Mr. Venet and myself will link up with the army and make our way to the wreck by the most direct route. In the meanwhile, you shall gather Loth of Skoragg and whatever irregulars you can gather and join us. If possible, delay them. They are closer to the wreck than we are. Is this agreeable?”

I appreciate the courtesy and signify it with a minute nod, which he immediately mirrors.

“It is, then I shall be on my way.”

I stand facing the thorn wall at the edge of my dream fortress. I managed to warn Nashoba of my need to speak by thinking about him, his blood, his eyes when we first met. I also touched the earrings he gave me before succumbing to torpor.

The result is that I can feel him through the wall, and he has not yet managed to establish a connection. I feel a vague sense of frustration, then of energy rising and rising, then it being released all at once. Finally, there is peace and the way opens.

When I am done crossing the fog barrier, I find him in the middle of a pine forest playing with a cone. He is dressed in dark leather and his face is painted in fearsome colors. A war club lays by his side and a quiver on his shoulder. His laughing dark eyes peer at me from under thick dark hair. Just like Dalton, Nashoba has grown a lot since I first met him.

“What took you so long? What happened?”

“I could not fall asleep to come see you so I, ah, asked Tinami for help.”

Tinami? That is a girl’s name...

“Oooooh I DID NOT NEED TO KNOW THAT!”

“Why are you so squeamish, daughter of thorn and hunger? You should make love too, it will soothe your spirit”

“Keep going and I’ll soothe your spirit forever.”

“Tut tut, one cannot deny the needs of the body and stay in balance. But that is a discussion for later. Time is upon us, I know. I am leading my war band to you.”

“It is already assembled?”

Nashoba takes a thoughtful expression. His acting is terrible.

“Have I ever mentioned that I could see the future?”

I am polite and respectful and would never be caught dead uttering the term ‘smart ass’. It did, however, cross my mind.

“Then I will depart before you bequeath any more wisdom upon me, oh great one.”

“Before you do, Ariane, I wanted to thank you. I knew I could count on you. You know what the key that breaks needs to be triggered. Our people are currently scattered and vulnerable. We lack Nightwalkers to face this menace and the tools to warn everyone. If we fail now, the carrier can disappear in our lands and carve a path of destruction across the land before they can be stopped, if they can even be stopped at this point. You really are my only hope in this junction... I pray the spirits that we succeed. I will see you soon.”

The curtain of cloud falls on me.

The village is completely deserted. The smell of carrion spreads from cattle slain in their own fields and left to rot. The houses stand empty of light, broken doors and blood trails the silent witnesses of the horrors of war waged on the defenseless. In the distance, a dog howls dejectedly.

“Where are the people?” asks Dalton in a low voice. I point at the burnt husk of a church. Thin smoke and trails of ash stream in the wind and carry with them the scent of cooked meat.

“Why would they do that?”

“This is their main foraging party. Perhaps they did not want to leave anyone to relay their presence.”

“It seems extreme, even by Brotherhood standards.”

I nod. This is the second depopulated hamlet we have come across while following the trail of the British horse. Well, either them or a hundred strong group of bandits sprouted out of nowhere and decided to devastate the countryside, which is practically impossible. We will find the Ascendency expedition at the end of this path.

Dalton is showing signs of exhaustion. He has been working both day and night this past week, only catching sleep here and there. Watching his darkened eyes, the stubble on his cheeks and the strain in his voice causes me to feel unsettled. I am reminded that he is, for all his qualities, just a mortal man. He is vulnerable. A simple mistake may cost him his life and tiredness makes men prone to them. I need to keep him away from danger until he can rest.

I wish I could turn him.

I would lose a competent Vassal but I would gain a friend, alas it is simply impossible. It took me only one year to become a Courtier when most take around two, and that was already a record. I can’t remember how many times I almost died again during that period. Assuming I keep the same growth, it will take another forty years to become a Master myself and that would make Dalton over sixty-five... He would be an old man, if he even survives that long.

Perhaps I should ask Jimena if her clan is looking for a valuable candidate... No, then he would not be one of mine anymore. I will not share.

I am at a loss. Loth mentioned it on the day we met, the ephemeral nature of mortal life. He said that being with someone who would not age made a difference. I believed that the loss of his loved ones had taxed his undying mind, and yet the same fear now grips me.

“What is wrong Mistress?”

“You will die before me.”

Ah, I replied without thinking. Am I being too uncouth?

“Yes Mistress, I would hope so!”

“I cannot change you. I am too young.”

“I do not want to be changed.”

“Really? I thought...”

Dalton shakes his head.

“Loth told me more about what the change means. It is irrelevant to you now but not to me. I do not want to become a vampire.”

“You will grow old and die.”

“Yes, as did my ancestors before me. Mistress, you are letting the future ruin your present. Cherish the instant and let the memories you create now accompany you throughout the centuries. For example, look at what we found,” he adds with a smile.

In front of us, the road descends into a wooden valley currently specked with campfires. Rows of orderly tents cover the ground in a sprawling mass. A river cuts the plain in two and separates us from the major parts of their forces. A bridge joins both sides, and upon it, looted wagons loaded with supplies cross at a snail’s pace.

“It appears that we found the expedition my dear Vassal.”

At this moment, the bridge explodes in a deafening conflagration, sending horses, carriages and men into the air. Pieces of masonry smash into tents and cooking stations. Fiery embers in red and green ignite supplies and the night soon fills with screams and cries.

“And we found Loth as well! How convenient.”

We just caught the tail of the foraging party and the explosion caught its head. A dozen men are on the ground, unmoving while the rest are struggling to maintain control of their mounts or running around without purpose. The chaos is simply marvelous. I try to capture the moment in my mind so that I can commit it to a canvas at a later point. Just as I think the scene could not possibly be improved, a tall, dark figure emerges from the thickets behind the rear guard. The man stands proudly, clad in a strange looking black armor like a barbarian of old, and with a voice that covers the field, it cries:

“UP YERS YA FOOKIN WANKERS!”

Wonderful. If unnecessarily vulgar.

In case the message was not convincing enough, Loth shoulders his monstrosity of a rifle, lines a shot and takes out the head of an officer trying to keep his men together. Quite literally.

When he starts running there are already more than thirty men trailing him.

“I am sure he has a plan, nevertheless I shall run to the rescue.”

“I will hide the carriage.”

I nod, put on my mask and move around the already nervous horses. No need to make them panic. Before me lies a wooded area, then the road Loth disappeared on. Furious riders spur their mounts there. I can see them through the branches.

Now that I am paying attention, those are mostly auxiliary troops probably drawn from the local Brotherhood ranks. No red coats, and there is also something feral about them. They spur their mounts with more rage than sense, apparently unworried that the man who caught them in such a deadly trap would attempt to do so again. Imbeciles.

I run parallel to them into the forested area with ease born out of constant practice. I decide not to overtake them as being closest to Loth right now is an unhealthy proposition.

As expected, the road broadens into an open field ending in a steep hill. The path forward turns back towards the river, and stands empty. As no one is in sight, the herd of men slows down and only now do the least dim-witted members realize their predicament. Their cries of ‘back!’ is covered by my friend’s deafening roar.

“Fire!”

A line of muskets opens from the slope. The shooters are smartly camouflaged among stones and vegetation, and I am quite surprised to see two dozen of them. Where did he even find those men?

Another officer arrives in the clearing just as the Brotherhood soldiers ineffectually exchange shots with their well-entrenched foes. His attempt at sorting the mess is interrupted by another one of Loth’s flawless shots. Despite this, a few combatants still on horse are looking to escape. The first ones are already galloping back.

That won’t do at all. Time to show them why you don’t use a horse when expecting to face a vampire.

I stand on the dirt path, the head rider sees me and turns to run me down.

Cute.

Below the surface, the monster stirs. The part of me that always wants to dominate, to tear and to destroy, the part that I always keep in check because it does not care for what I can actually achieve, this part of me, I finally LET LOOSE. PATHETIC WEAKLINGS. IDIOTS. UNWORTHY OF BEING EVEN HUNTED. LEARN OF YOUR PLACE, AS YOU DIE.

“ROAAAR!”

I catch the exact moment when the lead rider’s pupils contract to a pinprick. The small intake of breath as realization strikes. His horse reeling in panic, soon imitated by all the others.

Yes. This is my time. For the next minute, I can just... Let go.

Claws into chest. Throw body. Red trail. Next prey. Cleave. Shear. Stab. Swipe. Tear and gore and slice and more. Always more. One behind trying to flee into the trees. Slow and cumbersome and pathetically awkward. Jump after. Roots and trunks are not obstacles, just convenient nooks for me to angle myself, position for the next strike. This is my territory. All of it. Crack the spine then return. Scythe my way through their scattered numbers. The last survivors have formed a turtle formation which I circle. I plant myself on their way. They fire their pistols. I fall to dodge and stand back up in a smooth motion.

“Who are you to oppose the coming of the new light?” screams a puny vermin.

WILL NOT WASTE WORDS ON DEAD MEN.

I rush forward, slide under their blades. No runes in this plane will let them match the speed of a Devourer. Crash into them and send men flying. Whirlwind of blood and limbs. The survivors run in every direction, a few steps before I take them apart.

The last one raises pleading hands.

No.

As the corpse shivers on the ground, I take in my surroundings.

Bodies and the moans of the dying. The air is heavy with the reek of gunpowder, excrement and their feeble blood.

“Hold fire.”

Loth struts down the slope with absolute confidence. His heavy black armor does not slow him one bit, which would surprise his men if they knew how much it weighs. A bunch of tough fighters slowly emerges from the bushes with no small amount of apprehension. They truly are a motley bunch from all ages and sizes. The only thing they have in common is long beards and dirty cloth that merge in their surroundings. There is even a one-eyed grandpa with an actual monkey on his shoulders. Is this a carnival or a battle?!

As I consider the assembly, Loth stops a few steps away from me and slowly, his followers form a half circle behind him. Their guns and blades are pointed at me though seeing the fear in their eyes, they know perfectly well how much good it will do.

Nobody says a word. The tension makes them fidget. Beads of sweat drip down their foreheads, and a few of the most desperate ones even found God if their prayers are any indication.

After having his fun, Loth’s scowl turns into a merry smile.

“Nice showing lass, now where is Mr. Posh and his merry band?”

I slowly incline my head but I do not answer. Loth wants to play the crowd. So will I. Blood drips from my talons onto the ground. Slowly. Drip, drip. Before the first of his men have heart attacks, I reply. Perhaps it is the moment, or perhaps the darker part of me is still close to the surface, my voice is sultry and dangerous.

“I left them behind, did not want to miss the fun.”

The thugs relax.

“Ariane, let me present to you the band of the crow, merriest pack of bloodthirsty privateers this side of the Atlantic.”

“Pirates? This did not work so well last time.”

The thugs tense.

“Oh don’t ye worry I think they will obey just fine. They don’t want to end like Big Pete.”

“Big Pete?”

“Their former leader, the head of Black Harbor city by mandate of Jean Lafitte himself. I mentioned the incoming invasion and he questioned my credibility and my honor. Was quite unpleasant about it as well. We had words.”

“Let me guess. Some of those were ‘ah my eyes’.”

“Quite so.”

“Good. Then I do not have to elaborate on what I will do to them should they step out of line?”

“Indeed not.”

“Excellent.”

The thugs relax.

“I’m a bit Thirsty though, I could use a dessert.”

The thugs tense. This is fun. Unfortunately, Loth objects to me eating his allies and so I leave to get Dalton. The rest of the night is spent watching over them as they rest, and preparing for the next day.

It is day. The vengeful orb courses across the skies. Under its vigilant gaze, all that does not belong is purged away, made vapor and ash. In a half-tamed land, two furious foes struggle for supremacy. The first is a mighty lion. Its glorious mane shines golden and its arrogance is unmatched. It prowls through the land without fear but behold! A lean and dark wolf jumps from the underbrush and bites its leg! The king is hurt but not vanquished, far from it in truth. It roars and challenges its opponent. The wolf will not answer. It is a thing of speed and momentum. It will not let itself be drawn. Again and again, the two meet and the nimble overtakes the strong. And yet the wounds remain insignificant because its size is great indeed. And see! The lion spits fire in great gouts. The wolf is hurt! It flees! The feline follows it to its lair! The struggle grows desperate. Suddenly the light dims. The suns sets! It is time, time for what? Time for...

FOR ME.

The sarcophagus opens and I jump out like a devil out of its box.

“Fire whip!”

My silver dagger flashes out and the fiery line wraps around it and tries in vain to consume its prey. The blade twists and flashes and breaks the spell.

A mage screams in pain in the torched remains of Loth’s tent. My sarcophagus is marred by impacts and shocks and yet it remains inviolate.

I grab the mage by the throat. He is wearing the red uniform of the British. Utter panic deforms his features.

“Your time is up,” I whisper, and bite down. I devour him in moments, but my Thirst is far from sated. I did not feed yesterday, and expended a lot of energy.

Loth barrels into the enclosed space. Only when he sees me does he show anything but dread.

“Tyr lass, we could use some help. Here, I managed to finish what you asked.”

He hands me three small spheres with a little needle pointing out.

“How do they work?”

“Blood trigger. Prick yourself and throw. The enchantment should hold for another few hours.”

I nod and without a word, come out. The tent was raised under the canopy of a great oak at the edge of tilled fields. Bare earth littered with bodies spread all around me, some clad in red, some clad in pirate leather, but most in the undyed cotton I associate with farmers. A few German style houses in the distance hint at the existence of a larger village.

In the middle of a scorched circle stand two men in red coat equipped with metallic gloves and belts filled with strange implements. Mages. An infantry squad of around twenty men has formed around them and fires in the distance at shapes hidden behind fences and low walls. Return fire pings uselessly against a transparent barrier, to the pirates’ cries of dismay.

A ruddy man with sergeant stripes approaches one of the mages and screams in his ears.

“Sir! Remember our orders!”

“For the last time Crespin, you will stop whining or I will have you demoted! We are on the verge of...”

“Death.”

When my voice echoes on the plain, both sides stop firing and the soldiers reform in fearful silence to face me. I smell the tantalizing musk of fear in the air. My, but those past few days have been filled with bloodshed, one battle after the other. I can smell the dried blood on the dress which is starting to show signs of damage. Even my mask is stained by layers of caked red.

“She’s bluffing, she can't stop us. It’s just a legend.” says the first mage, a brash young man with a waxed moustache and black hair. Liar, liar, I can hear your little heart pounding away the delectable liquid. You know what you did.

The second mage, a portly young man, does not answer. The sergeant licks his lips. His eyes dart left and right like a drowning man looking for salvation. None will come tonight.

I am just waiting for them to unload a volley. It will be more convenient to dodge now than when I work on their shield.

“They can’t be that powerful. It’s just stories. Look!”

Without using his gloved hand, he takes out a pistol and fires it. The powder fizzles and the shot fails.

Awkward.

The sergeant snarls and takes out his own gun. I see the trajectory and do not move an inch when the bullet buzzes angrily by my head, making a few errand strands of hair shiver.

They collectively take one step back. Pathetic. TRULY PATHETIC. SUBPAR SPECIMEN. POOR HUNT.

I prick my finger and throw the metal sphere into their shield. It sticks to the transparent surface and with a noise of brittle glass, a half-sphere crystallizes.

A breath later my silver dagger punches through it. The whole defense shakes and falls apart with the shrill cry of the portly mage.

Got you.

The other mage’s face shows incredulity as I remove it from his shoulders. Next are the soldiers. Skulls and rib cages are hard, so I stab them, throats are soft, so I swipe them. Arterial blood paints a darker red on the washed-out carmine of their uniforms. They fall where they are or while reloading or while striking. Some fall with their backs to me. Some I kill as they pray to God, some as they call their mothers. It does not matter, they all fall.

The sergeant now faces me with the youngest soldier behind him. He points his saber in my direction, but his eyes are filled with manic fear.

“Please, he’s just a boy.”

The one behind him is very young, perhaps as young as Dalton when I picked him. I point at my mask with a bloody talon.

“Is this the face of mercy?”

The veteran’s pleadings turn into a mask of steely resignation.

“Come on boy, stand up.”

The one behind him cries hot tears and yet he still obeys. Courage.

WORTHY ONES. THEIR ESSENCE WILL MAKE ME STRONG.

“This was a good Hunt.”

I make it quick and feed from the older man only. No time to indulge. When I am done, Loth and my Vassal are waiting at a respectful distance. His men are hiding far behind and none will meet my gaze. FITTING.

“Yes?”

“Sorry for the rude wake-up call. Our camp was overrun and we only attacked and took it back at nightfall.”

Loth is in his black armor, not the steam-powered one. Dalton is wearing a lighter version showing a few impacts. They look rough around the edges and more than a bit tired.

“The sarcophagus held.”

“Naturally,” Loth scoffs, “those amateurs could not pierce it in a hundred years.”

“Hmm”

My resting place being disturbed makes me feel... Uncomfortable. FIND NEST. TAKE OVER. No, this is not the time to hide. I can do this later.

“We are five miles from Black Harbor and we’ve been harassing their column for the whole bloody day. They haven’t been able to reckon or gather much supplies. This was their best effort to take us out in fact, but on the other hand that’s it. We’re spent. If Isaac’s men are not in position by the time Ascendency arrive, we’re done. I can’t fight no more and neither can those lads. Already had to execute two deserters.”

“Understood, I shall go there myself.”

“We’re all going. The men need to rest anyway. Tyr, what a mess.”

I grab my belongings, so my weapons and mask. The rest of it is... Out there somewhere. Like the paintings. It does not feel that important anymore.

Loth guides me to a side path. The others, including Dalton, follow us at a distance. In my Vassal’s case it is due to exhaustion, but I am not here to coddle him. As long as he is not in danger he can look after himself. COMPETENT VASSAL. WILL REST WHILE I KILL.

“I am going back to the old country after this lass.”

“Hmmm?”

Loth looks at me curiously.

“How many people have ya killed in the past week?”

I don’t know. I cannot remember.

“Can’t tell hey? That means it’s been going for too long.”

“You... said you were leaving?”

“Yes, after this is done. I will not rebuild. I have transferred all my stuff to warehouses on the coast. The Rosenthal will carry them East for me. I’m going home. It is time.”

“That is... good for you. Is it not?”

“Aye, it is. How about ye? Any plan?”

“No and I know what you are trying to do. I’m not going rogue. Stop trying to distract me.”

“Alright. Oh, look! They made it!”

We go over the crest of a hill to see where the war for the gate of Beriah will be fought.

A natural harbor extends in front of us in all its dark beauty. A village of respectable size is nestled at its end with a few fishing ships moored to its pier. Opposite us, on a rocky promontory, stands a heavily protected stone fort. Only a single open path leads to it, devoid of any cover and on a slope for a good few hundred yards. I see the black maws of a few cannons from where I stand. It would take an army to dislodge its occupants.

Or one vampire.

A lone flag I do not recognize floats lazily in the night wind.

Further inland, tilled fields form an open plain large enough to accommodate the army camping on it. I recognize the American flag in front of some of the tents and a particularly well-ordered enclave that must be Isaac’s mercenaries. The distance between the fort and the army camp gives the impression of our side laying siege.

Well at least they’re here.

“We should let them know we have arrived and that the Brotherhood is almost here as well.”

“With a full contingent of mages. Pricks.”

“Language.”

“Fuck off.”

“You do realize you are one of the few people on the planet who can say that and keep their insides on the inside, right?”

“I would not risk it otherwise.”

This is fine, I can save all this frustration and put it to good use... Very soon.

We leave the pirates behind and take a road leading to the camp. Dalton leaves to stumble to Venet’s tents while we reach the main entrance guarded by two men. The officer’s tent is clearly visible in the distance as the largest one. The first sentries spot us.

“Halt! In the name of...”

I capture their minds and slap them like insects.

“Back off.”

They take an involuntary step back. I have no time for this.

I make my way forward with Loth in tow. I can hear his soft chuckle as men fall silent in shock and surprise at our sight. I know he is intimidating in his black armor, and that I am covered in blood. An angry looking old corporal steps up to bar our way.

“We’re with Venet.” I simply say, and push on the uncertainty he feels. Yes, walking here like I belong and my mannerisms only give credence to my claims. I step inside the tent before he can react.

And through a detection circle.

Around a table with a large map stand a small assembly. Two men in the blue uniform of the army, and passably annoyed as well, form one group. Venet stands impassable in the middle while a curious trio forms the second one.

They are mages, wearing gloves and a coordinated set of green leathers.

There is an old man with an extremely long beard and a scholarly air, a strange person who appears to have shaven every inch of his skin and, to my surprise, a young woman with curly auburn hair. As I enter, the soldiers look up with exasperation quickly tempered by apprehension. Venet closes his eyes in anticipation of something bad and the three collectively jump like a bunch of frightened cats.

“Shit!” “Dammit!” Exclaim the two young ones. The old man only tries to discreetly incline his staff in my direction while fighting down an intense panic. That won’t do.

“You won’t be able to cast that spell before I shove that staff down your throat.”

He relents and swallows with difficulty. Clammy sweat covers their brows as they collectively look for a way out of this predicament. Ah, I know how it feels to be at the mercy of a creature renowned for lacking anything of the sort. When it happened to me, I was cheaply bargained into slavery. And them? It will not be needed. I already know why they are here. Mage groups must have conflicting interests, like we do. This cadre of spellcasters is on our side.

I return my attention to Venet, but before I can ask anything the ranking officer interrupts us.

“Madam, please state the reason of your presence and then leave us. This is a war council.”

At least he did not tell me that courtesans belong with the camp followers. Progress, I suppose.

He is even quite handsome in a sharp kind of way. His uniform is well worn and covers a tall and wiry body. Light brown hairs are gathered in a neat tail reaching his shoulder. Two deep set brown eyes stare at me from the top of an aquiline nose, shining with intelligence and the knowledge that something is wrong.

Loth steps by my side and tells a succinct report on the enemy troop composition and position. I do not really pay attention as this is nothing new to me. After his report is done, the officer does not show a single sign of emotion. His assistant, a smaller man with dirty blonde hair and fat jowls takes a discrete step away, anticipating some display of temper.

“And who are you? What is this, a menagerie? Venet, if you expect me to believe this POPPYCOCK, you are sorely... Ack!”

I interrupt the officer by moving in front of him and grabbing both he and his partner’s throat.

“I do not have time for this. You will believe us, or do you need a more... Convincing demonstration?”

I let the two men struggle in vain for a few seconds, not expecting any answer, but I do not pursue. Isaac is coming, preceded by his aura.

“Ah, I have been careless.” he says as he pushes the fabric aside. The representative of the Consortium is dressed like a gentleman at a hunting event. The contrast with us is rather obvious.

“Shit there’s another one?” whispers the woman.

“Yes Ms. Merritt, there is another one. Please give me a moment with dear colonel Strand here. You too Ariane, I will explain later.”

We dutifully file out, the mortals only too happy to be away from us. A minute passes and Isaac points his head out again.

“Ms. Merritt, Mr Colvert and Langdon, please join me.”

The trio looks at the tent, then at the camp, then at me, evaluate their chances of escape and wisely decide to head back in.

Another minute later, Isaac invites the rest of us. Loth smirks when he sees the thunderstruck faces of the people inside. Colonel Strand looks like he has swallowed a whole lemon, skin included.

“Very well, yes, very well. I had not planned to reveal my hand and forgot that you two were going to lack the, ah, patience to try and find me first. Now that the different parties have been... Reminded of what is at stake, we should move forward with our main concern.”

Blackmail is in season or is it just him?

“Even then, I don’t see why we should work with bloodsuckers.” blurts the female mage to her companion’s consternation.

Isaac gives a minute sign and his eyes flicker towards me, faster that they can perceive. It seems that our roles have been assigned for this play. I am more than happy to act as the iron fist, this time.

“Am I to understand that you refuse to contribute?” I ask casually.

The question hangs in the air for very little time before the older mage elbows his associate.

“Uhhhh no, no it’s fine. Not the first time our order works together with mon... I mean with vampires. For the greater good and all that.”

A vein starts slowly pulsing on the colonel’s temple.

“Can we get back to the matter at hand?”

“Aye and first question is, where is the Barataria representative? The one from the fort.”

While Strand takes a deep, calming breath, his aide de camp answers in his stead.

“He refused to work with us, nor give us access to his fortress. He was quite rude about it too!”

I raise my eyes in annoyance. Apparently, our cause is not valid enough to garner support. It’s just about the control of a weapon that can turn everyone around it into a murderous lunatic. Nothing too serious…

“I’ll be right back.”

I emerge from the tent with a desire to KILL THEM ALL AND TAKE OVER, no, for a bath. Yes. A warm bath. Calming. With the jasmine soap that is currently ash in Loth’s burned down tent... Arg! Alright Ariane, calm down. We will whip this assortment of idiots in shape and prepare to receive the Brotherhood and everything will be fine. Yes, absolutely fine. I shall head up to the fortress and convince the man in charge of his interest to cooperate through a subtle mix of charm and diplomacy. Yes. Then, I’ll find a tub and peel this blood-soaked dress from my delicate skin.

Half an hour later.

I strut back into the tent with a man in tow, kicking and screaming.

“Nom de Dieu, let me go sorcière! Diablesse! Aaaaah!”

I remove my claws from his neck, leaving two bloody imprints behind.

“These are the leaders of the army outside your gates. You will give them your full cooperation, or I’ll do to you what I did to your bodyguard. Do we understand each other?”

“Yes bon sang. Please just leave my soul alone!”

What? His soul? I don’t even... Nevermind.

“Only if you serve us well. If you don’t, I may just strip it from your blackened heart and feed it to a demon. Do not disappoint me.”

The man nods but as soon as the good colonel recovers enough from his surprise to ask how many soldiers he has at his disposal, all my efforts are undone.

“And why should I share this information with a government dog?!”

The clicks of my claws on the planning table resound in the silence that follows. Once I have his attention, I position one talon perpendicular to the surface and dig it into the table. Slowly.

Our newest addition considers the sound of tortured wood for a brief moment.

“A bit above seventy fighting men.”

Now that wasn’t too hard was it? A bit more and I’ll have all of my supposed allies actually trying to stop a madman from playing god with some eldritch artefact, and wouldn’t that be nice?

The rest of the meeting is spent coordinating tomorrow’s battle. Isaac is certain that the Herald will look down on our troops and force an attack, and so soldiers are arranged near the fort. It is decided to leave the village uninvolved to avoid unnecessary civilian casualties. The army will be drawn along a line facing towards the Brotherhood expedition, with its right flank anchored at the pirate fortress and the left consisting of Venet’s battle-hardened veterans. The center consists of militia and regulars in two columns with a solid reserve. The leaders use knives planted in the map to show where they will position themselves, which I find quaint. Loth even borrows one of my silver knives to indicate that he will be coordinating artillery strikes from the fort itself. Isaac brought him his cannon and enough ammunition for a bit of fun.

With little left to do before dawn, I leave the soldiers behind to recover the sarcophagus, clean and prepare.

Just as I depart, Strand’s aide looks regretfully at the forest of blades and the finger-sized hole in his furniture.

“My table...”

Our side knows its first casualty.

44. Daydreaming

Perhaps due to my deep concern, or simply by chance, I find myself at the heart of my mental palace. The Watcher’s tendrils float outside, more animated than usual. The fire in the master bedroom’s hearth brings no comfort.

I want to see. I need to see. For the first time, I live the incapacitation that comes with the day as the burden it is. I will spend almost ten hours in slumber, during which my friends and allies will fight, bleed and die, and there is absolutely nothing I can do to change it.

I need to see. Show me. Show me!

A tendril of purple flashes by the window and I feel a tug. I get out into the main hall and walk down the stairs. Twin reinforced doors open before me.

The garden is as strange and beautiful as always, filled with unknown essences and strange rocks. I pace through its hidden alcoves and false paths with a familiarity born out of intimate knowledge. We are in my mind and the place I am going to now, I have never seen before.

Curtains of thorny roots part to reveal a small circular pond. Trees curve inward and mask it from the outside. Its placid surface only reflects the eye above, and the black void surrounding it. The reflection is just as strange as the original but not quite as mesmerizing. It is like watching the sun through darkened glass. The blinding glare is tamer, though still as majestic.

Show me.

The reflection blurs and changes in a kaleidoscope of shapes and colors. I lean closer and the pond swallows me whole.

A tall man emerges from the seas, walking leisurely as if the army arrayed against him was of no concern. Dark shapes swim behind as witness to the bloodshed to come. His black hair and beard are plastered against his golden skin and his dark eyes glint with dismissive amusement. An armor the color of the depths emerges from below and enshrouds his powerful form just as the first of his opponents spots him. The last thing they see of his face is the glint of eight cruel fangs before his body is encased in nightmarish plates and monstrous scales.

On the shore, a small army has gathered. Two hundred men and women heavily armed with bows, guns and gauntlets. Their colorful robes and armors come from another age, with glowing auras and shiny runes pushing back the darkness of the night. Around them, formations and circles have been dug to stop, defend, and empower. They are ready.

“Fire!”

From the ranks of fighters, a flurry of projectiles erupts. Arrows, bullets, spears and stones. Spells in beautiful shades of blue and gold. They curve across the sky like a charging horde and descend upon the man.

He raises a hand. Three concentric circles of red runes form in the air, then he closes his fist.

A blade of purple and crimson is born. It smashes through the collective offensive like the tide through a sandcastle. The curse travels back and hits the carefully erected shields. Layers upon layers are burnt through in an effort to stop the onslaught. Men and women fall to their knees with bleeding eyes and screaming voices. Those behind stop their offense to join the defenders.

Finally, the hex fizzles. Behind the army, an old man in an elaborate dress raises an arm holding a stylized lock.

At his feet, a complex rune formation ignites, mirrored under his dark-armored foe.

Unbeknownst to the mage, the tall man points two fingers down and black runes encircle his wrist, a twisted mirror to the spell thrown at him.

For the first time, he stops.

The circles around him flash silver. At the same time, a woman in a red tunic sends forth a screaming scarlet orb and a couple in grey lamellar armor rush him from the sides.

The fire hits, just as the man’s black Claymore cuts through his target’s throat and the woman’s foil stabs his heart.

And then the decoy collapses.

Eyes turn to the mage in robes, but too late. Already his corpse is held aloft and his blood drained. The man in dark armor throws it aside and extends his arms, wrists together. A construct like a black tree erupts from them. Where its gnarly branches hit, combatants fall with their bodies mummified as if they had been years in the desert. The spells turns red with absorbed life force and is soon changed into a massive scythe. It impacts the red woman’s defenses and scatters them. The man in grey armor surges forward and his foe steps back before countering with a deadly spell. The knight collapses. His companion lunges but her strikes rakes against an obsidian gauntlet. The same gauntlet lashes out and takes her head. The witch in red is interrupted in her next spell. She stares with disbelief at the blade in her gut.

With this, resistance collapses.

The vampire lord bends down to Devour the mage, and none stand before him

I pull out of the vision. Not this. I saw it before, I remember it now. Yes, Master has returned. I don’t care. He is on some island and good riddance, I only miSs hiM so mUch… No! I don’t need him! I don’t need anyone! Show. Me. The. Bloody. Battle!

Something strains and snaps but I don’t care and push on. Yes! It is here, around me!

Noon.

Ascendency has finally finished their preparations and their infantry moves forward. The battle is joined, just as a horrible surprise comes to hit the morale of the defenders.

Two frigates bearing the Union Jack emerge from a bend in the coast and immediately fire on the pirate fortress. Its elevated position protects it to an extent, but walls soon show the marks of damage as cannonballs punch through them. There is no return fire. All the guns are pointed inland.

On the American right flank, the regiment of line faces its equivalent in furious combat. Men in blue uniform fire volley after volley from behind low walls, supported by a handful of twelve-pounders. They face those who stopped Napoleon's ambitions in their crimson uniforms and black hats. The same who stood fast from the sandy dunes of Egypt to Waterloo’s dreary plains. The red line retaliates with accurate musket shots and the support of their own gun park, much larger. Worse, supporting artillery from the fort is made inaccurate by antiquated equipment and the ships’ ceaseless assault. Despite their ordeal, the continentals return blow for blow, just like their fathers did before them. The grounds are littered with dead and wounded, the air thick with smoke, and yet no side will relent.

In the center, the battle is not going so well. Strand’s inexperienced militia panics and fires too early, long before their enemies are in effective range. Some of the bullets even fall short due to inept gun loading. The British rank stops at fifty paces and delivers one lethal volley. As the militia reels from the impact, the red line fixes bayonet and charges. The American rank disintegrates under their vigorous assault. The disciplined ranks of soldiers pushes their enemies away like insects. From the outside, they look like a single monster whose teeth spit lead. It pounced once, and now readies for the kill.

Thankfully, the fleeing troops join and merge with their comrades in arms of the second line, solidly anchored along a ridge. The British advance is halted by accurate shots delivered under the orders of a screaming veteran officer who has seen worse blows and turned them aside. The main British group attempts to charge again but the militia holds by the skin of their teeth, stabbing ahead at the deadly foe. The monster bleeds from a thousand cuts and after a furious melee, it is repulsed. Unfortunately for the defenders, the enemy general smells blood in the water and soon, commits his reserves to the breach. From behind the reforming infantry, drums and fanfare herald the coming of a regiment of Highlanders, their elite reserves. They soon resume the attack with even greater ferocity. Less than two hours after the first shot was fired, the American army is at risk of being cut in half.

On the left flank, the British advance is checked by deadly shots from Venet’s veterans. Their light grey uniform denotes them as an elite unit and their opponents realize they are facing perhaps more than they can beat. Using number advantage, they attempt to form a half circle around Isaac’s own guard.

Just as they reach optimal range, skirmishers erupt from everywhere and lay fire into the close-ranked troops. The British captain orders his men to charge, supported by what is left of their horse.

The light troops on the flank are overrun but just as the main rush reaches a small thicket, the sound of a mighty horn blares across the plain. The American cavalry detachment springs from the trees and meets its counterpart in merciless close quarter combat. The red tide is thrown back but manages to retreat in good order. Venet decides not to pursue, worried about his right flank.

Then, the tide of battle turns.

From the fort, a single canon opens with a deafening roar and hits the lead frigate with inhuman accuracy. A second later, civilians huddling in the village hear mad screams about ‘bullshit weather’ and ‘dry storage my hairy ass’. A second shot joins the first as the frigate captain realizes what is happening. He turns his ship away, too late.

The third shell ignites.

In a horrific conflagration, the ship’s powder store is set ablaze by an incendiary projectile this world had never seen. The resulting fireball reddens the sky and boosts the morale of the defenders. At the same time, shots from the fortress becomes increasingly accurate under the expert motivation of a certain Dvergur screaming incentives such as ‘My uncle Gromir can shoot better and he’s fucking blind!’ or ‘Miss again and I’ll shove you down the barrel head first you absolute fucking walloper!’. The right flank is thus bolstered and holds fast.

In the center, Strand’s trap closes its steel jaws on the charging reserve.

The devious colonel counted on his foe’s disdain of the militia to force an assault in the center and the enemy commander swallowed the bait hook, line and sinker.

From the forest on the right, his elite regiment emerges to reinforce the beleaguered militia, while from the left comes a column of bloodthirsty privateers, charging the Highlanders like madmen. Undisciplined and unreliable they may be, but if there is anything you can count on, it is their irrepressible hatred of the English. Men in leather armed with sabers, pistols and axes close the short distance and assault the infantry’s flanks. Sensing the trap, Ascendency orders a general retreat under the cover of their flanks and concentrated artillery fire. Their men escape, but leave many wounded on the field.

The day is won.

Night comes.

IT HURTS! Agh! My head is like in a vice! Why? Why why why. Is it because I pushed this? The ability to see what was going on? Not worth it, not worth it at all, I could have just waited and now I am stuck with this devilish headache! Is this magical hangover? Curses!

I push the top of the sarcophagus aside and find myself in Isaac’s secure tent. Dalton is waiting anxiously with a bound man by his side. As soon as he sees me, his face turns horrified.

“Mistress? Are you alright?”

I attempt to rub my eyes, only to find something sticky. Blackish blood sticks to my fingers.

It appears I bled from my eyes and ears. Oh joy. I cannot even be dead in peace.

“I’m fine.”

“What happened?”

“Later. Who is this?”

Remembering the prisoner by his side, Dalton pulls him up. The captive is a shifty fellow wearing the blue uniform of our allies. One of his eyes is closed by a spectacular bruise and his hands are bound behind his back. His complaints are muffled by a gag, although his eyes move frantically from the sarcophagus. I can guess what is going through his mind.

“I knew that they must have infiltrated our ranks, so I kept my eyes open for suspicious behavior. This man was attempting to desert and join the enemy lines when I caught him. Oh, by the way, we won!”

“I know.”

“You do!?”

I wave a hand dismissively. There is no time to explain.

“Did you bring him to be interrogated?”

“Yes, and I believe Isaac wants your help with something. He woke up an hour ago. You may not have the time to hunt.”

With those words, my future breakfast panics in earnest. I hastily grab him before he can soil himself as it would sour the air, and bite. A quick interrogation reveals that he himself knows nothing. He was only promised a large reward if he could report on our force and their location. Once I am done, Dalton signals outside and the body is carried out by bored guards.

I follow Dalton outside to Venet’s command tent and to my surprise, find the three mages standing outside. Venet himself is by their side.

“I beg you wait a while, miss Ariane. My employer is… Having a meal.”

We had a few spies then. I turn my attention to the trio, with no small amount of curiosity. The older man stands with his eyes closed and it takes but a few seconds to realize that he is, in fact, fast asleep. The woman who I remember is called Merritt looks confrontational, but her companion is fidgeting with curiosity. His complete lack of any sort of hair gives him the appearance of a circus freak and his large eyes do not help.

I might as well get acquainted with my allies. I have never talked to mages except to inform them how they will die.

“Yes?”

“Are you a corpse?”

We are off to a great start.

“I ask because of humor. See, a corpse is filled with vile humor and is a carrier of diseases so if you bite someone as a corpse you will make them sick but at the same time your blood slave looks healthy so it’s probably not that anyway I was just curious please don’t eat me.”

He talks a lot about disease for someone afflicted with verbal diarrhea.

“Dalton is not my slave, he is a Vassal. And I am not a corpse. I do not decay, nor will I ever.”

“What if you die again?”

Seriously?

“We turn into ash.”

The man looks shocked.

“What about mosquitoes? Lice?”

“We are magical creatures you cretin, we do not have diseases or parasites of any kind.”

“Even in your hair?”

“Yes even in our hair. Are all spell casters maniacs or are you just an extreme case?”

“Don’t mind Colvert, he is obsessed with cleanliness.”

“is this why he looks like a walking alchemical accident?”

She nods.

“He cleans his hands seventeen times per day.”

“You are sharing critical information with the enemy!” her companion hisses.

The witch and I share a kindred moment between relatively sane people.

“I’m Merritt by the way.”

“Ariane.”

She scoffs and shakes her head in disbelief.

“I never thought I would one day speak with a legendary vampire. You are a thing of myth. It is said that to meet one is to meet death, and the cities you have taken over are black zones where to stay after dusk is to stay forever. And now I am talking to one.”

“It is a rare opportunity for me also. I only ever shared but few words with mages.”

“Truly?”

“Yes, and they were along the line of ‘fire whip!’ and ‘please no’.”

Merritt laughs lightly.

“Hah! Yeah, I suppose. Say, one girl to another. How do you get so many men to listen to you? Those old codgers always go about me learning my place and all.”

“It is mostly Isaac’s influence. We know each other from before, his trust in me gives me a measure of legitimacy.”

“So it’s because of a man huh.”

She looks dejected.

“Find someone reliable to be on your side and you will not have to fight for recognition every step of the way, he will do it for you.”

“How could I find such treasure.”

“Not with your personality, that’s for sure.” interjects Dalton. I knew he had not forgotten the blood slave comment.

The woman’s face turns ugly and before our attempt at diplomacy is irredeemably damaged, I try to comfort her.

“A foe looking down on you acts carelessly, and the air of surprise they affect as they die is that much sweeter.”

This excellent observation on the nature of the universe is welcome with stunned silence. What!? It’s really solid advice! Born from personal experience!

“Ahem. Thank you for those kind words, I guess?”

“Hold on, I have questions as well. Are you all part of a mage organization?”

Both mages exchange glances. The bald one only shrugs.

“Guess it does not hurt us to tell you. We’re with Sanctuary, it’s more like a vague alliance than a real thing. Not like those Houses back in Europe. Langdon is our mentor. He’s in charge when he is awake, so, not that often.”

Loth told me what little he knew about the mage population. They are the most numerous of the world’s strange denizens, with easily a hundred thousand in the known world. Many only have a smidgen of power, but their trained soldiery is numerous and dangerous. There is a constellation of groups, lodges, secret societies, families, cartels and others with as many objectives and agendas as there are political affiliations. In a sense, they are the true representation of humanity. Insane cultists fight against devoted Christians who think their powers are a gift of God, while devious mastermind and police orders fight for control of local government. Loth’s information is sparse, however, and I assume that there are some groups at the top.

“And you oppose the Brotherhood of the New Light?”

“Well yeah the guys in charge decided that having a power-hungry lunatic in possession of an artifact capable of mass murder is a bad idea. Go figure.”

Common sense! I can scarcely believe my ears, surely I am mistaken?

“That is sensible.”

“It is, isn’t it? Oh, it looks like it’s our turn.”

Venet waves at us from the side of the tent and we join in, the sleepy mage being dragged in by his associates. A more detailed map of the area is lain on a table at its center. The ink is still wet.

“Good evening! Good evening… Yes. I apologize in advance if I seem abrupt, but time is short. As you know we have managed to repel Ascendency’s main assault. I shall leave the management of the battlefield to our dear Colonel and focus on what is truly at stake. And by this I mean the key of Beriah. Our good Venet as well as sir Loth have noticed movements around Black Harbor Village as well as the beach, and so I am quite certain that the hunt for the relic is already under way. This is, of course, completely unacceptable. We rule the night, as they will soon remember. Ariane, I am counting on you, and you mages, please support her as best you can. The enemy has many spellcasters and we have not seen them today. Something is bound to happen.”

Our mortal allies take the end of the sentence as a dismissal and exit with record speed. I stay.

“How are you?” asks my host.

“I do not know. The past few weeks have been a constant fight against the Brotherhood and their influence. I find myself missing painting, or taking strolls through the woods at night. Anything to take my mind off my worries. I feel myself eroding under this unceasing pressure, losing depth, so to speak. We have a need for balance.”

“Us more than most. When this is done, you should join me when I return to Savannah. We have need of someone of your talent and can give you shelter while you wait. It would be lucrative as well.”

“Loth is going to Europe.”

“It would be unwise for you to join him. Dvergur politics notwithstanding, you are technically a rogue and Europe is extremely policed compared to here. The risk would be high.”

“I… will think on it.”

“Of course.”

“And by the way, do you not think it strange that they would send patrols at night?”

“Not really, no. I doubt that their information is reliable, after all. I see two possibilities. The first is that they are desperate. With their failure to take the town, they might just be attempting a quick smash and grab. Such gambit makes sense given their dire situation. The second possibility is that they are trying to trap you.”

“Me?”

“Yes. How many men have died by your hand or that of Loth of Skoragg since you started your offensive?”

“I did not keep count.”

“Vampires trained for war are strategic assets. If they take you out, they will be able to use their mages to conduct night operations in quasi impunity. We only have the three, enough to guard our leaders and nothing more.”

“We have killed the two they sent after us.”

“This is nothing. The core of their numbers should still be intact. I expect that you will be facing perhaps ten battle-trained mages, and those two archmages besides. That is why I requested that you are accompanied.”

“Hmm. We shall see. I will prepare and depart.”

“Go to the shore and look for tracks heading South. If there are none or if they fell back, go North. We cannot let them search.”

“I shall do so.”

Isaac nods, and adds as an afterthought:

“Thank you for cooperating. I appreciate your support, as I have before. I will not forget it.”

“You can’t.”

We both smile and I leave.

I clean my claws with a torn piece of greyish uniform. There was only one group. Eight men with their suicidal runes, no mages. Strange.

The three spell casters walk up to me and stop as they take in the devastation around. I can taste their fear in the air, and in their heartbeats, yet they remain silent.

“Unless they are truly out of ideas, this is just an attempt to waste my time.”

The old man will not meet my eyes. He licks his lips nervously before replying.

“Yes, but for what?”

As soon as the words come out of his mouth, a series of whistling motes emerge from the Ascendancy camp, far to the North, before smashing into the ground. An instant later the night turns red.

“For this. Dammit. Back, back!”

45. Embracing Modernity

I sprint up the cliff to the best artillery expert we have. Behind me, fiery flowers bloom in the midst of our encampments, forcing the remaining men away from their cots and their weapons. Already, a layer of cloying black smoke covers the stars. White tents and piles of supplies are set ablaze by the fire and no one is foolish enough to try and stop it. The air is thick with soot and the unsettling aroma of cooking meat.

I left the mages and Dalton behind a ridge at the border of the village and I believe they are safe, for now. The rest of our troops, not so much.

I find Loth in his steam armor at the gate of the fortress. From afar he looks like a machine, no, a golem of unstoppable power. The glowing runes on his chest reflect those I saw on his skin on the fateful day he confronted his family. His visor clicks twice.

“Hey lass. Funny thing, aye.”

“We are being bombarded!”

“I noticed.”

“Are those mortars? How do I destroy them?”

“Those ain’t mortars lass, those are artillery spells.”

“What?!”

“Read about those. Incredibly rare. Takes a crew of three spellcasters working together to operate one and it can get pretty draining.”

“I don’t understand. Why did they not use those today!?”

Isaac appears from behind us, announcing his arrival with his disciplined aura.

“A good question Ariane, one we can answer later. Did you find those teams?”

“There was only one on this side of the shore. They’re dead.”

“Yes, yes indeed, likely a distraction for this setup. Now the mages are quite likely firmly entrenched and waiting on you, my dear.”

“I will go.”

“We should… What? Are you certain?”

“Yes. They have always relied on the same strategy. Mortals are not the only one who can adapt. Loth?”

“I have them and I’m coming too. I have a score to settle.”

“I do not believe…” says Isaac.

“They burnt my fucking house.”

The flames reflect ominously on Loth’s polished plates. The fact that he is almost half again my size makes him intimidating. I like that.

“Alright, I’ll get the mages and Dalton and then we’re going.”

“Very well. We will reform the lines and advance immediately. Oh, and Ariane, do be careful.”

With a quick nod, we descend into the plain and pick up the rest of our group on the way. Most of the magical shells are landing on what is left of the camp behind us, and so for a while, we will be relatively safe. This will change soon, however, as drums and trumpets sound the muster of the troops. It appears that our foe will attempt an attack.

“I thought nobody fought during the night,” I remark as we make our way on the remains of today’s battlefield, weaving between corpses and discarded equipment.

“Look behind,” answers Loth.

I do. Numerous fires dot the landscape. With the bodies around, we stepped into a hellscape that would equal a Bosch painting, were it not for the lack of demons.

“So?”

“Ah, I forgot sorry. Visibility is perfect here. Those pricks can just show up at the edge of the camp and shoot down anyone trying to retrieve their gear while they stay under the cover of the dark. It’s perfect for them.”

And here is why they patiently waited until night, so that our men would be unarmed and asleep.

Devious.

I stop the men behind the remains of a dead horse to eliminate a sentry. With the light of the inferno at our back, my companions will appear as black silhouettes and I cannot risk it. Finally, our little group finds relative safety under the cover of trees.

Loth and I guide the rest through thickets and our attempts at discretion appear doomed when it becomes obvious that our spellcasting allies are… Not the athletic type. They trudge through the undergrowth like gravid longhorns. Their breath is like a forge’s bellows. I admit that I have an unfair advantage but Dalton trails me without too much difficulty while even Merritt is red and sweaty. By contrast, Loth is eerily quiet even in his massive suit.

They are starting to look tasty. Hmm.

No Ari, remember, no eating our allies. They haven’t even proved their usefulness yet.

When we reach the other side of the small forest, we get our first view of the enemy camp and its occupants. Soldiers are joining formations in front of their tents, harried by angry officers. I cannot fail to notice the tense faces, the bandages, the hungry looks. These men are not the heart of Ascendancy, they are the normal soldiers brought on a senseless adventure by corrupt men. They probably wonder why they are here at all, questioning the wisdom of their leadership. I smell weakness. I smell despair and the cohesion fraying at the edge.

They are ripe for the slaughter, but it will not come by my hand. My prey is another, one who I have been looking forward to face for a long time.

“Are we… There yet?” wheezes the bald mage. Perhaps if he spent less time worrying about hygiene and more time moving his hairless self around, he would not look like the rear end of a baboon right now.

“No. Follow.”

Useless.

We trail along the edge of the clearing. Fortunately, most sentries are distracted by the preparations behind them and we make good time without being spotted. We soon arrive at the artillery emplacement by following the smoke trails to their origin.

I have assisted Loth countless times and even I am impressed by their set-up.

The battery is situated at the top of a small hill, in the centre of a vast circle of naked ground. No trees will provide covers for anyone approaching, on any side.

The installation itself is heavily fortified with dug trenches where men are lying in wait. Smaller canons are pointed outward, their servants ready to fire on any incoming enemies. Protective circles and the tantalizing aura of wizards lay everywhere. At the highest points, I can see groups of mages working around stubby artillery pieces that look as much as mortars as pieces of art. Their brassy surfaces shine lightly in the darkness with the smouldering red of burning embers, and the surfaces of the barrels are carefully engraved with rows upon rows of vicious runes.

“Skargard guns. Dvergur work.” adds Loth helpfully.

“They look expensive.”

“They are. You are looking at enough gold to equip a ship of the line here.”

I have no idea how much a ship of the line would even cost, nor do I care. It is enough to realize that Ascendency went all in on this operation.

“We should circle around.”

Both Loth and Dalton look worried. There is no doubt in my mind that this place is fortified in every direction and those look mighty indeed. I should be able to survive a direct approach. Loth may also, though probably not unharmed. The mortals will be turned to mincemeat. They will have to support us from afar, if at all.

Silently enough we turn around until we are situated almost behind them. The pirate fortress is directly in front of us, visible as a dark patch above the treeline, while to our left, the lights of the Ascendency camp shine fiercely. Far away and to the front, fires dot the night and with the air distorted by the heated air, it sometimes looks like a whole city has been set ablaze.

Our target lays directly in front of us, so close I could shoot the head off their soldiers. Even being in their back, I can still see at least one field gun aimed backwards and we still have a large force of British behind us. There is also a curious magical construct at the edge of the field, something that pulsates softly like a beacon. Its touch is light and familiar, and I realize that it is attuned to me, and to me only. Only one man could achieve such a thing, and only one man would be brazen enough to take such a risk.

Finally.

The first shield breaker orb hits the barrier protecting the twelve-pounder aimed outward, a courtesy for Loth and Dalton. The lead gunner barely has the time to widen his eyes in surprise before I remove his head. The second orb hits the circle around one of the mortars and the mage powering the defences screams in pain as I kill her two companions.

Then the trap snaps closed around me. The broken circle reactivates and turns silver. All of the other casters interrupt their firing with swear words and add their might to my prison. Hidden in the centre of the hill, men with swords and silvery shields surge forward, forming around the one they are tasked to protect.

A very familiar redhead in a green dress walks towards me with majesty in her steps and a sneer on her face.

“So kind of you to join us, vampire.”

“Belinda.”

“You remember my name. I hope you do not expect me to be impressed, after all, your kind has always been better at reminiscing rather than coming up with new ideas.”

The assembled mages look at me with a mixture of fear and relief. A motley bunch of different ages both male and female, they are brought together by their expensive-looking red dresses, seemingly made out of some kind of dyed leather. They gawk like children seeing a wolf behind bars. They know it can kill, just as they know that it will never shatter the cage. Despite the shimmering runes around me, the most primitive part of their brains is still pushing them to run.

They should have taken the chance when they had it.

This time, I am wearing all my gear except my mask, because I am not here to intimidate but to captivate. The men and women arrayed against me ogle my face, my nose, my lips, expecting it to be ripped open to expose the monster beneath, perhaps.

It will not happen.

Yes, the blonde girl before you is the cause of the slaughter at your feet. See the bodies. See my dagger and claws still coated in her blood. It really is me, no matter how hard it is to reconcile with your expectations.

Belinda steps a few feet away from the containment as a statement of power, and of trust in herself and her abilities. I mirror her and we stand only a few feet away. She takes her time to inspect me while I drink in her presence. She is a mature beauty with large inquisitive eyes and an aristocratic face with barely a hint of crow’s feet. Instead of detracting from her charm, it only shows that her confidence is born from experience rather than birth, an impression reinforced by her impeccable posture. The difference with Merritt is striking, I notice in passing. The poor girl looks like an overgrown street urchin by contrast.

When she is done with her own inspection, our eyes meet and she flinches but holds. She has an amulet protecting her mind, I can tell, and I do not even try to Charm her through the barrier. There is no need.

“You look meeker than I expected.”

Ten years ago or if she had caught me off-guard, I may have lost my composure. Instead, I slowly turn to the side and walk slowly along the edge of my prison. Then I bend down and her smile falters when I pull up the moaning form of the one surviving mage, the one in charge of the shield.

“Why don’t you tell me what happens next while I enjoy this hors d’oeuvre?”

She opens and closes her mouth like a beached fish as I casually pull aside the leather coat of the woman I hold, denuding her shoulder. I recognize the glyphs around me. They are quite resilient and in return, quite inflexible as well. It would be nigh impossible to break the trap from within and at the same time, they cannot reach me. Only sound and light may pass, everything else would be stopped, even the air. That means that as long as this prison stays inviolate, so will I.

The girl I Devour is short and a bit pudgy, with rosy cheeks and a bob haircut. I cannot risk the loss of focus that comes with a normal feeding but I do drag and enjoy the process for as long as I can. This allows me to maintain eye contact with dearest Belinda and enjoy the impotent rage boiling under the frozen mask she has donned.

She and her companions deprived me of a potential Vassal. It is only fair that I share the distress they imposed so callously.

When I am done, she still hasn’t spoken so I decide to needle her a bit. It is obvious from her inner struggle that she cared about her sister in craft.

“Palatable, if a bit rustic.” I say as I drop the corpse unceremoniously.

Aaaah, delicious, delicious anger. Her voice shakes with fury and sorrow. Magnificent. And it was so easy as well!

“You… Will stay here until dawn while we defeat your allies, and when it comes, I will enjoy your screams of pain while the purifying sun turns your unholy flesh to cinders.”

“My, are we getting a bit emotional perhaps?”

“You are too full of yourself, vampire!” she spits the term as if it were an insult. “You parasites are things of the past. This is the Age of Enlightenment! You will be left behind with the rotten temples and the insane superstitions. We will cleanse this world of all the freaks and curses our own ancestors unleashed upon us. Even this predictable resistance of yours is just the swan song of a dying era. You just went after us again and again in exactly the same way and your insane strength only carried you so far. You fought like a mad beast until you fell into our trap and now, I will put you down like one.”

While she was talking, three suspicious hooting sounds came from around the hill. I need all eyes fixed upon me so I lean down against my dearly departed breakfast and unlatch her gauntlet, which I slowly fasten around my own wrist. My own armour leaves the talons free and this would be quite painful.

“You! You are bluffing! You are not a mage!”

They instinctively all take a step back, which I find amusing considering that this formation around me would hold a mage with even more ease than it holds me.

“Oh no, this is not for spellcasting. This is for isolation.”

I take the last of the three orbs Loth managed to create this evening and push it against the shield. Now this is not an actual spell, it is a construct in the same way that the circle around me is a construct. When the two clash, angry bolts of blue weave and dance like furious snakes. Belinda screams and holds her own glove as we push each other, but the barrier is meant to contain and the breacher is meant to pierce it. It is like pushing a needle away with one’s bare hand.

It also hurts me atrociously.

I do my best to keep the ball in place, but it is so very painful I cannot even feel the tip of my fingers. I grit my teeth in silence. Only cold resolve and a healthy dose of pride prevent me from dropping the abominable thing where it stands.

Hurts. Dammit!

Allied mages form around Belinda, adding their strengths to her. The breacher glows red in my hand and I let it go before the bloody thing turns my fingertips into charcoals. It. Hurts. I am clamping my jaw so that I do not scream.

It takes a good two seconds before Belinda realizes that the cry of pain she hears around her are not my work.

One moment, two rings of men in compact formation devote their entire attention to the monster in their midst, next the hill turns into a giant melee as Muskogee in garish colours and Choctaw warriors in leather crash into them with unbridled fury. Ululating war cries blare through the night in a glorious cacophony, supported by insane war drums. Fire arrows land on unarmored chests. Magical white trails from our own team hit shields with keening sounds as tomahawks, sabres and bayonets hack into flesh with desperate abandon.

But we are not facing weaklings.

Belinda reacts immediately. She steps back under the cover of two of her comrades and though it is weakened, the barrier holds. Even if the middle of such chaos, she knows that letting me go is the worst thing that can happen.

That is why she doesn’t flinch when a blue disrupting spell hits her own, though her frown only grows.

When a massive cross-bolt obliterates the chest of the man next to her, she still doesn’t relent.

I am impressed though it is, of course, all in vain.

From behind, I hear a stomping sound that increases in intensity with each passing second. The heavy impact is such that even the in the deafening din of battle, some heads turn in wonder.

Then the sounds stop.

And coming from above, a roaring steel titan descends two glowing gauntlets on my prison. The barrier does not break, it explodes.

Belinda is propelled backward, as well as quite a few combatants from both sides. I raise my hands in a protective gesture until the shockwave disperses. When I raise them up I meet Loth’s goofy smile.

“Damn lass it’s been too long! YAAAAAA!”

And then he’s gone. Unfortunately, a swarthy mage managed to drag Belinda behind a circle at the centre of the hill, the last refuge I presume, in case things go wrong. Those who can, join it and soon a green shield pushes back arrows and thrown axes.

I, however, am running in the other direction.

A thing of the past I am? Left behind? I run into my Vassal who looks a tad worried and I realize I am laughing maniacally.

“Mistress?”

Still laughing I find what I was looking for and get to work.

Inside the last stand shield, two mortar pairs form hands while the shield holders are pushed back by native warriors. They raise their arms in unison.

“Inferno!”

Choctaws and Muscogees cringe in terror from the incoming wall of flame, however the blistering heat never reaches them. The war drums reach a crescendo and jade coloured tortoise scale appear around the shield, stopping the blast instantly. As the enemy mages stare in surprised horror, their defences are pummeled by a bloodthirsty Dvergur warlord and long-range shield disrupters from our own team of mages. I almost hope it will take long enough as I am almost done.

Predictable and always using the same tactics huh?

I stop mere feet away from the battle line. The warriors in front of me widen their eyes and flee to the side as they see what stands behind them.

Belinda was looking around the battlefield for me. Our eyes cross and her pretty mouth form an ‘o’ of surprise. It mirrors the gaping maw of the captured twelve-pounder facing her beautifully.

“EMBRACE MODERNITY YOU HUSSY!”

I ignite the prime charge.

The gun vomits its payload in a sonorous deflagration. The grapeshot breaks the defences like stones through a flimsy window.

I see Belinda fall and the native warriors surging ahead, brushing aside all opposition.

“Oof!”

I was so incensed I forgot the recoil and I’m actually pushed back by the moving wheel and slapped to the side. Oooow my poor breast. Can’t even massage it properly through the armour. Ow!

Two heavy boots land before me and Dalton helps me to my feet. He watches me rub myself where it hurts.

“Hum. Perhaps the timing is ill-chosen, Mistress?”

I hiss and move forward. Loth is a bad influence on him. Now is not the time though. I would like to enjoy the fruits of my labour.

I find the red-haired witch on the ground. From the waist up, she is her gorgeous self. From the waist down, I would say crushed raspberry.

I kneel by her side and pull her head down more comfortably. Her panicked eyes search for mine, as I knew they would, eventually.

“We will never be in the past, because we are, and will always be, you.”

I bite down.

Delicious.

Extraordinary.

With the screams of the dying in the background, victory at last. Vengeance. Challenge answered and insults paid back in full.

I am reminded of the first time I tasted a werewolf, back in the Lancaster arena. Ah, but what a wondrous fragrance, and this power. Wonderful.

Nashoba joins us looking a bit tired. At the front, Loth is walking down back toward the crackles and pops we hear in the distance.

Ah yes the night is not done, is it?

I jump over the line of warriors, eliciting some shouts.

To my side, Loth’s face is just a bloody rictus and his eyes glint madly with red reflections. We do not need to share words.

Led by their war leaders, the natives walk down the slope leading to the battlefield where red and blue troops are fighting for supremacy. We do not go through the forest this time, but directly to them, from behind.

With Loth at the forefront, the walk turns into a trot. We are carried on the wings of victory. We tread on the corpses of the vanquished on our way here and the next to know death are in front, just around the bend. I lose myself in the breath and heartbeats of men running by my side flush with bloodlust, the maddened smiles and the predatory postures. Fresh blood and sweats. Maniacal laughs. A stolen memory of the smell of heated sand caresses my nose. I can almost feel the desert wind on my skin, dry, hot, and clean. The morning sun kisses my skin and the clamour and songs around me celebrate the greatest city that ever was, and the queen that led it to glory. This is where we are meant to be. Here at the head of the army. With the wheels of our chariots crushing bones and our spears biting flesh. Let the sentinels follow us to victory. We are at the front, as is fitting, and will claim the first blood. We cannot be stopped. We are without match. And we are without mercy.

The men in red see us, hear us, they form a square to stop our onslaught. A hopeless attempt.

“Hold rank lads, those are just men! Just normal men!”

Foolish mortal.

“SEMIRAMIS HIA’LU SALTANIS!”

The mortals do not understand the ancient warcries but they follow anyway. There is no turning back from the charge. I breach their line first, headed straight for their prince. The titan of mountain and steel smashes into them second, like a great scythe. His glorious bellow deafens their ears while he sends the foes toppling like broken toys.

The prince lowers something at me from his horse. Courage in the face of death, admirable but ultimately futile. I slam him on the ground and take his head with a mighty swing. I give it for all to see, so no one doubts where the tide of battle goes. The men in red break rank. Pathetic. Your wives and sisters will shed tears tonight.

“ROAAAR!”

I blink.

All around me, the ordered world of what is right collapses into the chaos that battle truly is. I realize I am holding a captain’s severed head, still covered with a hat.

Hum.

I appear to have been slightly carried away.

Ascendency’s borrowed infantry has disintegrated. Their rout is complete and even the officers are running for their lives. Soldiers drop their weapons to run faster, with the native warriors on their trails. Farther away, the line is retreating somewhat coherently under the onslaught of Strand’s regulars. A cursory glance does not reveal the Herald and his tower mage though they should have been here, somewhere.

I am concerned, deeply concerned by what just happened. Those memories came from Master, I am sure of it. I knew my bloodline would affect how I think, not what I remember. Is this the result of our bond and will it disappear once I gain my full independence or is it fully a part of me now?

My worries last but for a second before the cold part of my mind covers it, settles it. It does not change anything. It will remain a part of me for the foreseeable future and no one can change that. And what a part it was. Human Ariane could have had children and a suntan but I got to charge at the head of a host of bloodthirsty warriors like Boudicca or the legendary Amazons, so there. I was able to let go, and it was… Glorious.

Now there are still two persons I need to find: the Herald and his bodyguard.

They were nowhere to be found. I did not even see their tent in the British camp now abandoned. I returned to our own to find men in the middle of raucous celebrations. Avoiding the crowd, I walk to Venet’s side of the camp where order and discipline are always maintained and soon reach the command tent. Isaac and his second are present, and so are Nashoba, the mages, Dalton and Loth, the last one passably drunk. They look preoccupied except Loth who just looks plastered.

“Ah, there you are. Any news?” says Isaac, at the head of the table.

“I could not find the Herald.”

“Ah, you were gone looking for him I see. A thoughtful decision. I will let Nashoba speak on this matter.”

The shaman looks exhausted and more than a little annoyed. He scolds me as if I were his little sister.

“As I was about to tell you before you jumped forward like a pouncing wolf, the future is clouded. I cannot see past this junction and this conflict is therefore not over. We must prepare.”

“Wait, I thought we broke their backs?” I continue in English.

“We did, Milady. We killed or captured almost four hundred men and that is more than half of their effective strength. They are neutralized as a land-based fighting force,” answers Venet, “but they have ships. They might decide to burn Black Harbor to the ground, then send search parties after all is smoke and ruin if they so desire.”

I turn to Loth in surprise. I thought he was an effective deterrent?

“Aye don’t look at me lass, I’m just one man and they got a lot of ships. They have three more frigates and if they play it carefully, there isn’t much I can do.”

“Do you believe this is their plan? And how do you know how many ships they have at their disposal?”

“An attack by the sea is the most likely Milady. As for the frigates themselves, we pursued the survivors to a creek two miles up North. They were loaded aboard transports and covering fire from three of their warships prevented us from overrunning their position. I suspect that the Herald is already on board and that it is via this cove that they were able to deploy the elite mage squad you took down tonight without us scouting them beforehand.”

“I see. I would be of little use in an artillery duel,” I note.

Venet shakes his head.

“Not as such, though there is still much we can do with your help Milady. We will relocate all our guns towards the sea before dawn. I understand that you already participated in a night boarding action?”

I wince.

“And we will count again on...”

Venet is interrupted by one of his men lifting the flap of the tent with visible excitement.

“Sir, I think you’ll want to see this.”

We all exit to see a British ship moored in the harbour and a rowing boat heading to the pier, well lit by lanterns. At its head, a man holds a white flag.

“Sooooooo do you mind if I ashk you a questshion?”

I am currently cleaning every part of my armoured gown, a task that is normally a moment of calm and contemplation.

“What is it, Merritt?”

“Do you have to go to the loo?”

Ah. So that is it. I now understand why we were sent these three specifically. The head mage wisely chose casters of respectable magical capabilities so he could not be accused of sabotaging the operation. At the same time, he used this opportunity to get rid of the most mentally inept and those whose habits placed them firmly at the bottom of the barrel, socially. I had noticed that Langdon is awake perhaps two hours while I am active, and his companion has been scrubbing himself raw in a bathtub for the past hour and a half. I was expecting Merritt to be at the losing side of a political play but no, oh no, she is just a raging imbecile.

I delicately place my brush on the small workshop in front of me, drop the now clean plate next to the other and turn towards her. I am contemplating whether or not I should plant a massive ‘DO NOT DISTURB’ sign at its entrance with the witch’s head firmly shoved on top it. That would be a good deterrent.

She still isn’t moving.

I turn towards her in what I hope to be a firm rebuttal.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You know, you drink blood right?”

“...”

“So it’z gotta go somewhere right? It’s the only conclushion.”

“You know that conservation of mass and energy does not apply to magic, right?”

“But I tried to find a spell that stops peeing for years! How can you just do it naturally?!”

Gah!

“Shouldn’t you be, I don’t know, somewhere else? Don’t you want to unwind a bit? Dalton doesn’t want company? Loth?”

Here, two birdbrains with one stone.

“Dalton is helping Venet’s men so I couldn’t ashk... And Loth left with the laundry girls,” her eyes widen in awe, “all three of them!”

Battle always gets his blood pumping.

“And you came to me for...”

“Yasss! A lady moment! With two ladies!”

“Where is your friend then?”

The insult does not even register. Her face scrunches in concentration until a deep realization comes upon her taxed mind.

“I need to pee!”

“Wonderful. Don’t let the flap hit you on your way out.”

I cannot really stay irate for any length of time. Merritt might be a strange one, but she is a potential source of knowledge on the mage factions of the new continent and someone I may be able to add to my circle, one way or another.

Although I may not have accepted Isaac’s proposal officially, I obviously need to. My presence has been noticed by dozens of people and the repercussions of a significant land battle will be felt for months to come. I lost my haven, and I will be hunted down unless I manage to find shelter and there is no better shelter than the ancient and respectable house of the Rosenthal.

I am packing my cleaning oil and the last of my throwing daggers when Dalton knocks on one of the stone posts to announce his arrival although we both know I do not need it. Ah, manners.

“Come in.”

My Vassal looks thoroughly exhausted but otherwise healthy.

“You should rest.”

“I will. Just one thing. Colonel Strand contacted us, he says the redcoats want to discuss terms tomorrow evening.”

“Evening?”

Dalton nods. His large amber eyes twinkle in the candlelight.

“They know who defeated them.”

“I would expect them to avoid us.”

“You and Isaac will be the ones to decide anyway, in the end.”

Will we? Will I? I am only here to make sure the key of Beriah stays contained. Isaac involves me in the decision-making process because I am our greatest weapon against their elite mages. Or does he? I should try to make a demand on occasion. I have refrained so far because he and Venet have things well in hand. Now though, I am curious. How important am I?

“I will seek him. Now go to sleep.”

“Right away.”

As for me, I will seek Isaac. We need to align before tomorrow.

46. The Eternal Game

Instead of asking me to wait, Venet’s two sentries bow smartly and lift the flap of the command tent. I find Isaac sitting at a desk busy making notes, and he stands up as soon as I enter.

“Ariane of the Nirari, a capital performance once again. It was a pleasure to see you at work.”

“You saw?”

“Indeed! A spectacle the likes of which I never thought I would witness. The way you tore through their ranks and slaughtered their officer corps in an instant! And brandishing that head was such a nice touch.”

“Hrm.”

“Do not be embarrassed. Your actions broke our foe’s spirits and this is what we needed. Shock and awe, not good manners and subtle threats. The right tool in the right situation, applied in measure. I knew you were the right woman for the task. Now, I have a request, but I can tell that you do have something to say. Please, tell me.”

“I understand that we are to discuss terms tomorrow?”

“Indeed. Strand and his counterpart, colonel Ingram, will officially meet.”

“I would like to make sure that we share the same goals and the same bottom line.”

“Absolutely. How fortuitous, what I was about to ask is related. You see, I cannot attend tomorrow’s negotiations.”

“What?!”

“Venet estimates that there is a low chance that they will try to bombard our delegation on its way back, should no agreement be reached. I think this is silly, but I am already pushing it by being here. By a lot. I did mention it before, we are forbidden from participating in battles. I am going to be reprimanded on my return... In any case, with my absence, the leadership of the vampire faction falls upon you.”

Huh, I came here to make sure we got the Brotherhood off the old continent and to see how important I was, I did not expect to get such an immediate answer.

“You want me to be lead negotiator for our side?”

“I would advise you to let Strand and Ingram do things on their end. We care little about prisoners and other terms. Otherwise yes and why not? You have destroyed their installations over the last year, bought us time and gathered the auxiliaries that brought us victory tonight. I consider you a full partner in this endeavour, and what we care about is the key of Beriah being under the custody of the consortium.”

He frowns with a hint of worry.

“We do agree about that last part right?”

“I have no interest in becoming the guardian of an eldritch artefact, Isaac. Just make sure you don’t lose it this time.”

He laughs.

“Look at us, talking about that thing as if it were a ring of keys. In any case, you and Loth will be richly rewarded for your service. Just like every crime against us is recorded, we Rosenthal never forget those who helped us in our time of need. You already earned a significant monetary bonus and we will deposit the sum of five hundred francs on your account when the key is safely on its way to Geneva.”

“I don’t even know how much that is.”

Isaac leans forward as if he were about to deliver a juicy piece of gossip.

“Enough money to buy a mansion in the better part of Savannah...”

“I see what you’re doing.”

“I would hope so. Have you given any thought to my proposal?”

“Well... Yes. Tell me, can you really protect me from my status as Rogue? And from the Lancaster?”

“Absolutely. As one of our assets here you would not be a rogue, but an agent from a third party organization under the Accords. Until you claim House status and therefore become a free agent, you will be under our protection. Only the knights would be allowed to track you down and they won’t move unless you commit some serious offense, which, I must say, I cannot imagine you doing. Afterwards, the Lancaster will have a hard time proving that you are a danger when you have stayed in our employ for an extended period of time.”

“Very well. I would like a written agreement between us that clearly states our terms.”

“But of course! Of course, yes. We shall draft it on our way back to Savannah, if it is agreeable.”

“It is. I was also wondering if the beaches are still under surveillance?”

“Rest assured, I have men everywhere on the coast. They will not be able to land a search party without our cavalry detachment knowing about it. Now if you don’t mind, I would like us to work on the details for tomorrow’s ordeal. I have prepared a list of conditions that represent our bottom line...”

For the next hours, Isaac briefs then drills me on negotiation practices and what terms are acceptable. One thing is certain, Ascendency is leaving this land.

I step in Black Harbor village proper for the first time. Both armies mostly left the place alone and the inhabitants had been hiding. Now that rumours of peace abound, they leave their homes to watch us pass with curiosity.

This is not much different from Clarkson cove. The houses are made of wood and purely functional. The only adornments are glass trinkets or small decorations that hang about to give some personality to the otherwise dreary place. The inhabitants themselves have sullen tanned faces and mostly plain clothes. Colours are rare. So are young men. I assume that most of them are sailors in one capacity or another and that they left their children, sisters and parents at home. The assembled crowd is strangely silent. The presence of men in uniform is the likely cause for their nervosity.

At least nobody is throwing stones.

The delegation consists of Strand and a squad of ten men, Venet and two guards, Langdon and Colvert, a war chief named Okili for the native tribes, Dalton and myself. We each represent one of the factions on our side, with the two mages here as an additional safety.

Loth stayed behind to work with the cannons while Merritt was tasked to protect Isaac’s camp against possible infiltrators. She complained about it vocally too.

One of Strand’s men casts a fearful glance backwards. It appears that rumours have started to spread. Our eyes meet and he shudders, turns around and crosses himself. His companion snorts with disdain, so my nature is not yet widely recognized.

We soon arrive at the village’s rickety piers. The Ascendency delegation have chosen to mirror us, with a squad of soldiers in front and the Herald and his tower mage behind. The officer in charge is a short man in a powdered wig harbouring an air of anger and arrogance. He takes a deep breath before ordering his group forward.

The Herald is a surprise for me. He does not look furious as I expected but instead, sorrowful. His brown eyes are darkened by exhaustion though he wears a perfectly tailored ensemble in dark green that could be worn at the court of Queen Elizabeth. He shows me the thinnest smile, the kind that comes with grace in defeat.

“You came, vampire.”

Ingram turns to his charge in outrage. It appears that Ascendency leaders are at odds, which isn’t surprising when one considers the result of their campaign.

“You will let me have this conversation, then I will give you free rein to conduct the negotiations as you please.” retorts the man calmly

The Herald takes the time to study me. My own companions are obviously annoyed though they wisely decide to remain quiet.

“Such a pretty mask for such a dangerous thing. One would never think… And yet…”

“Have you come here to pontificate?”

“No, I wanted to say goodbye. Tell me, what of Belinda?”

“She died well.”

I am surprised that he shows so much regret at those words. I always assumed that those two were associates, but it appears that their relationship went deeper.

“I see.”

“I notice that you left your tower mage behind.”

“I did. I know that your kind never breaks their word. We are ever forced to dance around you with ruse and tricks while you take us down with your might. An Eternal Game, if you will. Tell me vampire, what do you know of the key of Beriah?”

The non sequitur surprises me though I try not to show it. What is his game? Even his allies consider him with worry. He should know that it is too late for that.

“If you are trying to bargain, know that…”

“No, I am not. We both know this is the end. Just… Indulge me?”

I see Dalton frown from the corner of my eye and pick up on his tension. I agree, it looks like he is up to something, and yet his pain, his sorrow, those are not fake. I am sure of it.

“It does not belong here.”

The Herald nods as if I were a student and he, a professor. The strangeness of the situation is starting to get to me. I just want this to be over with. I want him and his ilk to depart these lands and never return. I am not interested in a post-battle contest of wit, especially not with him.

“Yes, I assume that you saw the drawing of the box, but you did not read the scholarly work on it. I did. And in all of them, I found the same thing,” he lectures, “Cooperate, speak, receive, embrace. The same words, the same semantic field. I understood it then. The key is not just an artifact. It is… Alive. Just like your mysterious eye in the sky.”

“What!?”

“Yes. And the next step was obvious. If it is conscious, if it is eager to share, then it wants to be found.”

No. No no no no no move Ari MOVE! I need to kill him but… I should not. We are under the flag of truce!

And then it is too late.

From a recess in his vest, the Herald removes a curved blue spike that cannot possibly fit inside, and the item swallows me. Just like the Watcher, it captivates but this time I can feel something terrible within. This is the Key of Beriah, and he somehow found it first.

The construct is wrong. It should not be here. It should never have been brought… So many depths, so many curves, inward and outward ad infinitum. Is there an end? I feel like the deeper meanings caress my consciousness with the siren call of knowledge, power, anything I want, if only I would let it…

The man raises it. He should not. The Key does not belong. The man raises it, still, and with a primeval scream of anguish, the world shatters.

Impossible bonds curve up and down, but mostly out. They follow a shockwave that extends all over the village and where it hits, people scream. Their cries speak of pure agony, a pain so powerful and so intimate that it defies description. I scream too. The tendrils of power pull on my very essence and find no purchase, but they follow Dalton’s bond into my soul and the tug of war for my essence is horrific.

Pain, white hot, blinding.

Let me just die, please.

And then just as it had started, the scathing tendrils retract. Dalton, protected by me, stands before the Key master. He removes a pistol from its sheath and shoots the man in the heart.

The Herald takes a painful breath, and the shockwave stops, reverses.

All around us and deep into the houses, men, women, and children fall to the ground and stop moving. Filaments of the deepest blue emerge from the eldritch object and dig into the Herald’s body. He is lifted in the air by the mind defying vitality and power.

I cannot move. The pain has stolen my control away. No! I need to fight… I need to do it. I must help my Vassal. I must help Dalton. One finger. Move one BLOODY finger. Come on!

The horrible wound on my foe’s chest heals before my very eyes. Faster than anything I have ever seen, or known to be possible. This was an engraved silver bullet…

Dalton lifts his second gun with perfect calm. The world ending around us does not concern him.

He pulls the trigger.

The Herald’s forehead explodes and he falls back down spread-eagle. Need to take the artefact from him! Must move!

I want to tell him to run. Vassals should not have to defend their Mistress but I can’t. I watch powerlessly as the gaping hole on the Herald’s head closes itself, the missing brain matter already replaced by sparkling blue light. The influx of power is simply too massive.

“No. Flee.”

He cannot hear me. Dalton sprints to the fallen man to wrestle the key away from it. Just as he closes in, the thing speaks. The nerve-wracking sounds pierce my ears as if a god were swearing against creation. Dalton claws his ears and falls forward. The monstrous form lifts a single hand.

No.

I do the only thing I can think of. I take a deep breath and scream.

“Oathbreaker!”

The Herald’s eyes are now burning with an otherworldly blue light. He is held aloft under some magical influence and blue bolts extend from his feet to the ground. The thunderous discharges dig deep furrows in the shore’s packed hearth. Each one is echoed by the miserable screams of the prostrate forms surrounding him. When he speaks, his voice is mirrored by another one, much deeper.

“I care not, vampire. I am a mortal man, not bound to... to...”

Yes! His face twists in rage, then in pain. The ocean of power around him peters out. It is still there, but he can no longer control it. He is a magical being now!

“You harlot! You think you are so smart.”

He smiles again. Gone is the refined gentleman. The thing looking back at me is no longer human. It bends forward and picks up something from the dying colonel by his side.

Oh no. No! Damn it Ariane MOVE!

“As you took from me, so shall I take from you.”

He calmly lines up his shot.

I finally manage to push myself up from the ground.

He pulls the trigger.

I know that sound well, the one of metal hitting flesh.

Dalton does not cry. He lets out a small yelp of pain and clutches his chest.

No. This is not happening. This is not happening at all. This is a nightmare. Some kind of prophetic dream. It can’t be real. And the people around us are rising, moaning, yelling, a choir of the damned.

I ignore the cackling form fleeing away from us, towards the forest. I crawl to Dalton. I can still save him. I can feel our bond. He is not dead. PROTECT THE VASSAL.

I am myself again, pick him up, kick and push the screaming mass trying to shed his blood, trying to reclaim the essence stolen from them to stop the maddening pain. I sprint away from Venet, Strand, Langdon, Colvert, the men who came here. I need to reach Loth. He’s a bloody doctor, with some magic. He can save him. Definitely.

I run and rush past children with their eyes gouged out, adults trying to rip their throats out with their own bare fingers. Those who smell follow with the fury of despair. I don’t have the time. Loth is up in the fortress.

“Mistress.”

It’s fine he is still alive, if I hurry I can make it.

“Mistress, please.”

Loth is a miracle worker.

“Please, stop.”

No I can’t I must go on, I must LISTEN.

I stop and jump at the top of the town’s church, of all things.

Gently, I lay him on the wooden roof. He is so pale, and his brow is wet with perspiration. His familiar amber eyes are now feverish, clouded.

“You’ll be fine.”

I realize how stupid this is the moment the words cross my lips. He does not answer but his face turns tender, filled with sympathy, I don’t care about sympathy. Fuck sympathy I want him with me.

“Please.”

“No. No, you can’t . You just rest now and Loth will save you. He will. He’s a good, good surgeon.”

“Please.”

“Don’t leave me alone Dalton. Please don’t leave me alone. I don’t want to be alone again. Please.”

“I can’t.”

“No... Just stay a little longer and I will find a way...”

“Isn’t.”

There is so much blood trailing down the stupid rafters of this stupid fucking church. Fucking useless piece of shit God.

“Hurts.”

“No shh rest, rest and we’ll go. Just don’t leave. Don’t leave. Please.”

“Send me off.”

Nononono. No. I... I MUST LISTEN.

DUTY.

Fighting every step of the way, I slowly bend forward, I gently cradle his head. I don’t want to, but I have to. For him. He asked. The ultimate freedom of choosing how to go. I MUST HONOR IT.

I cannot stop. He is in so much pain.

I bite his neck softly.

The punch sends me reeling. I don’t understand. It was just an honest question. How can he behave so much like a heathen? I want to remind him of the love we must spread but he punches again. His face is a mask of rage.

I block and try to argue.

“Father, I...”

The next punch almost knocks me down. He is trying to kill me. I’m hurt. I lash out.

Father recoils and holds his liver. I make a hammer with both of my fists and strike him down. He is insane!

When I look up, my family only shows fear and disgust.

“My son, you must repent.”

Repent? Have you not seen with your own eyes? This is unfair, so unfair. They are all mad! Hypocrites… I run to my room, take a backpack. I leave home.

The man with the crow feathers is charming and malevolent. He is the one I was warned against. A tool of the Devil.

“Can you shoot?”

“Yes.”

“Then, you’re in.”

I want to see with my own eyes, this punishment, this life of sins they spoke of.

She killed big Bert with a single strike, without even looking back. So beautiful, my angel of death. The others are running. They are fools. The end is coming for us and this is our last chance to show some spine. She walks up to me, with those hands dripping with blood. Her nostrils flare in a gesture that seems human but is not. She stops. She will keep her word?

A monster who keeps her word.

I want to see.

Everything hurts. I think they’ve come to kill me. I failed my new companions, failed to bring them their arms. The cultist opens the door and takes out a knife. I wish I had been stronger.

He falls dead with a crack of bone and a twist of the neck. She is here. She came for me. She came. For me.

Eight fangs pierce my skin. I shudder in pleasure, then something is made. I can feel her. I can get a glimpse of her emotions. She accepted me, committed herself to this. I was chosen. This is the most beautiful day of my life.

The garden. Dusk’s sun colors everything a light red. She is sleeping. I can feel her below me, somewhere. She is even dreaming.

Loth inspects the target and turns, satisfied. There are three concentric circles on it, and only the center one is shredded by repeated impacts from the Wolf Slayer crossbow. The rest is immaculate.

“Ye’re ready.”

I won’t disappoint her. I’m strong now. I can help us both, repay the debt. She and Loth will be proud. I am part of a family, a strange one but it feels right. I know who I am, what I do, and who I will fight for.

I am dying. My only regret is the suffering it will cause. I love you Ariane, I am sorry I must go first. Live and remember, Ariane. Live for us and remember. Forgive me...

The bond snaps. It recoils like an angry snake and returns to its one surviving tether. It will kill me on impact, of this I am sure. At this instant, I cannot bring myself to care.

A cloud of warm golden light stops the feedback. It slows down. Even then, the pain is so intense that I lose my mind. My talons dig in the thatch roof and tear it apart. My throat gets raw for screaming so much. Physical and mental agony wrack my body and my mind. Excruciating. Endless. I cannot sob, I cannot even look down.

Slowly, I crawl my hand back to my throat where I manage to close it. Anything to make it stop. Please just make it stop.

LIVE FOR US.

I can’t. It wasn’t meant to be. Not so soon. Not like this.

LIVE FOR US.

No. Yes. No.

Yes.

My arm falls by my side and I abandon myself to the fire coursing my veins and my soul.

An eternity passes.

Eventually, the burning tide recedes. I am left shivering on the roof. My face is drenched with blackish blood trailing from my eyes, my nose, even my ears.

I feel empty. I am lightly choking. I breathe great gulps of air that do absolutely nothing.

Dalton lies next to me. I push him with my hand to wake him up. He doesn’t move. I push again and again and again.

“Enough with the joke. Wake up. It’s not funny.”

I push.

“Not funny at all.”

Have to breathe harder. It doesn’t work. Choking to death. And so Thirsty.

The feedback stops.

He’s dead. I already know he’s dead. I am just lying to myself like the sorry excuse of a failure I am.

Need to bring him back. I can’t leave him here. He’s family.

I take his body in my arms and jump down. There are moaning people around, searching with despair. My sudden arrival triggers something in them. They attack.

I kick the closest one and place the body on the steps of the church. Then I turn around, grab and bite. It’s weak, so weak. Barely any essence there. It takes me less than half a second to feed. No matter, there are others. They are condemned anyway. The next is an older woman with an embroidered cap. The next is a young boy with a scar across the nose. The next is an old sailor with teeth stained with tobacco. The next is a young girl with a scarf dyed red. And the next, and the next, until there are none. So Thirsty, and so tired. My chest hurts. I feel hollow. Above, there are war cries and the sounds of battle. That means people, people who can help me.

I pick him up and move through the twisted streets to another junction with more people. Every time I do so, I find a relatively clean surface and then Devour the meagre prize. Rinse and repeat. So little to take, but still better than nothing. The more time passes and the thicker the resistance is. Houses with their doors hanging open like tongues lolling from corpses. Moans. Somewhere, a fire. Smells of blood and offal.

I do not know how long it took but I am out, moving up a hill. There are more people than ever. I walk, stop, lower the body, stab and slice and feed then I do it again. At the edge of Isaac’s camp, the fighting is the thickest. I have to stop completely. Sometimes I have to move to fight them off even though I can no longer afford the energy expenditure. Thirsty, always Thirsty. Always choking. I breathe like the runner at Marathon for the illusory relief it provides. More people come, a mountain of them. A sea. I am going to be overwhelmed. I find a tree and climb up. Place him as if he were having a nap. His head keeps falling to the side. I drop down. I keep at the edge of the herd like a circling wolf. It is easier to Devour when the density is less. I thin the herd. Minutes turn to hours and still I slaughter them and still, they come. There is no more sanity in them. The pain has turned them all mad. I am cold and methodical and keep doing it because they are in the way and because they are lost.

Nothing matters.

They never broke. At some point, I raise my eyes from my latest victim and everyone is dead. It takes me a full minute to find the tree and recover its charge and then I walk to the line.

Venet’s men and Nashoba’s Warband have formed an impregnable fortress on a hill. A ring of corpses three men thick surrounds a small earthwork where the men stand side by side in unusual harmony. They are filthy, exhausted, and their gazes reflect a pain that will never leave them. No celebratory yells come with this victory.

Loth is in the middle. He spots me and raises a gauntlet, then sees everything and lowers it.

I walk up to him and the men part to let me through. I reach my friend and open my mouth but nothing comes out.

I don’t know what to say. Are there words? Is there even one language on this sorry rock that can adequately transcribe… This?

“Here, here lass, let me take him from ye… Let me take care of it. Ye…” he sobs “Ye go see Isaac aye? Tyr, not this again. Let’s go together. Come here lass. Come.”

Loth does not pull me. He slightly nudges and I follow. I pass wounded men and others bawling like children. Some are looking in the distance, lost in nightmares of their own. Merritt stands at the centre of a circle of power, unconscious. Blood slowly drips from her nose. Venet’s second is trying to bring some order around with a sonorous voice that wavers every four words.

We get in the command tent. Loth deposits him on a low table, by the side.

Isaac is here. His normally flawless composure is fractured by the ordeal he went through.

“Ariane, by the Watcher… I am so sorry.”

I listen to the words. I understand the meaning behind them but somehow, they don’t translate into anything I can use.

“And there is no time. Ariane, you must leave with me.”

I blink slowly, then start breathing again. I slowly clutch my chest, where it hurts the most. Isaac winces.

“Why?”

The vampire hesitates, then realizes that I will not be moved unless he manages to convince me.

“It’s… About your Master. He is back.”

Why does this even matter?

“I know.”

This time, Isaac is clearly surprised.

“What? How?”

“I dreamt of it.”

It does not matter. This entire conversation is pointless. Behind me, Loth has brought water in a barrel. He is undressing and cleaning him. Sometimes, he stops to wipe a few silent tears.

“You dreamt of it?! When?”

“A few nights ago?”

“By the Watcher Ariane, this is… No, it could simply be Nirari himself. Who knows with one so strong? Still, Ariane, you must never share this. Dreams of the future are… Well, you must not speak of this so casually.”

Whatever.

“In any case, your Master has slain Wolfgang.”

“Who?”

“Wolfgang, the leader of the Knights on the American continent.”

I still don’t understand and do not really care to. There must be blood around here. So Thirsty.

“I just received the news by sending. His disciples are coming here looking for you.”

This doesn’t make sense to me.

“Why?”

“I am not sure, they may think that you helped him wake, or they could just assume you are a rogue. There could be many reasons and none of them good. It’s a Knight squad Ariane. You do not stand a chance. We must flee. I will take you back to Europe with me. We can protect you, I owe you that much.”

“No.”

“No? Really? Why? Is this about the Key?”

I shiver. Of course, not you… Daft creature. This is not about ANY PITIFUL REMNANT. I MUST RETALIATE.

“Ariane, please, I beg you. This is your nature talking. I have no idea how much it must hurt but you cannot stay. The Knights will find you. They will kill you.”

“No.”

“Please Ariane, please, think. You do not want to die. This is… Not what Vassals live for. They are here to keep us anchored, close to our living selves. He was here to better your life, not have you throw it away!”

“I will go.”

“Listen, someone who used the key is practically unstoppable. It would take a Lord!”

“It does not matter. There is a price to pay. Vassals are forbidden. They are not to be touched!”

He should not have taken that which is sacred. He should have left Dalton alive. You do not touch Vassals. Vassals are the binds, the souls, the living ones. They keep us centered, and safe. They remind us of rules and of others and of why we maintain that balance. They must remain inviolate, or the price is too high, for everyone. Now all of those Ascendency imbeciles, every last member of this pathetic rabble, none of them will see their home again. None of them will leave these shores, no matter the cost. There will be retribution. It has to be so. Not one may live. Not one may live. Not one may live. Not one may live. Not one may live. Not one may live. Not one may live. Not one may live. Not one may live. Not one may live. N̩o̠̙̺̝͞t ̀o̹̹͖n͚̟̯̳͚̗ͅe̴͕̮͖ ̬m͈̯͇̻͚͈a̼̼̗͜y͔͉̯͚̣͝ͅͅ ̸̝̰͓͓̤͚̮ļ̦i͈̺̮̘̤̤͝ͅv̴͓͈̥̰e͎̙̰̥̫̙.͠ ̱̪͙̣́N̡̻͍o̹̪̯̮͔̯̭̕ṱ̢̣͍̗̮͓̩ ̢̪o̜̗͍̠͟ṋe͖͇̤̞̩ͅ ̛̰m̩̣̝͎̖a̬͖͈̖y͚̟̮͉͎͡ͅ ͔͈̳̘̩͜l̞̰͍͍̻̹͚͟i̤͉v̵͈̰̭̟̺̞e̳̘. ̣̤N̫̥̰̣͙̞͢oͅt͕͓̤̬̱̗̫ ͈̘͈͔̕o̡͖̤̪͎n̮e̵̼͚̤̱̤ͅ ̡̳̦̝̞̝m͍̺̣̖̱̀ͅa͢y̶͖̫̼̫ ̮̹͇l̨̳̮͇̭i̜͇v̸͙̬̼̗e̻̘̻͖.̰͟ ̼̣̱͘ͅN͓̞̟̺̠͈ot҉̗͔͖̜̙̼͈ ͙o̦n̼̲͙ḛ ̳͉̥̩m͚͚̙ͅa͖̹y̘͔͓̖̖̞ ̶l̜̦̠i̱͈͔̖͜v̱͖é͈.͍̘̩͡ ͇̟͖̠̫N̞̱̱̭̖̕o̹̦͎͝t͍̮͖͕͍͡ ̪ó̭͚͙n̴e ̛̻͈͚̲̱̯ṃ̛̖̳̠̙̠̥a̤͇̬y̢ ͙̯̳͎͟l̜͚i̯̣͇̩̮͉͠v̳̦̹͇̜e͜.̴̥͎ ̰͎̜͚N̕o͚̭̪̰͙̹̣t͖̼̘́ ̸͖͔̲̺̹̤ͅo̬̞̟n҉̩̥e̲͇̝̭̮̥ͅ ̫̝͕m̦͇̯̲̘a̶̲y͘ ͓͍͈̙l̼̹͓͠i̟̙̭̠͝v͓̻e͎̝͙̘̮͘ͅ.̥ ͔̼͡N̵̡̛̞̙̳o̧̰̪̖̫̩̯t̖͈̫̩̰͕̺͉ ̸̢̛̖̜̪̱͚̳o҉̙̠̲n̘̲e̴͔̺͖͚̮̤ ͕̤̮̤̭͝m͖͚͇͜á̷̡̝͕̣̱͙͖̻ý̷͉̳͍̙͈̬̱͟ ͎̹̠̮̦̮̠͚͘l͡҉̩̝i̥̮̣͠v̴̤̟̯̣̜̭̗͈͘ͅe̲͘.̻̝̼̮̣͙͠͝ ̶̢̠N̼͈͓͉͍͍̺o̹͉̤̦͎̖̭t͇̹̩͎̪ͅ ̼͖͇̣͔̮͚̲̕͜͝ò͓̝͖̟͖̘͙͠͠ͅn̩͖̙͙͔͘e͕̞̞̘̪͖̻ͅ ̴̬͖̰̤͉̮m͚̟ḁ̹̦̜ͅͅy̸̼͉̭̱̖̖̠̖ ̭̗͍̩́l̸̛͈̺͈̭̼̟i̻̳͇͡v̗͙͙̬̱͘͢͠e̢̡͇͙͔̦͔͜.͕̭͈͘ ̲̼͉͓̙̘N̵̢̼͔̠̖̫̼͢ͅo̧̮̬͘t̀̕҉̠̣̳̜̠ ͖͔̟ò̡̬̟͈̙͖̥̘͢n̞̤̮͇̘͝e̡͍̻̝͔͝ ̵̢̹͓̦̪̼͞ͅm̤̖ͅa̴̢͙̩̰̼͖͔͉̻̞͡y̡̛͔͖̜ ͙l͏̵̼͠i̸͔͙v̸̰̝̺̦̲̯̘͍̝͜e̶͏̲͔͚͙͔͙̞̻̩.̝͚̙̞̣͚̱ ̬͈͉̤͡Ṉ̢̳̪̞̪̀o̭͞t̫͠ ̠̬͔̯̬̺̘͟ó̡̲͔̜n͈̞͚̖̲͚̕͞e̢͏͚͈̪̰̫̦̜͟ͅ ̤̱̟̜͉̱̻m̬̟̤̮a̞̝͙͉͞y͚̱͚̖ͅ ̴̶̙͓̠̱̺̦̗͝ĺ͎͓͜͠į̺̭̖v͇͕͔̲̩̯̲̮̀̕e̹̰̼̝.̕҉̠̦͓̼̠̥ ̧̜̖̬̥N̷̲̦̘̤͖̞͔o̧͎̮̹̮̠̻͕t̸̟̘̺͙͟͢ͅ ̧̗̠̪̜̺̩̠̫͝͞o̬͙̬̪̞̺̫n̡͉̣͔͚é̬̯̙ ̸̳̠̪̦̜̙̣͎m̮̦̳͓̠̕͜a̵̴͎̼͡y̨̭̠̟̞ͅ ̗̖̲̠̯̣̱̯́l̸̸̘̱̙̥͡ͅi͏̩̯̰̪̲͕͎̪v͚̩̬̩͕͕̟͈ͅe̢̟.̗̭̝ ͈͉͔̖͓͢N̗͔̳͍͈̱o҉͉̥͉̠t͚̪̦͔ ͔͍͎͚̭̪ͅͅo̜̻͍͍̠͕̣̺ń̪͔̩͕̳͜e̩̘͇̭̳͍̯͎ͅ ̡̗̣̟m̟͈̞͘͢͞ͅa͇͙͝y̛̹̤ ̹̙̩͟l͈̗̳͉̘͞i̶̳̹̤̲͉̺̰v̧̢̛̙̞̼e̕͏̳͕̜̱ͅ.̴̷̧̮͔̫͚̯̰͎͔ ̶̢̜̪̹̭̰̟͝N̮͎̤͟o̖͔̼̼̯̜t̶̩̱̗͈͖̗͘͜ ̶̟̖͡ơ̶͉͍̰̘n͟҉̥͓̼̙̮̬̗̀e̲̗̘͚͙̥͙ ͏̫̞̣̮̬̙̲͠m͕͖̥̲̣a̸̫̞̣͉͢͜y̰̣̝͚̙̝͉̭ ͕͇̲l̥͔̳̤̗ͅi̧̻̙̝̗͎̬̬̮v̼̀̀e̖.̶҉̵͕̬ͅ N͏҉̪̻͖̮͓͇̣̹̖͙̬̗͙̞̬ò̴̸̧͉̰̲͕͍̤̼͇̫̱̙͟t̶̼̗͇͈͖̗̳͍̥͓͟ ̧̨͇̙̹̣̹͈̰͎̥̗̗̣̺̥͘͟ͅo̧̫͕̳͉͚̪̘͉̼ǹ̵̩͈̬̫̳͡ḙ̶̥̻͎͇̼̩̲̖̞͍̭̘͖͎̝̪̻͖͘͟͞ ̸̢̛̰̱̫̤͜m̧̦͉̦͔̭̹͇͖̪̻̦̹̭̖̺̞̤͟a̢͉̣͓͎̪͇͚̰͉͈̞͈̬͕̘͡͡y͏̥̞̺͎͎̳͚̻̼̫͕̙̫͓̻̗̣́ ͏̢͈̣̘̳̤̦̳͎͍̻͖͚͉̙̬̤̫̟̞̕͡l̶̶͕̖̩̱͙̰̜͎̣̦͍͖̪͓̹͘ͅi̸̫͓̪͉͡ṿ̠̩͈̹̕͝ẹ̵̱͚̼̜͍̩͈̬̮̫̫̫́ͅ.̡̟̞̣̟̺̫̱̮̥̝̠͇́̀͝ ̵̰̦̞̝̬̼̙̕͜͜N̵̛͕͍͖̬͚̞͘͜o̴̷̧͖̹̱͚̝͇̦̣̮͍̺͙̥̥̯̲͘͞ͅt̷̲̞̬̹̤̯͍̦̼̘̙͕́̀͘ ̵̷̮̦̩̻̹̀o̧̨̲̟̹̗̮͉̹̗͟͝n͏̞̮͉͙͍̘̮͍͉̬é̵̙̩͢ͅ ̧̡̱̝̜̜͎͔̥̲͈̲̘̦̭̝̠͚̤m̧̢̧̢̝͎͎͔̳̜̙̞̫̤͇͈͢ͅͅa̵͏̤̫͓͔̬̭̱̩̤ý̷̻͈͍͎̠͔̯̱̰̬͙̘̮͖̖̮̗̟́͟ ͘҉͘҉̖̖͉̹͖͍̞͕̫̖̼̠͎͎̣̮̙̟͎ļ̷̶̞̞͈̫͍͈̫̩i̴͓̹̖̲̯̞͙̦̺̙̺̯̞̼̰͕͉͎͘v͈͙̤̫̬͖̪̝̱̕͠e̴̵͈̼̞̱̠̞͎͉̭̝͚̞̳̮͎̱͙̬͘͡ͅ.̯͍̲̤͖͙̟͚̻͢͝ͅ

Not.

One.

47. Nemesis

I lean against one of the corners of the tent and breathe in vain. Isaac takes a step forward, as if to help, then shakes his head in shame.

“I will not go against direct orders from my clan. I cannot come. I am sorry.”

I care little. I don’t need him to exert my vengeance. He is clearly torn but it is not up to me to grant him forgiveness. We will all have to face the consequences of our decisions in the end.
Isaac has not given up yet. He clasps his hands and bends forward in a strange gesture. When he stands back up, the guilt has been replaced by a new resolution.

“I can still help. Here.”

He walks to a large chest and takes out a box. It looks like an expensive jewelry coffer made of lacquered wood decorated with strange glyphs. I cannot feel magic coming from it despite its obvious nature.
Isaac rips the wood apart with his bare hands. Beams and planes are shed from the structure until only a metallic frame is left. It consists of a handle stuck to a bar with a series of spikes branching out and curving back inward as if meant to encase a cylindrical object. The metal is silvery and the structure a bit rough, seemingly made in a rudimentary forge by an apprentice, and yet upon closer inspection, the surface is covered in hair-thin runes forming a complex lattice. Its aura is subdued and oppressive, evoking restraints.

“This was meant to contain the key, should the box be lost. It will disrupt its power on contact and quite possibly, hurt the Herald as well. Here, take it.”

I grab the artefact, cold and smooth under my fingers. Definitely used to restrain something until it is completely powerless...Dark basement. Broken arm. Broken leg. Dried blood.

I shake my head and wince. I feel so weak. Things are seeping in. Memories that should remain dead and buried. I take the contraption away and turn to Loth.

“Aye lass, I’m coming.”
“And so am I.”

Merritt lifts the tent access flap soon followed by Nashoba. She looks like death warmed over while the shaman is the picture of concern.

“You don’t get to tell me I can’t come. They killed my…”
“You can come.”
“Friends… Huh? You are fine with it?”

Headache. What do I care how you spend your life?

“Yes.”

“We still stand a chance to stop him if there is no one to slaughter. I split up the Warband. They have orders to reach the nearest villages and have them evacuate before the Herald and what is left of his men can reach it.”
“Will they be on time?”
“Yes. Those are their families at stake, daughter of Thorn and Hunger. They will make it.”
“Then I just need to stop him before he can get any more power.”
“Yes. The visions say you are immune to his touch.”

I am, now that… Now that the only bond I had to a mortal is gone.

“You will have to face him alone. If we approach, we will die and feed him.”
“I know. Tell me, shaman of the Choctaw, can you see my future?”

Nashoba lowers his head in disappointment.

“I cannot.”
“Excellent. It means that this is not over.”

I dream.

It is dark, not the embrace of the now-familiar nocturnal veil but the oppressive obscurity of the unfathomable depths. Pressure, crushing and unforgiving, bends my neck forward. There is nothing around but rocks surrounded by onyx sand as far as I can perceive, while above, there is nothing but the black of a fathomless canopy. The air, if it is air, is dry and scentless, Unspeakable things prowl lazily around, massive and contemptuous.
Although I cannot see it well, I know that an obsidian obelisk lies before me, toppled. And upon it sits a mocking silhouette. It holds in its hand a strange skull and starts with a voice that nothing can silence.

“Rage, Goddess. Sing of the rage of Peleus’ son Achilles,
murderous, doomed, that which caused the Achaeans countless agonies
and threw many warrior souls deep into Hades,
leaving their bodies to be feasted upon by carrion birds and savage dogs,
all to fulfill the will of Zeus.”

The voice should have been solemn, even fearful, as befits one who implores a Muse. Instead, it is ripe with bloodlust and the anticipation of the violence to come. Its owner leans forward until I look into eyes darker than even the abyss we stand on.

“It has been a long time, my child”

I scowl in recognition. Tall, dark hair and beard, golden skin. The Lord of the Nirari looks as regal as always in a sand-colored outfit richly decorated with rivers of precious stones. He looks like a Caliph holding court, at ease and confidant even in this desolate place.

“You…”
“Yes, me, at long last. Ten years. Ten long years I have waited, watched, eager to see if the little princess would fall like the others. And now for the first time, you are on the path to self-destruction, consumed by the blackest of rage. Tell me, child, what hurt you so? What deeds tipped the scales? Who was your Patrocles?”

My words escape me, unbidden. I must answer.

“… My Vassal. Killed.”
“How?”
“Treachery! Lies. The Herald took an oath to uphold a truce, intending to break it. And he did. He shot my Vassal down like an animal…”
“And this enemy, you intend to pursue him?”
“I must.”
“For all debts must be repaid?”
Our eyes meet. I do not submit.
“Yes.”
The monster stands up and moves towards me. The pressure I am feeling increases with every step he takes, but I hold.
“Defiant, still. You were never completely broken, even at the end. You share my curse now, the one I share with my better scions.”

He turns and walks away and I collapse with relief.

“We do not know how to lose. Very well then. A lesson, so that you may repay the debt. Listen well, princess of the blood. Listen to your Master. An eternity ago, the greatest queen who ever lived created a set of elixirs, and those have found their ways to the hands of the mighty and the fated over the years. Those were elixirs of eternal life. A spark of the divine, with a twist: a curse to steal the vitality that we would no longer create. I, her son, was the first. I drank and the essence that became mine reflected what I needed and who I was.”
“A Warlord?”
“No. A conqueror. Every new bloodline, every new creature you sample is added to your kingdom. It becomes yours. Drinking more makes you powerful but the first one opens the path.”
“I know this.”
“You do not. You feel stronger but you do not understand the power itself. Close your eyes. Focus. Go deeper.”

My perception of the world fades and the scene grows distant.

“I will guide you.”

Something drives me forward until we lurch and spill in my mental fortress. I end up sprawled on the grass of my strange garden, next to a rock in the shape of the first merman I faced.
A presence behind me makes me turn. Master is here, though he is somewhat transparent like I imagine a ghost would be. I want him out, but I cannot push him away. Something stops me. My defenses do not recognize him as a foreign entity.
He turns his gaze to the statue and smiles, then with a wave of his hand, an arch emerges from the ground.

“You have refined tastes, princess. Now, open the way.”

I must still obey. A distant part of me objects to his coming here. He does not belong in my sanctuary. He desecrates this land by simply treading it. That part is drawn by another that insists that this is the most natural thing in the world.

Both voices are right.

I arrive in a circular plaza surrounded by tall walls of tightly woven roses, in black, white, and red. The ground is made of polished marble slabs but what attracts my attention is its inhabitants.
The deceptively wide expanse is currently covered in statues, most white and standing, and a few colored and kneeling. Wherever I look, the open space widens, and more come into focus, only to fade as I look away. I recognize a few of them as people I killed, like the werewolf I faced in the Lancaster Arena. Others, I do not remember.

“An impressive tally, little one. You may look upon them with pride, I do not believe I have seen its like since I sired Malakim.”
“Those are…”
“Your victims, yes, and those who paid you tribute, of their own free will. They are the sources of your power as my scion. Yours, for as long as you walk the worlds. Observe, a few of them already lent you their allegiance.”

Indeed, some of the constructs surrounding us are not only kneeling, they are colored while the others are alabaster white and they feel reactive. I recognize a few, including a very faint outline of Sinead, Bingle, Nashoba, Loth, Naminata of the Ekon whom I met just before being sent to fight in the pits.

“I do not understand. I did not make them submit.”
“Oh? An interesting distinction. Go ahead then, make the others… Submit.”

This is not a matter of words. I focus on the deep part of me, the one that wants to subjugate, and bring it forth. The plaza below us pulses once and something stirs in the depths. Its size defies comprehension. Above us, the purple light of the Watcher shifts.

SUBMIT.

The command spreads outward like a wave. The ones I killed kneel in turn but the ones that gave me their blood of their own free will stand up and fade in the background. Worse, those who kneel are not colored.
Master chuckles and shakes his head in amusement. One of his hand holds his elbow while the other caresses his beard.

“Tell me, princess, from whence stems power? Say, for the, hm, president, of your old nation.”
“The mandate of the people?”
“And for the king of the Britons?”
“I don’t know? Divine will perhaps?”
“Such complicated mental gymnastics, such elaborate concepts. So many theories to justify one eternal truth. No matter how strong an idea, or how beloved a sovereign, there will always be dissidents. How are they kept in check?”
“Military might?”
“Yes, overwhelming martial strength. Those,” he gestures around him, “are not yours because you are a vampire. They are yours because they faced you and lost. Because you vanquished them. You are very close. Try again.”

I bring the deeper part of me towards the surface again, but this time I infuse a truth in the words, my own belief that they shall submit by the most ancient rule of them all, the right of the victor.

SUBMIT.

The statues kneel, this time with color. They raise their hands in surrender. Their powers are mine because they have no choice. Once more, those who gave me blood out of their own free will remain standing.

“I do not understand.”
“Patience little princess, patience. You remind me of a desert raider I once knew. You only understand conquest through violence. Those allies and supplicants who helped you, they flocked to your banner.”
“Two of those were used to save my life.”
“And they strengthened you by doing so. We vampires, we conquerors, are not mindless killers. We have our codes and our honor, our Vassals and Servants, our clans and communities. Those who follow willingly may do it for safety, order, power, vengeance, for as many reasons as human nature allows. What matters is that they follow. Try again.”

I understand, I think. They trusted me, some trust me still, to have mastery over those gifts they offered. They are not mine because I crushed them but because they acknowledged me as one deserving of tribute. Loth loves me in his own way. Bingle sacrificed himself out of duty and friendship. They did not do it because I defeated them, but because they believed in me as a person, enough to expose themselves.
I take a deep breath. I know what I must do. To conquer is not to destroy. To conquer is not always to stand alone. That is the difference.

SUBMIT.

Some kneel because they have to, some because they choose to. One by one, all the statues before me bow and color springs from the ground to cover them. Then, their powers unlock.
I have never felt stronger.
I bask in the ensuing bliss. I could send a werewolf flying. I could crush steel. I could outpace the fastest stallion. It feels amazing, more than that, it is a deserved reward.
Master walks among the statues like a collector inspecting his latest acquisitions.

“The mortals do not amount for much, and the mages you cannot use. Yet. The werewolves are a nice touch, you can draw on their savagery to fight longer, heal faster. The Ekon bloodline is renowned for its ability to hold pain and the Thirst at bay, a necessity for those adventurers. The Lancaster are peerless when it comes to Charm. You even drained a rogue Natalis! I am impressed. Their dumb physical strength will serve you well. Oh, and a few stranger creatures! Why, I have never met those spirits of Hunger. Degenerated native people perhaps? I will have to come back at some point. The fae prince and the god-touched powers are locked from us, unfortunately. Only the inherent strength can be yours. Well, this is a pleasant surprise. You have been productive.”

His inspection over, he returns by my side and places a hand on my shoulder. I feel the steel grip behind the light touch, and I am not scared, just a bit pleased at his approval. This is a dream. Many of my gut reactions are subdued.

“With this, you have access to four of the fourteen bloodlines I know of. I granted you this lesson as a favor, princess of the blood. See that it is not misplaced.”

The shape of him evaporates in black vapor until only an eight-fanged smile remains, then this is gone too, and I wake up.

Pain. Thirst. Claustrophobia. The sensation of choking. I gulp great breaths of air that do nothing but satisfy a vestigial reflex. My claws scratch the sarcophagus’ inner padding until I grab the handles and pull them. I jump up and fall on the side, coming to my feet in an instant.
Around me, dry earth and roots topped by a very low tent. Loth stares at me with a blank look from behind a tiny workbench. He has never looked more tired.
No immediate danger. Clear exits. No need to FIGHT OR FLEE.
I clutch the center of my chest to try in vain to ward off asphyxiation. He came in my mind. He came in my mind and did what he wanted and I did NOTHING. Nothing to stop him even though I… Even if he… Gah!
Only distance saves me from him anyway. If I were by his side, I would just be a bumbling and lovestruck wreck. Pathetic.
Maybe I was lucky. At least I got to be myself from the onset. Now I just need to find somebody to eat to end this unbearable pain and I know just the man. In silence, I attach battered pieces of armor to my stained dress and affix my half-mask, leaving the mouth free.

“Lass?”
“I’m ready. How are we doing?”

He considers the lump of metal in front of him and removes his hands from it. Just as I recognize the object in front of me, its aura pervades the small space we stand in.
I don’t know how long it took for him to finish it but I would presume every waking hour since I fell to slumber. In typical Loth fashion, he took the problem and analyzed it then found a solution that would satisfy his need for violent revenge. Since it is too risky to get close, my friend made a shell.
No, calling it a shell does not do it justice. He made a shell-shaped object that is more magical concentrated spite than steel. It is made from darkened metal engraved with vengeful runes pulsing a deep red like a wound leaking blood. Lines of glyphs criss-cross it in every direction like taut barbed wires. Loth’s creation looks like what it is, the fruit of patient malevolence, made for the exclusive purpose of inflicting pain and death. Whispers at the edge of my hearing promise dark retribution. My friend lifts hollowed eyes to me.

“I’m ready. Let’s go outside.”

We leave and I find myself in a depression surrounded by pines at the top of a hill overlooking a large valley. Dried needles and fallen cones cover the ground and let out a pleasant scent that offers a sharp contrast with the tensions of those in it. There are no fires, no gear and no horses around, only two exhausted mortals lying on the ground next to the covered form of Loth’s steel canon. Nashoba and Merritt turn around and see me but do not react. Everyone is on edge.
I lean down by their side. If they notice me trying to breathe, they do not comment on it. In front of us lies a vale with an open ground around a tiny stream. Muskogee houses and structures dot it with a few tilled fields in the distance. Signs of life are everywhere but I see no locals alive or dead. In the central plaza, the Herald is in an animated discussion with a handful of subordinates including the Tower Mage.

“The evacuation was successful. Merritt managed to track that bastard and we used our mobility to our advantage.” says Nashoba in English.

I turn in surprise to the mage. Her eyes are bloodshot and her traits drawn but there is no mistaking the pride in her voice.

“That asshole left a lot of blood behind. I scraped it off the pier and made a compass.”
“Excellent. Loth, are you opening?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Right now. You two, get out.”

The two mortals stand up without a word and run away in the opposite direction.

“Listen lass. As soon as that shell is off I’m getting the hell out of here. You’re the only one who can stand in front of the key and live. The rest of us would just feed him more power.”

“I know.”

Loth stops and turns to me. In his eyes, there is not a hint of doubt that I will succeed.

“I won’t say good luck. I’ll see you on the other side. Now, stand back. This is my moment.”

Loth removes the tarp from the gun’s maw, I take position by his side.

“Betrayed.” he murmurs. His huge hands cradle the patiently made shell almost lovingly. The terrifying thing pulses in rhythm with his heartbeat.
“Bloodied. By oath broken and words made void, one was taken from us.”
He slides the shell in the gun. I can see a reddish glow flowing down its length as the whispers grow louder then with a final ‘thunk’, it nestles deep within, quiet and ready to be unleashed.

“By the old laws, by our own honor intact, we come to claim our due.”

He adjusts the gun with patience and a deceptive calm. The atmosphere is so heavy that I stop breathing again. I know that I am witnessing something unique, a master at work for a once in a lifetime performance.

“Your guilt and debt set ablaze, our vengeance expressed.”

He walks back and grabs the rope that will release the primer.

“And made manifest.”

He pulls the cord.

The canon vomits its horrifying payload into the world. The shell screams its way down like a chorus of furious demons, a symphony of nightmares that fills my ears with its insane voices, I grit my teeth before the onslaught and watch the shell impact, then detonate.

One instant, the village is empty but peaceful, the next, it is simply gone. The shield used by the tower mage makes as much difference as a teapot emptied on a house fire. The clearing is obliterated by a deafening explosion that sends pieces of rocks and soil high into the air. The shockwave extends outward and levels the entire forest in a wave of fire and destruction. The trees closer to the epicenter are simply torched. Not a single needle remains attached.

And the fire keeps burning. First white, then an unnaturally dark red, the raging inferno emits heat that hits me like a wall even hundreds of feet away. I raise a hesitant hand to painful ears and return a few drops of dark blood.
For a solid minute, I ignore Loth’s retreating form and stare into hell itself. How could anything survive that?!
And yet, a dark silhouette soon shows against the incandescent background, shambling forward mindlessly. As it exits the area, the flames gutter and die like a man losing heart. The hexed shell did its best. Now, dinner is served.

I sprint forward with incredible speed, faster than I have ever been in my entire life and yet with absolute confidence in my steps. Over stumps and trunks and upturned earth I go, never slowing. My hair clings to my skull with the wind of my passage and in only a few heartbeats, I reach the Herald. As I watch, blue links and patterns do not knit flesh, but make it appear from nowhere. The aura I feel is incredible. It buffets me like an alien wind.
I grab my prey from behind and bite down to Devour.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH.”

It burns! I spit blood and teeth, only for it to regenerate and melt again. I fall backward and crawl away, mewling in pain.
So much power. Too much. Like kissing a thunderbolt. And despite that I feel strong, so strong. Just an instant, but it felt like drinking from Master.
I calm myself, letting the lava-like substance drip away from my charred lips for a few seconds, but soon the sounds of the Herald regenerating behind me forces a new alarm. No. No! I will not let go. This. Is. Nothing!
I draw on the deep and cold will inside to STAND UP AND FIGHT. My claws catch a half-formed arm and pull it out of its socket. The crack of ruptured ligaments is accompanied by a muffled scream that spurs me. I grab the other arm and the Herald’s aura explodes outward.

“Oof!”

I am pushed backwards, only to roll on the ground and sprint back up. The scrapes, the pain, nothing will stop me. This is to the death.

“You! You… This is all your fault!” screams the Herald with a broken voice. His flesh is now intact, and I notice in passing that he is naked from the waist down. The tattered remnants of his hunting jacket cling to his form while hot tears run down his face.

“It was supposed to be my moment! I don’t understand! What in the seven hells are you!”

YOUR DEATH.

I slice and stab him three more times until his cries of pain turn to pure rage and he strikes. For a moment, he is faster than me, perhaps even as fast as Jimena.
And he misses.
His fist goes wide and his body collapses in the ashy ground. In an instant I am on him. I take his head, twist left and right and throw it away. I take out my blade and slice great swaths of fabric from his enchanted vest. I need that thing off.
Once more I am blasted away but this time I roll and barely dodge a strike to the side before retaliating. The herald only screams incoherently at this point.

“Why why why won’t you die!”

I block the exact same strike coming from the exact same angle and counter-attack with a blade to the stomach. I jump away and gut him like a fish. His yells of agony sound strange in the deadened air. He grabs a fallen pine and tosses it, hoping to crush me perhaps? I step to the side to avoid the improvised projectile. I have been me for a decade. I know how my body works. He is just an inexperienced mortal playing demigod.

For a good minute, I dance around him and use my experience to inflict terrible damage. I find that cutting off limbs works better than piercing flesh as the key regenerates it entirely. It takes more time and hopefully, more energy. Our contest is an unequal ballet between a wasp and a drunken, bumbling fool.

He just won’t stay down.

I maim and amputate and slice and still his body is reformed in instants. Changing gear, I boot him away and to the side, then I jump on his back and bring him down. I savage his back. I know he will heal these wounds but this is therapeutic.

Once more, his aura explodes outward but this time I cling to his jacket, tearing it to pieces. A second later, his actual body explodes. When I land and stand back up, there is something different. He is taller, paler, and his face is no longer fully human. His aristocratic beard is gone as well as his lips and nose. Only pale skin below two slits are left. Even his eyes shine a strange blue.

“I eliminated pain, vampire, and the key will repair my mind. It’s only a matter of time now.”

He is also fully naked. I search the rag in my hand for a pocket and find something cylindrical, but the contact is peculiar. I feel my fingers closing on it and yet it has no texture, no temperature, and then it is gone.

“Looking for this?” asks the Herald, amused. In his hand, the key appears.
“We are one now. You can no longer claim it, assuming your kind ever could.”

I need it. I jump. He dodges and I follow up by cutting off his leg at the knee. The resistance is higher, for some reason. Is his body tougher? I block the following counter and am smashed against the ground once again. Stupid strength. I dodge a downward punch that buries itself in the earth and slice one of the arms on the way out, then I move around and grab the key. At the same moment, his aura once more explodes and I am flung away.

“Annoying insect!”

The Herald is whole, and yet I can spot the barest hints of black veins under his skin, perhaps exhaustion or perhaps a remnant of yesterday’s transgression. His aura is more and more manifest, buckling and thrashing against his control. He may be insanely strong but he cannot bring this power to bear.

“It is not for you to take.”

My foe seizes the key and places it at the top of his forehead. The artifact digs into his skull with blue tendrils and latches, looking all the while like the world’s most disgusting unicorn.
He rushes me and slaps the air in front of my retreating torso. I dodge by the barest of margins to counter again.
DODGE.
I jump left just as an insane power erupts from his palm. With a roar, blue energy digs a deep furrow into the earth, smashing rocks and sending toppled trees spinning in the air like pins.
PAIN.
I grit my teeth and claw his face, blinding him.
Pain. Pain! I check my right arm to see it now stops at the elbow. Where is my bloody.. Oh, here it is. I jump forward and catch it, then place the mangled limb against my stump.
Come on!
I feel a rush of wild energy and the need to howl, to hunt. Bones bound, muscles rejoin and skin knits before my very eyes.

“Where are you, harlot? Only one…”

The Herald’s eyes widen in surprise when he sees me healed. I open and close my hand around the dagger. Everything is fine. It doesn’t hurt one bit.
For the first time in two nights, I smile.

“You still do not understand.”

I rush forward then back to avoid another shockwave, then forward again. My enemy screams in frustration while I dive under and jump above bolts of blue energy. His face melts under the intense power, only to reform again and again. Each time, the traits are more inhuman, more cruel. His teeth are now completely triangular. Great black arteries snake under his skin, leaving the flesh around blemished.
Finally, I manage to sidestep a two-handed vertical strike and find myself behind him.
Now time to DODGE.
Massive bone spikes grown from his back in every direction. I did not manage to leave in time and two pierce my enchanted bracers as if they were butter, while the last digs deep into my belly.
PAIN.
I fall back and block a backhand blow with the dagger. The sharp blade cuts off the limb once more. Reprieve.
Just need a second to…

“This has been far too annoying, I do believe I will take it now.”

The Herald extends his hand and grasps. I feel nothing myself, then the dagger jolts. I watch powerless as Jimena’s gift is dismantled, deconstructed before my very eyes.

“Interesting.”

The Herald lift his fingers and each tip is replaced by inches of silvery blades covered in runes.
Not good.
The blackened veins expand even more and I can feel his aura stuttering but that won’t help me if I am dismembered in the next few seconds.
I turn and run.

“You won’t escape me you hussy! Hahahaha!”

Not escaping, just looking for… Ah.
I turn my back to a large vertical rock upturned by Loth’s cataclysmic shot. The Herald smirks and jumps.
He stole my technique!
I throw myself backward on the ground, trying to ignore the wound in my stomach.
There is a single instant of faith when all I can see is the smoke-filled sky, then the stars are blotted by a body passing overhead. With a grunt of anger, my foe’s steely claws bury themselves deep into the stone, and stay there.
Cracks form almost immediately but I am faster. I dig talons into his wrist and break it apart, then grab the severed hand and use it as an improvised weapon.
The first swipe guts him, the second blinds him, while with my right, I reach behind to grab Isaac’s present and place it against his exposed spine.
Then both of his hands explode. Silvery shrapnel hit me.
Agony.
I scream and roll on the ground. Take them out, MUST TAKE THEM OUT! I remove a piece of smoldering metal from the meat of my shoulder then another from a calf, another from my right ear. After two more I finally stop panicking and stand up.
The Herald is holding his head and yelling atrociously. The keening sound should be a torture but in truth, it is music to my ears.

“You! What have you done!?”

If he had not turned off the pain, he would know that his organs reformed around something foreign. Now with the recent change to his body, I would be surprised if he could tell how many spikes grow out of his back.
Energy explodes randomly around him. As I watch, his right leg bursts and reforms as a grotesque parody of an insect’s feeler. Both his hands grow mismatched claws and tentacles. He finally remembers the cause of his woes, however, and charges me with the strength of despair.
I surprise him by charging as well. He is barely faster than me now and just as he strikes, I dig my left foot into the ground and boot him with all my strength. I remember the maddened charge of the Natalis rogue and pour the same mindless energy in my kick.
The Herald lifts off and crashes against a rock, a fallen pine, a burning stump and another rock. He sees me approach and tries to stand up, in vain. His mutated leg does not find enough purchase to pry the spikes off the stone they are embedded in.

“If you had not looked down on humans and their form so much…”

I raise my hand and plant my feet in the ground to resist an aura explosion. It barely slows me down.

“…You would not have fought like a toddler…”

I duck to avoid a bolt of energy.

“… You would not have paid so much for an oath broken…”

I grab the key on his forehead, dig claws in his chest to find Isaac's suppressor and place both feet against his chest.

“… And you would not have destroyed your organization and yourself.”

With a ghastly sound of broken flesh, both objects break free of the form encasing them.

“I am Ariane of the Nirari. You were dead the moment you killed my Vassal.”

The steel trap’s spine close around the key and the connection breaks. Energy arcs from the Herald’s prostrate form, raking him and the ground. My foe lets out a last, keening yell and in mere instants, he is but a scorched husk.
I did it.
The link is severed. He’s dead. I won, and paid the debt.
Now I just need to…
Return the key of Beriah for safekeeping?
I know it should be the best decision, then something whispers into my mind.
I look up.
When did I ever think the Watcher was far? He is close, so close. A tendril descends and brushes a strand of hair away from my cheek. The eye croons and then asks like a very young child:

“Give?”

No words are actually spoken. The requests appear in my mind instantly with a purity of meaning that the spoken word can never hope to match.

“Give?”

This is not an order, not even a demand. There is something so innocent and beautiful about the simple request, so humble. I know I could refuse without consequence. There would not be a grudge.
I raise the key. The closest purple limb closes around it, two things that do not belong here, and then the blue construct is lifted into…
I blink.
Space and reality hiccupped for a moment. I frown, trying to remember in detail what just happened but cannot. I… Could not process what just occurred. My mind is simply not equipped.
What I know with certainty is that the key is gone.
I look up. The vampire aster is as distant and mesmerizing as always but for the first time, I feel something I never expected.

Approval.

48. Pyre of Dreams

I slowly make my way to a flat piece of ground and sit down.

I feel tired, in a bone-weary way that I did not think possible. The pain of asphyxiation has mostly abated with the death of the Herald but the many wounds I collected are still slowly closing, Jimena’s stolen dagger having bitten deep.

So, it is over.

I won.

Victory tastes of ash and regret.

Now, if I want to send Dalton off, then I will have to leave, flee once more. There is a chance that I can convince the knight squad that I am not some raving lunatic, but I would rather not take a chance. Their pursuit is strange, to say the least. What kind of influence do they expect me to have over Master? How is the death of Wolfgang any of my responsibility? It does not make sense. Worse, it sounds increasingly like someone holding a grudge for the death of their ally. If they expect my own demise to hurt my sire, they are terribly mistaken, not that it will matter much if I am slain.

No, the best course of action is to escape. I am not without means, and I should be able to access funds via the consortium once I have found a place to settle. Far away from any vampire settlements until I can get those orders rescinded. There is still much time before the conclave.

I stand up heavily, eager to rejoin the others and let them know of my success when my ears detect rushing feet coming from behind. Soon after, I perceive familiar heartbeats and Loth’s steel and mountain aura.

Merritt and Nashoba appear first, trailed by a dozen native warriors. A few others are helping Loth carry a coffin. They gather around the burnt carcass in a half circle. Loth puts down in charge and takes a step forward.

“So. You did it.”

I nod. We stare at each other without saying a word but like old friends, we convey a mountain of meaning. Pain, relief, trust, regret, sympathy, much is shared.

“We followed the fight thanks to Nashoba. He used some sort of sorcery to watch you but lost it when you grabbed the Key of Beriah. What happened?”

“I destroyed it.”

“You did? I… Alright, help me make a bonfire.”

I find myself caught off guard.

“We will cremate Dalton here?”

“Yes. A proper farewell surrounded by bloodied warriors and on the corpse of his killer. I don’t know a better way to send someone off.”

I consider this for a moment. I was thinking of burying him. I was thinking like a Christian, a mortal. This is no longer what Dalton and I stand for. Their God no longer welcomes what I have become. Loth is right, we will pay our respects like the warriors of old, with a meaningful ceremony.

“We will mourn with you,” adds Nashoba, “he fought for us like you did. We will be with you in this sorrowful time.”

“We’re not leaving you alone.” adds Merritt.

I say nothing. Besides Loth, they did not know him, but they wish to pay their respect. This is something that I can understand and consent to.

With barely a word, we follow Loth’s direction and gather pine wood from around us. The task is made easy by the ravaged land. Fallen branches and trunks litter the ground for hundreds of yards in every direction.

Once the pyre is made on top of the Herald’s remains, Loth drenches it in resin and oil. He lights a torch and hands it to me.

“Say a few words.”

What is there to say? He is gone and will not return. And I will never be allowed to follow when my time has come.

“Share a memory,” insists Loth, “something we will remember him by.”

“No man is truly gone who lives in someone else’s heart.” Adds Nashoba with a whisper.

“I… When I let him go, I saw myself through his eyes. For him, one of the most defining moments of his life was when I saved him in the blood cult’s cave, after he failed to bring us our weapons. I barely remember it. I was half-mad with Thirst and did not care about anything but my next meal. He was on my side and already on the way to becoming my Vassal. Of course, I would save him. I barely remember this moment. For me, one of the most important memories we shared was when he took the initiative for the first time as we were bounty hunting. It made him reliable and independent in my mind. Different perspectives, really. In the end, it was the small gestures we did for each other that impacted the other the most.”

I light the fire and walk back to the others at a respectful distance. We watch in silence as the flames lick the coffin. Embers rise to the sky and add to the melancholy. On the side, the Choctaw warriors sing a mournful song in their language. I do not understand the words, but I know they speak of the sky and of farewell.

“I have a story too.” Adds Loth in turn. He clears his throat and begins.

“When I was trying to build a magical key, I dropped a batch of prototypes and messed up so I forgot which was which. I was about to throw them all away, but the boy stopped me. He took them and the list and calculated the mass of each key according to the composition of its alloy. Took him a few hours to finish everything but he was so damned proud. I had been teaching him algebra for a few weeks by then and he was always eager. Eager to help, eager to matter, to make a difference. He never asked anything in return. He just did it for us. It was a point of pride.”

The pyre’s flame dance high by now. We listen to the warrior’s songs for a while until Nashoba steps forward.

“I have story as well.”

“Drink first. Here.” Loth takes a flask from a pouch around his waist and throws it at the shaman who expertly grabs it and takes a swig. I can smell alcohol and the native’s scrunched face confirms this is ‘the good stuff’.

Nashoba’s voice is hesitant at first, but progressively gains in fluidity. His mastery of English is still poor.

“We had many wives lost when cleaning at the river. We asked the white men around but were sent off. Then I offered bounty. No one takes. Then Dalton comes. He tracks group of six men and saves the girls then runs back to us. The bad men follow. We… Punish. Dalton saves and gives vengeance. Life and death. Only crime matters, not the color of skin.”

That’s right. He never judged us for what we were, only for how we acted.

Damn, I will miss him so much.

And I am crying now. The bittersweet pain tastes different now that his killer lies dead. I feel like I can finally grieve properly.

We are lost in our own thoughts. The pyre is in full blast now. From time to time, Nashoba throws a few leaves and resins in it until the clearing smells clean and fresh, like new spring, and blue smoke rises up in an ethereal dances.

This is the first time that I have been close to a fire this size without a hint of apprehension. Even my instincts are subdued.

And then, a new presence lets itself known. A cold aura that can only mean one thing.

Vampire.

For one frightful second, I fear that the squad of knights has found me. I soon realize my mistake. The man is alone. He is respectfully letting us know of his coming.

I turn out of curiosity, though I already know who this is. The others mirror me and gasp.

“Lord Suarez.”

“Buenas Noches, Senorita. May I join your fire?”

The last time I had a good look at him, lord Suarez was blasting his way through an actual wall in a shower of splinters. Then, I was running through the streets of Charleston with his terrifying presence at the heels. Tonight, the monster is contained and the man facing me is a rich noble taking a stroll through his woods.

Suarez is taller than Ceron, though a bit less muscular. He has melancholic chestnut eyes, dark hair that falls to his shoulder and a pencil-thin and perfectly groomed anchor beard and moustache. He looks too dignified to be a Caribbean pirate and too roguish to be a duke. Even his clothes are ambiguous. He wears a light orange and outdated courtly ensemble that would look ridiculous on anyone but him and sports a dangerous-looking fencing sword by his side.

I point at a spot to my left while the warriors retreat at a safe distance. I do not have the heart to refuse. I felt his power before. If Suarez wants to sit, he will damn well sit and there is nothing I could do to stop him. Unlocking the might of my bloodline gave me the edge I needed to defeat the Herald and I am confident I could take on older Courtiers, perhaps even several of them at the same time. A battle Lord of the Cadiz is an entire other prospect.

“Senorita…May I?”

The man is close. Even sitting, he is not just taller, he feels larger. Much larger than me, and yet, his voice is incredibly soft, and I can see longing in his eyes. I realize what he is asking.

“Are you here to kill me?”

“No.”

“Then… Alright.”

Lord Suarez extends a single claw against my cheek and recovers a pearl of red tear with religious reverence. He brings it to his lips, hesitates at the last moment then gives in. The mighty vampire turns his head away almost bashfully and takes one shaky breath. Silence returns to the clearing.

I find myself captivated by the chaotic pattern of the flames dancing towards heaven. I am not surprised that they would be used to cleanse us from this world. There is something wild and unforgiving about fire. Those mages who use it in spells do not control it, they merely select a way to unleash its rage.

“Who are you mourning?”

Lord Suarez is facing me now. His cheeks are flushed in a decidedly mortal way. I wonder how it feels to drink tears. It does seem different from just shedding them.

“My Vassal.”

He nods in understanding.

“Then allow me first to pay my respects.”

He stands, then kneels before the pyre and though his lips moved, no sound escape it. After a while, the vampire stands up and pricks his finger, sending a few drops to be consumed by the pyre, then he returns to my side.

I am pleased by his show of respect. Dalton truly got a proper send off, like he deserved.

“Tell me of him.”

“I…Think I should go. If you found me so easily then…”

“The knights will be here in fifteen minutes.”

“WHAT?!”

“I saw their day encampment and left them behind. There is nothing you can do to run away now, and I swear on my name that staying is to your advantage.”

“I… don’t know.”

“Please believe me, you should stay. Stay and tell me of him.”

He would never lie.

“Very well.”

I start my story with Crow’s request and progressively move forward. I am not a coherent storyteller at the moment. Times are all over the place, anecdotes and remarks follow each other without sense and yet not once does he interrupt me. His few comments only show support and interest, or help me center myself. Towards the end, he urges me to speak of Dalton’s demise and the fight that followed. When I am done, he considers his next words carefully.

“You had something quite precious and I am sorry that you lost it. Now, the knights are upon us. I ask that you do not engage.” His gaze drills into mine. “Do not engage. Talk to them but do not attack. If it comes to this, I will handle them myself.”

“But why?”

“Have you forgotten? You spared me from the fate that befell you by saving my own Vassal, Inez.”

“… The Tillerson estate.”

“Yes. On that night she asked and you listened. You saved her life. I have a debt, one that I will repay tonight. Your deeds speak for themselves Ariane of the Nirari. I will protect you from harm in the coming confrontation. You do not stand alone.”

He speaks the truth. Nashoba is here, so are Loth and Merritt. Isaac is gone but he left me with the suppressor. I have been carried so far by the bonds I created through joy, pain and common effort. Dalton may be gone but what we shared will live within me. I am not alone.

I turn to face the night. Suarez stands to my right, while Loth, Nashoba and Merritt are on my left. The witch utters a small “Ah, fuck me.” Before standing up but she joins us anyway. I have no idea what I did to get her loyalty.

It doesn’t take long for a few unknown vampires to step out of the shadows.

They mask their auras. I knew it was possible, for how else could Suarez surprise me in Charleston? It is one thing to know of it, however, and another to see a squad of knights in full battle regalia surround me while coming out of seemingly nowhere.

There are four of them, all in the grey lamellar armor I saw on both Jimena and Wolfgang. They are an eclectic bunch, though they move with a synchronism that speaks of trust and training. On one side is a taciturn man with a shaven head and an axe and shield. His muscular arms flex as he rolls his shoulders and inspects us. Opposite him is a black-haired lad with an almost girlish face and a long dagger he twirls between agile fingers. He is the only person smiling here, mischievously. Behind them, a woman looks warily towards Suarez as she holds a staff between clenched hands. Her face is covered by a scarf that only leaves dark eyes free. The last one, and their leader if I read the situation correctly, is fixing me with an angry glare.

He looks straight out of the ‘prince charming’ page of a fairy tale book right down to the confident pose. A handsome face, a chiseled chin, deep blue eyes darker than mine, a regal air. He has it all, and even his arrogance could pass off as nobility.

I instantly dislike him.

We should not be allowed to look self-righteous. Not us. The hypocrisy is simply too much to bear.

“I see you have decided to stop hiding, beast, and face your judgement!”

Hold on, what?

“Who are you calling a beast?”

“Long have I waited for the chance to rid the world of your tainted kind. You are a blight, and I am the cure.”

“Did you take those lines from the Brotherhood?”

That gets me a chuckle from the black-haired man. His leader looks at him, furious, but the roguish knight just shrugs helplessly. Lord Suarez uses the pause to take a step forward.

“She is no beast, Anatole, even you cannot be this blind.”

“She is a rogue; she has to be. Every Nirari spawn is a disaster in waiting.”

“We are having a conversation, are we not? Is this standard rogue behavior?” I add with impatience.

“And what of the rumors that you left a trail of blood on your way out of New-Orleans?”

“Rumors, really? I thought the knights were a serious organization, and you base your judgement on hearsay? Not to mention my sibling Svyatoslav in Russia, who works with the Vityazi. Is he also a disaster in waiting? Will you go to Moscow and apprehend him afterward?”

His fellow knights track Anatole’s reaction with no hint of support. This only serves to make the man more incensed. The situation is disturbingly easy to understand, a poor prospect when vampires are concerned.

“You suddenly appear and at the same moment, your master resurfaces to wreak havoc. You expect me to believe that this is a coincidence?”

“If you believe me to have any influence on a millennia-old monster, I am sorry to say that you are grossly overestimating my reach, Anatole.”

“Who knows what dark sorcery led to the death of my mentor!”

“There is no deep secret, knight, he went after my Master and perished, like legions before him, and more after, no matter how many die by his hand.”

“He was supposed to be weakened! He had to receive some help!”

“And this highly hypothetical help must have come from me, an isolated young vampire with no knowledge of sorcery and no means, operating thousands of miles away? Truly astute of you.”

“Perhaps you used the key of Beriah?”

“The artefact that wasn’t found until yesterday? That key?”

“And where is it now?”

“Are you going to keep spewing baseless slander until you find something that sticks?”

“I am the knight, I ask the questions here. Do you have in your possession the key of Beriah, an artefact of great danger?”

“No.” I add between gritted teeth. This… insufferable, obnoxious PRICK! Calm, Ariane, let Suarez handle this. I do not want to risk my friends.

“No? Where is it then?”

“I destroyed it.”

“You destroyed? How? With your bare hands?”

“No I… The Watcher took it.”

He scoffs.

“Surely lord Suarez, you can see that she is either lying or delusional.”

The Cadiz lord does not answer, he looks at me with a contemplative expression before returning his attention to the head knight.

“You have made a lot of accusations Anatole, most of them so completely groundless as to be preposterous. The way the events unfold makes me think more of a pithy revenge for the loss of a mentor than the act of a reliable new leader dedicated to keeping us safe.”

“How dare you!” exclaims Anatole, his aura flaring.

“Easily, young one.”

Suarez lets go of his control and his frigid power blasts all others like a father castigating rowdy children. All three mortals by my side swear softly, each in their own language, as the cold wave washes over us. I shiver. Such power…

“I dare much, and you would do well to remember that your position is not as secure as you may think.”

Anatole shows apprehension for the first time, but not for long. Soon, his haughty face returns with a vengeance.

“It matters not, she is persona non grata on the entire territory. Her execution has been approved by no other than Constantine himself.”

“What?!” I sputter. “How?! This is impossible! He knew of me beforehand! He even sent me an invitation to the next conclave! I cannot believe this, I refuse. You lie!”

Oh, I wish I could wipe that smirk off his face. He is a cad and a scoundrel, trying to finagle his way. There absolutely no way that Constantine would sign this… This sham!

“And yet he did. See for yourself, Lord Suarez.”

I am stunned. Speechless. How, how is this happening?! He lies, does he not? I gathered support, I played by the rules I… What? Everything was fine! I was going to join the society of my peers after ten long years! No longer an outcast! And now, the leader has signed my death warrant? Out of nowhere?

“Is this some cruel joke!?”

“I’m afraid not Senorita. This is Constantine’s seal. It cannot be counterfeited.”

“No, this is wrong, this is all wrong...”

“Now, ‘Lord’ Suarez, step away and let us complete our mission, unless you want to raise your hand against a knight?”

There is a heavy pause as my ally digests the threat and thinly veiled insult. Anatole looks unbearably smug. I would be furious but cannot. Between the grief, my still aching wounds and now this? I must be asleep, there is no other explanation. I am living a nightmare. Surely, the world would not be so cruel…

Suarez turns to me and smiles sadly.

“Please Senorita, remember what I said. Stay with your friends and do not fight, understood? Remember my oath.”

Words escape me, so I just nod.

“A wise decision,” says Anatole as he sidesteps the Cadiz vampire, “now…”

“Oh, but we are not done.”

The entire squad freezes and tenses at once. Even I can feel the threat, no, the promise of violence in the lord’s voice.

“You played politics to achieve your petty goal, thus forfeiting the protection that your status entails.”

“You would not dare…”

“You parrot the same sentence again, child.”

With a single word, Suarez reminds all present of the gap between himself and the others.

“And you do not understand. Do you think the knights will go to war with my Coven to protect you?”

“Yes!”

“Not if I leave most of you alive. I will receive at most a slap on the wrist.”

“You would fight us? For her?”

“I owe her a debt of gratitude, one I fully intend to repay. I owe you nothing but contempt for what you just did, and one last thing…”

Suarez positions himself between the knights and us.

“You mocked me, disrespected me before friend and foe. I cannot let it slide. You will bear the stigma of this mistake in your soul, and in your flesh.”

“This is folly! Wait!”

“Too late, mongrel. Draw.”

I struggle to understand the combat that follows. The Cadiz’ lord aura washes over us like a tidal wave and a furious battle is joined. The four knights react immediately. They move as a single unit in complex and ever-flowing formations. The woman provides some subtle magical support I cannot identify, while the men alternate to contain their opponent. Anatole takes point with a black sword and dagger that appeared seemingly out of nowhere with the shield-bearer in support, ready to step up when he is pushed back. The playful man with the stilettos circles around, constantly looking for an opening. He is quick to strike and quick to retreat, always playing interference.

In front of them, Suarez fights like a swordmaster. He is tempered fury and perfection in motion. Their dance is one I can barely follow and cannot understand. Their every movement is a complex dialogue in sequences that elude me, and I now realize the wall that separates me from them. They are not just faster than me, they are not simply godly fencers, they are also drawing on decades, nay, centuries of experience fighting their own kind. Every savage strike is also an expert move from a brilliant choregraphy. Every cunning feint is turned into a merciless attack if ignored. I am the witness to a spectacle that is as beautiful as it is daunting, and I am glad I did not try to fight the knights. They would have wiped the floor with me in mere moments, even if I were at the top of my form.

I had felt a sense of power after slaying the Herald. I heard Isaac say that someone attuned with the key could go toe to toe with a lord. Clearly, they must have consumed more than a small village and used the artefact for longer than a single night.

I am out of my depth and witness, powerlessly, the contest that will decide my fate.

At first, Lord Suarez seems to have the upper hand as he manages to land a few blows that his opponents struggle to heal. For a while, Anatole is hard-pressed and his ally almost drops his axe. The Cadiz lord even manages to feint beautifully to catch the knife holder in the heart and through the armor, disabling him with a single strike. Shortly thereafter, the tides of battle change. With an overhead strike from his obsidian-colored blade, Anatole catches his foe’s blade with an ominous clang. It is too much for Suarez’ sword. It shatters in myriad pieces. The knight leader follows up with a slash that draws a bloody line across my ally’s chest.

Lord Suarez steps back.

“Not bad at all, for a second-rate team.”

“It is over, Lord Suarez. You fought impressively but your sword is broken. You are defenseless.”

“None of us are ever truly defenseless, fool. You should have remembered that. Just as you should always expect a battle lord to carry a soul weapon.”

Soul weapon? Are those the black weapons vampire lords pull out of nowhere?

Suarez takes a step forward and the three remaining fighters huddle protectively as he speaks in an unnaturally loud voice. His presence fills the clearing with an overwhelming sense of pressure. Even standing behind him, I must struggle to resist bending my back and lowering my eyes. Such is the power of a lord.

“I tested your mettle and found it wanting, Anatole. You do not have the means of your arrogance. I am sure that your elders taught you the importance of diplomacy and subtlety, but perhaps you forgot. I shall remind you of it, as it is a lesson that you need to learn if you ever want to last. No need to thank me, I will do it with pleasure.”

Suarez straightens and breathes deeply. A massive ornamented two-hander appears between his hands, held vertically in front of him. The hilt is silvery and elegant but its surface absorbs the very light, while the very air shakes before it as an ominous hum covers the clearing. Just like Loth when he is truly angry, there is an unspeakable weight to it that goes beyond the mere physical world. The Cadiz Lord will now impose his will on the reality around him and nothing, not Anatole screaming orders, not the axeman charging him, not even the sorceress begging will stop. When he next speaks, the two words cover everything else.

“Magna Arqa.”

What happens next defies description. Suarez’ eyes flash purple and then, he strikes.

His sword bisects the heavier knight from right shoulder to waist, through shield, weapon, and armor.

I did not see him move.

His opponent falls instantly. Without pause, he slices horizontally behind him and catches Anatole mid-lunge. The monstrous attack cuts cleanly through the leader’s chest as well as his right arm, and sends his own sword spinning in the darkness.

The clearing goes quiet as the witch gives up and falls to her knees.

The entire exchange lasted less than a heartbeat.

“Hooooly shit.” whispers Merritt.

Well, yes. Quite.

My ally turns to the last remaining member of the squad.

“Will you fight as well?”

“No, lord, I would rather make sure they are safe. Thank you for sparing their lives.”

I mistakenly assumed her to be a coward, but it appears that she merely possesses common sense.

“Take them and leave.”

“As you say.”

We watch quietly as she collects her companion’s ‘disheartened’ pieces. Now that the show is over and done, the reality of the situation overwhelms me once more.

“Why? Why would you do that?” I say accusingly, “I thought knights were our vanguards, the true monster slayers?”

The witch spares me a glance.

“How many spawns of the Devourers have laid havoc and how many have become members of our society?”

“Knowing which category I belong to would have taken your squad all of five minutes, hypocrite.”

She will not meet my eyes.

“I obey.”

Pathetic. SPINELESS WEAKLING. Why Jimena wants to join their sorry excuse for an outfit, I shall never know.

A moment later, we are alone in the clearing.

This is all too surreal. We just witnessed a cataclysmic battle and all that remains is a handful of blood marks. There is also the small matter of my life, my entire project, being in shambles. Constantine’s invitation? I might as well fold it and use it as a napkin. Unbelievable.

“What now.”

“Now, you must flee.”

Is this some sort of cosmic farce?

“I worked so much for this, waited for so long! Is there no other way?”

“I am sorry.”

“So, this was all for nothing.”

All my efforts. Ruined.

Well, this is not entirely true. I have made friends and allies, have grown stronger, experienced much. Even though I must run away again, I am no longer the weak fledgling who struggled to survive. And I am not destitute either.

“Is there a way to reverse an execution order?”

Suarez blinks in surprise, perhaps not expecting me to recover so fast. I haven’t, I just need something to look forward to.

“Perhaps. I have not studied the Accords beyond what is expected of me.”

“There must be a way, and I shall find it. Lord Suarez, I thank you for your help. Consider your debt repaid.”

“Not yet young one,” he replies with a smile, “I intend to send you on your way. Your companions cannot follow, so I would advise you to say your farewell now. I shall wait for you over there.”

The first to come to me is Loth. He looks sad and also a bit awkward. I imagine that the old warlord is not used to expressing his feelings, unless they relate to fighting, sex, or food.

“I cannot follow you.”

“I know. Take care of your family, and we will meet again. I promise.”

“Aye ye’d better. You and I, we can do great things together. Also, I’ll miss ya. Ah, Tyr.”

Loth dries his eyes with a handkerchief.

“Be safe. Don’t do anything too reckless.”

“Well, you know me. I’m the very soul of caution.”

There is a moment of silence before we both chuckle.

“I’ll go before I turn into a moppy milk drinker. Don’t forget your promise. You carry the boy’s memory too now.”

I nod and we hug. Loth then turns to leave and Nashoba joins me.

“This is goodbye daughter of Thorn and Hunger. You should go West, and North.”

“This is as good direction as any I suppose.”

“No, it is much better, trust me, I...”

“Can see the future, yes.”

“I will carry your friend’s ashes to the sea. He will be at peace. You have my word.”

“Thank you. Take care as well.”

“I will and do not worry, we shall meet again. Keep those earrings on at all times.”

My hands go to his gift. I wear them as a habit now. I only now come to realize how useful they must have been. I have no idea how many times they have protected me, only that they will save me once more. When the knights inevitably try to track me, they will have to do it the old-fashioned way. I wish them good luck. They will need it.

“So um, that was intense yeah?”

Merritt.

She really pulled through. I am pleasantly surprised.

“Thank you, mage Merritt, you stood by my side, our side, through everything. You are a credit to your organization and mages everywhere. I am glad you were here.”

“Wow! Do you really mean that?”

For some reason, she appears moved to tears. I do not understand, is she letting the general mood affect her?

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

“Wow, this is the nicest thing someone has said to me in… Forever!”

Huh. That is… Rather pathetic.

“It is well deserved. In my case, I must bid you goodbye and I wish you good luck.”

She bites her lip, considering. Before she follows that specific thought I cut her off.

“You cannot follow. I will be going too fast.”

“Yes, I know. It’s just, I admire you. You stand up for yourself so much, and you are so confident, and strong! Can we stay in touch? Exchange letters?”

“Well… Yes of course. Via the Rosenthal consortium. Get in touch with them.”

Her happiness is a curious thing. I never realized I could matter so much to someone without trying to, not since Loth anyway. Not if they know what I am.

I take a step back and realize that all my belongings are somewhere else. I only have my mask and the ruined dress left, as well as my two pendants and the pair of earrings.

“I am ready.” I announce to Suarez.

“Then follow.”

“And what is this?”

Before me is a majestic horse with a black coat and surprisingly red eyes. He is bound to a tree, his saddles bulging with supplies.

“Is that…”

“Yes, young one. A nightmare. Isaac left it to you, as well as most of your clothes from the camp, I believe. He assured me that the rest would be stored safely until you find a place to call yours again.”

“Excellent. What is its name?”

“Her name is Metis and she is a gift fit for a king. Let me guide you through the bonding phase. And then you can go.”

Five minutes later I am riding full speed West, with the wind in my face and the grace of the immortal.

“Weeeeee! Faster Metis, faster!”

49. The shadow over Marquette.

September 1813

Message to Isaac of the Rosenthal.

Metis is well.

Marquette, IL.

A.

December 1813

Milady,

After reviewing your project, you will be pleased to learn that the board has approved your loan, with a one-year grace period before interest is collected.

You will find the signed agreement, as well as a reminder of our terms and conditions in separate documents.

We wish you all the best in your endeavour.

Best regards,

Andrew Mills, Manager for the Rosenthal Consortium, branch of Savannah.

December 21st 1831, Marquette, Illinois.

Below my bedroom’s largest window, I placed a mahogany desk. The delicate furniture is an expensive and wasteful affair I gifted myself last summer as a well-deserved treat for my birthday. Its surface has not been clear since then, always cluttered with messages, invoices, and orders I must countersign. Tonight, the right-hand pile will remain untouched. Tonight, I dedicate my time to contemplation.

I lined the walls with some of my best paintings. The Eye, my favourite rendition of the Herald, a portrait of Dalton, another one of Loth. Those are the personal paintings while the rabble downstairs contents themselves with my landscapes and other portraits.

There is even a single piece of poetry under a protective glass case, a Sonnet in alexandrines written by a passing artist singing the glory of my rear. That one made me laugh.

The four-poster bed with a goose feather mattress, I seldom use, just like the vanity with its attached mirror. They serve to keep appearances in case somebody manages to break in.

The two wardrobes are packed. I do have a reputation to uphold, one that requires a flawless appearance. Right now, I am wearing a blue winter gown with an ermine collar as I stare over the city.

Two winters in a row now, the entire state has been covered in thick snow. Travel is almost impossible, and I expect that when it thaws, we will have to recover the corpses of the unwary and the unfortunate. The fluffy white mantle hangs over everything and even the dark soot of burnt coal has yet to mar its pristine beauty. For a few more hours, the alabaster cloth will mask the truth of what this city is: a rotten shithole. White powder to hide away the decrepitude like heavy makeup on an old whore.

I appreciate the moment while it lasts.

Then somebody knocks on the door.

I sigh deeply and resist the urge to crumple the fragile letter in my hand, the one telling me of father’s death three years ago to this day.

I take one last look outside and enjoy the scent of jasmine and burning log, the crisp air inside before it is polluted.

“Come in.”

Margaret’s vixen face appears as I knew it would. She searches the dim room with her pitch-black eyes.

“Margaret.”

“Mistress…”

“Did I not leave specific instructions that I should not be disturbed?”

“Yes, but…”

She swallows nervously.

“You also said to fetch you if the Alvaro were to come again. They… They are here. Three brothers. Hm. Michael and George and Gabriel. Those.”

Two archangels and one king. Pretentious.

“Very well. I will go.”

“And mistress? Hm. You might want to check Patrick. I think… I think he’s been drinking.”

I wait a few seconds before answering.

“You may go.”

She closes the door and scurries away, to prepare her promotion, no doubt. Margaret is my best cattle, and I believe she may have been Lancaster vampire material. That, or she is just a cunning, backstabbing harridan. I cannot decide which.

This is, in essence, what cattle are. After three bites they lose most of their autonomy and only exist to serve us. The fires of ambition and inspiration in their soul is smothered. Their entire existence is reduced to menial tasks and spying on each other to improve their standing.

I turned her into this because the twit poisoned my wine. I did Patrick because he tried to swindle me. They remain the most proactive of those I took in, and I placed them in charge of the dozen I keep around at all times. Sadly, their blood is just as insipid as their personalities.

I wish I could have a Vassal but unsurprisingly, it takes a deep connection between vampire and mortal to form such a bond. The deepest connections I formed since my arrival consisted of my hand in someone’s rib cage and I do not see it changing any time soon. I suspect that Masters can have several, though I remember Baudouin mentioning that only one can become the Servant and thus escape old age for a life of servitude.

I step out of my room and in the corridor to the view of Margaret’s quickly retreating back. The alley is decorated by my paintings and actual plaster, with doors on both sides leading to storage closets and the staff’s personal quarters. I follow it to the end then down the set of stairs.

The Dream is four stories high with three wings around an inner court. It is the largest building in a hundred miles in any direction, not that the South of Illinois abounds with those. I am about to reach the third floor when I come across a nervous Patrick climbing up. He sees me and stops. Under the stench of stale sweat, sex and unwashed bodies, I detect the subtle hint of expensive liquor.

“Patrick.”

The weaselly man freezes in his tracks, not even daring to move.

“Mistress?”

“Turn around.”

If the man gets anymore scared, I fear he may soil his pants. Human excrement is not something I wish to add to the already fragrant bouquet I submit myself to.

“Choose.”

“Mistress? I…”

I slap him. He manages to cushion his head with an arm before it impacts the wall. Blood drips down his crooked nose.

“Choose.”

“A finger.”

He shakily extends his hand. I grab the index and snap it. Ignoring his scream of pain, I drag him by his broken digit until he kneels before me.

“I can tolerate mistakes but not deception. One more incident and you will join Russel and the others, and I would hate to ask John to dig a grave in this weather. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“You will give the key to the pantry and cave to Margaret.”

“… Yes, Mistress.”

After one last twist, I leave the whimpering failure behind. Such a waste of my time.

Two more landings and I am on the ground floor. Normally, the noise coming from the saloon eclipses even the moans and giggles of the upper floors. Tonight, it is unusually quiet. Even the piano stopped playing.

John is waiting at the bottom with an iron poker and a big goofy smile. He cleans the drool from his cleft lip and bows.

“Miss Lethe.”

“Good evening John, I see you remember. Thank you.”

The man nods frantically with a delicate blush.

John is an interesting find. He is without a doubt the tallest and strongest man in town by a wide margin. He is also one of the ugliest men I ever had the misfortune of ever meeting.

I wish I could say he is the stupidest. He is not, but he is close.

“I remember. September seventh eighteen thirty-one. If they come back, bam!”

What John is explaining in his own words is my previous banishment of the Alvaro brothers from the Dream on threat of death, by strenuous application of the aforementioned implement. John’s memory is simply uncanny. His ability to process information, not so much.

With the poker held by my side, I enter the main room and calmly walk towards the bar where the trio is drinking, their back to the oaken strip. Gabriel, the eldest, is pointing an old pistol at the crowd while the two others nurse glasses and glance around nervously. The customers and girls alike stare at them and I can see quite a few predatory smirks. Those are not the delicate gentlemen and ladies of the East coast, but godless frontier folk and they are always eager for a free bloody show.

When Gabriel spots me, he swings the pistol in my direction, and I catch a glimpse of the pan. Truly, it is a miracle that the entire Alvaro bloodline is not extinguished yet by the result of their sheer incompetence. A mistake that nature made and that I shall remedy myself.

“Well well well, and who graces my establishment tonight?”

“You bitch, we go where we want. You don’t get to order us around, you know who we are?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. I remember telling you to leave and never return, or else. Isn’t that right Gabriel?”

“You don’t get to tell us that. We’re the Alvaro. You gots to respect us. You’re just a nasty slut, who cares what you want. Ain’t that right?”

I have almost reached them yet. I could Charm them into begging. I could make them leave with their tails between their legs, but I will not. I made a public promise, one I fully intend to fulfil. Their fate was sealed the moment they stepped into my domain without my leave. I do have a reputation to uphold after all, and the fancy clothes are only a part of it.

“I said, if you come back here, I will break your skulls with an iron poker.”

I am close now, just barely out of arm’s reach.

“I don’t see no iron poker, you whore.”

I slightly extend my right arm until the entire room sees the implement. A collective intake of breath and a few expressions of admiration welcome the barbaric statement.

Gabriel panics, he lifts his pistol and pulls the trigger. The flint erupts in a rain of sparks as the people behind me yell in dismay.

Nothing happens. That inbred cretin forgot to close the pan. His powder is on the ground somewhere.

My strike catches him in the temple with a resounding crack. There is a trick to applying strength in public as a vampire. I only need to move at human speed and let the weapon’s weight do the job for me.

A two-handed swing takes care of George on the right, and a downward strike cracks Michael’s head as he kneels by his sibling’s side.

For a beautiful moment, the room is filled and yet perfectly silent, then the mob lets loose. Cheers, jeers and laughter bloom at my back as I drop the poker without a care. I approach my barman under tumultuous applause. He is cleaning glass as if nothing of note had occurred.

“Oscar.”

The man is a black freeman, an oddity around here. Light from the candles shines on his bald head. He raises sad brown eyes to me and nods in appreciation.

“I’m sorry for giving them booze miss Lethe, they threatened me with that gun.”

“Did you give them the cheapest swill?”

“Of course.”

“Good man.”

He returns to work and I approach the main entrance just as my men step in to get rid of the corpses. I smile pleasantly at the revellers complimenting me.

“Ice-cold miss!”

“You sure showed them!”

“Did not even flinch…”

A man with a black beard and a brutish face is waiting right outside.

“Horrigan.”

“Boss?”

“Those three must have cut a way through the snow to come to town. Take three teams and go to the Alvaro estate. Kill all the adults, take the kids, and burn the house down.”

“Even old Mary Alvaro?”

“Especially her. Now go.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I turn around. Horrigan is a brute and also the leader of my private army. There are around twenty of them at any time, a costly investment but one I can afford. The unruly pack will loot the place but they will also do as I ordered.

I step back inside and use a side passage to return to my room unhindered. I meet a few couples on my way up. The men remove their hats and my girls curtsey, as I instructed. This should soothe me, yet it does not. The calm is gone.

Well, I might as well do some paperwork.

“This concludes the meeting. Anyone else has anything to add?”

Horrigan is already trying to escape and frowns as Kitty, the one in charge of the girls, raises a hand. He is not a fan of work, especially the kind that requires a brain.

“Preparations for the Christmas party would go better if your, ah, personal staff helped us shovel snow.”

Margaret fixes her. If looks could kill…

“Very well, the men only.”

Kitty dips her head and soon my assistants file out.

There is Horrigan for security, Kitty for the girls, Oscar for the entertainment side and old Martha for food and cleaning. Margaret is present as well, though their role is separate.

When I settled here, I realized that there were very few positions of authority for women that did not start with ‘wife of’, so I became a madame.

I run a brothel.

If my father had learnt of it, he would have died of embarrassment. As for me, I don’t really care that much. It is a means to an end, an excellent means besides. And the end is near. I just need two more years.

My establishment, the Dream, was built with funds I borrowed from the Consortium. That debt is now repaid several times over. Indeed, I am in the business of pleasure and illusion, and business is booming. Mine is the only place of entertainment in the surrounding three counties, the only destination where one can forget about their miserable existence, their back-breaking labour or their nagging wife. This is the grandest building in all of Marquette, larger and more lavish than both the mine’s office and town hall together. For a week’s pay, workers and farmhands can come and drink rotgut in fancy glasses of fake crystal, served from ornate bottles by beautiful women who pretend to care. With only a handful of coins, they will find comfort in arms smelling of cheap perfume and wake up the next day just as miserable but with their mood, their purse, and their testicles lighter. Their aspirations are fulfilled, if only for an evening.

All of their aspirations.

The Dream is well provisioned. They want shy brunettes? I have them. Prissy blondes? Got them too. They want plump girls dressed in farm clothes they bend over to fulfil a cousin fantasy? They can. Refined ladies pretending to slum it to get their freak on? I got them as well, with quality acting delivered by the daughters of expert conmen. I got red-heads, I got auburn, I even got grey. Fat and slim, tall and small, luscious or boyish, I have them all. They want a black woman? No problem. A native? A Chinese? Right this way sir. They want food served? I have all the ribs they will ever need. I have beer, whiskey, gin and wine. I have music and dancers. I have games and jokes and all they will ever need to live the dream, to feel successful, to feel that they matter. And when dawn comes and the shining rays of the sun show the cracks in the wall painting and the imperfection on the bar’s varnish, their money is already on its way to my office.

Leading this small empire is not an easy task though. This is a company. We sell services and the logistics alone is already a nightmare. The amount of food required to satisfy almost three hundred people on busy nights is truly staggering, and this is without even considering cleaning. Before starting this, I had no idea how much effort is required to wash a hundred and fifty sheets, and well, let’s just say that if a mer-woman lives downstream, she’s pregnant. Growing and managing the massive structure has been a formative experience and I have a newfound respect for Isaac.

Tonight is a town council night. As the owner and sole proprietor of the Dream, I count as one of the city’s top dogs, which I guess makes me the alpha bitch. The big wheels gather once per week to discuss their domain’s ongoing affairs and align to solve them. This goes from funding public works to handling disgruntled employees or undesirables, an initiative made necessary by the frontier’s unequal rule of law. Until tonight, that is.

I leave Horrigan and John in the town hall’s entrance. A woman alone is a tempting target for those who do not know better, therefore I bring them along to intimidate people. And it works. I ordered John to smile and remain silent when people talk to him. The resulting facial expression is an abominable rictus that does not reach his eyes. As long as he doesn’t utter a word, he appears dangerous instead of just plain stupid. I left no instructions to Horrigan, he only needs to be himself.

The council room is a stuffy fumoir with heavy leather couches. The walls are yellowed by years of cigar smoke and the centre is occupied by a coffee table cluttered with alcohol bottles, often emptied and changed. Inebriation makes my colleagues more amenable, most of the time. I highly suspect this will not apply to the newcomer.

“Ah, here you are hehe! Miss Lethe, meet our new judge, the honourable Mr Richard Sullivan. Splendid, hehe, yes, now, order will finally come to our beloved city, hehe, isn’t that right Mr Sullivan?”

The mayor is a short and plump man with a sweet disposition. Under his affable air lies a shrewd businessman, one with probity, according to local standards. His striped suit flares around the middle making him bottom heavy. By contrast, the newcomer is dressed in black with a top hat, gloves and an entirely black suit with a white shirt. He is tall, with white hair and an abundant white beard, and painfully thin. Two pale blue eyes peer down an aquiline nose. His tone is glacial.

“Yes. Quite.”

A silver cross hangs on his tie. Not from the Brotherhood thankfully, or our collaboration would have been brief indeed.

Thankfully, I know how to handle his kind without leaving a corpse.

I curtsey respectfully and offer my hand in greeting.

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, judge Sullivan.”

And here is the thing, scorning me would not only be unbecoming of a gentleman in public, it would also insult the mayor, his host.

After a slight hesitation, Sullivan relents and holds my hand. He bows slightly in a gesture that is calculated to convey disdain.

“I have heard much about you and your… Establishment, Ms Lethe.”

“Only good things, I hope?” I add, ever the pleasant host.

“It is a den of sin!”

“You mean, prostitution?”

“So, you do not deny it?”

“No.”

My calm statement takes him by surprise, and I use the distraction to push him further.

“We live on the frontier, judge Sullivan. Those are hardy and persistent folks, but they have base instincts. I merely offer them a safe and clean place to relax and… ply their trade.”

“You attempt to present adultery as something inevitable!”

“Ah, but we both know that if your constituents were all respectable citizens, your task would be significantly easier would it not? I understand that you would see the Dream as a tool of chaos and evil, but you could not be further from the truth. When I came here, these women were living in poorly lit and filthy barns while the men were drinking dangerous concoctions made by smugglers and criminals. The squalor of their living conditions was appalling and every year, many would die to disease and exposure. The Dream brought civilization, such as it is, to those poor people. We provide a safe environment for them to… Channel their impulses. As a man of law, I believe that you can appreciate our contribution to peace and order in this town.”

“Certainly, their time would be better spent attending church rather than a house of ill repute!”

“I am afraid that this would be the purview of pastor van Tassel. Ah, here he is.”

An older gentleman in a dark ensemble joins us at the table, soon followed by a dour bald man who manages the city’s coal mine for some Chicago firm.

“Mrs Lethe is right I’m afraid. I fight an uphill battle to save the souls of those lost lambs. At the very least, her financial contribution to the church helped us repair it last winter so my efforts could continue.”

Of course, I would fund the local church. I do need the priest off my back, not to mention that he likes curvy women and roleplay. Interestingly, so does his wife.

“An undisciplined rabble is what they are!” harrumphs the mayor, “it takes all of Ms Lethe and pastor’s van Tassel’s efforts to keep them in line. Why just yesterday an entire farm was burnt to the ground as part of a criminal’s quarrel, no doubt!”

Ahem.

“You have your task cut out for you, judge Sullivan. You can, of course, count on all our help.” He continues.

“Hmpf!”

The righteous man is not convinced by their arguments in my favour, but he is mellowed and that will be enough for a first contact. As in most things political, I will take my time, erode determinations and enmities by making them too costly to maintain. In truth, immortality grants me a unique mindset to appreciate long-term goals. So many decisions are motivated by biological imperatives to find fortune, a good party, or to leave a legacy to one’s children within a few years. I do not disdain mortals for it, quite the contrary. So many great deeds are carried out through the motivation a limited lifespan offers. Short-sightedness is only an unfortunate and unavoidable side effect of this condition, and with no vampires around, insults slide off me like water. Betrayals are nothing but amusing distractions I need to repay in a particularly inventive and cruel manner. Finally, if the offenders decide it wiser to leave town, they never reach the next one. Metis and I make sure of it.

A slow stream of notables joins us until all are present or excused. I remain the only woman present to the general indifference of all. It appears mortals can get used to anything, with time.

Judge Sullivan introduces himself and what he stands for through a concise speech mentioning “God” far too many times for my taste, and “Justice” too few. Our discussions then lead to the town’s Christmas celebrations. Van Tassel and I mention our respective preparations, and the meeting is soon adjourned.

I never truly appreciated cold before. I feel it in my bones but it is no longer uncomfortable, nor distressing. Instead of shivers and lethargy, I enjoy the crisp air and silence only broken by feet trudging through snow. Then we reach the Dream and I am hit by a sensory wall.

Bright lights, loud music, the overwhelming stench of sweat, stale sex and unwashed bodies. Spilled booze mingles with cheap tobacco in a concerted effort to saturate my mind. I immediately turn to a side door to escape the main room before one of our patrons gathers enough courage to accost me.

“Miss Ari?”

“Yes John.”

“Your head hurts?”

How can he be so perceptive yet so dumb? A most peculiar man.

“No, the music is just too loud.”

The towering giant nods wisely, or his version of wise anyway. Horrigan sneers but remains quiet.

Once, I ordered John to execute a man who had shot one of our girls. The simpleton placed his hands around his victim’s skull and crushed it like an overripe melon. Since that fateful moment, not a man has seen it wise to test or bully my self-proclaimed bodyguard.

“I will retire to my room. You two enjoy your evening.”

I close the door behind me. Finally, blessed quiet, and the light scent of cleanliness and jasmine. And woodsmoke. And…

Roses.

There is an envelope on my bed. NEST COMPROMISED. FIND THE INTRUDER AND KILL IT. KILL IT NOW!

“MARGARET!”

Feet scurry outside, only to stop at the door. I bang it open and take her by her devious, lying throat.

“Who came here!? Who?”

“No… Please!”

“HSSSSS!”

“No one! No one I swear!”

A small gathering of cattle is now watching us.

“Who came in here?”

“No one Mistress.”

They all shake their heads. They look scared, terrified even, but I detect no signs of duplicity. No shifty eyes, no one trying to avoid attention. They are all looking around trying to catch another lying, eager to curry my favor. I even forbid them from entering and as far as I know, cattle cannot, and will not disobey a direct order.

“Very well. Wait here.”

I go back in and look around the room. The windows are sealed, and cannot be opened from the outside. I inspect all four of them without finding any sign of tampering. There are no magical auras either.

Not even from the envelope.

“Margaret. Find anyone who came to this floor while I was away and bring them to me.”

“Very well, Mistress.”

The letter smells of roses. I open it and read its content, a single piece of paper covered in a flowery script I do not recognize.

“Dear princess,

Your problem is more than skin deep.

With love,

An admirer.”

What in the name of the Watcher?!

“Miss?”

“Yes Margaret.”

“They are here, and I heard some terrible news!”

“Do tell.”

“Old man Roger has been assassinated!”

Old man Roger does not matter. His assassination does. I do not tolerate any bloodletting on my territory unless I am the instigator, and so I decide to head out immediately. Interrogation will have to wait.

I leave the house with John in tow. The murder occurred near the Northern entrance to the town on a large square surrounded by warehouses where convoys unload their wares. The Southern entrance is mostly used to load coal and is easily recognizable by its spoil pile, an artificial dark valley devoid of plant life where the mine dumps its rejects.

When we arrive, we find a small gathering even at this late hour. They part to let us through and I find that I am late to the party. The doors to one of the warehouses are wide open, the interior lit and in it, I find men surrounding what I assume is Roger’s corpse.

“Ms. Lethe, would you mind explaining what on earth do you think you’re doing here? This is no place for a woman.”

“Judge Sullivan.”

The man is surrounded by four men in heavy cloth and identical leather coats with Marshal stars, quite likely men he named himself. None of them are locals which tells a lot about judge Sullivan’s trust in local law enforcement and his willingness to be part of our community.

“I wanted to know if the dreadful rumors I heard about old Roger have any truth to them. He did some work for us after all. His well-being concerns me.”

The man scoffs lightly but he questions my sincerity and not my motive, and that is all I care about. As for me I know the rumors to be true. The scent of carrion and blood is heavy on the air.

“See for yourself.”

The men step back.

On the ground, lies old Roger or to be precise, what is left of him. He has been savaged with full pieces of meat and most of the innards missing while the skin of his face has been peeled off and removed. Only his signature hat, his pipe and a missing right eye ascertain his identity. I have seldom seen such cadavers outside of animal attacks and this is simply impossible here.

“You do not seem shocked.”

I raise my eyes to meet the judge’s inquisitive brown eyes.

“I have seen worse, in animal attacks.”

“Did you now? And do you believe this to be an animal attack?”

Ah, time to decide. Do I gracefully dodge the question, or do I make myself look competent? This is a defining moment, one that will shape our future relationship for the next two years.

What do I want?

I want him to consider me as an off-man. I have seen it before. Many of the more religious men see women as incapable of holding a business or dealing with violence. When confronted with me, those beliefs conflict with observable facts and when it happens, they simply discard me as an anomaly. I become an “off-man”, someone who was conceived without dangling parts by some divine clerical error. Competence it is.

“Not at all, sir.”

“Explain.”

“A mauled man is always surrounded by a pool of blood, here the ground is mostly dry so he was not killed here. No beast large enough to inflict this type of wound would move the body, not to mention they would never reach this far into the city, nor open a gate.”

“What if an animal killed him and dropped the body here.”

“Unlikely, there are no blood trails. And something is clearly missing.”

He blinks. I hear his heartbeat accelerate in excitement.

“What is?”

Is he not tired of testing me?

“Bite marks. Roger’s corpse has been cut apart by claws or a claw like instrument but there are no teeth marks. Look at the chest, the pieces of flesh here and there have been clearly carved out but not bitten. It cannot possibly be the work of a beast.”

The marshals all bend down to get a better look, a few looking a bit green around the gills. Sullivan’s eyes widen and I realize my mistakes.

They had not noticed yet.

I hope I did not present myself as too competent.

The judge takes a step forward, only for John to cross his arms at my side. I classify John crossing his arms as a spectator sport. When he does it, many men realize that waists are not that thick. They stare in wonder and their eyes drift up to a face even a mother would not love, which explains why he was abandoned as a kid.

Then John smiles.

Sullivan wisely decides to take a step back from the man who might very well be Illinois’ second highest altitude after Charles Mound and asks his question from afar.

“How does a woman know all of that?”

Because my eight hundred years old Dvergur friend taught me how to recognize monsters from their victims.

“Because I grew up in a farm, judge Sullivan. I saw dead sheep and dead horses and it was nothing quite like that.”

Technically correct.

“So he was killed somewhere else. It cannot be far since he was still alive three hours ago.”

No way. Too rotted.

“He was?”

“Yes, he and other drivers…” Sullivan stops abruptly and with a blush of embarrassment, realizes he is giving precious information to a civilian, and worse! One who wears petticoats.

“Thank you for your assistance Ms. Lethe. Now I will ask you to clear the scene.”

I nod and gracefully make my exit, my bodyguard in tow.

“Someone killed Mr. Roger. Mr. Roger gave me treacle twice and tobacco four times.”

It is a rare thing for John to speak first. The death must trouble him a lot.

“Who killed Mr. Roger, Ms. Ari?”

“A monster.”

One who can mask his aura.

“Are you going to kill it?”

“Of course.”

50. Under the Skin

Behind the Dream, two minutes on foot eastward, one can find a small shop called the Seamstress Union. Every month, a cart makes the rounds of nearby farms to drop off spools of cotton thread and pick up finished cloth. The best are dyed and sold here to Marquette’s more affluent citizens, under the watchful eye of its proprietor.

“Good evening Debbie.”

“Ms Lethe.”

Deborah frowns. I’d like to think that, if I had stayed human, I would have been a bit like her. She has five children and a loving husband, a flourishing business, and bears her age with beauty and dignity. The grey in her auburn hair and the crow’s feet by her dark eyes fail to extinguish her charm. She carries herself with poise and confidence.

She is also an untrained mage. I can feel in her the telltale aura of spellcasters.

Perhaps because we are far from large cities, she never had any magical education and her potential only manifests in one curious quirk. She can spot lies in mortals.

“What is tonight’s guess?”

“Sophia.”

“Wrong again.”

“One day I’ll find out what your first name is.”

“Don’t bother, it’s Fernande.”

“Truly?”

“No, it is Berenice.”

“You are making a fool of me!”

She pretends to scowl, then we both chuckle.

“How do I even know that you will respect your promise? I still cannot tell when you deceive me.”

“I gave you my word.”

She snorts with bitter amusement.

“Who respects their promises nowadays?”

“I do.”

Our eyes meet and though I do not use Charm, she recoils and shivers. She is quite perceptive despite her lack of formal training, sensitive enough to pick up when my own aura flares. I hold my promises, oh yes. All of them.

“You are one strange woman, miss Lethe.”

“I will accept this as the compliment I am sure this was meant to be.”

“Ah yes, of course.” She answers, lowering her eyes.

I need to remember to blink more often. I did not mean to be intimidating.

“There is something I would like to know.”

“Yes?”

“The caravan Roger was in, was there anyone new in it?”

“The murders. Why can you never ask me about the latest gossip like everyone else? It’s always dark things with you.”

“Someone has to ask, or nothing is ever solved. Speaking of which… I would like my answer now.”

“Yes, sorry. It was only the old team. They struggled to make their way here from Springfield through all that snow and I don’t think they could have a stowaway. Not unless it could have gotten its water from sucking icicles.”

“Fair enough, tell me of Mrs. Tucker’s death.”

She shivers and crosses herself. I resist the urge to hiss softly.

“Dreadful affair, that. She was found in her bedroom earlier today if you will believe it, only a few hours after attending Mrs. Callaghan’s tea party. Did you… Did you go to her house?”

“I did. Unfortunately, the body had been picked up and dragged to the morgue under the judge’s office. He made it clear to his doorman that I was persona non grata.”

There was only a pool of congealed blood in her study, a sure sign that she was slaughtered on location. It was old as well, at least a day.

“Pushing you away, is he? Don’t you think you ought to let him work? I know that John of yours is a fearsome lad but… It may not be enough this time if that madman comes after you.”

“Two persons were butchered Debbie, people are scared and when they are, they tend to do unwise things.”

“But it’s good for your business, right? Desperate people do things to feel alive? So, it’s not too bad?”

I stop flat and study my counterpart. This was… Odd. For a mortal. Valuing profit over gruesome death is considered amoral. I know she is not, and her tone is slightly hesitant. Why would she ever risk appearing callous? Unless…

“Are you worried about me?”

The mask breaks and she explodes.

“Dear lord woman, this is not your duty! Do you know how horrible the town center was before you settled in? I remember it well! What happens if that maniac goes after you and your dunce of a bodyguard misses him? Everything will go to hell, again!”

“Calm your nerves Debbie, I have taken precautions. Should I disappear, the Dream will be taken over by people I trust.”

“Everybody may be replaceable Ms. Lethe, but not always by their match. Just… Keep it in mind. Before you end up way over your head.”

“I shall take your advice under consideration. Now, the murder please.”

“You know, I don’t need any intuition to know that was a crock of shit.”

“I did not lie just now; I used a polite yet unambiguous way to tell you off.”

Debbie shakes her head and leans against the counter. A deep breath later, she returns her attention to me.

“I didn’t want to tell you this. That old bat has been harping since yesterday about the dangers of accepting misfits and the inevitable fate that befalls those who frequent them. She insisted that God protected her because she was living a life of purity and avoided the congress of whores, witches, savages and foreigners.”

“Charming.”

“Is it not?”

“It’s almost as if she provoked whatever killed Roger and the thing answered.”

We stare at each other, the silence pregnant with signs of dispute. Debbie cracks first.

“You’re going to do it, aren't you? Set yourself as bait.”

“It could work.”

“Jesus Christ, I knew it!”

“I will be careful.”

“Right you are. Just… Get out. And don’t you dare die on me you hear?”

I wave goodbye as I turn around. Her concern is touching, but I am not exactly defenseless, and it has been too long since I had a proper meal.

A welcoming party awaits my return to the Dream, one I could have done without.

“Judge Sullivan.”

“Miss Lethe, I was wondering if you could clarify some elements for me.”

“Of course, would you like to step inside?”

“I would rather not.”

Three of his marshals move to surround me and John in a thinly veiled gesture of intimidation. I raise one brow in mock surprise then we wait in silence. I have perfected the effect of annoyed boredom over the years and this is the expression I serve them now.

Behind the judge, the gates of the Dream open and a man steps out, then gets back in. Annoyed at the delay, Sullivan speaks first.

“Two people have been horribly murdered in the past few days.”

Silence.

“I could not help but notice that old man Roger was working for you.”

“Indirectly, yes. And?”

“There are rumors that he stole merchandise destined for the Dream.”

I shrug.

“It would not matter. We check every delivery and only pay for goods that actually enter storage.”

“And Mrs. Tucker was quite vocal in her condemnation of your… Establishment.”

“Her and quite a few others.”

While we were talking, a steady stream of armed men have been leaving the Dream and casually taking position around our group. The marshals notice it but too late, they are already surrounded and vastly outnumbered.

They think they can pull an intimidation on me? Preposterous.

“Do not play coy with me woman. I just arrived here and a killer butchers two citizens, whose disappearances favor you? It seems like somebody is killing two birds with one stone, removing opposition while making me look incompetent.”

“Why would I produce any effort towards an end that you yourself pursue so relentlessly?”

“You dare!”

Sullivan takes a step forward only for John to repel him with a small hand push. Despite my bodyguard’s apparent restraint, the older man almost loses balance. Only his associates manage to hold him upright. Sullivan inflates with anger like a furious toad but finally notices the dire straits he finds himself in.

Most of my guards have completely encircled the lawmen. They stand close enough that any conflict will end up with the defenders quickly overwhelmed. Sullivan realizes this, just as he realizes that quite a few patrons have come to witness the debacle.

I could make an effort to salvage the man’s honor. On the other hand, I have the perfect opportunity to impart some rules to the newcomer. About our respective balance of power, for example.

“I find it curious as well. The deaths occurred shortly after your arrival, after all. Perhaps a member of your party is a monster in human clothes?”

“Scandalous! This… Slander!”

“Just a theory, one that has as much merit as your own. More, perhaps. I have suffered insults from the likes of Tucker for more than a decade without ever losing composure. I have little reason to act now, especially because Mr. Tucker himself is one of our regulars.”

“What?!”

“Surprised? You should not be. All of those gossips, the town’s history, and information on its most influential members are easily acquired through simple conversations with your constituents. And yet you did not even bother. Instead, you brought your goons from out of town and strut around like a rooster, throwing empty theories in the winds. We, the town council, have kept order since your predecessor’s untimely death and you would do well to remember that we can still have you recalled. Now, if you will excuse me…”

I walk without resistance past the judge and his small squad with my men trailing behind. There are quite a few sniggers and I hear the distinctive sound of Horrigan spitting on someone’s shoes. Lovely. And a waste of my time. I need a plan to have Sullivan expelled from the city just in case he perseveres in his error. Killing a judge would be messy and I have reached my quota of “mysterious disappearances” for the year. One more hurdle.

I walk to the bar and smile at the friendly greetings I receive. Removing my coat, I lean forward over the bar to a few appreciative “aaahs”. Oscar nods in greeting.

“I need a rumor started.”

“Yea?”

“Make sure everyone hears that I think Roger’s killer is a coward, that he would never have the balls to come here and that my room is the safest place in the city. Safer than the bank vault.”

The head barman stops wiping a glass and fixes me with his sad chocolate eyes.

“You sure about this boss?”

“Very sure.”

“… Alright then. I see how it is. Be careful though.”

I make my way to my bedroom. The truth is that I know too little about my target. I smelled nothing inhuman around the bodies, nor were there any traces of aura nearby. The only elements I have come from the victims. First, the corpses were left in supposedly secured locations where they would inevitably be found. The warehouse has a large traffic, even now, and Mrs. Tucker’s house is a normal place of gathering for righteous old harpies to eat cake, break wind and blame it on their rat-like dogs. This speaks of supreme self-confidence. The monster does not care to stay hidden, for it believes that the entire population is powerless to stop it, which leads to the second point. If the bodies are messages, then Roger was meant to announce its arrival and Tucker’s, to show that no one is safe. My intuition tells me that my target’s arrogance knows no bounds, and that it delights in putting a show.

Clearly, it has never come face to face with a vampire.

In any case, setting a bait should work better than running around and attempting to track a creature that can quite obviously hide its presence. In the meanwhile, there is the small matter of securing my bedroom against further visits from my secret admirer. Then I will teach him or her the meaning of boundaries, one phalanx at a time.

One night later.

All my preparations are complete. I reinforced my door with two more locks and installed one of my creations near every exit. Based on Loth’s take on a magical capacitor, the tool is a piece of silver looking like a drill on one end, and a key on the other. Its function is simple. Any spell cast in its vicinity will be disrupted and its energies absorbed. It will allow me to circumvent my own lack of magical skill and hopefully provide a bit of a surprise to any spellcaster who will not expect it, should they attempt to gain ingress through supernatural means. An elegant solution, if I do say so myself. There are limits of course. The range is extremely limited for one, and I also doubt that it will affect spells that are already cast. To guard my nest, it should be enough.

In the end, I decided against placing mouse traps in strategic places. I would rather break those fingers myself.

The last measure I took concerns my fellow hunter. She is ready and more than eager.

And since everything is done I have no further excuses. Paperwork it is! I am not sure why I am billed fifty chicken but there better be fifty damn chicken on that Christmas table or I know how I will use those feathers. I will even pay for the tar out of my own pocket.

A pair of footsteps announce the arrival of visitors. I recognize Margaret’s fearful touch but not the other. Heavier. A man.

After a moment of hesitation, Margaret knocks and I answer.

“Mistress, Mr Tucker is here. He wants to talk to you about the murders.”

How interesting.

“Come in.”

Margaret lets the man enter and leaves immediately, as ordered, and I take a moment to inspect my guest.

Mr. Tucker is a mousey man. He has been one of our more discreet guests over the past few years. He owns shares of the mines, and works at one of the city’s two banks as an accountant. Or owned, I suppose. Under his normal human smell, there is now another one, the light rot of a dried corpse. I would not have noticed it in a crowd, only the clean environment of my room allows me to pick it up with ease. There is still no trace of aura.

“Ms. Lethe. Good evening,” he says as he holds his hat between two nervous hands. An impressive facsimile, even to the mannerism.

“Ah Mr. Tucker, we have been friends for a long time, you and I, have we not?”

The man blinks, then lowers his head nervously.

“I wouldn’t say that…”

Alright, I am impressed. And a tad worried. Was it a lucky guess, or does it have access to its victim’s memories? If it does, then I hope there is a limit to it or this creature may have access to the collected knowledge of humanity.

It would be dangerous if it had a physique to match.

“You were going to speak about the murder? You know what I find the most interesting?”

I turn away and approach one of the two windows leading to the inner court, opening it despite the weather and the late hour.

“The victims were seen moving after they were dead.”

I duck under the swipe of eagle-like talons coming from an elegant sleeve, grab it and pull. The thing that used to be Mr. Tucker is sent screaming into the night, properly defenestrated.

I’m not going to risk a fight indoors, not with how much furniture costs in this forsaken place.

I jump lightly and land in a crouch next to the creature as it stands up. Besides the clawed hands, the thing’s head is also split in half by a nightmarish mouth covered by a forest of needle-like teeth. Strands of skin peel off from the inhuman parts as if they had burst from the inside. The rank smell of carrion is stronger and I can finally feel the beginning of an aura. Where a werewolf is anger and unbridled fury, this thing is envy and pride, meant to pervert and desecrate. I feel disgusted at its sight and outraged at the challenge it dared offer.

Judging from the speed of its attack and the strength it exhibited when slaughtering its prey, the creature is slightly more dangerous than a Wendigo.

I am offended that something so weak would trespass on my territory.

“What are you?”

It still speaks. I, however, am done. I move in and dig a hand in its chest to find… Nothing. Not a hint of blood. Only layers upon layers of parchment-like skin. I recoil in surprise and swipe its face with a similar result. Only a trickle of blood drips from a few teeth I raked in passing.

Before I can attack again, Tucker’s face just falls from the monster’s head like a poorly pinned drawing from a wall and below I find a young, handsome man with a haughty composure and deep blue eyes. The clawed hand extends towards me and my foe’s aura flares, its tainted nature supplemented by the shimmering aura of spellcasters.

“Firewhip!”

I focus. Deep in my mind palace, the statue of the transformed Herald shines an ominous blue light and in the real world, purple essence lines my claws. I swipe and the spell breaks, its heat dispersing harmlessly in the winter air.

The surprise in its eyes is precious. An instant later, I pierce them and see a satisfying fountain of fluid emerges from the wound. Then the creature screams. The horrible and tremulous sound is ear-shattering, and the music inside of the Dream stops.

“What the HELL was that!?”

Oh no you little prick, that’s my business you are trying to disrupt! I prepare to jump after it but reconsider. The creature is turning tail and I cannot butcher it in the courtyard. Curtains are already being thrown aside by alarmed patrons. A change of scenery is called for.

I let it run away and whistle. On my right, the stable’s door bangs open and Metis comes out, fully harnessed.

She is massive, a towering black presence that fills its surroundings with an ominous aura. Her hooves thunder on the packed snow as she trudges forward. I grab a leather strap on her chest and nimbly twist around as she passes me by, landing on her back. Metis is never saddled. The harness is only here to keep my hunting implements secured.

I don a black cloak I had prepared and we rush left on a side street after the fleeing shadow. The creature is fast, but Metis is faster. The light of the moon reflects on a pair of panicked eyes, dark brown this time. A new face is shed and its limbs grow thinner and longer, then it jumps on a nearby roof.

Wendigo. It can mimic magical creatures, not just mages. I lean to the side as my mount turns without prompt. When Metis has prey in her sight, a forest fire would not stop her.

Now I don’t want that thing jumping around delicate tiles, waking everyone around in the dead of night. One silver dagger later and the creature falls with a yelp… On the other side of the street.

I crouch and leap in turn. In a single motion, I reach the top of the incline and push myself to the other side.

Too late, the street is empty.

This isn’t over. It THINKS IT CAN HIDE. I sample the air. The stench of rotten skin is strong but fading. I move up and down the street. Nothing.

It is still there, hiding. There are only large log houses and a ceramic shop around. Nothing moves. I close my eyes and focus. I hear a few slow heartbeats barely perceptible through the thick walls, and then something else lighter, faster.

I turn and throw at the same time. My third and last dagger hits MY PREY, a huge bat almost fifty feet away, which shrieks and falls in the snow.

Uh, what. That is not my prey at all!

With a revolting squelch, a stag emerges from the remains and flees away. Nevermind, it is. I rush after it and hop on Metis as she joins me from a side street. We gallop down the street like a charge of Hessian hussars, leaving clouds of brown and white in our trail. The stag is close enough that I could shoot or catch up to it but it is currently heading out of town and that suits me just fine. Metis will have her fun and I will have my peace of mind.

We lightly jump over a fence and the last of the houses fall away. In front of us, there is only an endless sea of flat snow dotted by the odd copse of trees, shining like powdered diamond under the moonlight. The stag has grown large enough to break a path through the pristine layer. I can hear its panicked breath and Metis’ own as the frigid wind caresses my skin. My hood falls back and my hair is free. There, under the dark heaven, there is nothing but the three of us dancing a ballet with an end as old as time and just as inevitable. It will soon be over but for now, we race and I cherish the moment.

With Metis now at full speed, the distance between us closes until the metamorphosed horror can hear the nightmare at its back trampling snow beneath its cruel hooves. It darts to the side and enters a thicket. I hear another crack, yet another discarded skin, and take out my large game spear.

Another one of my creations, this lance is a weapon designed to hunt from horseback. It has a spiked guard designed to keep the harpooned prey away from its wielder and a silver and steel blade two feet long, enough to pin two grown men to a brick wall. I lower it in anticipation.

The largest werewolf I have ever seen emerges from the treeline. Its fur is dark and criss-crossed with claw marks and other scars. It opens its fanged maw and lets out a monstrous howl, a promise of blood that would make any mortal pale and any horse falter.

Metis is not any horse. She accelerates, eager to answer the challenge. I lean into her, use my legs as support and catch the surprised foe in the throat. The spear lifts the beast off its paws and I stab it in the trunk of a great pine as deep as I can. Without waiting I jump off for the kill.

I don’t know how many layers of skin this thing has but I certainly intend to find out. Even if I have to spread enough human vellum on the forest ground to furnish the library of Alexandria. It’s going down. Now.

I savage the chest, break a clawed limb. With another hand, it quite literally grabs its face and discards it. The flesh disappears and a large bird is freed.

The head! Of course!

I grab the feathered head and tear off its beak, which breaks without resistance. We tumble on the ground as I ravage layer after layer of caked dermis, sometimes an animal but mostly humans. I do not hesitate when the creature changes into a child, or a pleading mother, or a sad-looking old man. CHILDISH AND PATHETIC. Such artifice is wasted on my kind. After twenty more faces, I stop the cast of another spell, then rip off the muzzle of another wolf, then break the spine of another wendigo. The skins are now shed faster, the creature desperate to break my hold by changing shape as fast as it can. A hopeless struggle. The only thing it unsettles is my sense of smell.

I stop counting the shapes. I just slice and rip and tear and catch a limb when my captive manages to slither away. This is no longer a fight, just a messy execution, and after a few minutes my claw draws blood.

I stop out of curiosity for a moment, even though I should know better. The real features are those of a native man, twisted by malice. Its eyes shine with utter malevolence. It spits insult and imprecations.

Yes, struggle and blame your fate INTRUDER, YOU DIE NOW.

I lean forward and… Recoil.

Ew ew ew he stinks to high heaven! Pwah! I would have retched my last three meals if it were physiologically possible. What in the name of the Watcher is that?! Did his real body marinate for a decade under all that skin!? Pah!

I shove the man headfirst into the pure snow, curse my delicate nose and drag him around the closest trees. When I am done, I slap him unconscious for good measure and look at the crook of his neck.

No. Just no. Nope!

I grab a wrist and wipe it energetically with handfuls of ice. I’m not letting my meal go, out of the question! Seriously though… I am not entirely convinced this is worth the effort. Eventually, the skin is clear and only smells marginally like a tanner’s armpit.

“It was a good…”

I cannot say it. This was unique and entertaining right to the moment where I had to dress my kill like some cavewoman. Well, nothing to it. Close your eyes Ariane and think of America!

I bite down.

A foreign land, red and cracked like an old farmer’s skin. Men on horseback emerge from a scar in the earth, bringing prisoners and captured cattle. Father is a good chief and one day, so will I.

My leg did not heal right. I did not want to be a Hatalii, a healer. At least I will have Shandiin. Her beauty will soothe my pain.

I hate them, hate them, hate them. I drop the bloody stone on the back of my dead brother. If Shandiin will only spread her legs for the mighty Hashké Dilwo’ii and not for a cripple then I will give her what she wants. I grab out a skinning knife and smile for the first time in months.

I am mighty of body, mighty of magic! I am yee naaldlloshii, a skinwalker. Travellers and raiders and villagers and herders, all fall before my guile and their skins and memories join my collection. All those that scorned me, I cast them down. No one can…

I pitch forward, nudged by an impatient and hungry creature. Her warm breath tickles my ear.

“Hsss! Impatient girl! It is your time soon I promise! Let me finish!”

No one can stop me for they do not even recognize the danger in their-

Bump.

“Aw Metis come on!”

I stand up and let the exsanguinated body fall. I was almost done too! Alright, I will give the attention she deserves. I pat her head to congratulate her for a job well done and negotiate a truce until it is her turn.

“There, there…”

Metis’ nostrils flare and I realize my mistake.

“No wait, Metis, I’m sorry!”

Too late. The proud and offended equine neighs in distress at the ungodly stench coating my fingers, turns tail, and gallops away.

“Metiiiiiiis!”

Dammit. She got my shovel too!

“Stupid pony!”

Agh I’m going to have to return to the Dream and then come back with a shovel to hide that disgusting thing. This evening couldn’t possibly get any worse!

I stare at the opened door of my bedroom. I had left specific orders that it be locked again after my departure and I know for a fact that Margaret did it.

I push it open and my nose is assailed by the cloying scent of roses. All the little silver traps I had prepared to disrupt magic have been carefully cut, twisted and assembled in an artful rendition of a nativity scene on my desk. Another envelope has been placed on my bed.

I jinxed it, didn’t I.

With a heavy sigh bemoaning the cruel fate befalling this poor, humble vampire trying her best, I open it.

“My cute little princess,

Now that you have resolved your territorial dispute, so to speak, do come and find me. We have much to discuss.

With much love,

Your admirer.”

Arg. That little…

“Hsss! Oh, that is IT!”

I step out and immediately hail Margaret.

“Besides Roger’s caravan and Sullivan’s group, did anyone else come to town recently?”

“No mistress the town is entirely devoid of travelers, I am not sure that handsome gentleman even stayed.”

What?

“A handsome gentleman? What handsome gentleman? This the first time I hear about this!”

She blinks in surprise and her mouths twists with worry.

“I never mentioned him before? I apologize Mistress!”

“Nevermind that.”

A handsome gentleman. Right. At least I know where to start looking. First the swan, the only formal establishment in the city. This is where visiting dignitaries and clergymen stay while they pass through town.

Officially at least.

I shall start my search there. Failing that, I will return to the Seamstress Union tomorrow and ask Debbie where that man is and why she failed to mention him before. This is just unacceptable.

The Swan’s main entrance reeks of roses. A fully blossomed flower thrones proudly next to the clerk’s desk.

Unbelievable.

“Excuse me sir, I am looking for a friend.”

“Of course you are Ms. Lethe… Please refrain from disturbing the peace and silence of the place while you are here, yes?”

The clerk, a tall and thin old man with a respectable air, struggles not to smirk at his own joke. I should have woken John up.

I lean forward and stare him in the eye, letting a hint of threat slide through my composed mask.

“The owner can afford to disrespect me in public sir, can you?”

The sneer turns to anger but I recognize him now. He is the night manager for this inn. Mostly incorruptible but not exempt of weakness.

“Can you, Philips? Can you afford to be unprofessional? What will your daughters do if you lose your income?”

The sneer falls.

“I will ask you to leave, Madam.”

“After I am done.”

I climb up the stairs, following the trail of perfume to the top floor and its master bedroom. I open the door to a well-furnished receiving boudoir around a fumoir occupied by a roaring fire. The balcony’s door is open despite the polar temperature and from it, a melody emerges. The voice is male, with a tenor pitch that is nothing short of exquisite. A few notes played on a small harp or lyre accompany the song with tasteful and delicate arpeggios. The lyrics, however…

"There once was a spawn so fair,

Whose foul mouth was beyond compare,

And while she did try her best,

The mortals were impressed

By the beauty of her derrière."

I look out the opening into a vis à vis bedroom. In it, I see a majestic couch upon which languidly lounges a man I recognize.

I groan and smack my head on the sill out of sheer frustration.

“Sineaaaaaaad!”

The Likaean looks positively princely in an ornate green jacket. Gone is the emaciated ghost we rescued from that cave, his twinkling amber eyes are now surrounded by a filled-out, handsome face, both delicate and somehow virile. His hair is grown and surrounds his face in a pleasant halo, shining like wheat under the July sun. As I watch, a golden shimmer comes upon him and for an instant, his colors grow incredibly vivid before fading back to normalcy.

“Good evening poppet, it has been too long.”

That rake! He planned this so well, I cannot even pinch him as he is in someone else’s home. I even see a white leg emerging from the heavy bed cover, distinctly female…

Something clicks in my mind as I remember this part of town and who the house belongs to.

“Sinead, is that Louisa Watson’s bedroom you are in?”

“Ah yes, Louisa, such a precious young woman.”

“You… She has a fiancé!!!”

“And they will be promptly married within the next two months thanks to me, I guarantee it. The lad should feel grateful!”

“Sinead!”

“I even taught her a few tricks that will positively delight him.”

“Oh my… cough… SINEAD YOU ABSOLUTE CAD!”

“Shhhh! You will wake her up. I am not here to talk about my delicious snack, no, I am here to discuss our upcoming cooperation!” he adds with a devastating smile.

“Cooperation my… My posterior! How dare you!”

“Tut tut tut I did tell you I would test you when we next meet. Can’t say I am impressed. It took you long enough to find a man who does not even try to hide.”

“I was otherwise engaged!”

“What, with the skinning monster? Pffffft. Laughable. It should not have taken you more than a few minutes to take it apart.”

“Aaarrg!”

“But let us first leave this dreary place. People here are so stuffy, so officious. Reminds me of the court back home. I have had enough seducing the virtue off of spout frogs mind you, I want some salacious lasses climbing all over me, three at a time.”

“You are so dead.”

“None of that! I have a wonderful proposal that you will not refuse. Just offer me the hospitality for a week and I will expose it in detail.”

“I don’t see what…”

“I have the location of the Order of Gabriel’s main prison on the continent, less than two days of travel away from this city.”

The end of my sentence dies on my lips as Sinead smiles like the very picture of innocence. He is telling the truth, without a doubt.

“Well?”

“… Fair enough, but there better be no tricks. One week of hospitality I grant thee.”

“Excellent!”

Sinead lithely jumps, closes the windows and picks up a prepared travel suitcase. We walk down the stairs and he stops at the welcoming desk, from behind which our dear Mr. Philips gazes at us like an irate gargoyle.

“Ah yes, Ariane dear I appear to be strapped for cash. Would you mind filling for me, seeing as I am your guest?”

“What?!”

The Likaean leans in and whispers in my ears.

“Is it not your duty to guarantee my well-being? We would not want me to go to prison surely, how would I guide you to the aforementioned locale then?”

I should just let him rot. Or wipe the memory of my coming from Philips’ mind and let that imbecile cool his rear on a prison bench for a bit but… Gah, he is right, I cannot have the mortals annoy my guest.

With clenched teeth, I ask for the bill.

Philips smiles like a cannibal at a battle site and draws a veritable bundle of papers from a nearby drawer.

“Let us see here. Three nights, three breakfasts, lunches and dinners, bath supplement, as well as two bottles of Romanée-Conti, three of Vosne-Romanée, one Saint-Emilion, one Riesling, one bottle of Mumm black ribbon champagne, one of bourbon, a mignonette of Peach schnapps, a dozen pots of honey, three bars of Swiss chocolate and a quart of mead for a grand total of one hundred and twenty-six dollars and fifteen cents.”

Breathe Ariane, just breathe. Count to ten.

Can’t kill him, that would be breaking the oath.

“Herm. My bank will honor it.”

“Certainly. Please sign here Ms. Ariane Lethe.”

It takes all of my self-control not to stab the bill, Philips’ eyes, then myself with the stupid pen.

Once out, I immediately turn left on a side street.

“Hey, the Dream is not that way!”

I find a metal bar in a barrel next to a construction material stand and twist it like a wet noodle.

“This better be a great, magnificent, STUPENDOUS OFFER YOU ABSOLUTE BLOODY SCANDALOUS RAKE! SCOUNDREL!”

“Tut tut no need to make a scene poppet, why, traveling here was a horrible experience and I needed to recover. Surely you understand? Don’t you ever indulge?”

I move and stop with my index’ claw right under his nose.

“Once this truce is over, I’ll show you exactly how I ‘indulge’ mister, you can count on it,”

Sinead just frowns.

“What’s that smell?”

I have unknowingly died and been sent to some absurd circle of hell.

51. Prince of Azure and Gold

Sinead plops on my comfortable mattress and extends his arms with a satisfied smile.

“That’s my bed!”

“And it saddens me to see it go to waste. Goose feathers, the best one can find in this sad plane.”

I massage the bridge of my nose between two fingers. I should have said no. It was folly to accept this wastrel into my perfectly controlled life. I just need to stay at the top for two more years then I can have justice. What came over me, to risk everything so?

Ah yes, the prison.

“I have so many questions.”

“Ah mortals, so full of those. Always wondering about everything, all the time…”

“And you are any different?”

“Of course,” the Likaean answers with a shiny smile, “what my kind cannot infer will not be answered freely anyway.”

“Yes, well, you will have to indulge this ex-mortal.”

“Of course! I will make some allowance on account of your young age poppet, ask away!”

There are many things I wonder, and one that concerns me greatly.

“Alright, the first and most urgent one. How did you find me?”

I catch the pillow thrown at my head and resist the urge to shred it.

“Oh no no no! Please! You do not receive enough sunlight to afford to be so dim! How could I not know where you are?!”

What, is he tracking me? Wait… Oh. My hand goes to my collar, under which my two keepsakes are hidden. The first is the promissory note to my father that I would outlive him. The promise may be fulfilled, but the emotion and meaning in that yellow piece of paper remain.

The second is my emergency dose of Likaean blood in an enchanted silver canister, granted by the most insufferable creature this side of reality.

“You can really track this little blood?”

“This is my most precious of essence we are talking about here, you commoner!”

“Most precious!? If my observations are correct, you have been spreading 'essence' around with utmost abandon!”

“Psh! Beautiful women should never be vulgar, poppet. It is beneath you.”

“You give me lessons even though you have the impudence of… of… oh, the audacity!”

“While beneath me, you will find dear Louisa Watson.”

“Sinead!”

“I am already bored, how can you blame me if I feel cranky, I ask? Why is there no proper liquor in your bedroom anyway?”

I take a deep breath. The familiar gesture calms me, just like the belief that my location is still secure.

“I am abstinent.”

Sinead’s eyes flash in amusement and for a moment they shine with a golden color that poets dream of.

“That you are, though not entirely. I can tell that you know how to have a bit of fun.”

If I could still blush, I would. I usually manage to keep a certain distance from my employees and their patrons. The mysterious aura works in my favor when I need to feed or to avoid unwanted attention and so far, I have not found someone that I would be willing to take to my bed. As Debbie would put it, the odds are good, but the goods are odd. Not so with Sinead. He somehow managed to get under my skin in only two days. I have lost my composure more times since he deposited that first envelope than during the past three years together.

“Your imagination is truly a wild and impetuous thing.”

“Is it?” he answers with a smug smile, then reveals a book I had on my night table from behind him, opens it at a random page and reads in a falsetto voice.

“Oh lord Alejandro, I can wait no longer. I beg thee, sheathe thyself…”

“GIVE IT BACK THIS INSTANT!”

The uncouth rogue does not resist as I grab my… ahem, relaxation book and put it back where it belongs. So embarrassing.

“Would it not be nice?”

I turn around to face him. He is just standing there, looking awfully suspicious by not doing anything.

“What?”

“To have someone who knows you and appreciates you for who you truly are? Someone mature and skilled you could depend on?”

When did he get so close?

“Would it not be nice to finally let go in the arms of a man you could have loved?”

His perfume is tantalizing. Seeing him again makes me miss Loth, Isaac, Dalton… I am so alone here, surrounded at all times by employees and cattle but not friends. I cannot bring someone in my confidence here, for how could I? How could I share what worries me with a mortal without sending them screaming to the nearest church? And I cannot expect anything valuable from cattle whose sole purpose is to please me.

The mortals are at it downstairs, and in the city around, night after night. Being merry. Embracing each other. Whispering things about love. Making it. Sinead is insufferable, and I would not trust myself with him, but perhaps just a kiss? To see what it’s like after waiting so long? What would be the harm? I should have had a kiss from someone brilliant and fetching for so long. I deserve it. I deserve to have someone take care of me, for a change. Sinead is witty, elegant and experienced, and he could charm the undergarments off a nun. Probably did it too, at some point. Perhaps I should try it.

I lean forward and at the same moment, Sinead steps away.

“Alas, it cannot be me. Not as crippled as I am now anyway. I could not stand to be the weaker partner, and you could not resist the temptation.”

Huh?

“You are such a tease!”

“Not so poppet, merely trying to help you. You are still too afraid. You need to be in control but when you are, you only stay where you feel safe. It would take an older vampire with might, a delicate touch and genuine feelings playing a balancing act to crack your shell from the outside. I am merely trying to help you get out of your egg by yourself.”

“You are the very soul of kindness.”

“I know.”

“Hold on… I had questions! How did we ever get so sidetracked!?”

“Apologies dearie. Ask away, and be quick about it. I need to sample the bar downstairs.”

“Not so fast. Second question, how come I cannot smell you or detect your aura?”

“Without giving away precious details, know that I have found a way to contain my munificence to match your dreary world. As for the aura, surely you know they can be controlled, yes?”

“Hum. I know they can expand or retract, to match our mood?”

“Pfeh! You speak as if knowing when the tide comes is the same as controlling the sea. Child, I am talking about aura control. Control!”

“But, yours has disappeared! It’s completely gone!”

Sinead gazes at me as if I were the village dullard.

“I am prince of the Likaeans Ariane, why would I have anything but perfect mastery over myself?”

“It did not prevent you from being captured…” I grumble.

“True! You have to understand, however, that the very concept of having to hide was new to me. Not everyone can match your ability to scurry around and survive against all odds, poppet.”

I frown.

“I think there must have been a vague insult here somewhere.”

“Whatever do you mean? How can I not admire your tenacity? Your uncanny skill at avoiding the foot of the mighty stomping down on you?”

“I am not a cockroach! And stop trying to distract me. How did you ever come here? I thought you were in South America.”

“Loth sent me to central America poppet, however I did not stay there. I have conducted a discreet enquiry that led me here, to the order of Gabriel’s prison. I want your help dismantling it.”

“And in return?”

“Why, I shall grace your humble halls with my presence of course!”

Silence spreads in the room as I cross my arms in exasperation.

“I do believe I have been more than generous in any dealing I ever had with you Sinead. You are abusing my kindness.”

“And on top of that, I shall grant you favors, yes!”

Favors. Sinead has no money, no influence over those who matter to me. What he does have is knowledge, and for us, knowledge is priceless.

“How old are you anyway?”

“Oh my dear poppet, I am so glad to finally interest you as a person. Know that time flows erratically in the kingdoms. It should come as no surprise then, that I may not give you a satisfactory answer. Just know that compared to us, your civilization is in its infant stage, and I am using civilization in its broadest sense here.”

Sinead’s eyes shine like gold and his face twists with savagery. In an instant, the affable trickster melts away and I can see the Prince beneath. I remember the figure in my dream more than twenty years ago, with hair of fire and eyes of molten metal. With a wave of his hand, he had sent azure flames to engulf the shadows hounding me, vaporizing them in a single instant. I know in my soul that they are the same person. The balance of power between us now is a grotesque reversal of what it could be, no, what it would be, in his native reality. Unaware or uncaring, Sinead continues his speech.

“All of us caught here and used as batteries for your kind represent a library of Alexandria’s worth of knowledge. Some have written pieces of poetry so beautiful that lesser beings have lost their lives hearing it. Others, sculptures and visual works so mesmerizing that one can admire them for centuries without ever growing jaded. They could make statues cry and yet here their voices are silenced, and their fingers broken by the basest of greed. There are no words in your coarse language, no insult dire enough to give justice to this tragedy, Ariane of the Nirari.”

I am struck before the incandescent display and just as he is done, the moment passes. He is back to being just Sinead the witty and rakishly handsome socialite.

“But let us change topic. I fear I may be a tad sensitive over this particular issue, it relates to my utmost desire you see.”

“Your utmost desire? What is it?”

“Why, nothing less than the complete liberation of every Likaean on this plane and their safe return back to the kingdoms.”

I almost sputter at the enormity of it. Complete liberation? Poppycock.

“Do you have any idea…”

“I have excellent ideas poppet, about everything. And you shall play a role.”

The Likaeans are incredible assets for the clans who own them. To forcefully liberate them on a large scale would force a war between the conspirators and the whole of vampiredom. Loth estimates our number at a bit over two thousand in total. Even if only one in twenty is a lord, that still represents enough power to defeat any force on the planet. I saw what Lord Suarez could do. To stand against a hundred like him is folly. Pure insanity.

“You are mad Sinead. I should give up on you and drink you dry before another one does it.”

“You should, Devourer, and yet you will not.”

I glare at him with all the outrage I can muster.

“I wouldn’t be so sure.”

“Oh I am sure, I would not have survived and stayed prince if I were not an excellent judge of character. You have a cruel and violent streak in you, but it is always tempered by a profound sense of justice and honor. Is it not?”

“I wouldn’t say that…”

“You did not punish your cattle in anger for allowing me entry, because they could do nothing and so were not at fault. Many vampires would have made an example. You did not break the spirit of the agreement between us to drink my blood while I was weak, yet you could have. You faced the Herald, though you did not have to, and you killed it.”

Sinead approaches. He moves gracefully, like a dancer, not a predator like me. I find myself staring up in his too large iris. He slowly lifts a finger up to my exposed collarbone and touches my bare skin. The contact is intimate yet restrained. Respectful.

“I choose you as my knight in this endeavor for it is what you are. You will help me because I will make it worth your while, but mostly you will help me because I will stand for what you believe in, the right to exist and to be free.”

He almost got me there.

“You have a grand vision Sinead but you seem to forget. We are not Prince and Knight. We are two fugitives in a box of wood painted gold at the back end of nowhere. There are hundreds of vampires who can snap my neck in an instant and they are the ones we would have to face.”

“Not if my plan succeeds, and for this, I need one of the prisoners we will liberate soon.”

“Who?”

“My fiancée, Princess Sivaya of the Court of Blue.”

Oh, great now there is another one.

“Hum Sinead, I am not exactly aware of Likaean courtship customs…”

“It is considered an excellent omen if the husband has already fathered several bastards with lesser beings. Twenty is best, though the standing record is at six hundred and forty-seven known offsprings.”

I have absolutely no idea what to do with this information.

“Oh but do not worry, I do not intend to break it. So… Was there anything else?”

“Yes! Stop trying to distract me. The prize for my assistance.”

“And what would you ask?”

I open my mouth to speak then stop. Sinead looks like a teacher with a predictable student. He expects me to ask something.

“You will teach me how to hide my aura like you do.”

“Of course!”

“And you will help me practice Charm.”

“Naturally, I am sure we can make this the entertainment.”

“And last, you will… Go downstairs and do your thing.”

His eyes flash dangerously.

“What do you mean?”

“Be yourself, be pleasant to be around, and witty, and charismatic. We offer a good service. What we lack is… Cachet. Credence.”

“I see. You want my aura, so to speak. The figurative one.”

I nod. Sinead leans forward, the very image of amused contempt. I memorize that fantastic expression for later.

“Of course, poppet. I shall do this for you.”

“Good.”

“For how else could I keep myself entertained while we wait for the snow to thaw?”

Um. What?

Marquette, March 1832

The geraniums are blooming in pretty shades of pink and blue. I make my way from one pot to another, pouring a little bit of water each time.

I am surprised they survive at all. I have slain so many people I have lost count, animals fear me and I am barren. I almost expected my touch to wither plants, yet here they are, uncaring.

Pouring water is soothing, a task that was listed as a ‘ladylike activity’ by that book on good manners I read twenty years and a lifetime ago. Perhaps there is some truth to it. You can also throw the metal sprinkler at someone’s head in a pinch.

Once I am done, I step out and take the report that Margaret hands me. Some issues, mostly negotiating new contracts, have been solved by Sinead while others by their respective managers. I note in passing that Kitty banished a girl for theft. Harrington had to break the arm of a patron and Sullivan made a fuss, but could not press the matter. Ah, something interesting. There is a suspicious group of men camping a few miles down the road who have been coming to town to buy supplies and inquire about some escaped criminal woman. They have a precise description. I’ll handle that one myself.

I walk down the stairs. Tonight, I wear a comfortable riding gown in royal blue as well as a scarf of the same color. John is waiting, as usual, at the bottom of the stairs. When he sees my attire, he greets me with his big, ugly smile.

“We go for a midnight stroll?”

That sounded suspiciously like something Sinead would say.

“Did my friend explain what it means?”

John thinks for a while, his face scrunching in concentration.

“No.”

“Yes, we are going on a midnight stroll, later. First I need to talk to the odd ones. Have them wait by my workshop, alright?”

“Thy will is my command,” he says, standing as straight as a grenadier on review. He salutes then leave.

I shake my head in disbelief and enter the main room. It has changed a bit since last time. We used to have a large scene at the back, where performers would dance or sing. Sinead made it into an elite place, separate and above the rest. The shows are now under his direct purview.

I am genuinely impressed by the results.

I was expecting my regulars to complain but Sinead enchanted them all. He is simply magnetic, distributing jokes, praises and rebukes so that the room revolves around his presence. Every night he presides over the assembly like a king hosting a decadent feast. Men come to pay homage, drink a glass with him and leave feeling… Special. He flatters some before the girls, asks others about their troubles, pats a shoulder here, shakes a hand there. They adore him. They worship him. They would do everything for him. My employees love him too, he is just that smooth. I even caught Oscar smiling and that happened twice since I hired him eight years ago. Truly, the man is a miracle, one that extends to business. Since he arrived, our sales have increased by twenty percent and our offer is diversified with very advantageous contracts. I could not be more pleased. In theory.

I am slightly annoyed that he is so much better than me. I cannot even blame it on experience. Sinead is just a peerless socialite. He could sell rotgut to a moonshiner and they would thank him for it, then invite him to dinner. Then he would abscond with their wife.

Frustrating.

I enter the saloon to see that festivities are in full swing. A passably drunk duet is playing something while the crowd laughs raucously. A few stairs lead me to where my friend holds court.

Couches and low seats are gathered around a coffee table. The man himself is relaxing comfortably with a woman in each arm, Janet and Hilda if memory serves. They look at me as if I caught them red-handed. I let Sinead sleep in my room since I do not use it anyway, and most assume we are lovers. I made it clear that I was not jealous but the two pretty faces in front of me are still worried. They are caught with the alpha male by the alpha female.

With a smile, I dismiss their concern and lean towards my friend.

“It’s time, let’s plan the operation tonight.”

“Hmm?”

“Sinead, stop trying to stare down my cleavage, it is unsightly.”

“Ah but I can feel the touch of frontier spirit in my heart, urging me to explore yet untouched territories.”

“Keep exploring and the next thing you shall feel in your heart will be my right hand. We have work to do.”

“Yes yes, lead the way poppet.”

Honestly, I thought he was in a hurry. After extricating himself from his comfortable seat, my guest holds my arm and we walk downstairs to the basement. It holds most of our storage space, the laundry room and my workshop. My secured chamber, where I slumber, is hidden below.

The workshop is at the back of a corridor of brick walls, behind a secured steel door that would give most bank robbers a stop. Five armed men and one woman are waiting for us in silence.

I unlock the door and let everyone into my sanctum.

When I left Georgia, I only had clothes on my back. Several generous ‘donations’ from travellers and bandits gave me what I needed to get by, and when I reached Marquette I settled down and contacted the consortium. To my surprise, Loth had left me most of his crafting tools, with a letter arguing that he “could get much better stuff back home”. Lies, of course. He just used his usual gruff way of helping me and trying to make it seem like I am the one doing him a service. Besides that, there are also my weapons, my spare battle apparel, painting tools and other raw materials. They have all found their place here.

The room is a long rectangle taking half a wing with three exits, the one at our back, a trap door leading outside and a secret passage to my real ‘bedroom’ which houses the secured sarcophagus. The walls are of dark bricks with alcoves set at regular intervals. Support pillars dot the surface, against which I have placed lanterns. A large central table surrounded by wooden chairs occupies its center. On it, maps in yellow paper display the town and general area, with pins showing the most recently formed hamlets.

The newcomers look left and right at working benches occupied with current projects, the well ordered tools and the weapons rack. Especially the weapons rack.

Sinead whistles as he follows the shaft of my modified boar spear with a light touch. His gaze rests on the engravings on the blade, then on the smithy in the corner, then back to me.

“A woman of many talents,” he adds with a smirk.

The rest of the group sits heavily in their chairs. They are people of few words, just the way I like it.

The odd squad is composed of two Creek brothers, two escaped slaves, an old mute and a large woman with graying hair and a cruel streak a mile wide. They are the ones I call upon for all the discrete work that some may find unsavory. I can count on their discretion, not least because they do not have an ounce of credibility between themselves. I will admit that they are also a disciplined group and the old loner is a crack shot. Seeing as we will go after dedicated monster killers who have a tendency to bless everything around them, I figure that the time is right to recruit mundane helpers.

“Let us start. Sinead, can you tell us where the prison is and what we will be up against?”

“Well, I don’t know where it is exactly.”

He lifts a hand to hold my protests.

“I extracted all the information I possess by interrogating a member of the order. I never saw the compound itself, but I know how to get there and what we will find.”

He points at the area map towards Marquette’s North West.

“Two days travel from here, there is a small depression in the middle of a vast plain where our destination lies. The approach is completely devoid of cover, and under constant surveillance by teams of sentries with fanatical devotion to the order. Only the most steadfast of them are handpicked to guard it. I will mask our approach until we can close the distance and neutralize the watchers. Then we need to liberate the prisoners, destroy the facility and exterminate the staff to the last man. We can leave no witness, or we may attract more attention than we can afford.”

“Tell us about the facility itself.”

“There are four dug emplacements from where sentries look out situated at each corner, then there are four buildings of reinforced stone. One is the barracks, one is the processing building, there is also a warehouse and finally, the prison itself. The captives are all below-ground.”

“We will need to liberate the captives first, lest they are all slain by their jailors as soon as an attack starts.”

“Absolutely. There is a possibility that you may not physically enter the place, Ariane.”

The squad knows I am not fully human. Most of them probably assume I am some sort of witch.

“Here is what I propose. As soon as we are close enough, we eliminate the sentries silently. Then, one group goes down to neutralize the prison while the other places charges on the barracks. As soon as the target is rescued, we detonate the explosives and kill everything. Would that work?”

Shrugs and vague nods are the answers I get. The plan has the merit of being simple.

“I will provide the explosives. Ah, hum, while we are on the topic of setting things ablaze, do you know if they keep pigs around?”

Sinead lifts an eyebrow.

“I do not think so, it would go against their desires to stay hidden. Discretion is their best defense, and is quite hard to achieve when you have swine squealing in the wind. Why?”

“Nothing.”

Tom, one of the two black men, passes a hand through his large white beard before commenting.

“We need something to carry the prisoners, in case they can’t walk.”

“Good thinking. We will need a cart. Anything else?”

“How many of those folks are we supposed to kill?” adds Laura, the woman.

“Around ten.”

“Who are they?” asks one of the Creeks.

Silence descends on the table. I am not in the habit of being questioned by subordinates. This time, their concerns are warranted and I decide to answer.

“The order of Gabriel is a collection of religious fanatics dedicated to removing impurities from the world. The list of unacceptable people includes, but is not limited to, monsters, witches, shamans, heretics, loan givers, people who work on Sunday, Muslims, Jews, women who don’t know their place, idol worshippers, people who frequent brothels, girls who work there, drunkards, philosophers, artists who create indecent work, Arabs, the Chinese, people who eat meat during Easter…”

“Hold on,” adds Tom, “Just tell us who they tolerate. Reckon that’d be faster.”

“Themselves and those who live according to their version of the scriptures. And orthodox Christians.”

“That true?”

“No, they burn orthodox Christians as heretics.”

“Well… Alright I guess.”

“Good. We leave tomorrow just after sunset. Prepare supplies for five days, just in case, and your arms. Sinead I’ll give you something. I’ll also have a carriage ready and I’m taking care of the bombs. Dismissed.”

Two hours later, Marquette’s outskirts.

Midnight. Flat plains have a way to make the sky feel endless and for once, the sky is empty. The moon, the stars, and the Watcher dispense their diffuse lights to late travellers and thieves alike. Some inbred cretins raised a camp in the middle of a thicket by the road, a miserable affair made of three tents in a circle. A few men gather in silence around a blazing campfire in a futile attempt to fend off the chill of the night. Winter has not released its hold on Illinois yet, and their breath coalesces in little clouds before being dispersed by the biting wind.

Metis’ arrival silences their conversation. Fearful eyes glance up, and up, to the rider on top. Me.

“Bad time to be camping outside, is it not? The weather is inclement at this time of the year.”

“Who are you? What do you want?” asks one of them in the back.

“Excellent questions. You may call me Miss Lethe, and can you guess what I do? Hm?”

I do not expect an answer. They are taken off guard and probably need a moment to regroup. Those are farmhands dressed in mismatched layers of undyed wool. They stink. The only exception is a young man in a slightly better outfit sporting a bowler hat of all things. He is the one who questioned me.

“I am the proprietor of the Dream, finest bordello this side of the Lake Michigan. And you know how I recruit my girls? Can you take a guess?”

The farmhands all turn to the young man who is quite clearly the ringleader. He is still reeling from the surprise and the massive dark horse facing him is not easily discounted.

“I’ll tell you. The truth is, you will not find a child who, growing up, wants to become a whore. Those who come to me are desperate or starving, or on the run. Sometimes all three at the same time. Quite a few are already with child when I take them under my wings.”

Metis takes another step forward. She snorts and glares at one of the men, who swallows nervously.

“The stories are tragically repetitive. This one was beaten so badly by her brute of a husband that he broke her ribs. That one was raped by her uncle, or her father, or her older brother. This one was shunned by the community and forced to sell herself for stale bread or starve. Or sold by her family to some old swine. And so on, and so forth. It is a story as old as time, really.

“They come to the big city with sallow cheeks and the eyes of cornered animals, begging for scraps of food. Then I pick them up. I feed them and fix them. I turn them into… productive members of Society, shall we say.”

Metis stops mere fingers away from the fire. The dancing flames make her red eyes glint like a beacon in the darkness.

“What… What is this about?” asks the head clown.

“This is about you. Most of the time, my girls are broken goods and nobody wants them. Sometimes though, their relatives or spouses are incensed by the loss of their favourite piece of meat. And so here they come, snooping around like the world’s clumsiest sneaks. Soon we learn that our fair city is plagued by poisoners, thieves and debt dodgers that need to be returned to their owners for the sake of justice. You see where the problem lies, yes?”

“Annabel belongs with her family!”

“I don’t care about you, or your family. You can all go to hell. Annabel is mine now. Take your bumbling gaggle of imbeciles and go back to the filthy mudhole you crawled out of before I bury you all.”

“You have no right to order me around you glorified strumpet!”

“Look around you.”

Harrigan and a dozen of my lackeys come out of the shadows with muskets in evidence and the promise of violence on their loutish faces. The outsiders bunch up like sheep surrounded by wolves. They know how this will end.

“You may believe judges or religion will support your cause, and it will change nothing. I have the only right that matters. Power. When my men are done with you, you will lick your wounds and leave with your tails between your legs like the mongrels you are, or the next time I come, I will bring a shovel. Good night.”

I turn Metis around as the first sounds of wood hitting flesh reach me. Music to my ears.

52. Fate and Absurdity

I awaken to moans of pain and the coppery scent of congealed blood. My hands find the sarcophagus’ opening mechanism and the lid opens without a sound.

Something went wrong. We are still a day away from the prison, and from any patrol that would take exception to our presence. I make sure my dark battle gown is secured and my weapons ready before stepping outside.

I left seven men and one woman in good health at dawn. Now Laura is missing, Tom is dying on the grass and we are short three horses. The survivors have formed a scattered perimeter along a ridge with a sheer cliff at their backs and a sharply declining slope on every side. Tall pines and large boulders dot red-tinted earth covered with dried needles. There is almost no cover to be found.

This is a defensible position, and a deathtrap. We have our backs to the wall, quite literally.

Farther down, I hear the soft murmur of running water and footsteps of encroaching foes.

We have also gained a few newcomers. Four natives from a tribe I do not recognize have gathered with us. One of them, older, is praying softly while the others look out, clutching spears and bows in their nervous hands. Their faces are deep red and cracked by years spent under a merciless sun.

John is the first to notice me. A smile of utter relief spreads on his simple face.

“Ms. Lethe! Ms. Lethe is here!”

He is quickly silenced but now my presence is known. Sinead lifts the musket I gave him and crawls towards me.

“Ah, poppet, I am ecstatic to see you up and about. We find ourselves in a bit of a pickle.”

“You don’t say.”

“Tut tut, sarcasm does not become beautiful women.”

“Less seduction more explanation, please?”

“Of course. We are beset by, and please believe me when I say this comes as a surprise, cannibal monsters. Yes. As to how we ended up in this predicament, we left late afternoon on schedule and made good time on our journey West. Not long after, we came across a group of natives and decided to group up for safety. Then an hour ago, the path led us to a rickety wooden bridge over a deep gorge. Laura had point and crossed first to see if the structure was sound enough to pass with our wagon. They fell on her like wolves as soon as she was on the other side.”

“They?”

For the first time since he arrived, Sinead shivers and I see unease piercing though his usually unflappable countenance. Something terrible must have happened, and his usually jovial nature has been replaced with obvious worry.

“Thin men dressed in leather. Fast and feral. They unhorsed her and brought her to the ground in seconds. She managed to fire one shot and got an assailant in the chest, but he stood back up and joined the others.”

Sinead licks his lips, unsure on how to proceed.

“They ate her alive, Ariane. Starting with her face. The screams were something I could have done without.”

He lowers his eyes and takes a deep breath, trying to regain control. When he looks up, only cold resolve remains.

“My dear, I am aware that the success of my project is far from guaranteed but please, if it comes to this, do not let me be eaten alive. I would die of embarrassment. Not to mention, they do not deserve to taste a flesh as delicate as mine.”

“You won’t fall to them. Continue your story.”

“Yes, yes of course. Many more of those things jumped out of the woods. They were frenzied, insane. I believe they were waiting in ambush but could not resist, and their lack of control saved us. I had everyone turn around and retreat as more of those came after us. We managed to hold ourselves and the horses together for a while, yet despite my best efforts, they soon caught up to us. Your men showed admirable control and we were able to go on a fighting retreat up to this position. Unfortunately, we lost two horses and a third one ran away when a creature managed to drag Tom down. Metis must have disappeared in the confusion as well. The monsters attacked relentlessly. They did not care at all for their own well-being.”

Sinead’s voice is barely a whisper now.

“There is something else. They eat their dead. I saw it with my own eyes.”

“I expected that, just like I know what they are. I just never came across them in such numbers.”

Wendigos. They are organized now, enough to set up an ambush. Enough to take down a heavily armed convoy.

The world is changing and I am not sure if I like it.

I could go out and slaughter them. I am confident that they would all die but I also lost someone in the past by being overconfident. My priority should be to keep the rest of my allies alive. I need to stay with them. Now, should we make a stand or move? It would be more difficult to keep everyone together if we try to break out, not to mention the horses may panic. So I need the Wendigos to strike and slaughter them as they come. I also need to wipe them out. If a majority scatters and leaves, I may not be able to hunt them all before dawn and then the group would be vulnerable to a counter-attack.

We need bait.

I turn to Sinead just as I hear approaching footsteps at the edge of my perception.

“Somebody is coming. I’ll stall them. Walk around and prepare a fall back circle against the cliff. We need to fire on them when they attack, then draw them in and deny vision to their reinforcement.”

To my surprise, Sinead obeys without comment. Our situation must be dire indeed for him to eschew his acidic wit. Ignoring the urgent whispers spreading around I step onto the ridge to await the monster’s envoy.

Down the slope, a hungry mob of fighters has gathered in a loose line just out of musket range. The mass seethes and writhes in a tide of lean flesh and salient bones. Their sour musk pervades the very air. As I watch, a figure approaches. The man is larger and while still lean, he is not as skeletal as some of his brethren. He walks leisurely forward in a smooth gait that sometimes reveals his leathery skin and below, muscles like corded steel. I take an involuntary breath as I recognize the two crossed bands on his desiccated brown outfit. Our native allies during the battle at Black Harbor wore something similar.

Those are Choctaw Wendigos.

Nashoba, my friend... No. I refuse to believe it. They are so far from their land!

No, it cannot be. I must have made a mistake. Or they are raiders. Or exiles. I shall learn the truth!

“Why do you come to us dressed as a Mingo?”

The man stops and looks up in surprise. His black eyes inspect my body and when they reach my midriff, he licks his lips.

“I am a Mingo, a chief, white woman.”

“You are far from your lands, Mingo.”

I realize immediately that I made a mistake. The chief’s visage twists with inhuman fury, revealing a jagged set of teeth. To my surprise he regains control almost immediately.

“You do not know.”

“Know what?”

He laughs. It is a mirthless and broken sound that grates the ears. A mockery of the real thing.

“We are so insignificant that the white men of the North do not even know what their leaders have done.”

“I do not understand.”

“Then I shall tell you, white woman. I shall tell you how we ended up here like this. So you know how we were betrayed and why you die.

“Long ago, my father fought alongside your warriors against the Creek and the English both. He was there with Pushmataha when New Orleans was saved from the invasion. We thought you our friends, bound by blood spilt and shed together. You called us one of the five civilized tribes and we respected you in return, but the memory of your kind is short and your greed, endless.

“Two years ago, we were invited to a feast at Dancing Rabbit Creek and told we would have to bow to your rule or be exiled West. I saw how your free men were treated so we left. We could not fight you. Your kind cheered as my people walked through your cities because they knew there was new land to be had. All of our previous treaties meant nothing. We did not deserve to be treated with honor.

“I should have taken my war club, painted it red and died like a man. Instead we were led into the swamps by incompetent guides. We lost our way. Many died on the trail of tears.”

The fallen chief’s gaze is lost in the distance and his voice grows heavy with memories. I am surprised by his self-control. I never thought Wendigos could even be articulate, and yet his command of English is flawless.

“I was so hungry. I ate a crawfish, raw, with the pincers. And worms. My... my wife. She was chewing her own fingers...”

For a few moments, remnants of humanity bleed through the creature, only to disappear as the thing returns its attention to me. He has grown cold. His eyes are two black pits of nothingness smouldering with scorn and anger.

“Look at what I have become, because of greed. So hungry all the time. Like I have a dog gnawing from the inside. Enough. I was going to offer terms but no more. You will feel my pain, you, the Creek, the red people and the black men. All of you. I will eat the tender flesh from your stomachs, your breasts, and your thighs while you scream for mercy. Then, I will kill you.”

He steps back and screams. The sound is guttural and charged with meaning. It speaks of carcass eaten to the last pieces of cartilage, of broken bones with the marrow sucked off. It speaks of hunger and madness.

“There will be nothing left of you.”

Then he steps away.

He is lucky I need him alive. That scream sounded like a CHALLENGE. One I will answer. Later.

I trot back to the wagon and take out my rifle, then join my allies against the improvised trench.

“I can’t see shit.” comments Russel, one of the two black freemen. Good point.

“Light the lanterns and give them to me, quickly.”

The mute hermit and John scramble to provide what I asked. I take the first one as soon as it is ready and throw it.

Everyone follows the piece of red ember as it arches through the sky, then crashes against a pine tree. Oil spills, setting the tree ablaze. The halo of scarlet light shines on the advancing force. It reveals parodies of men, some of them on all four.

“Fire!”

Our side opens on the foes. The volley catches the creatures off guard and a handful falls. Unfortunately, the rest forfeits any attempt at discretion. They charge with throaty screams.

There are quite a few of them, I’d say at least thirty. I don’t see their leader and deduce that he will use his more feral troops to soften us. Sinead and I fire our pistols, slowing segments of the incoming force as some of them fall on their dead comrades. Soon, the first creature is climbing up the ridge.

“Fall back!”

The others retreat to the prepared positions.

“You too, John.”

The simple giant hesitated but he has never disobeyed a direct order and today is not the day he will start.

The others form a circle with the wagons at their back. The hermit and Russel reload frantically, preparing to cover the Creeks who have taken out steel tomahawks and stand shoulder to shoulder with the red-skinned men. Somewhere in front, the lanterns have set a tree ablaze and dark silhouettes appear clearly against the red-tinged background.

I cave in the first Wendigo’s chest with a closed fist. Snap the spine of a second one. I move slowly, hiding most of my abilities. Those are scavengers. If the tide of battle turns too fast, they will flee. I need to make it look like they might win while keeping my allies alive. Sinead and John must hold at all cost. The rest are replaceable.

The assaults starts in earnest. A creature falls to a point-blank shot and the next to John’s oversized metal club. I dance among the slow monsters and kill them where they stand. I am careful not to spread too much of their sour blood and I mostly break bones. One of the red-skins yells as he is dragged forward. I move and break his foe’s spine, then throw the corpse near the ledge to slow down the assault. Another uses the opportunity to jump on my back. YOU DARE. I grab the thing’s head before it can bite down and CRUSH IT, send the body flying. I kill three others in quick succession. Bodies are piling, some are fed on. Allies are being overwhelmed, too many. KILL FASTER. I go through their rank from one side of the circle to the other by slitting their throats and ripping their heads off. Spilt essence everywhere. Some of the mortals are already hurt, with fresh blood dripping from their wounds. The scent mingles with sweat, fear and Wendigo’s acidic ichor to form an intoxicating perfume, pungent and heady. Too many, I need to THIN THE HERD.

“HSSSSSSS!”

Oh no you do not want to leave. Look at me, all of you, yes, you are THIRSTY, SO VERY THIRSTY. YOU NEED THE PRECIOUS LIQUID. Feel the craving, the abominable pain. Come sate it. I am here.

The creatures open their dislocated maw and scream in anguish before rushing me. YES, COME.

This is my moment. The brothel, the politics and the others can all go to some lost circle of hell, this is what I was made for. I claw off half a head, grab the corpse and smash another with it. I dive under a grasping arm and stab another in the spine, use his corpse as a battering ram and crash into a group. They fall like pins. I stomp down and smash a skull, dismember them as they try to stand back up. Their screams of pain are a glorious symphony and the red mist of my labor caresses my nostrils. So good. Yes. MORE.

Some of them falter.

Oh no, that won’t do. I find one of my allies on the ground and grab him by the throat. He is wounded. Yes, he will do nicely.

“Scream.”

He obeys. Some others join in. The scavengers smell weakness as they recognize the sound of falling prey. The Mingo reaches the top.

More than two-thirds of his base creatures are dead. The rest is spread on the floor, nursing wounds, or paralyzed by indecision.

It roars in outrage.

PITIFUL WEAKLING. YOU THINK ME AFRAID? YOU ARE DOG AND I AM QUEEN.

“ROOAAAAR!”

Its face twists in terror. It turns to flee. One of his better-fed companions extends a hand and mutters a word. A translucent snake emerges from it, only to be bisected by my blue-clad talon. You call this magic? Pathetic. Die.

I massacre what is left of the retinue, gorge on their blood as the fallen one abandons the field. Yes, A BIT OF SPORT.

“Metis!”

The nightmare gallops seemingly out of nowhere and I jump on her back as she passes me by. We chase after the fleeing PREY.

It turns just before the end, so that I can see the disbelief on its face. Metis runs him down in a cacophony of yelps and shattered bone.

It crawls away.

I drop and grab it by the neck.

“It was a good hunt.”

He tastes pleasantly sour and powerful, with a tinge of regret and thwarted vengeance. The forest, moments before filled with the clamour of battle, falls silent.

And just like that, the hunt is over. I drop the broken remains of the dead Choctaw on the ground and look around. Two pines are still ablaze with sputtering flames, the sooty smoke trailing up to the sky. Bloody corpses are gathered in clumps where we shot them and where their allies fell on them to feed. The air is heavy with woodsmoke, gunpowder and blood.

I lost control, for the first time in two decades. I revealed my wildest self in public, in full view of my allies. I brought the odd squad because rumors coming from them would be dismissed and they know it, and this time it might not suffice. It is one thing to suspect your employer of being a witch, another to see her mow through supernatural creatures like a demon from hell.

Oh, and I think I Devoured a few of them, did I not? Yes I did. Wonderful. Tremendous.

Perhaps all that dismemberment was a tad overdone. Ripping the arms from your enemy’s chest? So last millennium.

Dammit. I did not need this. I must have enough men to assault the prison and access the areas that will necessarily be consecrated. The order of Gabriel has been formed and trained to slay things like me, it is therefore wise to use mundane means against them. I cannot afford a mutiny before this is done.

Metis nudges me and brings me back to the present. I tear off the leather strips from the dead one’s stomach and leave her to her own feast. The walk back to the fortified camp is a long one as I fear what I will find and the decisions I shall have to take. On the ridge, only John is waiting for my return. He is looking around at the charnel pit that this place has become.

His brow scrunches in confusion, then he turns to me and asks me with a calm voice:

“Why did they attack us, Miss Lethe?”

I stop by his side and consider an answer. I could tell him that they wanted to inflict pain in return for the pain they suffered. I could tell him that we were in the wrong place at the wrong time and made to pay for sins committed by men who would see me dead if they could. I could tell him that the world is a senseless hellhole where fortune and tragedy walk hand in hand for no specific reason, that I did not deserve to die for reaching above my station, and that my first victim should not have perished to feed me. I could add that I did not deserve to be saved by Loth or tortured by Lady Moor. I will not. It is a fool’s errand to seek meaning in that vast cosmic circus of a world. There is no justice in that divine farce, save the one we dispense ourselves. Why did they attack us? Why indeed.

“Because they were hungry.”

I pat the huge man on the shoulder as he nods beatifically. His all-knowing and all-powerful Mistress answered the question and explained reality, and now all is right in the world. Sometimes, I envy him.

The men I left behind are bandaging their wounds when I find them again. They collectively recoil when my steps lead me down. Only Sinead and the old red-skinned man are not staring at the ground in hope that when they look back up, it will all have been a dream. The ancient warrior looks at me with a calm and contemplative gaze, and I believe that he had been ready to meet death long before our paths crossed. Sinead is inspecting the others and gauging their reactions, already planning ahead.

Behind them, Tom’s raspy breath and the man I forced to scream’s soft sobs are the only sounds that break the silence.

The fire dies out.

I force back a sigh and bend to grab a defunct Wendigo. We have to stay here for a little while to allow the others some rest and clearing the battlefield is a necessity. Dead, my foes lose their bestial countenance and unnatural strength. They are thin and shockingly light, weighing less than an adult should.

“Light some torches.”

They obey and we work in silence. When I have grabbed the last severed limb and added it to an improvised pyre, I turn and find their attention on me. Good, it is the perfect opportunity to deliver an important message.

“You just found out that the world is bigger and darker than you thought. All of you realize that I am part of it. If anyone wants to panic, or pray, do it now, because tomorrow you will perform according to my expectations or you will die. I do not care if afterward you run all the way to Texas screaming like banshees. Until this is over, you are mine. And in case any of you got any bright ideas about fleeing by day or warning the authorities, I will now explain why you should not. First, no one will believe you. And second, when I find out, I will make sure that your end is the stuff of legend. I will grind your flesh until you are ready to sell your souls just so that I allow you to succumb. No distance will be too great and no fortress safe enough to protect you from my retribution. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

A series of nods and “Yes ma’am” answers my question. Even the otherwise cold hermit seems a bit flabbergasted by the sudden display, though Sinead is just shaking his head and wincing. I am about to turn and go for a calming run when the old chief stands and greets me.

Or at least I think he does, I do not understand a word of what he says.

“Allow me to help here,” says my Likaean friend.

“How do you even know his language?”

“I have a gift for tongues, as you may have guessed. I will translate for you.”

“Thank you.”

The ancient man’s diction is peculiar. His voice flows peacefully in a soft dialect that makes sentence structures hard to spot. The melody of his words is rhythmic and soothing.

“He says he thanks you for saving us all. His name translates as ‘He who raided at dawn’, and he came here in pursuit of his son.”

“Was his son abducted?”

“No, he says he is here to kill him.”

That was unexpected. The chief grows agitated as he elaborates on his outrageous claim.

“He says that his eldest son used dark magic to kill both a brother and his wife. He is filled with malice and steals the skin of innocents to fuel his evil powers. And the monster cannot be slain, for every time it falls dead, it sheds its skin like a snake and is born anew. Only a bone spear made from a relative can slay the creature once and for all. Say, Ariane…”

“I know. Ask him if, uh, what was it again, Shandeen was the girl?”

At the mention of the female name I dug from my memories, He who raids at dawn steps back in apprehension. He grabs his spear and eyes me with suspicion while his men look on, unsure of what to do. THREATENING ME. No! Not threatening me, he is merely afraid of something that can take anyone’s form. I do not want to kill him unless I have to. He fought at my side and shows no sign of betrayal. It means something to me.

“Tell him I killed his son, the old-fashioned way.”

The father lowers his spear. He and Sinead whisper in a low voice for a little while and though his fear has abated, there is a strange weariness to him. I think I understand. He committed to a desperate quest, willing to sacrifice his very life to redeem the honor of his clan only to find out that the transgressor is already dead and buried. The ultimate evil has fallen to another ultimate evil, one who likes petticoats and geraniums. I would be at a loss too.

After a few more exchanges and questions about the death of the skinwalker and his final physical appearance, the old chief asks to see his son’s grave and I accept. He then proceeds to vaunt my powerful magic and the ease with which I channel the spirit of the Mountain Lion and to be careful not to let it take over. He adds that he will repay his debt by assisting us in our next raid. This might be the nicest thing a stranger has said or done to me after seeing me at work, and I smile at his graceful offer. The exchange goes on until Russel walks to me and announces that Tom wants to talk.

I leave the others behind, and find Tom’s harried form is at the back of the wagon. He has been bandaged, but the wounds are too deep and his normally clear skin is ashy with pain and blood loss. Strands of white hair from his beard are plastered by sweat to his clammy skin. Feverish eyes follow me as I approach.

A stained hand reaches out from under his cover. I grab it and hold him steady. His voice is strained but clear in the quiet vale.

“Miss Lethe… I have a wish.”

This is important. He is my fallen warrior. I must listen.

“I have no cause to hold a grudge… I knew I might die here… If you could just look after my son…”

This is the first time Tom mentions a family.

“Who is your son?”

“His name is… David. I left him behind. Left him on the plantation. He was too young… I am so sorry, David…”

“David what?”

“King. The tobacco plantation of Mr. Dawes, in Louisville.”

“I will find your son and buy his freedom if he still lives. You have my word.”

“Good. Thank you. May God bless your soul… Whatever you are. Please, leave me not here on the ground... To be eaten by jackals.”

“I’ll bury you in a pleasant spot with a view on the river. We will not abandon you.”

“Thank you… Ah… It hurts so much…”

“Look at me. Yes, good. Follow my voice. There is no more pain. No more pain. You feel warm and cozy, under that cover. You hear the fire crackling. It is warm and cozy and comfortable. You are sleepy. Sleep is good. Now let go. Let go.”

Tom sighs one last time and shivers. I lean forward and slowly close his eyes. He died a warrior’s death in my service, and I will give him whatever last rites I can. This is just as important as respecting the hunt and my promises. It is a part of my identity, one I fully accept. I pick up the body, still warm. His blood has seeped through the bandages and cover. The smell mingles with the inevitable stench of released bowels but I do not mind. This is no longer Tom but what he left behind and respecting it is also about respecting ourselves.

Russel is waiting by the camp’s edge with a shovel and an attitude.

“I’m coming too. He was my friend.”

I nod in silence. I now understand why Sinead showed his displeasure at my earlier display. There were many ways for me to handle the situation and I went with threats. Someone as smooth as him could turn this raggedy outfit into a guard loyal to the death but I am not him, I am a survivor, and so I went with what I knew would work. For the first time, I realize that I took the wrong approach.

Sinead had us stop a mile away from the prison and prepare, and now we are moving slowly towards it. The moonless night offers so little visibility that the mortals must hold hands not to drift. The noise of their stumble through soil and grass is masked by the Likaean’s magic.

I would not have noticed anything special about the hill we are heading to if he had not pointed it out. Even now, only a small window allows one sentry to look out. The opening is almost invisible from the outside. The obscurity serves us as well, though I am a bit worried about the smell. Our entire company is quite ripe after yesterday’s battle and even if I managed to clean up in the river, the frigid temperatures deterred the others.

I made sure I stood upwind. It’s that bad.

Our destination is a wall between two of the four watch posts. We reach it without incident. Behind it, the hidden complex sprawls. It looks more like a warren than something where humans live. All four structures are low, parts of them dug into the ground. Trenches provide access to buildings and instead of a roof, there are only mud bricks covered by a thin layer of grass.

“Careful,” I whisper, “broken glass.”

Somebody painstakingly glued jagged shards on top of the wall at the entire circumference of the camp. The dedication and time required to do that are impressive. I silently break off the sharpest parts and cover a meter-wide segment in mud and clumps of grass. Time to go. I attempt to jump and… immediately fall back down on my bottom.

“Hsss.”

“Perhaps not a knight,” comments Sinead lightly, “but you do have a future as a court jester.”

“It’s blessed! The entire place is consecrated.” I whisper back.

This is a terrible thing. I planned around buildings being forbidden to me, but not the entire compound!

“Impossible. Look left, there is a log gate to the outside. They must have blessed the wall only, to prevent intrusion. Listen, I can lead the men to the door and unlock it from the inside. You should be able to go then.”

“Hold on. I may have a better idea.”

I walk back and tap on John’s shoulder, then drag him up to the wall. He kneels by my side so that I can whisper in his ear. He smells of sweat and tobacco, a familiar scent that puts me at ease.

“Get over the wall, go right until you find a door. Open it quietly. Kill the man inside, in silence. Find a big cross. Break the cross. Stab the wood in the corpse. Return.”

John nods and walks up with unquestioning obedience. There is a childlike purity in the way he murders people. I ordered it, and thus it must be right. This kind of unquestioning obedience is a precious thing and one that can be easily abused. I will not do so. John is mine and those who choose to become mine will be well treated.

I close my eyes and focus. By my side, Sinead’s calm breath and steady heart show that my friend is no stranger to covert action. I am not truly surprised, and I follow John’s steps as he moves forward with a grace that belies his large size. The feet stop. A door slides on slightly rusty hinges. A man takes a sharp intake of breath, a muffled scream is interrupted by what I assume are my soldier’s bear-like mitts. Flesh impacts wood, once, twice, thrice. Bone breaks.

A heavy body falls on the floor. John’s breath is just as steady as ever. He does not doubt and that is why I believe my plan will work. A minute passes, then I hear the noise of broken wood, of mangled flesh.

It is done.

John steps outside and walks back to us. I hear him counting steps as he makes his way.

When he arrives, he turns with worry on his face, fixing the darkness with big round eyes.

“Miss Lethe?”

His large hands search the wall lightly, finding the dirt cover. I grab one and see pure relief on his big ugly face.

“You have done well. Now, invite me in?”

“Please come in miss Lethe.”

The silent warning dissipates before innocence corrupted and twisted to end a life. The barrier disappears almost… reluctantly.

I am in.

With a tug, Sinead guides the others into the prison.

The area is one of the queerest structures I have ever witnessed, and I was reborn in a cavernous underground fortress. Four buildings as large as family houses are dug into the ground and trenches lead from one to another. The roofs are covered in grass and vegetation. Excruciating attention to detail has been devoted to make this place as hard to find as humanly possible. Thankfully, there are no pig pens.

“Any patrol?”

“No.”

“Then we proceed as planned.”

The red-skinned men, who I learnt come from a people called the Navajo, split up and jump down into the trenches to wait by the guard post entrances. I grab a leather bag I had brought and open it to reveal ominous black canisters.

“Are those fire bombs?” asks Sinead with curiosity. “Made of oil and resin, perhaps?”

“Oil and resin?” I scoff, “Pfff! Nothing so pedestrian, I assure you. Those are powder charges of a special blend containing traces of magnesium and I assure you sir, that those devices will ignite beautifully, and reach temperatures as high as…”

“Yes, yes yes, alright, calm down woman. By the spheres, I never knew explosions could have such a rousing effect on you.”

“I thought you could appreciate true beauty you ruffian!”

“Shh! The plan! Focus on the plan!”

Right.

I leave the odd squad to set up an ambush around what we identified as the barracks and Sinead leads me to the smallest building. He turns to me.

“Ariane, I am going to reveal how I located my fiancée. Please promise me you will not share this secret.”

“You have my word.”

“I knew I could count on you. Look.”

He takes from a pendant around his neck something that looks like a compass, with an arrow shining viridian even in the dead of night.

“This is keyed to her essence. If the secret of its existence should fall into the wrong hands…”

“I already told you I would keep your secret.”

“I know. Let us find out where my darling went.”

The so-called jail is barely more than a shed. I am about to question Sinead’s crafting skills when it comes to me. This is an underground prison.

Sinead kneels in front of the door and fiddles with the lock until I hear a click. It opens to surprisingly large stairs and a packed earth landing. Soft murmurs can be heard further on.

This is the moment of truth. I take a step in and breathe in relief. This area is not sanctified, and that means I know what I could find here.

Captive vampires.

I walk down the stairs to a large landing. A rectangular room leads to two massive locked doors to my left and right. They are made of reinforced steel and could probably hold a siege. The room itself is mostly bare. I spot only an armory, a table with chairs and my first piece of luck since starting this endeavor: the guards are kneeling on the floor, praying. Their gear was left on the ground.

Oh, the irony is just delicious.

I resist the disturbing urge to taunt them and instead pounce for the kill. The first man dies immediately, a second falls before realizing anything and the third one only has the time to widen his eyes before I stab his brain.

Beautifully done, if I dare say so myself.

At this moment, I hear a clang behind me. A fourth man gazes stupidly at my toothy smile and the bodies at my feet.

Ah, damn it.

I jump but too late, the door shuts close. I manage to grab it and pull open with a groan of tortured steel. The last order member gives up on closing it and takes out a cross and a pistol.

“The power of God compels you!”

I hiss and take a step back. What does he take me for, the devil? I dodge to the side as he pulls the trigger, jump on the wall, then behind him. Then he dies.

Outside, a second of silence follows the sound of gunshot, then men yell in alarm. Spotted. The others should be fine and my priority is the prisoner. There could be more guards and they could have a way to purge all the cells at once. That’s what I would have done.

“It’s clear!” I inform Sinead. The Likaean walks in as the sound of detonations confirm that my charges were conserved in a dry environment. Heh. I wish I could have seen the explosion.

I turn around when my ally joins me and inspect the corridor I find myself in. Lanterns sit at regular intervals, shedding light on the brick walls as well as the fortified doors lining them. The corridor turns at a right angle further down.

“How can we tell which door is hers?”

“I can’t. Her aura is too strong, the compass’ needle is just twisting around.”

I grumble at the loss of time but not too much. I wanted to check the other cells anyway.

“Return to the guard room, I shall examine each one.”

Sinead is safe by the time I open the first door. It took me half a minute to find the right key from the jailor’s massive collection.

The cell is completely devoid of any comfort. There is not even a bucket or a pail of straw, only grey stones. On the far wall, a human man is chained, held by massive steel links. His wiry frame is covered in wounds and sores. A single manic eye glints with madness as he lifts his head.

“Finally, thou have answered my summons! Thine master orders thee, succubus!”

“Uuuuuh…”

“Now get on thine knees and suck my cock!”

Ten seconds later I step back out, wiping blood from my lips.

“So?”

“No one important, next!”

A few curses later, I manage to get the next room and immediately regret my lack of caution. The steel links have been shattered and a prostrate figure lies in the middle of the room. The cold aura of a vampire reaches me, one that feels strangely familiar. The man is muscular, and tall. Long black hair falls in front of his face and prevents me from recognizing him until he turns his attention on me and I recognize the slanted eyes and the foreign skin color. Impossible. Could it be?

“Ogotai?”

The rogue opens a maw filled with serrated teeth. His long yellow claws rake the unforgiving ground, then he charges me.

??. Black and Red Healer

183? undisclosed location.

I stroll leisurely alongside the river, enjoying the silence and the feeling of a job well done. Light from gas lampposts illuminates the doric columns of the massive building by my side.

My guard is down, and this mistake costs me dearly.

One moment, the world is as normal as it can get these days, the other, a sphere of void opens in front of me and tendrils of power snatch me like a child takes a doll. I barely have time to take out my dagger and slash at the power ineffectually before I am dragged in.

“Ah, what the…”

A massive hall.

“... hell?”

I stand in the middle of a spell circle. The construct is grandiose, almost on the scale of what Semiramis pulled off. I am filled with dread. Who would squander this much power to get me must have a purpose.

As I watch, the last of the runes fade and a protective dome of force covers me.

I feel no immediate danger, and so I take in my surrounding.

The hall is a rectangular throne room of ridiculous proportions. The ground is pink marble polished to a delicate lustre. And the walls white stone smoothed to a shine. Golden leaves etched into the stone tell tales of valor, showing knights and heroes fighting mighty demons. Magic is clearly shown and in one of the decorations, a horned man with a furious glare blows off the top of a mountain. I really, really hope this is a metaphor of sorts.

It also smells of stale air, and something unpleasant underneath. I think we are belowground.

I return my attention to the people, now that the last flashes of magic die down and I can use most of my senses again. The room is not empty. Lines of guards in gaudy armour line it, and though I question their taste, I can tell that their gear is magical.

Dangerous.

At the end of the hall, several mages stand around who I assume to be the sovereign. They must be the summoners.

Before they can even speak, I feel something to my right, eddies of power that even our magical restraints cannot stop. I am in only one of three circles. One contains remnants of flesh that appear as if a person had been made to go through a tube the size of an arm. The last is occupied by a woman.

She is slightly taller than me, with raven black hair left to fall on her toned shoulders. Her clothes are that of a peasant. A white shirt hinting at a modest bust, brown pants ending with athletic legs. Her feet are clad in boots of good quality, made to fit. It is as if she did not care about her appearance at all even though she clearly could. And yet, her posture speaks of confidence, an absolute trust in her own power. She is lightly balanced on the balls of her feet with a grace that no mortals should be able to achieve. Truly, by appearing so normal, I feel like someone placed a tiny hat on a giant tiger.

The woman turns to me lightly. Cold blue eyes take me in and assess me in an instant.

She is mighty. I do not know how I realize this, only that it is a certain thing. Her essence has a terrible weight as if she were much smaller than she should be, and waves of tremendous magic pulse from her in waves.

Fortunately, she continues her inspection. The woman checks the ground around her and the people in front of us with no hint of concern whatsoever. If anything her smirk has not left her face since I started to look.

Finally, one of the men in the small assembly comes forward. He is rather ancient and clad in a garish cloak of red and gold. His smile is thick as molasses, and just as dark,

“Welcome! Heroes of faraway lands! You have been summoned by nobody lesser than the great and mighty King Abel! To fulfil the prophecy and rid this land of every and all demons!”

He does not speak English, the meaning of his words is simply carried by a harmless magical tendril directly into my mind.

I truly am not in my own plane. This is magic on a grand scale. Too bad it was carried out by what amounts to kidnappers.

“Ah great. The summoned hero story. Why put a barrier up if you want our help?” says the woman on my side, in proper English this time. Her voice has a strange accent that I cannot place, and there is something behind too. I feel like she could speak louder, loud enough to crack my mind open.

“We mean you no harm!” the man continues as he comes closer, and I can finally tell where the smell comes from. He is only playing at being a human but I can taste his essence through the barrier. It is foul.

“The shield is there to prevent magical power leaking outwards. You were chosen as prospective heroes, individuals with great potential. Young and surging in power!” the creature continues as it approaches. There is something off with its face as well. The Skinwalker was better at imitating people.

This stinks of enslavement coated with a thin layer of bullshit. Is it so hard to imagine that “Heroes of Faraway Lands” would have more intellect than the average hamster? Prevent magical power leaking outward indeed. They are not even trying. I flex my claws. No one enslaves me, not anymore.

I just hope the blue-eyed monster thinks the same as she turns to me.

“What do you think?” she says, looking at me, “That bundle of flesh doesn’t seem quite happy about being here either.”

“A spell that has one in three chances of turning their target to mincemeat indicates that little care is given to their target,” I observe.

Unwise. Our captors are beyond careless. This flimsy barrier will not hold the one next to me and even I should manage to break with the Herald’s power, given time.

“How thoughtful. You are right. Though I must say, I would very much like to experience the full extent of this spell’s power… perhaps I could learn to resist it fully…,” the woman adds.

Oh, so that’s how it is. She’s probably quite resilient, the kind to travel around looking for a challenge. I sincerely hope that she will not find it here.

“Why summon us?”, she continues, “Doesn’t the mighty, high and powerful king what’s his name have enough powerful people to fight the war himself? You already have fourty eight capable knights standing in this very hall. Pretty wasteful if you ask me.”

She clearly saw through their feeble attempts at manipulation. Her mocking tone is obvious, and if I were those imbeciles over there, I would start to reinforce the barrier or find somewhere else to be.

“You were chosen to fight the fiends who wield necromancy, blood magic and curses in their unrelenting pursuit of conquest! Are you not those good of heart and spirit? Those who would vanquish the evils of the world?”

They must have messed up their ritual. This is the only explanation.

“Some of my best friends are necromancers. And blood mages… and curse… mages?” the woman adds, looking thoughtful. That is good news for me. At least she is not a zealot.

“Besides… I can feel blood magic from your king. Seems a little dishonest to me,” the woman continues, then something strange happens. Her essence materializes into ash, which coalesces into a chair. At the same time, she reaches into the shadow of her aura and pulls… a bowl of food.

By the Watcher!

If only I could do the same thing, store items in my shadow… then... I could store guns! Explosives! Maybe a whole canon! That would be so great… Wait, no Ariane, focus. The big one is about to speak.

“Then, perhaps…” the ‘King’ starts in a voice like shredded metal, before coughing. “Perhaps you would be interested to side with us after all-” he finishes.

If the pitch was not already enough to betray his inhumanity, the blood would. The scent is tangy, reminding me of Wendigo. The thing on the ground is fouled, but what runs in his veins… now that would be something.

“My King! You mustn’t,” one of the sovereign’s attendants interrupts.

The King just punts him into a wall.

Alright then. It might make for a GOOD HUNT, STRONG PREY. Wait, hold on, I was going to negotiate my return. This is not time to start shedding blood, if I can even do it. Who knows how powerful they are? I need to be cautious, extremely cautious.

“A… being… of ash. And one of blood,” the king says with an empty chuckle. “Would you not serve me? You could be lords… whole continents would cower before your might. As heralds of King Abel.”

Cute, but something tells me we would have to conquer those continents ourselves. Besides, I SERVE NO ONE. Calm, Ariane, you need to stay calm. Diplomacy will get me through this.

“I’m quite happy where I am. Can you send us back now please? I have obligations and I’m sure the same is true for you.” the woman says and she once more turns to me, “I’m Ilea by the way, nice to meet you. Like the daggers and the whole corpse-like thing you’ve got going on,”

How rude!

“I am Ariane of the Nirari,” I grumble, “and I am not a corpse.”

Honestly, do corpses even move? Nonsense. At least she likes my daggers, so she has a few redeeming qualities.

Before I can introduce myself further, the woman continues.

“Hey you’re a vampire, right?”

She knows.

Dread takes my heart. She knows! I really hope that my judgement was correct and that I can join necromancers and blood mage on the list of approved creatures or else, I am done for. I can taste her essence in the very air. She will obliterate me if she wants to.

Perhaps… she could even hold her own against my sire.

“Don’t worry about it. As long as you’re not a feral monster trying to eat me, there shouldn’t be a problem,” she continues with the same unsettling smile, as if everything was an amusing distraction for her. I feel that if that smile were to disappear, terrible things would occur.

At least I will be fine. It would take utter desperation or a truly maddening Thirst to force me to go against her.

“I am afraid such is not possible. Too much was invested to get you here. You will serve me. Willingly or not,” the king says, as he emits a powerful aura.

This is bad. I have no time to think, no time to plan. There is too much I do not understand.

“Hold on, friend, perhaps we should try to negotiate with them first…” I tell the firebrand at my side. We can stall. They are ready and prepared for us now, with lines of knights. If we wait, perhaps security will be laxer and we will have a better chance of escaping.

“Okay mate. Last chance. Beam us back or I will literally rip off your head,” the woman replies.

That’s her way of negotiating? Well, we’re in it now.

I prepare to dodge a spell but I am not a target. A globe of power emanating from the King spreads out and hits Ilea.

A ghastly wound explodes on her chest. Carmine blood stains her shirt, the ground, and her lips. That’s got to be a lung. This is it. I take out my dagger, call the power of the Herald in my claws and watch in amazement as the woman’s torso pops back in as if nothing had happened.

Huh?

Mesmerized, I stand witness to a miracle. First, a full set of bone-coloured armor emerges from the shadow of her aura to cover her entire body. Then, the thundering essence around her takes shape and slides over the first defense to form a streamlined layer the color of ash, if ash shone like white stars. It clads her from head to toe in an intricate tapestry of scales and plates as elegant as they look sturdy. This is the work of a true master, designed for her. The only thing exposed is a pair of glacial blue eyes under forward-facing horns, and they look cold indeed. There is an anticipation in the air. The time for talk is over. Now, we Hunt.

“I don’t think you have a choice here,” she adds with a wink.

Indeed I do not.

And it’s your fault! Bah!

“Kill them!” the king screams as he discards his human form, exploding into a demonic grey-skinned abomination with a crown sitting atop a lupine skull. Quite tall too! Well, the bigger they are...the better they taste.

“Whoa, pretty disgusting there,” Ilea comments with the tone of a housewife seeing a half-rotten cabbage on the ground.

She’s correct, it is rather gross. Well, nothing to it. I move, and go after the knights first. The smart thing would be to go after the mages or the creature that can make someone’s chest explode from afar but I am counting on my unexpected ally to be the obvious target and she does not disappoint. She somehow appears in their midst and wrecks through them in moments. The magical armors which I had admired but moments ago folds like cheap paper as her strange back... tentacles? Literally rip the things apart.

I still want those breastplates, they look nifty.

I lay into the knights myself. I weave through them and stab necks, armpits and thighs, avoiding the protected areas. The knights’ movements are good but they are far too slow. Their blood smells like a lesser version of the King’s. Inhuman. TASTY.

“You dare defy me!?” the king roars with a broken voice,

“Yes, yes. I do dare. I’ve heard this so many times before. What the fuck did you expect, summoning powerful heroes here?” Ilea asks, sounding weirdly reasonable as limbs and broken corpses rain around her. I am moving forward and to the sides, using walls and the knight’s positioning against them. I need to avoid getting cornered. I stab and slash, sometimes pushing foes on the path of thrown spears and axes. The chaos of battle works to my advantage and allows me to stay one step ahead.

Ilea’s chest explodes once more, only to reform in instants. She does not even flinch.

I’m a bit jealous.

“You’ll need more than that!” she says like a fishmonger asking for more change.

Then she extends a hand and a cone of pure heat blasts vaporizes everything behind me.

FIRE. RUN.

“Hsss!” Hot hot hot. I’M ON FIRE. No, calm down, it’s just my second most expensive dress. Aaaaaah. I glare at the culprit who shrugs helplessly as her tentacles stab and gut a knight poised to strike her.

“My dress!” I complain. That bloody thing cost me two hundred dollars!

“Sorry… behind you!”

Yes, yes, I know. I jump forward and knee the creature in the chest plate to unbalance it, then stab it.

Ow.

Should have just stabbed it.

My knees! Ow! This is getting worse and worse. I hiss once more as another knight uses the opening to nick my leg. And there go my leggings too. Unforgivable. VERMINS. KILL THEM ALL.

Ilea has nearly reached the King when one of the robbed mages erects a barrier. PATHETIC. I gather the power of the Herald in my claws and breach it. PREY. I fall on the robbed and Devour it in a second. Power, defiled and mighty roars in its veins. It calls for domination and violence, but it is also unstable and destructive. Delicious.

Focus.

I raise my head to see the tentacle woman looking slightly amused. She points at the King who is still trying to make her chest explode as if this time, the result would be any different.

“That guy,” she says and points at the malformed sovereign.

Hm. Yes?

A few dark spears blink into existence and rush the creature with enough speed and power to skewer a frigate. Our foe simply blocks it with its muscular arms, and I feel power reaching beneath me. Spikes of blood emerge from the ground. Before I can dodge, Ilea blinks before me and stop the onslaught by… simply standing there and letting them crash on her torso.

“Want a bite?” she offers

“Certainly,” I reply. The King looks like a prize.

Then she grabs me by the collar and tosses me forward.

Huh?

Aaaaaah… Why that tricksy little… Ah! I twist my body mid-air and manage to land knives first into the creature’s eyes.

It reels.

It opens a wide maw.

Before it can bite down, Ilea appears on its side and casually punches it. The impact sends the beast to the side. It is unbalanced.

It’s my chance.

I claw my way in its steely flesh and latch to its throat. I bite down.

The crown upon my brow is light, it is where it belongs now. The empire of Ys has suffered the independence of those squabbling kingdoms to the South for far too long. My father was weak, and it is time to strike! Those who resisted will be trampled, their wives shall weep and their children will die in darkness, mining leagues below the ground for the glimmering fuel that powers our machines.

Fools! My troops have been stalled by guerillas and armed peasants? Inconceivable. I need to take harsher measures.

Tarran Hill has fallen under the combined efforts of the alliance. How did it ever come to this? I have no choice now, I will conduct the ritual, bind my essence to that of an Outsider. The others before me turned into half-mad demons but I will not succumb to its influence. I am far too strong for that…

I pull out. Power, unbridled, courses through my vein. The host was weak but the corrupting essence? It is incredible. Like a smooth fire begging to be unleashed. It tastes of cruel trickery and almost lies, of a game of patience that can never truly be lost.

I fall down to a knee. Oops? Teehee. Wait, no, now is not the time to lose my focus. I am a mighty ruffian-propelled vampiric projectile of death and destruction. I am sharp and devious and completely, completely sober. Yep!

“It is done,” I announce. Ilea blinks before me and I jump back in alarm, though she simply lowers her hands.

“No worries. I’m a healer,” she says.

Yes, you are the very essence of the Hippocratic oath, you lunatic.

“It will heal. There is no need,” I reply.

“Ah, you can regenerate too, nice, can you lose your head too?”

I don’t like where this conversation is going. But hey, it’s fun!

“In theory yes, though I would rather not find out. Why, can you? ” I ask with a smile.

“You’re drunk, aren’t you?”

The woman smirks. Blasted! I am made.

“No! I am not! Just curious, is all,” I say, taking great care to have a good pronunciation. There! No way she figures it out now. Ariane, queen of acting!

Instead of replying. She tears her head off.

Just like that.

I am not really here. Somebody managed to hypnotize me and I am now having a vivid hallucination. Either that or I am, in fact, dead, and must suffer for all eternity in this hell, enduring some sick being’s twisted sense of humor. Those are the only reasonable explanations I can think of.

“Huh, I did not expect a demonstration. Perhaps one day, I shall develop the power to erase selective memories. That would be nice,” I add.

“Want a bite?” she says, and throws it at me.

It really is her head. It’s still even smiling.

Gah.

“Made you lose your head in five minutes, heh. Who are you… really?” I ask

“I told you, I’m Ilea. I was brought here from Elos and I intend to go back,” she says.

I have never heard of Elos. It is probably another plane. One thing is sure, if that woman is the norm, I don’t want to go there, ever. Being able to walk under a foreign moon is not worth having spare body parts thrown at you mid-conversation. I will still play nice though, in case she expects me to return the favor. I like my own head where it is now, thank you very much.

“Ilea… well met! I am a vampire as you have previously deducted. Do you perchance have a way to travel through the planes?”

Somebody get me out of here.

“Nice to meet you too, Ariane. I can only return to my own realm. Maybe one of the mages here can help out,” she suggests.

“The mages! Yes! How could I forget?”

We did not kill them all.

“I have no clue either, sorry,” she says.

I look around and focus. One heartbeat, behind the pillar.

“I found one,” I say, and go grab the man. I drag him back to the pedestal, kicking and screaming. Dessert! No wait, I need him alive. To go home!

“Return me to the United States, promptly!” I demand.

“We can’t… the magic required… it would take decades,” he whispers.

“I can supply it,” Ilea says. “You just provide the magic circle.”

“Can we trust this… creature?” I wonder.

Ilea shrugs. “No. Definitely not but do you have another idea?”

Fair point.

“The circle is simple… I understand it, studied it… for decades… please, let me live! I can bring you back,” the man pleads.

He smells delicious, like… a second main course. I Charm him in an instant, sweeping aside his pathetic defences. He is terrified and as a result, he wants to please. His survival depends on our goodwill. I lower the fear and fan the flames of devotion in his heart.

“You want to live, don’t you? You are a powerful mage, are you not?” I ask.

“Yes I do. I am, quite powerful. Wiser than even King Abel!”

“Then you would surely be able to bring us back to our realms. To protect your own people,” I say, and I do not need to bluff to make him believe it.

“Yes, of course. But the magic… it is impossible,” the man stammers out.

Not if Ilea fuels it. She can grow heads like some grow petunias. What’s a magical portal through time and space? I press on.

“With her help, it may be possible. You would be a hero! Having banished the monstrous creatures that have murdered your king!”

“I will get right to it! Only small modifications need to be made… but I can only send you back from where you have come… nowhere else,” he says and scrambles to the circle to complete it.

I watch his back with satisfaction.

“Impressive powers. Does that come with the vampire class?” asks the woman by my side.

“Class? I know of no such thing. What are you? If I might ask?”

“I’m a human. So are you, by the looks of it. You said United States? I’m from Earth too, though I don’t exactly call it home anymore. The place I’m from has magic and monsters. And quite a few opportunities to find power,”

“Human… you looked more monster than woman,” I add with some regret. I am so jealous.

“You too. Well, sometimes you just have to let it out, you know? Feels good to let loose and these fuckers deserved it. So, ready to go home?”

The man motions us to join him, the modifications to the magic circle done.

Last chance for a dessert.

“If I might ask... would you… would it be fine for you if… if I drank a little of your blood?”

By the Watcher, I sound like a Supplicant but this is a unique opportunity. I hope she does not take offence.

“Knock yourself out,” Ilea says. “But it does feel a little uncomfortable seeing you hold my head.”

I return the body part which I was still holding for the simple reason that it would feel inappropriate to boot it under some column while its owner is just right there, watching. She makes the thing disappear.

“This should suffice for blood,” she says, and use a tentacle to literally wrench her heart out, breaking her ribs and everything.

Alrighty then. I’m sure Isaac has some methods to make memories fade in the background. Definitely. I hope.

“A parting gift,” she says with a bright smile as her chest cavity fills out again.

“Erm, thank you, Ilea of Elos. It was an experience to make your acquaintance,” I reply. I wouldn’t mind seeing her again actually. Provided we are on the same side.

“Ready?,” Ilea asks as I step into the circle.

“Until we meet again.”

Teleportation. The ability to open a conduit through time and space, sending and retrieving people and goods from unfathomable distances in the blink of an eye. Truly, a wonder of magic. If I am being reasonable, I should not be surprised, nor angry, that the panicked mage would miss the mark by twenty paces and send me back just above the river.

“FU-”

53. Three is a Crowd

I dodge a clawing motion then another, stunned at what I see.

So weak.

Ogotai is pitifully slow, his movements jerky and inefficient. I feel like I am fighting a drunk child. Were rogues not supposed to be particularly dangerous? Was he always so feeble?

I reminisce as I stop another assault and slam my old jailor against the stone wall. Back in the vampire fortress as I first woke up, he had been terrifying. I was powerless before his strength and the pain he could and did inflict. With Jimena and Master, he was one of the three individuals who had ruled my life then. I have trouble reconciling my memories with the sad wreck in front of me.

“Ogotai, wake up.”

The degenerate creature shakes its head and charges again with a yowl of fury. I seize his arms as he extends them and shatter the wrists. The beast screams in pain.

“Ogotai, enough, wake up.”

I will kill him. He is a traitor and not someone I intend to keep around. I just want to give him a chance of doing so on his own two feet, as a last courtesy from one vampire to another. Not like this.

My words are useless. He just tries to bite my arm wherever he can reach it. His aura fizzles sickly and I am left to wonder how much time he spent here. When I disabled him and stunned Father Perry, could the priest have taken the vampire captive with him? Did the traitor spend more than thirty years in their custody, bound here by chains of steel and walls of stone? Did they even feed him? By the Watcher, I would rather rip my own throat and throw myself on a silver spike.

I avert my eyes from the fallen one as I remember why I am here. I do not have more time to give him. With a hint of regret, I expose his throat and bite deep.

Winter

When Subotai led us to the city they call Kiev, I thought we had reached the end of the world. We brought back strange furs, and slaves with skin as milk and hair like wheat in summer, a treasure for the horde and for the Khan. Now, we ride again into this place they call Hungary. I was already there when Temujin led us into China and because of my experience and prowess, I was named to lead a hundred men! We have split from the main column to find more land to plunder. This tall fortress of black stone looks like a good place to start.

They told me I was a vampire. They told me I belonged to the Erenwald clan now. Me! Those sons of diseased dogs! I hate them, and I hate what I have become. They have me sit and do nothing, tend horses or speak to trees! Like a woman! I want my life back! Even if I have to burn everything around me.

So much time has passed that even the Golden Horde is just a distant memory. Since I was sold to that horrible woman, I managed to grasp enough control to go out and find one of the servants of the crucified god. If my strength will not do, my guile will have to suffice.

Thirsty thirsty, thirsty, thirsty, thirsty, thirsty, thirsty, thirsty, thirsty, thirsty, thirsty, thirsty, thirsty, thirsty, thirsty, thirsty, thirsty, thirsty, thirsty, thirsty, thirsty, thirsty, thirsty, thirsty, thirsty, thirsty, thirsty, thirsty, thirsty, thirsty, thirsty, thirsty, thirsty, thirsty, thirsty, thirsty, thirsty, thirsty, thirsty, thirsty, thirsty, thirsty, thirsty, thirsty, thirsty, thirsty, thirsty, thirsty, thirsty, thirsty!

I pull out.

Thirty years trapped here, after I shot him in the face. He woke up to find himself already in chains.

This must never happen to me. I need to find a way to escape, in case all is lost. I would rather not exist than exist in this world of endless suffering. Hell itself cannot be worse.

Ogotai was changed by mistake or out of cruelty. This is a travesty of what we should be and his master shares a part of responsibility in this disaster. A waste, from the very beginning.

I turn around and ignore the strands of ash clinging to my sleeves.

The search leads me to three other mad wizards, whom I promptly Devour. The next room is more interesting. As I enter it, my nose scrunches in displeasure.

Mutt.

INTRUDER. KILL HIM. No, this is a captive, not an intruder. He TRESPASSES by accident.

A man faces me, bound to the wall with chains shining silver. He is surprisingly calm considering the circumstances. He is also sniffing the air, his gestures mirroring mine in a way I find disturbing. His build is light and wiry, like a forester. Straw colored hair fall on a gentle face centered on vivid green eyes clouded by pain. A smattering of freckles covers his sun-kissed cheeks. What I find strange is that there is no defiance nor aggression in his posture. If anything, he looks like a man who would lend me an ear and comfort me if I were to share a tale. When he speaks, his voice is warm and smooth like good coffee. I wish I could hear him sing.

“Fair lady, I see you are not one of them. I would be eternally grateful for any assistance you could provide.”

I realize that this is my very first time having a conversation with a werewolf. I was planning on rescuing the fiancée and vampires provided they agree to secrecy. Now I need to decide what to do with this unexpected find. Kill, or subsume?

“Fair lady, if you will not release me, will you at least end my torments?”

“You ask for death?”

“I seek freedom, no matter the cost. I would be thankful either way.”

I don’t need another essence of werewolf. I could, however, get some answers on a curse and lifestyle I know nothing about.

“Are you asking for my help? Are you willing to pay the price?”

“I would be willing to negotiate my liberty at a fair price, yes. You have my word, fair lady.”

“Supplicant. Very well. In return for freedom, you will swear absolute secrecy on me and mine forever. You will also protect me and answer all my questions for a duration of a week, and finally, you will offer me blood. Willingly.”

“Fair lady, this is a generous offer. I accept. Though…”

“Yes?”

“May I ask why do you need my blood exactly? I do not wish to renege, you understand, only to warn you that it carries a potent curse.”

“Oh,” I add with a toothy smile, “I know.”

The man’s enchanting eyes widen in surprise when he sees my fangs, then he smirks.

“It appears that I am the one most in need of answers. What may I call you?”

“Ariane.”

Ah damn.

“But please, in public call me Ms. Lethe.” I add, as I find the key to open his restraints.

“How very mysterious. My name is Alistair Locke, at your service. Rest assured that I will answer any threat to your person by whomsoever they might be given with the utmost urgency.”

“You are most kind, and since I see you so amenable, there is one more request I would like to ask of you before I draw your blood.”

“Please do.”

“Would you mind going to the other room and find clothes that could cover your manhood?”

Alistair stares down and realizes his state of undress. I will admit that the view is quite nice, and I graciously step out of his way as he leaves. I also look after him just to make sure there are no anomalies. As a measure of precaution, of course.

Nice butt.

Enough distractions, however nice, I need to find that woman and there are only four cells left. The next one contains another werewolf, this one fully transformed and quite wild. I drink him dry. Waste not want not! I get a final werewolf and to my surprise a Wendigo. I Devour them as well and arrive at the second to last door.

I have gone full circle.

I open the gate to find myself in a bedroom. Instead of the naked stone, unpolished furniture clutters the area giving it a homey feeling. All four walls are covered with papers upon which strange glyphs and letters written with an elegant hand. A woman sits at an organized desk, carefully reviewing a document.

She is breathtaking. Even the sackcloth they gave her does little to mask her grace and elegance. Dark auburn hair are tied in a messy ponytail that let a few strands grace her cheeks like the frame around a painting. She turns to me, her heart-shaped face regal, and I find myself staring into shining cerulean eyes.

“Lady Sivaya of the Court of Blue?”

The woman lifts one imperious brow, then notices something on my face.

“V— Vampire!”

She then spouts imprecations in a voice that goes crescendo culminating with a strident scream. The princess raises a hand to her forehead, then proceeds to faint.

“Errr. Nice to meet you too?”

Typical.

I grab the woman and pull her up, then drag her to the main room where Sinead’s face lightens with pleasure.

“Hah, you found her! Is she… Alright?”

“Think so. She lost her nerve when she saw me. Don’t know why.”

“Perhaps that would be because you are smiling and your fangs are quite visible. Did you find any documents?”

“Yes! A veritable…”

I stop to find the right word, holding a hand so that Sinead waits.

“Plethora! Yes!”

“It would be better to wake her up and find out which she wants to keep, or I will never hear the end of it.”

“Of course!”

I grab the princess by the collar and slap her vigorously. Sinead looks at me in wonder.

“Is something the matter?”

“I’ve always wanted to do that…”

Our exchange is interrupted by the woman’s fluttering eyes. She looks from Sinead to me with a complicated expression. Then she reaches a decision and takes a deep breath as her brows furrow.

I block her mouth with a hand.

“Mflrgn!”

“You handle the screaming part Sinead, I have two more things to do.”

I leave the lovey-dovey pair behind and turn to Alistair, who had been watching the proceedings with bemused attention.

“And now dear supplicant, time to seal the deal, please assume the proper position!”

Mr. Locke looks distinctly ill at ease in his pilfered uniform. I frown at his utter lack of manners. What good household would forget to teach someone how to do a proper blood offering. What household, I ask! Out of patience, I curtsey and expose my neck which makes him smile, which makes me frown, which makes him recoil, which makes me smile, then he obliges.

“Excellent. Now don’t move, this won’t hurt a bit.”

In the confines of my mind palace, I am amazed. Werewolves have always been wild and this one is no exception and yet there is a noticeable improvement in Alistair. His aura is ordered and controlled. Underneath the beastly urges, there is deep peace and acceptance of his fate and an unwavering resolve to face it with all his might. I find an echo of my own belief in him, this desire to do the most with what we have and to never give up on what I believe makes my identity.

I lick the wound clean and pull back a bit. He is flushed, and his smile is beautiful.

“I must say, this was… Intense, miss.”

Something pokes my stomach through, thankfully, two layers of cloth.

“I can tell.”

“Sorry!”

I chuckle and let the man turn around to, ah, get things under control. I am sure he has the situation well in hand. As for me, I intend to…

“Ari?”

“Yes Sinead?”

“Princess Sivaya needs to collect some documents from her room.”

Silence ensues. I am not quite sure what he means.

“I fail to see how that is any of my concern.”

Sinead looks a bit embarrassed and his fiancée, angry.

“Herm, I was hoping you could lend a hand.”

I tap my finger against my lips in fake consideration.

“Let me think about it. No?”

I leave the Llikaean to handle his lady friend. Hah! Serves him right. Pranking and torturing me daily for weeks? Making me pay for enough wine to roll a Scottish infantry regiment under the table? Do not expect any help.

“Teeheehee. Serves him right indeed.”

“I can hear you, you know?”

I ignore that sore loser and open the very last door.

Inside, I find a naked woman chained to the wall by a veritable tangle of chains. I can barely see the ebony skin beneath the many links covering her lithe form. Her face is haughty and beautiful with sharp cheekbones. She is also a vampire.

“You look familiar…” I whisper.

Hope flares in her dusky eyes. She strains against her restraints with unbidden excitement.

“You… I know you. Ah yes, we met in New Orleans, sweet cheeks. I thought you dead!”

I remember her. I was tasked with punishing a man by Baudouin and she walked in and saved me. Her name was…

“Naminata!”

“Ariane! It is so good to see you! I thought I was finished for sure this time. Aaaa.”

I step much closer, excited.

“Incredible! The world is small indeed, to think that we would meet again so!”

“Yes, well, about that. May I ask that you unbind me?”

“Eh? Oh, of course.”

“It’s the big key. Two to the right. No, the other right. Good.”

I am about to open the chain when a thought crosses my mind.

“Hm.”

I scrunch my face in displeasure. There is something I need to remember.

Something to do with why I am here.

Arg, frustrating, I should run naked in the woods. The fresh air would do me good!

“Is something the matter?”

“Yes. Oh that’s it! I have conditions!”

“Do tell. Quickly please.”

“There are two Likaeans under my custody. No touching, and no telling anyone you saw them ever. No betraying my trust. Yea?”

She laughs lightly.

“You already have blood slaves, and two of them? I am impressed. I swear that your secret is safe with me.”

“Ah, and no telling anyone where I am. You see…”

I lean very close and claim in her ear, with pride.

“I AM IN HIDING. TEEHEEE. So exciting, is it not?”

I nod to myself. Yep. Very roguish of me, if I do say so myself.

“Ariane. Are you drunk?”

“What. Me? Pfffff. Of course not. I only had, huuuuuh…”

“Right. Please free me, I promise absolute secrecy for you and yours as well as one year of service. Please?”

“Alriiiiight! Company! So, how did you even get captured?” I ask as I remove the lock and start untwisting the chains.

“I was trying to bed every member of the order from the same chapter, one by one. I was halfway done when a handsome fellow managed to trap me with the coming of dawn. Crafty bastard. I woke up covered with more steel than a bank door. I don’t know how long I would have lasted without your help. I will be eternally forever in your debt for this timely assistance.”

“Yea yeah. Let’s go!”

“There could be more prisoners.”

“I already, huh, visited the other cells.”

“That explains it…” She mumbles, “You could have left some for me!”

“I’ll just ask John to provide you with a few sips. He’s a good lad. Also, can you explain why you wanted to lie with members of the order of Gabriel? That doesn’t strike me as a wise idea.”

“For bragging rights. Nobody has done it before, I checked on the Ekon repository. Also, guilty sex is nice.”

“Ekon repository?”

“We members of the Ekon clans are trying to experience as much as we can. Our progenitor lost his life to experience dawn, in fact. All new records are written inside a depository for future generations to peruse, with notes by the record holder on how interesting the experience was.”

I nod in echo with this absolutely outrageous statement. They keep records of all the insane things they’ve done. Unbelievable. Before I can sate my curiosity further, we reach the main room and Nami walks boldly forth then stops with her hand on her waist in a confident posture. She is of course completely naked, and her shamelessness is so blatant that it transcends good manners and turns into some sort of assertiveness. Or at least, that is how I perceive it. Siraya hides behind Sinead who looks at me with a measure of apprehension. Thankfully Naminata remains true to her word and does not engage, only looks on with curiosity.

Then she turns to me with a pure expression of wonder and starts with a girlish scream.

“They are not collared! They are free!”

“Hum. Yes?”

“Do you know what that means?!”

I incline my head to the side. Surely, she would not dare…

“That means I can do it! I can have my record! Be the first Ekon to have a civilized discussion with free members of their race! I will stay vague of course, to protect you, but still, oh, Ariane, thank you, thank you!”

“Hmm. Glad to be of help I suppose.”

“Yes, excellent, now I have a request.”

“Speak.”

“Can I get some clothes?”

Ah yes. That does sound reasonable. Even Alistair is… Visibly distracted.

Our problems start as soon as we get back out. The odd squad is gathered around one of the Navajo warriors, who is developing what will certainly be a spectacular bruise.

“What happened?”

“One of them escaped,” answers a Creek, “He left the compound on horseback.”

“When?”

“Immediately after the barracks exploded. He came out swinging.”

Do I have to do everything in this place?

“Very well, I shall handle this myself!”

I whistle and Metis arrives at a trot. I jump on her back on the way. Time for another Hunt! Teehee! I can enjoy the wind in my hair and on my skin, the crisp winter air. I go through the now open gate of the prison and pass underneath the earth, only to emerge from a concealed trap door at full sprint. Yes! The hunt, the open land, that low branch on my path! Why is it so close?

Ow.

Ow ow ow ow.

Ow.

Fine, I admit I’m drunk.

Ooooow.

Métis snorts and nuzzles my prone form as I massage my poor forehead. If I were still a mortal I would have brained myself on that thing, not that it would have harmed any vital organ if my lack of prudence is any indicator. By the Watcher I am too old to be this silly! Note to self, Devouring too many magical creatures is still intoxicating.

I stand back up and consider that my only saving grace is that no one witnessed this debacle. Now, time to find my prey. The last survivor fled on horseback so there should be tracks and scents. I inspect my surroundings and eventually find clumps of disturbed earth. Unfortunately, I do not smell nor hear anything out of place in the frigid night.

The tracks stop at a river. The lone horseman followed it up or down the stream to mask his tracks and escape pursuers.

I consider trying my luck and choosing a side on a coin toss, then decide otherwise. It matters little if news of the fall of the prison reach an order outpost earlier than planned. They did not see my face, nor do they know where I live. My priority remains the survival and protection of the rescued. With regret, I turn around but comfort myself with the knowledge that I acted reasonably and sensibly in these trying times.

When I reach the others, they have thoroughly checked and looted all the buildings. Men and horses are laden with pilfered weapons and supplies. The Navajo, in particular, look pleased with their most recent acquisition of quality muskets. I find my sarcophagus placed snugly between walls of various loot including piles of rolled up documents. Soon, the convoy departs and Nami walks up to me.

“Honey, I have one more request.”

“Ask.”

The taller woman, now dressed in my own dress, places a proprietary arm around my waist as I jump and yelp. Her cold breath brushed my right ear.

“Can I share your place of slumber, sweet cheeks?”

“Ah, yes, of course. No shenanigans!”

She chuckles but relents. Her hand moves from my waist to my shoulder and she leans forward to continue the conversation.

“So... I heard that you own a brothel?”

“Yes. It was... Expedient.”

“Of course. I perfectly understand. So… What’s your favorite kind of cock?”

I sputter in shock. This is going to be a very long night.

Two days later

I slam the door behind me. Sinead, sitting at my borrowed desk, patiently places a pen down and closes his eyes. After a moment gathering his courage, he turns to me like a man expecting horrible news.

“It’s about your fiancée.”

“I expected as much. Before we begin, I understand that our Navajo friend left?”

I know he is attempting to distract me. I will only oblige because I intended to tell him anyway.

“Yes. We went to the place where I had buried the remains. The old chief’s spear was pointing towards it in any case. After a brief ceremony we had a talk and they left.”

“They asked many questions, about how many warriors your kind has and muskets. I answered faithfully, I hope you do not mind.”

“Not at all.”

“This knowledge will be used against your kind, when the time comes.”

“My kind?”

“The Europeans.”

I laugh.

“Vampires are my kind, and you are forgetting something. Do you truly believe you will make a difference?”

Sinead stops to consider the idea, yet declines to answer. I go on.

“This is a tide that no one can stop. My friend Nashoba said that in order to stop the colonists, he would have to become like them. This state alone can marshal tens of thousands of militia with support artillery and a baggage train in weeks. Do you think the natives can match this? Do you think knowing will make a difference?”

“Knowing always makes a difference.”

“Only a modern army can stop another modern army. There are no foundries here, no weaponsmiths, no military academies. If he were a king and had decades of preparation it would still not be enough.”

“In the kingdoms, decades of preparation means an invasion will never succeed.”

“There is not enough magic in this plane to equalize the field when columns of men are brought to bear, and the blue cloud of spent powder reaches to the heavens. They could have victories here and there, but it will not suffice.”

“You seem certain.”

“It already happened before. East of here.”

“Interesting. Life is truly different in this plane.”

“Speaking of life here. I have an issue with your darling.”

Many have issues with his darling. Sivaya has managed to offend everyone’s ego in record time through supreme condescension and a complete refusal to communicate with the others. She spends most of her time isolated downstairs, busy with research.

“She doesn’t speak English.”

“But she understands it, does she not?” I reply undeterred.

Sinead winces.

“I think I preferred you when you were a bit more gullible.”

“Enough, her behavior is unacceptable. I will have you communicate the rules to her for the last time. If she does not comply, I will declare you in breach of your agreement as guests. Do I make myself clear? No spreading her mess outside of her designated areas clearly delimited by blue marks, no stealing my paint and no leaving the number ten wrench on her worktable like some avatar of chaos! I was looking for that thing for ages!”

“Yes, I will tell her. I promise. Please be patient, she is… not used to this.”

“You are royalty too and she is far from being your equal in terms of insight and subtlety. Managing one’s allies is a vital part of any political scheme.”

“She and I are not alike. We are the two most powerful Likaeans on this plane, Ariane, but in reality our backgrounds could hardly be more different.”

Sinead’s gaze drifts to the windows and the gray clouds outside. His face grows distant and thoughtful. A comfortable silence comes between us as he loses himself in his memories

Eventually, he returns his attention to me, gauging. Then he relaxes and nods, coming to a decision.

“What I am going to share with you, I never intended to reveal. You have earned that much, for sparing my life then and for helping me now. I know that our contract is to my benefit and that you are aware of this fact. My gratitude for you is real, and I will repay it if I survive and my plan is carried out to completion.

“Sivaya is a princess of the Blue Court, one of their most talented scions. She has spent her whole life in the heart of the Cloud Spires, its airy halls and intricate research laboratories. When I confirmed her presence on this plane, I knew we stood a chance. Make no mistake, she is brilliant, but her outlook is extremely limited. Only research matters to her, and the notes we brought back from the prison as well as those she is nailing to every wall of your sanctum are the written statement of a revolutionary approach to planar travel. Like all geniuses, her other skills are… lacking. She never had to fight for supremacy or survival. Her dreams were always within her reach, and the means to pursue them, always generously provided. The Court of Blue is also isolated from most turmoil. No army has besieged their capital in eons, for they are the architects behind the best workings in history. All those circumstances conspired to her behavior and while I do not expect you to excuse her, I ask that you act as the better person, and show her the patience and courtesy that she denied you, for me. Please.”

“It is not just a matter of image, Sinead. I am a vampire and you are on my territory. If you are not guests, then you are intruders, and I will not fight against myself to accommodate you.”

I walk to the window and turn my back to him. I will not dull my words. He must understand.

“Your fiancée is no longer in the Cloud Spires. She is here, in this world, with us. If my second life taught me anything, it is that weak people are crushed when they step out of bounds. The nail that sticks out gets hammered down. This is a lesson you will have to impart upon her before someone else does it for you.”

Sinead winces, then nods in the end. I am not done though.

“You surprise me to accommodate her so. Why the deference. Are you not her equal?”

My friend chuckles bitterly. Once more, he appears more vulnerable than usual. His veneer of sarcasm is momentarily shed.

“I am Prince yes, one of many. The Court of Summer has a king, my father. Unfortunately, my mother is a dancer of the Wandering Court. She caught his fancy one festival year, and when they parted, she was with child. My siblings on my father's side are numerous and many of them are well connected. I am not.”

I watch, fascinated, the veil masking Sinead’s otherworldly traits evaporate as he loses his usual focus. His hair shines like flames and his eyes like molten gold. Motes of blue dance around his shoulders as he continues his tales. He does look regal, I admit. And dreamy.

“It was only when I reached adulthood that I was admitted to court. I believe my mother wanted to protect me for as long as she could from cutthroat politics. She taught me art and poetry, and dance. A bit of fencing. All useless, I thought, until I realized that she helped me form a core of individuality. She made me who I am before the others could ruin it. I would have lost myself otherwise.

“Competition was difficult. It still is. Now though, this tragedy might be a blessing in disguise. There is another Prince named Revas who had decided that I was a threat to him, and was about to crush me. I would have had to bend, but now if we are successful, the return of so many lost ones will cover me with glory. Many a mighty clan will owe me favors. I could even earn my father’s preference, who knows? So, my knight, now that I have unveiled my ultimate goal, will you stand by my side?”

I smile at the return of his good mood.

“I still think you are insane. I will help you as a friend, but I will not forfeit my life on a suicidal attack.”

“Nor will I ask this of you,” he adds with a smile.

I assume he has some grand plan, and I understand the need for secrecy. I would not trust myself with anything too confidential quite yet, especially with my status as rogue.

“We will leave in three days. There is so much for us to do, and we are too exposed here. We thank you for your assistance, and I believe we will have a suitable present. A token of our appreciation.”

“I will look forward to it.”

“You keep slaves. I saw them on the last floor.”

Alistair seems wary. After spending two days together, I have determined that his disposition is calm and poised. He is also patient, protective, and an excellent listener. He is the last person I would have taken for a cursed one and yet he is. Just for the smell, I had to rent him a room at a nearby residence or risk hissing with customers present. This is the first time I see him consider me with anything but affable good will.

“You mean cattle?”

“Yes. They are robbed of something.”

“Indeed. Your point?”

He frowns and stops to consider. My most curious guest has a tendency to think his words before uttering them, a good habit to have. Papa used to say that after words cross our lips, we belong to them.

“This is wrong and unexpected. I thought you a champion of freedom after you returned me mine. I will not dictate your actions, of course. I merely hoped to understand.”

HE DARES QUESTION ME. No, this is different. He made a respectful enquiry and acknowledged that I did not owe him answers, despite the mild anger he is feeling. This is just a matter of courtesy.

That blood pumping faster, the mild red on his freckled cheeks. Aaaaah.

Thirsty.

No Ariane, this is just gluttony.

“They tried to kill, cheat or trap me. This is their punishment.”

“Why not slay them? Surely, death would be preferable to what you have done to them.”

“Due to my nature, I need protection during the day, as well as servants who will not wonder why their Mistress requires no sustenance. Consider them a necessary evil, if it pleases you.”

“I thank you for your answer. You are my benefactor and I will remember this first and foremost.”

I DO NOT NEED YOUR APPROVAL, WEAKLING.

“I thank you for your consideration. While you are here, I have questions.”

“Of course, Ariane. Do ask.”

“I faced loup-garous before, and you are different. Can you tell me more?”

“Yes. The answer to your question as well as many others you will learn in my tale, and I would like to share it with you, if you will allow me.”

“Please do, you have my attention.”

“Thank you. I was not always cursed. For the first part of my life, I was the son of a doctor in the town of York in Upper Canada. I got bitten during a hunting party. The monster slaughtered my horse but spared my life in a gesture that, I did not realize until much later, took an immense amount of self-control. When I realized the nature of my affliction, I attempted to take my own life, only to realize that the steel blade I was using was unequal to the task.

“I decided to find death in the wilderness and instead, my kin found me. They took me in and welcomed me as one of them.”

“Hold on. Werewolves live in communities?!”

“We prefer the term pack. And yes.”

This is tremendous news! No, extraordinary news! Werewolves are organizing themselves? This has never happened before in history if Isaac is to be believed. I have to tell him.

“We have developed social structures across packs, spread all over Canada’s most remote areas. The Indians leave us alone and in return, so do we. It is a peaceful life and one where the curse does not lead to human deaths. Our community helps us stay in control. I used to play the role of omega. For some reason, my inner wolf is more of a loner and finds no interest in the struggle for supremacy. This allows me to smooth things out, as it were, and welcome new members to our pack, or at least it was the case until last summer.”

“What happened?”

“I will not go into too much detail. We used to keep in touch with each other via a loose network of messengers. The mightiest pack of the North decided that they would prefer a pyramidal hierarchy with them on top. They have already subdued many clans by killing the local alphas. They are a detestable lot, those Black Peak ones, and they need to be stopped. It was decided that I would head South as an emissary, to recruit the help of local packs in our struggle for independence.”

“I am not aware of any packs around.”

“That would be because there are none.”

Alistair smiles sadly.

“We are the only place where the structure developed and now I can see why. It appears that my kind is hunted like animals here. I do not blame you. I know the trail of destruction many of us leave behind and I know that some even embrace it. I only wish that some were given a chance. We are not cursed by our own choice.”

“You make a good point. My instincts are telling me to end your life, and I never questioned this before. Perhaps I am being too harsh.”

Alistair pales a bit at that. He knows what I can do. I decide to assuage his fear.

“I will stop to consider before starting a hunt, from now on.”

“That is all I can ask. Was there anything else?”

“Any chance that Black Peak heads South?”

“Yes they will, eventually, and if there is any justice in this world they will cross your path. Be careful, for they are still a dangerous group with large numbers on their side.”

“I will. We will talk more later.”

The man facing me wears a quality shirt and beige vest stained at the armpit by days spent under the sun. His light blue eyes are piercing, and the rest of his virile face hidden behind an auburn beard. His gaze alternates between the document on the table, the nervous flesh trader by his left and me. His jaw works on a wad of tobacco he bit off from a brown stick. The sounds of mastication and the stench grate my already fraying nerves.

“What’s this about?”

The obsequious merchant passes a hand in his greasy sand hair and speaks with a nervousness that hints at fear. Mr. Lipp, with whom I am now treating, is known for occasional bouts of anger. He has destroyed more teeth than the town’s dentist.

“As I mentioned, sir, Ms. Lethe here would like to purchase the negro known as David King. Her offer is more than generous, as you will…”

“Bullshit Sharpe, you know what I mean. Ain’t no negro of mine worth five hundred dollars. So what’s this about really?”

I have already spent more time on this than I planned on. Who knew slave acquisition would be so despicable, not to mention tedious? They have people lining up naked as if they were swine. Naked! Disgraceful. And unsightly! I have never been exposed to so many genitals and I live in a brothel. And the paperwork…

“I will answer, if only to make you act with celerity. His father died in my service, protecting me from an attack by Indians. It was his dying wish that I take care of his child.”

Lipp chuckles with a smile that does not reach his eyes.

“Women are sentimental and irrational. David King is a dangerous one. I applied the lash generously and read the scriptures and still, he defies me. You need an iron fist to deal with his kind.”

“Is my safety your concern Mr. Lipp? If that is the case, let me assuage it. John?”

Heavy stomps batter the wooden floor, then the door bangs open. The tiny negotiation room goes from intimate to cramped in a heartbeat, as my giant bodyguard looms dangerously over my shoulder.

“Tell the gentlemen what you do to those who displease me.”

John’s ugly mug turns dangerous as he smiles.

“Whatever you ask, Mistress.”

Both men recoil instinctively. I used to think it amusing that they would be more scared of him than they are of me, and only realized after the prison raid that it matters not to the sheep if it is slain by a wolf or a lion.

“I assure you, I am quite safe and we already spent more than enough time on this nonsense.”

I push the pen across, with just a hint of suggestion. Lipp’s eyes drift to John’s enormous paws, wrapped around my chair’s back.

“Now, sign.”

Twenty minutes later.

David King is a hard man. His build is the lean of near starvation and his skin bears the mark of undue exposure to the elements, but despite this, he remains unbroken. I feel his gaze on me. Though he is taller, he has to look up for his horse is no match for Metis.

“You have a question. Ask it.”

“Is it true that you were sent by my old man?”

“Yes.”

“He never cared much for us or he wouldn’t have left us behind.”

John turns to glare at the newcomer, who he assumes is acting out of bounds. I calm him with a gesture.

“Humans will do terrible things when they are desperate.”

“With all due respect miss that’s bullshit. He could have let us know. My mother died thinking he had been lynched somewhere.”

“Mr King, that is between your father and yourself. I fulfilled my promise and have little care for the rest. You will have to find your own answers.”

My statement is taken with a sullen silence. When King speaks, his voice is more subdued.

“What happens now?”

“We cross into Illinois, then I will give you papers confirming that you are a free man. You should travel North to Chicago or East, where circumstances would be marginally better for you.”

“Is it true that you own a business?”

“Yes.”

“You hire black folks?”

“Yes.”

“Would you treat me fairly?”

Interesting. I turn to him and see worry in his eyes, and hope too.

“I assure you, I give every person under my employ equal concern.”

They are higher than strangers and lower than supplicants. This is the proper order of things.

“I see.”

David King turns around and his expression turns calculating. I only now realize that there may be others he left behind and may want to free. If he ends up working for me, I will need to insist that I am not dragged into any illegal mess against my will.

The more time I pass here and the more I find myself bound to the world around me by deals and debts. I do not know how to feel about it.

April 1832

The spear catches me in the sternum, pushing all air away from my lungs. I am propelled backwards into a trunk then dodge the following strike by falling to the side. My opponent’s movements are always flowing and her weapon’s tip drifts around in a hypnotic dance. A feint turns into a sweep turns into a series of quick jabs. It takes all my speed and reflexes to avoid being taken out. I find no opportunity to counter-attack, close the distance and stab with my dagger. Eventually, I fall into a trap and the bladed edge strikes my temple.

I fall.

“That is enough. Are you alright honey?”

“Uuuh so difficult.”

“I told you. Spears are my weapons of choice.”

“Who taught you how to move like that?”

“A Greek woman on the Island of Samos. A mortal. Every night we would find each other, fight then make love. It was a beautiful time.”

I have recovered now, and stand back up. Spring is here, and the woods at the edge of town have sprung to life. I am having the Dream renovated following one last suggestion of Sinead before his departure. I do believe him when he said Sivaya thanked me for my hospitality, though it is hard to say. She sticks to that rhythmic and sybillant language of hers and refuses to sully her tongue with our coarse language.

With nothing much to do, I have decided to resume combat training for the first time since Loth departed. I am confident in my ability to face hordes of Wendigos, mage strike teams and members of the Order, and in knowing when to flee. Vampires are another thing altogether. Without feeling their aura, it is a fool’s errand to judge their strength. A slip of a girl could grasp a boulder and smash me with it and there is nothing I could do to stop her. By facing Naminata in combat, I am learning how to deal with a superior adversary.

It’s not going well.

Naminata moves better, faster, strikes harder than me, and her technique is impeccable. All my tricks are seen through before I can even start. Whenever she gets serious, all I can do is find clever ways to disengage and survive for a handful more seconds. The lesson is clear. When having to face a superior vampire in combat, the solution is: don’t.

All is not lost of course. I practice against several styles and armaments and even learn the basics myself. I never knew, for example, that swords, sabers and foils were different arms that required different techniques.

“Again.”

I rush her. Might as well go out with a bang. Her spear takes across my chest. I managed to angle the blow so that I am not pushed away. HURTS. This is nothing, we use blunt training equipment. I crash forward and jump back up while slicing, block her back step sweep and keep the pressure. I stay low and mobile. My footwork has improved, but not enough. At the moment I think I have her. She plants her spear on the ground and kicks around it. Her dainty foot catches me in the nose.

Pain.

More pain when she stabs my prone form.

“Not too bad sweety. I have a few things to add.”

“Mfff.”

“Ah yes, a broken nose hurts a lot. Do be careful when facing us, some manoeuvres that would be impractical for a mortal are well within our grasps. Second point, if you get stabbed by a spear, you will be skewered. A real weapon would have had you pinned like a precious butterfly to this tree, yes?”

I wipe black blood from my face and nod silently. Nami describes herself as a “fair” duelist, and she is a relatively new Mistress. I can imagine what facing an actual knight would be like. I believe I would just forfeit any attempt at honourable combat, shoot them if I can, and run if I cannot.

“Again?”

“Yes.”

We go on for two hours, two hours of constant defeats and failures on my part. Nami’s style evolves to match mine as fast as I get used to her flowing movements and ethereal grace. I need to GO FASTER, ASSERT DOMINANCE.

“Oof.”

“Your mastery over your instincts is impressive, but be careful. Anger will only make you more predictable. Direct it, use it as fuel.”

AGAIN. USE SWIPES TO KEEP THE BLADE AWAY. IF I GRAB THE HAFT, I WIN.

Stay close to the ground for faster movement. Force her to target a smaller area.

Her blade tip catches my hand and breaks three fingers. The next breaks my jaw.

“Mpff.”

“Aw sweet cheeks. You would need to be much faster than me to catch my spear.”

FALSE.

Her next strike is going for my temple. The wood haft smacks in my ready hand and I grab it just as it bumps back. Then with muffled scream, I strike and it splinters.

“Hah! Not bad honey. Not bad at all.”

I wait for my jaw to heal. I’ve had enough of the pain for one night and the Thirst is waking up after expending so much energy.

“I could use a break.”

“I concur, you are showing signs of mental exhaustion. I will admit that I am impressed by your performance so far. Your style is very close to that of rogues and yet it is so much smarter and more unpredictable. You are better than any Courtier I have ever seen, you could perhaps even match some Masters in hand to hand combat. It is a shame that your understanding of weapons is so lacking and I fully intend to help you remedy this. You need to understand at least the basics and eventually, find your favourite blade and develop your own style. We will have to... Experiment. Don’t you think?”

There is a twinkle in her eyes I recognize only too well. Fighting always gets her blood pumping, so to speak. I am not tempted, although I believe she is a beautiful woman.

“I wish you could meet Jimena.”

“Of the Cadiz? That little strumpet has gone monogamous if you will believe it, with her brand new human servant! What a loss for us all. Best tongue this side of the Atlantic.”

“Ahem. How do you even know Jimena? Do all vampires know each other? Is this like high society?”

Naminata scoffs.

“There are only two hundred of us on the continent, and less than half are Masters. Of course, we know each other! It’s a small world, you see.”

“Unbelievable. So Aintza is a servant now? Would it not be better to have turned her?”

“Ah, so wise and yet so ignorant sometimes. I believe I will need to teach you more about our kind. Servants are meant to help us keep our humanity, while we sire fledglings to lose it together with us.”

“Such a nice turn of phrase.”

“Is it not?”

We walk together back to the Dream with a pleasant discussion. Just like Sinead before her, I let Nami occupy herself however she wishes when we are not training and she already has many suitors, including quite a few white men. I reflect, as we walk, that her carefree attitude and pleasant disposition are at odds with the rest of our kin, and yet she still has the backing of Kouakou, the leader of clan Ekon here. I find the contrast comforting. There is some room in our community for fringe personalities after all. As soon as we reach the Dream, one of the cattle notices me and rushes forward with a message.

“Mistress. There is a woman with two children asking for shelter.”

“Yes. And?”

“She indicates that she knew you under the name Ariane of the Nirari. She also said that we would be attacked very soon by, and she was serious, wizards.”

And here I was complaining about getting Thirsty.

54. Night-Owned Town

I immediately recognize the visiting mage. Her hair color is more intense than I remember, reminding me of Sinead’s true form. The rebellious girl has turned assertive and her beauty is now that of a mature woman, calm and composed. The black marks under her eyes and other signs of wariness do little to damage her elegance and poise. When I enter the study, she turns to me and her mask cracks. Under the apparent control is a woman at the end of her rope. Two children, a boy of around ten and a much younger girl are held protectively behind her.

I cannot help but smile when seeing her. Because I am such a good host, I give her the fangless version.

“Merritt, it is so good to see you again.”

“Ariane… You haven’t changed at all.” She looks a bit surprised.

“And you have only grown more beautiful.”

It is true. I did not realize it until now but she does not look a day above thirty. Do mages age slower? It does not seem to be the case for my local informant, though that person is untrained.

“I ask for shelter. Hold on, I was told by your friend from the consortium that you prefer when things are done properly.”

She starts kneeling and I stop her.

“You stood by my side against the Herald Merritt, there is no need for this. Not for you.”

“Ah, very well.”

She blinks owlishly. She looks a bit lost, not in the way of those who have missed a night but in that of people who have gone beyond their limits for weeks. Fatigue has stolen her wit.

“I… I need shelter for my children. And I am sorry. I need to tell you! The assh… The Pyke family is after me. They have tracked me here. I brought danger to your home…”

“Shhhh, it is quite alright. You want protection then?”

“Yes…. I would do… Almost anything. For my children.”

“It so happens that I am in dire need of an experienced mage. You would be welcome here, and receive honest pay for mostly honest work. I have a security detail during the day and by night, there is me. Interested?”

“No enslaving minds? Blood magic? Summoning eldritch horrors from beyond the veil?”

“I was thinking more along the lines of wards and enchantments. The occasional fireballing of religious fanatics…”

“Standard stuff.”

“Yes. So?”

Merritt takes a deep breath and stumbles forward, all tension leaving her body. Her children look up in alarm as I help her brace with one hand.

“There is still the matter of the Pykes. They are on my heels. I will help you… Fend them off.”

Naminata enters at this moment, with a smile and a glass of brandy. She favors bright color and exotic dresses and today, she wears yellow and white with a red sash around her tiny waist.

“Darling, you are in no condition to go anywhere. Here, have a little pick me up. Ari and I will see to the intruders.”

“Merritt, meet Naminata, my friend. She is right, you are in no condition to help and besides, you mages have an unfortunate tendency to set each other on fire.”

“A terrible waste of blood if you ask me.”

“Exactly, mages are a delicacy, and you lot tend to walk around fire-whipping everything in sight. A disgrace is what it is.”

The harried mage blinks very slowly, her haggard eyes bulging as our conversation progresses.

“I… I don’t know.”

“Merritt? What is wrong?”

“It’s just…”

She closes her eyes and grabs her children’s shoulders. They stare at us with silent wonder. I am no expert on little ones, but I can tell there is something peculiar about them. They are a bit too serious, too focused. Perhaps they had to grow too fast. Unaware of my inspection, Merritt continues.

“I have been on the run for four years and on the road for two months. I had lost hope. I simply cannot believe that I could be safe now.”

“Oh, it is decided. You take care of your family and settle down. Kitty will help you with that, and I will leave John to protect you just in case. You can rest assured that your pursuers will no longer bother you after tonight.”

“Thank you. Thank you Ariane, so much. Before you leave, I have to tell you about them. I would not have you face them unprepared.”

Merritt sits down heavily and upends the brandy glass in one swift motion, before setting it down with a click.

Wow, that was so manly!

“They’re my in-laws.”

Oh! This is juicy, crispy gossip! I can tell that the twinkle in Nami’s eyes reflects my own avid expression.

“What happened? Do tell!”

“Cornelius died is what happened. He was my husband.”

She hugs her children tightly. They share her distinctive red hair and while the young girl leans into her embrace, the boy looks at me with what I assume is meant to be a threatening expression. I find it adorable.

CUB.

“He was at odds with his family. So long as he lived, they kept their distance. That changed when he was killed in an ambush in 28. We were culling rogue practitioners when the order of Gabriel attacked all of us at once. It happened so fast… Now, the Pykes want to recover Ollie and Lynn and this is not happening so long as I live. The stories Corny told me about the way he was raised… I will never submit them to this.”

I place a comforting hand on her shoulder and greet her frowning child with a wink.

“You do not have to justify yourself to me Merritt dear. Our deal is struck and will be honored. Speaking of which, we’d better get on the way. The Dream is made out of wood and it is a material that is tragically flammable. Ta ta.”

I leave the exhausted woman with a wave and give orders so that she and her children are protected and fed, then get back to it. Finally, some proper entertainment.

“Naminata, my dear, it is my great privilege to invite you to a Hunt.”

“And it is my pleasure to accept, sweetie. Let’s get changed, I would not want to stain this new dress.”

An hour later.

I close my eyes and focus the way Sinead taught me. My own vampire aura is around me, always, a mark of my nature and a symbol of status. Tonight, I want it to be more subdued.

Slowly, my perception shifts to the same sense I use when Charming. The aura is here, quiescent. I take it in.

The sensation is strange and defies description, not because it is confusing but because I lack the words. It is not unlike using a muscle I did not know I had.

My presence constricts inward and I start feeling as if I were too small for my gown. The sensation is only mildly uncomfortable. After a while, it becomes too difficult to continue. My concentration falters under the unusual strain.

Sinead assured me that with regular practice, I could eventually mask my presence from all but the most sensitive of foes, or even alter its properties for a variety of use, and so I have practised dutifully every night. This is the first time I am granted an opportunity to apply that knowledge in a real situation. With my presence so hidden, I step into the second floor alley where our unwitting intruder and impromptu snack is currently tracking my friend.

“Good evening kind sir, and where might you be going?”

The mage facing me jumps in surprise and takes his eyes away from the device in his hands. The brass colored apparatus shares enough similarities with a compass that it might be mistaken for one, were it not for the powerful aura it emits. It tastes like perseverance and a weathervane. A most peculiar mix.

The man himself wears travel clothes of good fabric stained by heavy use. His face is covered with several days’ worth of stubble below angry dark eyes that inspect then immediately dismiss me.

“None of your business, begone harlot!”

I like it the most when they’re rude.

“Oh, but I do believe this is our business, kind sir,” adds Nami as she steps behind him.

Perhaps because he feels trapped, or perhaps his mind made a last-ditch effort to warn him of his imminent doom. He raises a gauntleted hand.

“Last warning hussy, back off.”

I grab his wrist, which I break, then stab his palm with my thumb. His muffled scream is drowned by the music downstairs and Nami’s hand on his mouth.

“But kind sir, we are not quite done yet.”

I smile and enjoy the scent of terror, the frenetic heartbeat, and the bulging eyes. Nami joins my game. Her other hand digs into his shoulder with a sound of torn fabric and she leans delicately over his shoulder.

“Yes, mage, be our guest for the night. We insist.”

“You will be accommodating, yes?”

Our captive clings to our words like a drowning man to a plank. His eyes search mine for a hint of mercy and find subjugation instead. He is not even wearing a protective charm.

“You want me to be happy with you, yes?”

“Yes.”

“It’s important that we become good friends.”

“Yes.”

“You are with the Pyke family?”

“Yes.”

“You came here by yourself?”

“Yes.”

“So courageous. You are a brave man, yes?”

“Yes.”

“What is your name brave man?”

The flow of conversation breaks a bit as the pattern of questions changes, but not enough to affect the Charm noticeably. My victim is already caught, hook, line, and sinker.

“Matthias, miss.”

“Tell me Matthias, are you here to scout?”

“Yes.”

“To what end?”

“Find that insufferable whore and her spawns, for the family. They might be redeemed yet.”

“I see, and you have friends around yes?”

“Of course, this is a serious matter you see. Patriarch Benedict is here, as well as his two other sons.”

“Is that so? Surely, such august characters do not travel alone?”

“No, for such a task they brought their retinue, two mages trained for war and a dozen armed men. She doesn’t stand a chance.”

“You sound very proud Matthias.”

“I am, miss, tis my privilege to serve them.”

“So it would seem Matthias, but tell me, where might I find this illustrious group?”

“We made our camp an hour down the road Eastward, in an abandoned farm.”

“Oh, I know the place. And now dear Matthias, there is a secret I wanted to share with you. I’ll tell it in your ear…”

Fifteen minutes later.

Nami and I walk down the road at an energetic pace. I lent her one of my armored black gowns modified to fit her figure. With those and our spears and assorted blades, we both cut dashing figures. I considered bringing Metis, unfortunately Nami does not have a Nightmare and it would just be rude to have her trot by my side. Despite her promise to serve me for a year, we have maintained a cordial and respectful relationship so far and I intend to keep it that way. She is a Master and just as importantly, someone I consider a friend. Our relationship is more like that of relaxed mentor and experienced student, even though some of her lessons are more than dubious…

“A good-looking ball sack is of great importance in love-making. You do not want to fondle one that looks like a shriveled old prune, you see. It is truly man’s most underrated attractive feature. My favorite kind is…”

“Were we not discussing interrogation techniques?”

“I was discussing scrotum relative to interrogation. A trick I learnt quite early is that males, any males, will endeavor to offer clear and complete answers if you hold said anatomical feature between your talons.”

“Would it not be, I don’t know, sweaty?”

“In mortals, assuredly. Not in vampires though, which leads me to vampire specific techniques…”

“I would prefer if we limited the scope of our discussion to interrogation techniques, specifically.”

“Ah, you are no fun. Though, I will admit that you impress me sweetie. Your Charm is simply incredible for your age.”

“I have a very good teacher.”

“You must be very talented as well. Can you use it in combat yet?”

“Against mortals.”

“Marvelous!”

I decide to steer the conversation in case Nami has not fully detailed her preferences yet.

“Say I have a question. What’s with gloating. Why do I always feel like doing it? Is it just me?”

Nami chuckles fondly.

“Silly goose! Proper gloating is a staple of a good vampire. How can you be an immortal horror and not gloat? How, I ask?”

“I don’t know it just feels silly. How many times must our prey escape or do we place ourselves in danger because of our tendency to play with our food?”

“But what fun! Consider this, successful vampires live for a very long time. It would be a terrible bore if we had to act like merciless knights most of the time. Where would be the entertainment? Why would you favor an eternity of ennui over constant excitement?”

“With all due respect Naminata, I am not sure this is sound advice coming from you. Dying over a stupid record!”

“Pffft! This was just a minor hiccup.”

“You were chained, naked, to a wall!”

“I do that for fun all the time.”

“Pah! Insufferable woman. I do not mind a little challenge, I am only worried that others could pay the price of my arrogance.”

“Then cover your obligations when you must and enjoy yourself the rest of the time! A good life needs a proper balance. You think you gloated now with dearly departed Matthias?”

“A little bit?”

“Aw you sweet summer child. You call this gloating? Surely, you jest.”

“Was it not? What would you have done then?”

“First, pretend to be scared and lure him to an isolated room, then toy with him a bit, then reveal what you are, toy a bit more, and finally eat him.”

“What if he sets the room on fire?”

“What if, what if… Everything can always go wrong, and also go so right. If you are uncomfortable enjoying your prey too close to your pet witch, just drag him away to some farm and play tag there. Use your imagination!”

“I don’t know…”

“That was merely an example, my little jam pot. The point of gloating is entertainment. Go with whatever makes you happy. If you absolutely need to make sure your obligations are honored before you can let go then so be it. Now, where was that farm again?”

It turns out that the abandoned estate I assumed Matthias had referred to stood empty. I would have been both angry and afraid, were it not for a suspicious trail of smoke rising further along the road. Naminata and I find two sentries keeping warm around a large pyre at the Patterson farm. Perhaps the Pyke family found the house empty and thought it abandoned. They were wrong.

The Pattersons are a new addition to the area and the place reflects this. The English-style house is small but cozy, with the unusual luxury of colored glass windows. They made the effort of decorating the new structures with marks of individuality like blue flowers of an unusual essence, small wooden carvings hanging from the roof by twine and even a fake scarecrow with a humorously big gut. I know this because Jenny Patterson used to be mine. They have a child who is four now, and whose name I forgot. They tend to go to the city often to visit the father’s family, leaving the house devoid of inhabitants.

This might be problematic as I would need an invitation to give old Benedict Pyke my regards, if it is indeed his men outside.

With a gesture, I indicate that we should check the back of the house and realize that we will not, after all, need invitation. The Pattersons came home tonight. They shouldn’t have.

Behind their home, Jenny kept a small garden. Some enterprising thug started digging a trench large enough to bury the family and stopped half way. They piled the dead haphazardly to the side, both parents, the child and their dog. Jenny’s leg emerges from below the others, pale and naked under moonlight. Her shoe fell off at some point to reveal a patched up sock in a display that is so odious and disrespectful that it fills my heart with rage. I do not know why this tiny detail of desecrated intimacy strikes me more than the myriad others. It just does. The Pattersons were slain out of convenience and cast off to rot at the back off their own house like so much garbage. They did not even warrant the effort of a finished grave and a shroud. I find the depth of this insult abhorrent.

“We will have no trouble getting in.”

Sensing the mood, Nami does not reply. Her expression turns cold and her aura gains this fleeting mobility that defines her fighting style.

I strut to the front of the house, making no effort to hide my presence. The two sentries soon notice my approaching form and recoil, allowing me a glimpse into what they had been burning to keep warm: the Patterson carriage.

Those are thugs of the common variety. They know they will have to silence me but their ability to improvise is limited by a stunted brain entirely devoted to cards and uninspired threats.

“You made a mistake Miss, there is nothing here for you.”

As expected.

“I disagree,” I reply. I grab behind me to seize my silver pistol and point it at the closest man.

I pull the trigger.

The detonation rings loudly in the night. The heavy lead ball takes his right eye and most of his skull. Before the corpse even drops I grab the second man and allow my fury to show.

“You look cold, boy.”

Into the pyre he goes, face first. The tremulous screams add to the vacarm as sounds of alarm come from the inside. In mere seconds, the door bangs open and a group of men exits their stolen abode. At their head stands who I assume to be Benedict Pyke, grandfather of Ollie and Lynn, a dead man walking. He shares some similar traits with his grandchildren like a delicate nose and piercing eyes. His aristocratic features are currently scrunched in displeasure as if he were smelling something particularly nauseous. Come to think of it, the stench of roasting pig permeates the air, so perhaps he does.

His minions and two spawns whose hair are black where his are grey spread out and point their muskets at us, looking a bit unsure on how to proceed.

“Kill them,” adds the older man summarily.

Before they can react, I take out my modified boar spear and move forward, skewering the nearest hireling mage before tossing his bleeding remains on a mortal thug. I stab the rest of them before they can move. On my side, Nami silently matches my gesture and from the corner of my eye, I notice the three Pykes retreating back into the house. Ah, the human instinct to go to ground can always be counted on.

I climb the two steps leading to the house’s gate and push it open with the butt of my weapon. The instigators of tonight’s festivities have formed the expected shielded circle in the center of the living room.

“Begone, foul creature. You can keep the woman, we shall depart from your lands at sunrise.”

I turn to Nami with a fake expression of delight.

“Do you hear this my dear? Our intruder deigns to let us leave. We are blessed.”

“Indeed honey, such honor he bestows upon our worthless heads. We are free to go. Should we take him on his more than generous offer?”

Tonight, I feel like gloating.

“I do not know, there is still the matter of feckless vermin sneaking into my lands and killing what is mine, then expecting to depart in all impunity?”

“As if his sins carried no weight and his survival was but a matter of fact?”

Benedict sneers in a way that speaks of inborn privilege and a life-long lack of challenging encounters. I do so love when his kind comes to me. I delight in shattering foolish pride so much.

“You do not scare me, dead thing. Your kind cannot enter houses without invitations, your words are just empty bluster.”

“Semantics? Nami chérie, I thought I told you to warn me when we would reach this part of the discussion?”

“My failings are many.”

“Yes, you see Benedict, it is homes we cannot enter, and this one,” I add as I step forward, “is not yours.”

I point my boar spear at him, charge and activate one of the two gifts the haughty Princess of the Court of Blue left me. The tip glows strangely and space twists around it as our brains stutter, unable to process what our eyes see.

An instant later, the silvery spike finds its way deep into Benedict’s chest as if his shield were never here. For all I know, it technically wasn’t. I finish the motion and pin him to the wall like a butterfly. Naminata uses the momentary confusion to disable one of the two sons.

The last one raises a gauntleted hand and meets my gaze.

“Falter.”

He flinches and his spell fizzles. I focus and the edge of my claw glows blue.

I swipe the shield. Hurts. No, THIS IS NOTHING.

“Hsss.”

Unprepared mages are just prey. I Devour this one before turning to Merritt’s nemesis. How fleeting the world is. One moment we are in control and the next, we die and sometimes even wake up in a strange dungeon with new and unusual appetites.

“It was a good Hunt.”

I take my time. When I come to, Nami is licking her own lips and greets me with a feline smile.

“I partake with you.”

“Uh, thank you?”

She chuckles at my reply.

“Your manners still lack polish, treacle cake. We will work on that as well.”

“Indeed. In the meanwhile, we are done here.”

“Will that judge of yours use the opportunity to cause more troubles?”

“No doubt, but it had to be done.”

I drag the bodies out. Apparently, the bandits who killed the Pattersons fought among themselves until they perished or left. Over the loot no doubt. I make sure to pocket most of their valuables so the story is at least somewhat believable and look up to see Nami with an amused, and slightly condescending expression.

“What, it’s spoils of war!”

“Assuredly.”

“If they had too much wealth my bandit explanation would be too far-stretched.”

“No doubt.”

“I don’t need to justify taking their possessions, they are mine by right of conquest.”

“Huh huh.”

Yes. She is absolutely convinced of the necessity of such actions. Now we just need to head back so I can add the choicest pieces to my collection.

I recently purchased an extension at the edge of town, a wide communal house to lodge my employees. Some leave and retire, but we also have sick girls, those who can no longer work for one reason or another, girls on leave and something more: children.

They come with new employees or as a side effect of the profession, and someone needs to take care of them. Until now I found them to be noisy, smelly and generally obnoxious. I was therefore more than happy to have them contained somewhere I would not have to deal with them. Loth used to say that kids are like winds, one can only tolerate their own. The comparison is apt if typically vulgar. It is in this dubious haven that Merritt moved into until she could secure better accommodation.

I find myself in a clean if austere room. Baths and the kitchen are common parts, and still there is barely enough space for a wardrobe and seats. The bed is the largest piece of furniture here, blocking the entire space below the window. I find the witch busy brushing the hair of her daughter Lynn. The copper curls resist the veteran spellcaster every step of the way and it appears that my newest ally may be defeated yet. I decide to offer her some respite.

“Good evening Merritt. How are you settling in?”

“Fine,” she answers. Then any further exchange is interrupted by the whistle of a heated teapot.

“Oh, hold this for me!”

I look at my hand where suddenly a brush has landed. My gaze drift to the little girl’s big innocent eyes.

Oh, no the crafty witch would not dare! Alas, the malicious spawn silently points at the rat’s nest above her brows. Curses!

With a sigh, I resolved myself to my punishment after being so deftly outmaneuvered. I start working on a painless liberation, using my claws to separate the most uncooperative strands. I swear Alexander the Great himself did not struggle so much with the Gordian knot.

“To what do I owe the pleasure? You want to talk about the wards you need?”

I turn to her while still working and realize Ollie has snatched a knitting needle from somewhere and is in the process of caressing the implement.

CUB. FEARLESS. I LIKE IT.

My heart swells with pride at having acquired such valuable followers. Yes, they will do nicely. After they grow up a bit. There is just a hint of fear on his face when he sees my smile and he still attempts to hide it.

Merritt serves herself a cup of tea, unaware of the powerplay that occurred between me, the shaggy mop on top of Lynn’s head and her pint-sized defender.

“Yes. As you know, I have established a business here, and I am quite satisfied with how I managed it so far with a considerable exception.”

The witch sits by her daughter’s side, intrigued.

“Do tell.”

“I need a day manager. I had a friend come here before and take care of the Dream as I was slumbering. He left recently, and his absence made me realize how much I lose and how much more effort I have to produce to offset my daylight absence. I could achieve much more with competent help and I believe you can do the job.”

“Hold on. You want me to take the head of your brothel?”

“Yes, though only during the day. You would be compensated accordingly, of course.”

Merritt’s composure shows wariness and excitement in equal measure.

“Why me?”

“There are no others who display all the qualities required to handle both Kitty’s team and Harrigan’s. He is my head of security.”

“The black-bearded, black-haired, vicious and barely legalized highwayman who broke a man’s arm because he was annoying him?”

“Precisely! You understand my conundrum. I need someone with your spine to keep him in check and execute him if he goes too far, and I need the same person to handle that cackling, unruly mass of gossip mongers who work for me. Few people who qualify can do both to my satisfaction and I trust you to have the means to achieve this, and the loyalty not to stab me in the back.”

“This is a generous offer Ari, I am just not sure that I can live up to your expectations.”

“Do not feel pressured into accepting immediately. I wanted you to know and keep my offer in mind as you get to know the town.”

“Very well…”

I did not tell her the entire truth. When I am gone, I intend for her to take over if she so desires. No need for anyone to know though. I gain nothing by having them plot accordingly. We discuss for a few more minutes but it soon becomes clear that she is still too busy to share her tale. I bid her farewell and quickly leave the premises.

The large structure is surrounded by a vegetable patch and low walls. As I walk forward, I hear a strange crackling noise coming from a storage shed by the path and stop, considering. It almost sounds like burning black powder.

Then the shed explodes.

55. Sins. And explosions!

First comes a wave, then the feeling of being compressed, like under a cosmic rolling pin. The blast sends me into the air like a ragdoll. Up becomes down, down becomes left and earth is in the sky. For a moment, I feel lost, the certainty of my mind fractured. The next instant I see something at the edge of my field of vision that grants me enough willpower to regain my focus.

No.

I refuse!

I gasp in pain and dig a claw in the ground, leaving behind tortured furrows. My trajectory changes at the last moment and I impact the house with a dull thud and falling plaster. I gasp in pain but I care not, I succeeded.

“Hah!” I exclaim to fate and the heavens both, before coughing pinkish foam. Ow.

The flaming remains of a shovel shaft fall on my arm. I AM ON FIRE. No, I am not on fire, calm down. I pat the embers with a nervous hand until they die off. I did it. My eyes go up to the intact form of the outhouse only a few feet away. I bloody did it. I avoided crashing into human refuse, and my honor and dignity remain intact! Ariane, defeating the odds once more.

My ears pop and the whispers of worried voices and crackle of dying flames make their return. People are going to react.

The estate’s door bursts open and Merritt comes out, hand covered by a shimmering gauntlet. Behind her, a few women peer out fearfully with loaded muskets. Irma the housekeeper stomps out with two cleavers held in her massive hands.

“What happened here?” she asks with her large wrinkled face scrunched in displeasure.

I raise a hand to signal that I need a few moments and the reality of my situation finally occurs to them. In moments I find myself surrounded by a gaggle of yapping humans prodding and pulling at me. I resist the urge to hiss and successfully climb to my feet. If I had been a mortal, it would have been a bad idea to move me so. Come to think of it, if I had been a mortal, I would not have heard the powder and I would be a squishy corpse with my brains leaking down my nose.

“Are you alright? What happened?”

“The storage shed exploded,” I answer laconically. It distracts them for long enough for me to take some distance and consider what happened.

Someone blew up a powder charge on my damn lawn and destroyed both my gardening tools and my credibility. This will not stand. I slowly approach the fuming crater while a few of the more quick-witted girls pour water on still burning wreckage.

It is, as expected, quite large. I smell spent black powder in the air and presume it would have taken at least a small crate to achieve this result, a non-negligible amount. There is one more important thing I have to find out before everyone and their dogs come to trample the place. With a protective Irma and Merritt in tow, I circle the hole and find what I was looking for snaking along the debris. Burning powder left a long trail of scorched grass leading to the epicentre of the deflagration. This tells me a few things. First, somebody waited for me to come out before igniting the charge so I was presumably the target. Second, that person must have been close by.

It appears that I have been upgraded to assassination target. Marvellous. I should get a plaque to commemorate the event.

I try to step forward and see if I can get the scent of my mysterious admirer. Alas, it is not to be. I am literally dragged away and inside by irate and protective followers despite my best efforts to convince them that I am, in fact, unharmed. I could try to Charm them all or threaten them but decide against antagonizing my entire staff. In short order I find myself tucked in bed with a hot cup of chamomile infusion.

This feels nice, a testament to the success of my infiltration and my meek public persona, hiding beneath the…

Ah whatever, it is just nice. I enjoy the feeling of people fussing around me until only Merritt and I are left, with someone sent to fetch John to escort me back.

The mage builds up enough courage to ask what had been distressing her the past minutes.

“So, I have to ask Ariane.”

“Yes?”

“Is that sort of thing normal here?”

“If you are referring to structures exploding, it almost never happens. We had that warehouse back in 1821 but that was due to an unfortunate mix of highly explosive substance and poor judgement. No, this is a deliberate attempt on my life, I am sure of it.”

Merritt stares at me with the face one shows when amusing a delusional patient.

“Of course, of course, say, can vampires get concussions?”

I tsk in annoyance. One moment in bed and my entire reputation collapses, really?

“It was easier to let myself be pampered than to fight them off. My death would be catastrophic for them, at this stage.”

“At this stage?”

“Yes, I realize now that I made a mistake by not grooming a replacement. My lack of trust in others endangers my project. I understand their concern and that is why I consent to this farce but rest assured that I remain in full possession of my abilities. Which leads me to my next point, this amount of black powder cannot be obtained so easily, even here on the frontier. Somebody obtained this and we must find who.”

“Do you need my help?”

“Yes, I do. I want you to go to a shop called the Seamstress Union, two minutes on foot East of the Dream. The owner of the shop is called Debbie. Tell her Ariane sent you and inform her of what happened, then enlist her help in finding out if a shipment of explosives disappeared recently.”

“You want me to interrogate a seamstress?” asks Merritt with disbelief,

I scowl.

“Debbie is the city’s information dealer, and you would do well to take her seriously.”

“Oh, I understand.”

“You can work tomorrow during the day while the stores are open. I will ask Harrigan and a girl called Lizzie to see if the warehouse master knows anything.”

“Is Lizzie an informant as well?”

“No. The man likes petite brunettes.”

“Oh.”

“I’ll have John and Margaret go to the mine’s foreman and that should be all I can think of. After they’re done, they’ll return to the Dream. Coordinate with them and prepare a report but do not engage if you find the culprit. I will take care of it at nightfall. You are not as durable as me, and there is no reason for you to risk your lives.”

“Understood.”

John arrives shortly thereafter and I am escorted back to the Dream. I was hoping for some calm so that I may investigate on my end, but unfortunately a problem never comes alone. A man I could have done without is waiting for me by the entrance. His face is painted with hostility and when he sees me, the corner of his mouth lifts up. Only two of his men have come to back him up this time.

“Ms. Lethe.”

“Judge Sullivan, good evening. To what do I owe this pleasure?” I ask with enough emphasis on ‘pleasure’ to leave no doubt as to my real feelings.

My nemesis makes a conscious effort to hide his delight and I am starting to wonder if assassinating a public figure really is too risky. Perhaps he could fall to his death from a tall building? Who knows?

“I am here to personally inform you that one of my modest proposals has been approved by the State judiciary committee in order to cleanse the sin from our fair city.”

He is righteous anger incarnate.

“For too long I have tolerated the pit of degeneracy that… some citizens have let fester around here, and it is my pleasure to inform you that starting on May 1st, 1832, only citizens of white descent and of pure pedigree will be allowed within the streets of Marquette. You will inform your… employees of color that they must vacate the town on April 28th at the latest. One week from now. That includes employees of both genders, mind you, in case I was not clear enough. I expect you to comply with the law to the utmost of your… abilities, and I will be checking on this establishment to ascertain your compliance. I hope I am being direct enough, and with this, I bid you good day."

The judge shoves the crumpled ordnance in my hands, tips his hat and struts away with the pride of the just.

Prick.

“Is Oscar a man of color?”

“Yes he is, John.”

“That means he must go?” asks the simpleton with a hint of worry.

“Not quite yet. Don’t worry dear, I have been a bit lenient but it appears I need to give our brave magistrate a reminder of who he is dealing with.”

I pat my bodyguard’s arm to offer comfort and walk back in, already plotting. This will have to take priority over patrolling the city in search of some mystery bomber.

April is dying and with it, the once pristine snow has melted into a disgusting sludge that sticks to our boots. The main thoroughfares are little better than mud alleys. Mortals can be heard from afar, one only has to follow the squelches of their soles leaving the ground, and I am grateful for whatever supernatural power allows me to walk over instead of through it.

A light drizzle falls on the hood of my cape. The occasional fat droplets condense on the hem before falling on my skin, delivering their frigid payload. I may no longer fear the cold but I do abhor humidity. This weather is miserable and when I get my claws on whoever forced me out, there will be hell to pay.

The warehouse at the Northern end of town I am looking for can easily be noticed, for it is the only one whose entrance is lit by a lantern despite the late hour. It swings with the occasional gust of wind, its meagre pool of light more a beacon than any effort at illumination.

As is proper, I ignore the inviting door and step to a side alley. I find purchase in the walls’ wooden planks and lift myself to an opening covered with shutters, before taking out a burglary kit from a recess in my cloak. It saddens me to say that I am an old hand at this.

I pull myself inside and take a look around. I find myself on a small concourse devoid of any sort of furniture. Only pails of rotten hay lay discarded here and there, making the air wet and pungent. The wood used here looks brittle and decayed, its surface scored by pockmarks like the skin of a diseased man. If I were a mortal, I would be worried about catching tuberculosis just walking around this place. I would never tolerate such slovenliness in one of my own properties.

Downstairs, rows of crates and barrels are piled haphazardly around the open space. There are no clear delimitations, and the only thing standing out is a table on which two men are working by the light of candles. One of them shivers and pulls on a cloak.

“Right, gonna take a leak.”

Ah, excellent timing.

The burly man limps towards a side door, opens it and disappears outside. I sneak back out and soon find myself overlooking my first victim as it leans heavily, one hand resting against the wall and the other helping his aim. I do so enjoy catching them with their pants down, pun intended.

I drop behind him and snake an arm around to grab his throat. With the other, I place a knife against his jugular and force him to arch backwards.

“Mfrlgn!”

I expected his frantic struggle and stay upright as he fights for purchase, in vain. Very soon, the reality of his situation overcomes the first instinctive response and silence returns as the last drops of urine fall on his trousers. I will not need charm here, I caught him at his most vulnerable.

“I want a word with Stutton and I expect privacy. You will leave now without looking back.”

My captive nods frantically and I release him. I watch with interest as he struggles to sprint and lifts his trousers back up at the same time. It seems to cause him some difficulties, and I find the show amusing in a base way.

Enough distractions, I have things to do.

I sneak back inside and make my way around the warehouse in perfect silence. As I approach the second man from behind, he passes a hand in his greasy grey hair and turns his attention away from a pile of yellow papers. His coat is heavy and filthy and must have been blue at some point. In the distant past.

“What’s taking him so long?”

In lieu of an answer, I smash his head against the table. The old smuggler does not even attempt to struggle upon feeling the cold weight of steel on his neck.

“Good evening Stutton.”

“Who are you, what do you want?”

“You will remain silent until I let you speak and when you do, you will tell me the truth, and all of it. Now, two weeks ago you were tasked with transporting cargo. Who paid for it and what did it contain?”

“Listen, hm, miss, my reputation as a smuggler is everything.”

“I will get my answers from you now, or when you are but a pile of raw, quivering flesh begging for the sweet release of death.”

“It was some sort of powder and I don’t think it was made of wheat. As for the buyer, he was a sullen man, black beard and very light grey eyes. Tall and thin. Not much of a talker.”

“Tell me more about this mysterious man.”

“Went by Bradley. Moved very quietly, all cat-like. Huh, I don’t know where he went.”

“Is he here? In Marquette?”

“Aye, I brought him as a caravan hand. He paid me in gold doubloons too. The old Spanish kind.”

This is highly unusual. If he used more of that rare currency, I can definitely track him .

“Anyone else with him?”

“Nah, he was definitely a loner, didn’t mention anyone else here.”

“Anything else you can tell me to find him? Think carefully.”

Stutton stops for a while to consider and that is good for him, because if he had just replied no I would have had to take a finger.

“He was armed at all times, like he expected a tussle. And he looked kind of angry.”

Not much to go by. I turn Stutton and our eyes meet. He is already at my mercy and this makes Charming him trivial.

“Did you tell me the truth?”

“Yes.”

“Is there something you hid from me?”

“Yes. I like rough women.”

I sigh deeply, now aware of the man’s aroused state. The Watcher protect me from this town. Sometimes I feel like half of them are judgemental bigots and the other, shameless deviants.

“Anything else that concerns this man?”

“No.”

Good. I wipe the memory of the last ten minutes from his mind and force him to sleep. I could have Charmed him from the beginning, however Sinead warned me against using it as a crutch. I try mundane means first, then make sure I did not miss anything. This method allowed me to become better at telling lies.

As I exit the building I consider his words. My target is a man, apparently alone, who pays in doubloons and doesn’t like to talk. If he is indeed a newcomer then he must be living somewhere and that is not in one of the city’s inns. His strange behavior and the amount of powder he procured means that he needs a base of operations of sort, somewhere dry and relatively isolated. This means an abandoned building within close distance and the list of possibilities is short.

I decide to head back and find Nami first. I remember the shock and fire from yesterday and realize that I fear this man more than the group of mages we recently slaughtered, and for good reasons. He knows what I am, and he came prepared.

This must be it.

I have spent the last hour going from one possible hideout to another and this is my third attempt and the right one at that. The Smiths moved back East after Peter Smith inherited, and they left behind a quiet building at the edge of town, conveniently hidden behind a copse of trees. A perfect spot to hide unusual activities.

I can see wafts of smoke coming from a chimney of the two-storey building, where there should be none.

“Shall we, sweet cheeks?”

“Let’s take a look around the place first.”

We discreetly inspect our target. This home is abandoned, a derelict, which means that I should be able to enter without issue. Mud tracks mar the wooden planks at the front and back entrance but whoever lives here made no effort to make the place more inhabitable. Or clean, for that matter. The garden plot is abandoned, only a fallow field covered in sickly weeds, a pile of mud and a half-fallen shed.

“Right. I’m handling this, and I have a request. Could you please stay outside and whistle if you see anything wrong?”

“Expecting something?”

“Yes. Explosions. We are not exactly fireproof and this house is made of wood.”

“Why not have your mortal servants handle this?”

I look at her in disbelief before realizing from her placid face that this is a test.

“Enough with this nonsense, now is not the time.”

She nods and walks back towards the copse, masking her aura. In moments even I cannot find her.

I turn back to the house and approach the back door. Instead of using the handle, I close my eyes and focus.

Wind. Cracking wood. Nocturnal animals chasing and being chased.

No human heartbeat nor footsteps inside the house, though it could be covered by thick walls. On a whim, I punch through the fragile wood above the lock.

Nami lets out a warm chuckle. What, one can never be too careful. Have a Dvergur ninja crawl down a wall to place a touch-trigger rune outside a window and you too will reconsider traps as a way to take out your targets, I assure you. How I wish I could trap my opponent, unfortunately he seems crafty and I am not exactly patient, particularly not when my real estate is at risk of being turned into smoldering cinders.

I search my cloak and find a small hand mirror, and though I cannot see my reflection, I can use it to inspect the door for anomalies. It pays to be prepared.

There is nothing.

This is a completely normal door.

With a sigh, I open it and find myself in a central room. Two pairs of doors lead to the right and left, and a set of stairs leads to the second floor. There are no cries of alarm and no sound of a heartbeat, and so I take my time to inspect my surroundings.

The walls are entirely bare and covered with a thick layer of dust. The ground too has not seen any cleaning in a while, which allows me to notice tracks left by the same man coming and going multiple times. Interestingly, they only lead up. Did the man never use the kitchen?

I am about to go forward when two irregularities catch my attention.

First, there is a lot of mud, so he may have spent quite some time in the garden, but to what end?

And then it comes to me.

The pile of mud outside has not grown any vegetation, meaning it is quite recent! How have I not already drawn this obvious conclusion? I must be losing my peasant roots; Papa would be disappointed.

So Mr. Bomber dug something out. Whatever it is, the access must be upstairs. Curious.

The second irregularity is a single plank just before the stairs. It is suspiciously clean,as if the man had avoided it every time.

I would be wise to do the same. Curiosity still leads me to lean above it and breathe in. Rot, mud, humidity, and below that the scent of gunpowder. So, there was indeed a trap. Satisfied, I climb up the stairs in silence, taking extra care to pause at every step. I consider climbing on the walls and just forfeit the damn floor entirely, but I am afraid that they may not support my weight.

Not that I am heavy, the wood is just that damaged.

After entirely too much time, I find myself on the landing to the second floor. Once more, there are a total of four doors and only two on my right have been in use. I walk up to the first one and look through the keyhole. It appears to be a workshop of sorts. I lean down and snap one of the most damaged planks to look in with my mirror. This time again, there are no traps, and I enter the room.

All the windows have been shuttered. My vision dims, something that only occurs when in presence of absolute darkness.

The room is mostly bare. I can only see crates, a worktable, and a cabinet filled with equipment set against the wall to my left. I am shocked by the contrast between this room and the outside. The floor has been meticulously cleaned, the walls are almost shining and the supplies and tools are strictly classified with a sense of detail that I haven’t seen since Loth. Even the pots of powder on the shelf are labelled with the date of creation and chemical composition of its contents. This is where he made his bombs and I can only applaud his professionalism.

I move to the table to inspect it. There is only one thing of note, a small book that I quickly skim through. The contents teach me nothing. The man just tracked the resources he expended with a rigor that borders on obsession. The letters are blocky, even childish perhaps, but the hand that drew them was assured.

The crates and cabinet show nothing but the parts and components used by an artificer and a gunsmith, including the expected powder.

I exit and walk to the last room, and I can tell that it is far more promising. From behind the door I smell cooked bacon and beans, as well as human sweat. Still no heartbeat.

For what I hope to be the last time, I snap parts of the door to inspect the other side. A thin thread is attached to the handle and trails up to the frame, then through loop to flintlock firing mechanism lodged against a earthen pot of massive proportion.

Hah.

HAH!

I knew it.

I punch a hole at the center of the door to let my arm through, then after a second of realization, a second one to actually see what I am doing. With infinite patience and inhuman precision, I seize the thread between two claws and cut it. The piece of twine falls slowly on the floor, without a noise.

With a smirk, I realize that I am in my opponent’s sanctum. Pride fills my chest. YES, HIS NEST IS MINE NOW. Like his workshop, the place is perfectly clean, with only a small cot, basic cooking implements near a still warm hearth and a single wardrobe. The Spartan surroundings leave me uneasy. Did this man really live here for two weeks? I would have grown insane. The level of dedication required to maintain discipline for so long is both inspiring and terrifying, and I find myself respecting my foe for it. Even if he turns out to be insane, at least he managed to transcend his madness and turn it into a strength.

With nothing urgent, I sweep the room to see if there are any clues as to his location. The most promising element is what appears to be a trapdoor at the edge of the room, now sealed. What is it doing here? I approach it and check it for traps as well before opening it.

It leads down, far down, into a walled out section of the house. It is not deserted though, just filled with lit fuses.

At least five of them, snaking up from the depths.

Fuck.

I tear the shutters away with the strength of desperation. Open air. Wide enough.

I jump out.

I hit the ground running as fast as I can, the world blurs around me and I whistle with all my power, hoping that Nami heard. The pile of mud, a passage down. He must have dug out his way to a sort of cave and holed here, but how did he know I was coming?

I run around a bend of the road and roll on the ground, covering my ears.

One… Two.. Three...

At the count of five, the house explodes. I scream as the deafening bang reaches me, and a wall of heat passes me by, singeing my hair. Flaming debris is sent so far in the air they can probably be seen at the other end of town.

Wow. He really wanted to make sure huh.

I stand up and survey the wreckage. The scene is apocalyptic, a valley of flame and scorched earth around a smoldering crater that may well lead to the gates of hell.

“Ariane?!”

“Here!”

Nami runs the periphery of the disaster zone and slides to a stop by my side. Her face twists with concern until she sees that I am well, then her smile turns wicked.

“What?”

“First stop screaming, and second, don’t worry they should grow back within a few minutes.”

“What? Why are you whispering?”

She does not answer and instead just taps her ears. Ah. I am deafened. An instant later, my ears pop and a black liquid trickles down my neck.

What was it about growing back?

I realize that a side of my head is suddenly more sensitive to the warm wind blowing from the remains of the house and pat it.

My hair.

It’s gone!

“Relax, it will be back in a few minutes.”

My hair, my precious hair, blond and silky! My pride and joy…

“Ariane, calm down. It will be back soon. Yes?”

“Mes beaux cheveux…”

“Sweetie, focus. Did you see the bomber?”

Ah right, the man who almost roasted me, that little… Ugh!

“No, he has dug some sort of passage down. He set off the explosion from there.”

“Do you believe that he killed himself?”

That is an easy question.

“I find it unlikely. Everything was carefully prepared with several layers of redundancy to make sure I would end up as charcoal. He probably has an escape tunnel. It couldn't be too long. We could look for a trapdoor heading out from that corner,” I answer and point to where the trapdoor used to be.

“Alright. We must hurry, people will undoubtedly come to see what happened.”

We spread out and search quickly and for once we are in luck. The blast of the explosion pushed away all manners of things from its epicenter, including a dust covered tarp marking a secret exit. Truly, does that man know no limit? Who does that?

I slam the door open and move aside at the same time as a precaution. Thankfully, it appears that the man ran out of powder. I peer down and find a tunnel heading down then back towards the house. I glance at Nami and with a nod, jump down.

The passage is very narrow, it arches so that I have to follow it sideways and can only see a few feet forward. The earthen walls, barely reinforced by the rare log, give me an intense feeling of claustrophobia. If it collapses, I could stay there a long time, crushed by a mountain of rock and maddened by bloodlust. I shiver and chase the thought away. Nami knows where I am.

I slowly move forward, taking time to make sure no support has been sabotaged but it appears I am in the clear. After entirely too much time, the passage widens and leads to a reinforced door adorned with a cross, fixed into the walls by bars of steel. As I come into view, a metal bar slides open and I find myself face to face with the business end of a blunderbuss.

I move down and forward and the following shot rakes the passage above me.

In the blueish cloud of powder that follows, I spot a slit of light. In a single motion, I take out a pistol and fire at point blank rage. There is a ping of metal, then silence.

The air rings with two consecutive detonations in such a closed space and swirls of spent powder cloud my vision. My ears pop once more, and I comment off handedly.

“You missed.”

“So did you.”

There, where used to be the yellow glare of a lantern, now sit two grey eyes. The skin around is angry and red, signs that the cloud of powder from my own shot still marked my target. I try to Charm him more out of habit than anything else, though the bond is stopped by an invisible barrier that tastes like a warning. Just as expected then.

“I don’t think we have met yet, Bradley.”

“We have.”

I blink, trying to place him. His steely glare is unflinching. Not fearless, but beyond it. He knows what I am, he knows what I can do, and he still decided to come after me. He also managed to drive me to a stalemate. I cannot pass that door of his without preparation, a fact that escapes neither of us.

I think I would remember such a man.

Unless…

“You were at the order’s prison. You are the sole survivor, the one who got away.”

He does not have to reply, the flash of fury on his face is answer enough.

“And you still decided to come after me,” I continue, “alone. I do not know if I should salute your courage or laugh at your arrogance.”

“I am never alone.” Adds the man, still calm.

“Nobody else came here. I checked.”

He does not answer, instead, a finger appears pointing down. I lower my gaze to the cross embedded into the gate with apparent dedication. The object glints with a silvery sheen, despite the absence of any sort of illumination.

Strange to think that it used to be a familiar symbol and now, it is anathema to my very existence.

“I am never alone, unlike you.”

“Ah, we have reached the part of the conversation where you call me an abomination?”

“If you wish.”

I smile at this. What a surprising man, and so unexpected. We are a minute into an exchange and I haven’t been called a devil’s harlot even once. What a novel prospect. I am enthused.

“Where is your righteousness, warrior of the order? Where are the insults?”

“I am not much for conversation.”

“What are you much for then, besides meticulous planning and demolition?”

His eyes track my expression, gauging. Fool, I have played poker for thirty years now. Even Loth could not read me.

“You sure like to talk a lot.”

“Ah, but can you blame me? Such occasions are so rare. Old enemies forced to a truce by circumstances. We are like characters in the Iliad. So tell me oh defender of light, why come here alone? Why not gather a large troop and burn the city to the ground, hmm?”

“Wouldn’t work. You don’t sleep in that room.”

“Oh? How would you know?”

“I climbed the wall and had a look.”

I look at him, aghast.

“You scoundrel! Peeping Tom! How did you even manage to slip past the guards?”

“During a change of patrol.”

“What? You know their schedule? How?”

“I observed.”

I am having the most curious of experiences. I am talking to a door, with a man behind who would see me dead if he could and yet is more interesting than most people I have met.

“Are you telling me that in two weeks, you managed to infiltrate the Dream, blow up my shed, and set up such an elaborate trap all without attracting attention even once?”

“Hm. Yes? Why?”

He even looks surprised.

“Have you considered that you could be a great vampire?”

“No.”

“Never mind, I prefer my fellow night denizen to have a sense of humor.”

“You stole that from me.”

“I did?”

He avoids my gaze for a moment to reminisce on some painful memory, no doubt. The pause lasts for but a moment and when it ends, the man is as controlled as ever.

“Not you. Your kind. Some demon worshipper cult.”

“You lost people to mages?”

Once more, the naked pain and anger that flash on his face convey more meaning than a book ever could.

“I am no mage, and I worship no one if you must know. Why serve in a prison in the first place then?”

“Don’t work well with others. They don’t trust me in a team so they put me there. I took the prison’s money cache and came after you.”

“I know you are entertaining me to waste my time until dawn. You are trapped here and this town answers to me, so if you want to see the day, you will have to do better. Why come after me at all, alone of all things?”

Bradley sighs and closes his eyes, and I can tell that the pressure of the past two weeks has taken a toll on his mind.

“My sin was pride. Vampires are arrogant, is what I heard.”

“We are people. Some of us are arrogant, some of us know better.”

“You… I guess it’s true. You were a bit careful.”

“No, if I were truly careful, I would have sent mortals after you.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

This is the first question he asks. I smile wider, showing my fangs. He doesn’t flinch.

“You did not hurt my people, so this Hunt is still between the two of us. Ah, and those demon worshippers, have you found them yet?”

“No…”

“Did you join the brothers for this?”

“They had the tools. And the training.”

“I see. It appears that I have to cut our conversation short. There are people coming. Goodbye Bradley, and see you later.”

I turn around and get back into the passage. He does not fire on my back.

Outside, I manage to avoid the attention of the handful of people already searching the wreck for survivors and quickly find Nami under the cover of the trees. I relay the meeting to her, which she finds immensely amusing.

“Ah, my little chocolate pie, I am so happy for you. This is the kind of memory that you will cherish decades from now, when you share it with your lover.”

That sounded strangely specific.

“What will you do now?” she continues, “Have your men smoke him out?”

“That won’t be necessary. I left the way open; it is only a matter of time before… Ah. Look.”

The number of people checking the wreckage has reached two dozen and the trapdoor is quickly found by an inquisitive girl. A couple of burly men volunteer to check the tunnel and I watch with fascination while reloading my pistol. I am still looking at the crater, expecting Bradley to exit from there when a noise warns me and Nami and I jump away.

The earth collapses to reveal a mine hole. A dirt-covered form with a backpack brushes itself and emerges into the night.

Nami and I exchange a look. There is no light here, he is blind as a mole!

With a resolute air, the man steps forward onto something soft.

The moment he realizes something is wrong is just priceless.

“That,” I whisper in his ear, “was my foot,”. This is the moment of truth and Bradley does not disappoint. He shows determination and courage in the face of certain death and I admire him for this.

“Does the order know I am here?”

“No.”

“Would you like to live?”

“Do not play with me.”

“I do not. Offer me your blood and swear to keep my existence a secret, and I will escort you to the edge of town. You will be free to pursue your revenge.”

“Why would you do that? You can just bleed me here.”

“Call it… A professional courtesy, from one explosion-loving hunter to another. What will it be, Bradley? Your loyalty to the order and its principles, or a chance to pursue your revenge?”

Silence. Nami looks at me in delight, probably happy that I would do something so reckless. Only his fluttering heartbeat betrays the man’s desperate inner struggle. What will it be? I can’t wait to see.

“Vengeance.”

Yessss.

“Extend your arm and swear.”

“I swear I’ll keep your existence secret, and never return here.”

I bite down. Ah, so delicious. A broken oath to God and his peers for the pursuit of a grudge, the end of a successful hunt. Delectable. Once I am done I lick the wound close and whistle lightly. Metis trudges through the undergrowth like the massive warbeast she is and I climb up, then drag Bradley across the harness like a trussed up boar.

“Ya!”

We ride like the wind into the night and as the smokey air clears up, I consider that I am truly glad to be alive.

56. Preparations

The strange ship bobs on the waves of an endless ocean. Above there are no clouds, only a sky without stars and the quiescent tendrils of the Watcher. The ship is small enough that I can operate it, yet still large and threatening. The sail curves back like the fin of a titanic shark, and the prow points out like a jagged spear. We cleave through the tide like a knife through flesh, carried ever forward by an inescapable current.

Slowly, the morose surroundings change. Small vortices imply the presence of other flows. I need to hurry. More and more, my own current narrows and I catch glimpses of others. Other constructs, other actors. We are all led forward on a collision course with our knowledge and more importantly, our consent. A conflict is coming to a close. The final pieces are almost in position. Yet something is wrong. On my path there is an impossibility.

A wreck, rotten and flimsy but still very much a danger.

The ship must not change course and I know what must be done. There will be no more delay, no more obstacles. At the end of the path stands my birthright, the status that I was denied twice before by fate and casual cruelty. This time, I will not be stopped. Those who stand before me expect a fight, I will give them a war.

The dream’s warning does not fall on uncaring ears. In the following days and in preparation of my confrontation with Sullivan, I go through a flurry of measures and projects. Merritt proves herself to be a resourceful woman, just as I expected, and she wormed her way into Marquette’s respectable society by attending the tea parties that were beyond my reach. Her networking has already borne fruit, though the most curious consequence is that between the two of us we have finished mapping Marquette’s index of male sexual prowess. Quite the eye-opener. Between preparations, the necessary work and my training, the nights pass quickly.

April 25th, 1832

“Miss Lethe, come in, come in.”

The mayor’s office is luxuriously decorated in an honest attempt to equal the pomp and respectability of his Eastern counterparts. The stink of brandy and tobacco almost masks the musk of sweat and coal, though the effort is somewhat wasted by the ever-growing pile of slag I can spot from the window behind him. Sometimes, I think that this byproduct of coal mining may one day become the State’s highest elevation. The man himself stares at me from beyond his desk, with the simulated expression of someone who knows he will have to refuse a request and does not want a scene. His mask falls when his second guest follows in my steps. Without a word, we sit down and I introduce my companion.

“Sir, this is Jason Mac Mahon, a marshal from the state of Pennsylvania. He came to lodge at my establishment and I wanted to use the opportunity of our meeting to introduce the two of you, and hope we can put an end to this regrettable affair before any rumor starts to spread.”

The mayor, who has his fingers in far too many pies, blanches visibly and I allow myself a minute smile before Mac Mahon dispels his fear.

The Marshal is a gruff man in a travel-worn duster. His scruffy chops and moustaches have been awkwardly waxed for the occasion, but what really attracts the eyes are the scars. From cheeks to knuckles, the marshal bears on his body the marks of quite a few tussles and is clearly still standing. He is amusingly awkward with a bowler hat clenched between his rough hands.

“Right, good evening Mr. mayor sir. As the lady said, probably just a misunderstanding, but if it’s not, well…”

“Out with it man, what is it?”

“It’s about one of your deputies, Mr. John Graham. See, I got this here warrant for a John Graham from Philadelphia regarding an assault charge.”

“Are you telling me that one of our own officers is wanted? Unthinkable.”

“There is a drawing of him, see if you recognize him.”

Mac Mahon removes a folded poster from an inner pocket and gives it to the mayor whose eyes widen. Yes, it appears our dear judge who still refuses to hire local on fear of them being corrupted has a criminal in his employ. Our gazes meet, and I wink.

Later that night.

The man I summoned walks with hesitation down the empty street, the collar of his green jacket pulled up to ward off the constant drizzle. He steps with fear and his eyes dart left and right over dark corners as if expecting an ambush. At this time of the night, the warehouse district is empty and desolate. The rickety buildings inspire little confidence in a respectable member of society.

His face shows relief when he spots me, standing within the yellow nimbus of lantern light like an oasis in the darkness. His comfort is short-lived when he notices my companion.

No one does “looming” quite like John. His presence towers so much that he might as well be a geographical feature, one that can break an adult skull on demand. My guest falters and I smile innocently before the yellow-livered fool attempts to run away. My time is precious. My greeting sounds hollow in the deserted alley.

“Mr. Collins, thank you so much for joining me. I am delighted to see you.”

He stops five steps away from us.

“Look, Miss Lethe, if that concerns my obligation, I promise I will repay you fully by…”

My ‘come-hither’ gesture interrupts him. We are having a conversation, not a screaming match. I will not tolerate disrespect from the likes of him.

The imbecile hesitates and somewhere within John’s peculiar brain, the realization that someone is disobeying me expands like the puddle of blood from a slit artery. My bodyguard stands straighter and from this single gesture, conveys a promise of imminent violence. His prodigious spine pops under the strain of warming muscles and he slowly caresses his monstrous hands. He’s such a good lad.

Feeling the mood, Collins steps closer and swallows his saliva with some difficulty. I watch his Adam’s apple bob up and down with middling interest. He smells appetizing but also, weak. I fed yesterday from a rowdy patron, no need to indulge just yet. Let’s get this over with.

“Collins. I will grant you a delay before I collect your debt. It will even be interest-free. In return, you will do something for me. Trust me, it will be to your advantage…”

April 26th.

The fumoir at the back of the town hall is packed tonight, and the divide between two camps could not have been more obvious to anyone with a hint of social grace. Marquette’s most influential members sit in the first circle of comfortable leather chairs while others, including myself, linger at the edge, still present but not quite as influential. The air is heavy with the blueish smoke of cigar as tensions run high, and quite a few of the bottles are already empty. Judge Sullivan sits opposite me, surrounded by a posse of Marquette’s most fanatical and self-righteous idiots. I notice with pleasure that the number is lower than a week before, a sure sign that the most recent scandal stained his previously immaculate image. The judge hired no locals under the pretext of avoiding corrupting influence and behold, one of his deputies was wanted! Truly, the man knows no shame, favoring criminal outsiders over our brave local lads. And the timing could not be worse! Just a day before the big meeting, to have a marshal drag his cuffed subordinate through the main street, for everyone to see. How very unfortunate for him.

Our eyes meet, and I blink. What? I am the very soul of innocence.

“The session is open. The honorable mayor has the floor.”

“Thank you, thank you. Gentlemen, we have much to discuss today. Without further ado, I will now proceed with our first order of business, the injunction brought forward by the honorable judge Sullivan. As you know, it is our duty and burden to oversee our community and guide it on the right path. Although the lesser races are no less deserving of our benevolent counsel, it remains our right to protect our wives and children from any depravity that they may be exposed to. Starting May the first, our community will no longer welcome in its midst neither people of color nor vagrants. Our city is safe.”

The statement is welcomed by polite applause which I do not join. Sullivan stares at me like a hawk, waiting for me to make my move. This only shows his lack of understanding. I have never talked in public for the simple reason that I am a woman, and that is enough for some to dismiss me. I very much prefer a puppet to dance for me and take the limelight. This is much more expedient.

“With that said, our nation is still a land of opportunity and we must find it in our heart to leave to others the chance that was offered to us to better our lot. Freedom and the pursuit of happiness should be extended to all regardless of their nature, and this is with great pleasure that I will now allow Mr. Collins to bring forward his proposal. For those of you who are new here, Mr. Collins owns Collins Construction and he has been a pillar of our community for more than a decade.”

More polite applause. Collins stands up and brushes imaginary dust from his elegant ensemble. He clears his throat then starts with the mellifluous voice of the consummate salesman.

“Gentlemen, good evening. It is my honor and privilege to address you today. For thirteen long years I have been part of this community. I have seen it grow, struggle and prosper. Through years of abundance and years of famine we have endured, and now we are finally taking the first step towards becoming a real city, to rival those our forefathers founded when this country was in its infancy. Like all entities, we will face growing pain, but as the leaders of Marquette it is our sacred duty to manage them as well as we can, so God help us.”

A few amen echo around us. I am rather proud of that touching religious moment. Hear this God? The daughter you abandoned still pays homage through her servant. I mean, representative.

“A population increase needs to be handled properly. For the first time in our history, we must plan our growth with vision and purpose rather than organically. That is why I propose that we open a new section of town reserved for the other races, so that they too may strive for fortune amongst their brethren. A new district for them, distinct yet with the same amenities.”

Agitated whispers fill the room at the mention of such an ambitious project, and it doesn’t take long for another notable to object.

“And who do you propose will pay for all of this?” asks a loud voice. The newcomer is twirling his massive mustache with an obvious air of doubt. That’s my good friend Andrews, my main supplier of beef and poultry for all my businesses.

“Thank you for asking, I would not waste this assembly’s precious time without an actionable plan. I, and the group of concerned citizens, have purchased the lands around the Smith residence, and we have sent a generous offer to them as well. We will fund the creation of this new district in its entirety, all for the benefit of Marquette. The only thing we require is your blessing before we proceed with construction, and that this new area be exempted from the ban.”

A wave of approving nods spreads over the assembly. Since it solves their issue without costing them a penny, most of them would be inclined to agree. I still made sure to test the water beforehand. You never know, with mortals. They get obsessed over the most innocuous of things. Like mutilation.

“And another thing. I am sure that many of you work with citizens and freemen of Kentucky down South. Some of them may even have come across Gentleman Bennings who married a black woman. Now, I don’t want to discuss his proclivities, but when he comes to town, should I tell him his spouse isn’t welcome? A man of his stature and wealth? What about other travelers and freemen? Must they camp outside the city? Should we deny ourselves business because of inflexibility?”

A series of nay sounds throughout the room. Sullivan has turned scarlet, because he knows where this is going. Anymore and he will be foaming at the mouth.

“This measure is designed to keep out undesirables, not endanger our livelihood. That is why I propose that we allow foreign visitors access to one inn so that they may stay while they conduct their business. I nominate the Dream as the most convenient location.”

A few members look my way, mostly those who were not warned. Sullivan scowls with fury. He raises his hand indicating his wish to intervene. Collins ignores him.

“With this measure, we will be ready to face the consequences of the implementation of this measure with confidence…”

The speech goes on with more details and the obligatory embellishments. I school my expression into one of polite attention and pretend I do not notice the reddening judge. Before the vote is cast, he gets his time.

“Gentlemen. Is a law a law, if it doesn’t apply to everyone?”

Andrews coughs loudly while a few angry whispers echo at the back. The word hypocrite may have been uttered. Sullivan scowls even more but he does not relent. He rambles for ten minutes on civic duty and the importance of the strict application of rules. ‘Fiat Justicia, ruat caelum!’ and all that. I watch with amused fascination as he loses the attention of even his most stalwart supporters, by repeating himself. Is this what a political wreck looks like? How can he not see the obvious? This is not the way the game is played. You do not get people to your side during the meeting. All relevant negotiations are conducted beforehand behind closed doors, in smoke-filled receiving rooms. A real politician would have understood this, what am I saying, a real politician would have seen it coming from a mile away and killed the proposal before it was submitted. The game is already over.

Before long, the ballot is cast. The mayor counts the votes himself and comes up with the final result.

“The motion is accepted by seventeen votes in favor and five against.”

For Sullivan, this is the last straw. He stands up in fury and walks in the middle of the room under more than a few disapproving glances.

“I have had enough of this!”

“Judge Sullivan, you do not have the floor, please sit down.”

The mayor’s warning falls on deaf ears. The judge is too incensed to listen. His voice rises to a sharp crescendo as he starts with the emphatic voice of the Baptist preacher.

“Don’t you see? This is your divine test. The lord is offering you a chance to repent, to abandon your wicked ways and get back into his graces. For too long this town has glorified sin and villainy, with wanton women selling their bodies with the tacit approval of all. No more, I say, no more. Pray and reconsider.”

I cower like the poor, unfairly slandered Lady I am. Oh, this is just too perfect. He is ruining the little credit the latest scandal left him with instead of biding his time. What a glorious declaration. Yes, dear judge, please insult everyone some more.

“Sir, I think you should sit down,” adds one of his supporters pointedly, “now.”

Sullivan’s expression turns stricken, but instead of answering, he stomps away under the disapproving gaze of the entire assembly. Perfect, just perfect. My victory is complete, and I did not have to move a muscle, nor to intone a single word. Ah, Sinead, I wish you were here to see this. You would say this is a play for children, but it is still a masterful one.

I hide my saddened expression behind a fan and receive more than a few sympathetic comments in the ensuing confusion. Even those that oppose me normally look aghast as their champion of justice just up and left after this final stain on their reputation. Ah, if only he could exile himself out of scorn, and then I could pursue and eat him! But alas, that would be too risky. Disappearing notables are always a pain to handle.

After a few moments, calm returns and the meeting resumes. The next order of business is of direct interest to me, and it is put forward by the mayor with my unspoken support.

“There are rumors that native tribes under the command of one ruffian named Black Hawk are marching on land that was rightfully ceded to us under the treaty of Saint Louis. We must be able to defend ourselves should they attack. That is why, I propose that we fund a militia capable of defending us against all dangers…”

A few questions follow, mostly on funding, but most of the men present agree that the prospect of armed poor white men is slightly less terrifying than that of Indian raiders, and so the Marquette militia is officially founded. Its new leader is nominated as well, a veteran of the previous war by the name of Wallace who enjoys buxom blondes and poker just a bit too much. Just as planned. As for how they will be armed, I am currently a shareholder of a Massachusetts arms manufactory that will, I am sure, make a reasonable offer. Thanks, Isaac.

The meeting ends and as I leave, there are already groups gathering to discuss what should be done about poor Sullivan. It seems like the air of the countryside just doesn’t agree with him. Probably all that coal in the air. I head back to the Dream with John in tow doing my best not to whistle.

Half an hour later, Dream’s meeting room.

“So I would call that a complete success. Now we only need to secure an armory and powder reserve for fast access, and I will make sure Wallace is under control. Merritt I’m counting on you for the armory, search around the warehouse district.”

“Right.”

The mage leaves with a pile of documents while Nami plays with a serrated knife, twisting it between her fingers with acrobatic dexterity. I can tell that something is on her mind.

“Yes?”

“I would not call tonight a complete success.”

“Why not?”

“Because in four days, I will be forbidden from walking the streets of this city. Quite the inconvenience, don’t you think?”

I am surprised, as well as a bit worried. Is she offended?

“I did not think it would bother you. Should I have opposed the measure?”

“You are pragmatic Ariane, and that is a good thing, but your sensibility is already slipping as a result. Amongst your followers, how many are affected?”

“Hm. Oscar, King, Russel, the Creek brothers…”

“And two maids and one kitchen staff. Do you think they see this as a complete success? I doubt it. You acted as you thought best. I am sure that the new district you have planned will not be the den of poverty it could have been without you, and it will increase your power and control over this place. You did not cause the misery you are feeding from, but they will resent it and you must not forget.”

I consider her words in silence. I did not, in fact, consider the victims. I never do, and this time I should have. I call Nami my friend and did not even consider her comfort.

“You’re mad at me?”

“No Ariane, this is nothing new to me. I was getting rusty with rooftop travelling anyway. I merely wanted to remind you to be careful around mortals. They are always so emotional, and forgetting this would be harmful to your interests.”

“Oh. Alright.”

“Don’t make this face sweetling, I won’t bite. Unless you want me to? Perhaps you need a little punishment…”

“Noooo back off!”

Insufferable woman.

57. The Beacon

The removal of minorities from Marquette goes without trouble, the few concerned individuals already resolved to their fates. The Dream as well as the main street are exempt, which makes my establishment even more popular among travelers, with our reputation reaching farther than ever before. Meanwhile, the new district opens and it takes more effort than I expected to keep it well provisioned. Many of my suppliers refuse to even enter the place and I am forced to arrange my own system of distribution, which in turn leaves me in a position of monopoly. I could easily make their lives hell if I so desired, and the memory of Nami’s remark is ever present.

On the military side of things, our militia sees immediate deployment when a warband led a by a Sauk named Black Hawk tries to resettle the land they had ‘ceded’ in ‘treaty’. The group is made of fighters from several tribes and meets with some initial success, including raids on settlers where they kill, mutilate and scalp men, women and children. This triggers a massive exodus of isolated settlers. They arrive in Marquette in small groups, bringing their families and cattle in great convoys that settle in fallow fields at the edge of town. Small circles of tents pop out of the ground like mushrooms after rain, filled with harried men and women with dangerous eyes. They stay there in insalubrious conditions that even slums cannot match.

The newcomers are wary of everyone, including each other. Tension and distrust lead to more trouble for my new district. I have to deploy Harrigan’s squads more than a few times in the following weeks to knock some heads before they can come up with stupid ideas. The hatred between newcomers and ‘true’ Marquette citizens burns bright.

Paranoia runs rampant. Most of the fighting occurring between militia and Indians are skirmishes, but hearing the reports, thousands of bloodthirsty savages were soon going to descend upon the town to rape and plunder to their hearts’ content. I don’t even think they had a thousand men to start with.

The panic makes people feel cornered and aggressive. Marquette becomes a powder keg of tension and deep-seated resentment. I am forced to have the few Creek under my employ wear white armbands at all times to differentiate them from hostile natives. All public gatherings are forbidden and any brawl suppressed with a heavy hand before they can degenerate into large scale riots.

Then, because a catastrophe never comes alone, May brings us a cholera epidemic. Seeing people soil themselves to death really makes me appreciate my own immortality. We even lose a few girls, which frustrates me to no end. Diseases are not opponents I can simply massacre. Against this unseen enemy, I am powerless. Without means to retaliate, I decide to stop our normal operations to help fight the epidemic and between this, renovations and investing in weaponry, this year will definitely end in the red for me. That’s fine, it’s an investment.

This complete mess reduces the time I could spend on aura training, running outside with Metis and sparring with Nami. The poor Ekon girl is growing restless in such a small city, so starting from June, I allow her to roam around the land and get back to me if she finds anything interesting.

At the same time, news of the war restores confidence in the militia after their triumph at Horseshoe bend. That epic battle was just thirty men killing eleven but hearing the commoners speak of it, it might as well have been a new Waterloo. All the same, settlers start to head home which reduces the burden on the town.

I no longer understand mortals. I kill eleven men all the time and you don’t see me parading on the street with a flag. Bah.

In any case, my mood massively improves when my latest purchases make their way to town in a large convoy.

June 3rd, 1832, Marquette

“Ariane?”

“Yes Alexandra?”

“I told you to call me Merritt! And why are you laughing maniacally in the corridors? That’s not good for your image.”

“I am most pleased.”

“Whatever happened that has you so merry?” Meritt asks, the very image of suspicion.

“My special delivery is here. Let’s go, let’s go. Quick!”

We leave the Dream behind with John in tow. I walk through the evening crowd who parts to let me through. Some of them even greet me. My reputation has improved a lot since I spent my own money on civic duties, to the extent that even some respectable citizens have disregarded the origin of my wealth. A pleasant development.

The trip is fast. In only a few minutes, we reach the warehouse district and my destination.

“Where is it? Where are they?” I ask the first man I recognize.

The foreman stops backing when he realizes he has hit a wall and that answering my question is the safest way to save himself.

“In… in here!”

I disregard the poor sod and enter a smaller barn to find my little precious things well protected under tarps. Yesssss. They’re here!

Behind me, Merritt and the man confer in low voices.

“Why is she laughing like that? I was so scared.”

“No idea…”

Fools! Can’t they see the magnificence before them?

“John! Help me take off those covers.”

We remove the tarps to reveal shiny gaping steel maws, all sweet and lubricated.

“Are those… Oh. Oh no.”

“That’s right Merritt. Feast your eyes upon those state-of-the-art, rifled, limber-drawn twelve-pounder field artillery guns. In a revolutionary new technique, they use balls that are fractionally larger than the bore so they engage with the grooves for that sweet, sweet spin. It will drastically improve precision, see? With that, I can put a hole through a man’s belly button large enough to place a hand while leaving his crotch intact at two hundred paces!”

If their faces are any indication, I lost them at ‘limber-drawn’. Bah, it doesn’t matter that those heathens cannot appreciate the good things in life. I laugh and pet my little babies. Just wait until I drag you to a field for some testing and, oh, what is this? Besides the two expected guns, there is a third form. A small, stubby thing under a red cover. I pick a small envelope attached to it and excitedly read its content.

“Ariane,

Please accept this humble gift as an expression of my appreciation, and of my hope for your success. Now that you have a mage in your service, I am sure you will find a use for it. It was, after all, your prize.

With all my friendship.

I.”

A moment later, I lift the cover and am left speechless. Merritt walks by my side and after inspecting the intricate work before her, asks:

“What is that, it looks like a gun?”

“This, dear Merritt, is a Skarbrand runic mortar, a wonder of magical engineering that can send fiery spells to incinerate foes from a mile away. And you will be its operator.”

The redhead’s eyes widen in wonder as even she can tell what terrible destruction they will be able to inflict together. Perfect, this is just perfect. I bask in the afterglow of all these explodey things I now own. Oh, I am so very happy. If only Papa could see me! Yesterday a rifle, today, artillery guns, and tomorrow, who knows? A ship of the line? So many problems I could solve by the generous application of scorn and gunpowder. I almost can’t wait for live targets.

Whatever storm comes to find me, I hope they will be ready, for I sure as hell am.

I only have two weeks to train the poor artillery crews, a thankless task that involves a lot of math and a lot of screaming, before something unexpected happens. At midnight in the heart of June, I feel a powerful magic pulse coming far away from the East. Its power shines like a beacon, demanding attention.

It has started.

June 19th 1832

I don’t think I have ever felt such a powerful aura other than from the Herald. It tastes sharp and surprisingly focused. Since it’s a mighty spell I do not understand, I naturally assume it is bad news. I decide to head out first to check what we are against while Merritt, John and the odd squad pack things up. They will join me at a safe house before dawn and I do hope the situation will be solved by then, though I do not harbor much hope. With my own pack always prepared, it is only a matter of getting changed and riding out.

The buildings of Marquette and civilization fall behind me as Metis and I rush across the plain. This is my most hated time of the year. I have to spend so much time in slumber that every second is precious, and most are spent handling the Dream and all my new projects. I am glad to steal this moment for myself with only Metis, the night and the endless sky. I have no need to consider politics, be it with the humans or my fellow vampires. There is no appearance to keep or expectations to fulfill. The plane is vast beyond compare, especially for me, who grew up in the swampy South. Sometimes, a gust of wind comes to caress my skin and brings the scent of sap and dried vegetation, making the grass around us dance like waves on the ocean. We cut a way through that sea and leave meadows, forests and the vast fields behind, always in the middle of an endless green only matched by the endless midnight blue above. Life is vibrant around us as insects and beasts hunt, mate or die, and although I do prefer winter, I have to admit that there is a charm to this season.

The Nightmare is also happy to let go, I can tell. I may be able to outrun her on short distances but for long runs she is without a match. There is also something exhilarating about trampling the ground on top of a hellish, flesh-eating warhorse who doesn’t know fear. I already have a spear. I am just missing a banner and a helm, as well as some fancy warcry like the knights of the round table. What should I scream when charging? What do I fight for?

Blood, freedom, and gunpowder?

Hm.

Not bad.

I try it as well as a few others as we make good way until something attracts my attention and I stop.

Before me, a bend in the road goes around a lake reduced to a pond by dry weather. A few trees mask the path ahead, and a peculiar shine attracts my eye. I close my eyes and focus.

Heartbeats, at least two. This is an ambush. I’m so excited! In all my years, I have never been the target of a robbery unless I was looking for it. Could it be that I finally got lucky? I could use the distraction to feed a bit before the inevitable showdown.

As I slow Metis to a canter, she snorts in anticipation. Sometimes, I cannot tell how smart she really is. Obviously, she is smarter than some humans. I just don’t know exactly how much she understands. We pass the bend and the trees hide the moon, casting us in an extremely deep shadow. The pond is currently to my left and to my front and right the plain goes on seemingly forever dotted with the occasional tree. The largest white oak I have ever seen stands at the top of a small mound, and on one of its lower branches, someone has installed a noose. How quaint!

“Come on out.” I order calmly.

And two of Judge Sullivan’s deputies exit from the cover of the forest behind me like children caught sneaking. One of them is a blond man who I remember is kind but shy, and the other is a quiet, stocky man with grey chops. I smile lightly. I should have expected this, really, considering the judge’s personality. I just did not anticipate him to be so brazen. Hanging me is sure to gather a lot of attention. What was he even thinking?

One more lanky deputy and Sullivan himself come out from further down the way, I assume they were the ones to stop me, and the men behind were tasked with cutting off my escape. I suppose it could have worked, although I cannot help but feel this is a bit amateurish. I would have placed a man on the other side of the road to shoot down the horse, just in case my prey attempts to flee through the plain. I would also have my men draw their weapons. What would happen if I started to run now, huh? How long before they can fumble their muskets out to line a shot in the dark? So gauche.

The four close on me with what I assume is a vague attempt at intimidation. The effect is ruined by two things. First, they act like meek virgins, which in a way they are. Second, they gawk at my outfit and equipment like bumpkins instead of remaining stoic. Even Sullivan’s eyes are wide in surprise.

I am wearing an innocuous travel cloak, not my battle gown, but I am still riding without saddle and my covered legs hug Metis’ flank almost horizontally, which is unusual to say the least. I am sure they are also taken aback by the wicked-looking spear in my hand. I would find it amusing to act the victim for the following play, unfortunately it is absolutely impossible to appear harmless while riding Metis, even without weaponry. She’s just too dangerous, my sweet little toothy charger. Since I cannot fool them, I just assume the air of supreme confidence I am feeling right now, and since they appear hesitant, I will open the game. I take my most arrogant voice and begin:

“I must admit I expected very little from you and am still disappointed. Highway banditry, really? How have you fallen so low, Sullivan?”

“This is not banditry but justice!” he replies defensively.

“Justice at the dead of night? Without witness?”

“You leave me no choice, witch. Your talons are dug too deep into this town, and the only way to purge the body is to cut off the infected limb. I regret that it comes to this…”

“Lies.”

“…but only God can judge me now.”

“He already has, I believe the exact term was ‘you shall not kill’.”

“The exodus also said ’Suffer not the witch to live.’” He replies with fire in his eyes.

“And you are all here, certain that I am a witch? So sure, in fact, that you are willing to flaunt the law to put me to death? Is it your belief and your resolve?”

“Yes,” he replies with increasing fervor, “for we are the hand of God, united in purpose and chosen to deliver His punishment!”

I hope they’re not, or humanity is done for.

“United huh, and where is Douglas?” I ask innocently.

After the loss of one deputy to a bounty hunter, there are only four left and one of them was slightly more integrated with the town than the others. I notice that he is absent. Sullivan hesitates at this reminder that his men are not as devoted to his cause as they look.

“You already captured his mind with your sorcerous ways, he is too soft to do what needs to be done!”

“Have you considered that perhaps, the town keeps me around for a reason and you four may be in the wrong?”

“There is no doubt in my heart! My faith protects me from your poisoned words,” Sullivan replies with conviction, but too late. Two of his men look less than enthusiastic about this whole covert lynching business. I realize that I could just kill all of them and be done with it, but I would have to deal with the disappearance of a high ranking official and his subordinates, who may have informed someone that they were going after me. It would be much more efficient to manipulate the situation to my advantage. I am a Courtier after all, not some bloodthirsty imbecile. Let’s see how fruitful Sinead’s lessons have been.

From the situation, I can see that two of them could switch sides, though Sullivan and the last one are so set in their belief that it would require me to shred their minds to get anywhere. Time for me to make my case, and I feel like justifying myself, for once.

“You believe that my influence comes from hexes, or from some strange pleasure magic that blinds men with the promise of sex. You think me some parasite sucking the life from Marquette, corrupting the souls of its inhabitants. You could not be more wrong. The people of the city tolerate me because many of them remember the time before the Dream, when this place was just one more mud hole on the frontier. They remember life without my work, something that you never bothered to ask about. When I came here, girls were already selling themselves and men were already getting drunk. When I came here, whore corpses would be found once every five months and dead miners once every two. Carcasses were left for so long that you could follow their path to the graveyard by the trail of maggots they left behind, and people were rutting behind barns or on pails of rotten hay like animals. What a sorry sight they all were, sick and covered in sores, with missing teeth and scarred faces. Any pass could end up with a knife to the gut and every bottle of moonshine was poison in waiting. Misery was the norm and chaos the law. This is what I found, and this is what I changed.”

I feel myself getting more animated.

“I made a safe place and opened it to those wretches so that none could feed from their miseries. I brought them safe bedrooms to work and sleep, I brought them warm food and alcohol that was not made from sawdust. I made rules and forced manners to make them feel like people. I lifted them and ruled fairly, and I have protected them ever since. This is why I am tolerated, because I have become the last safety net for desperate people where none would, and everyone is better for it.

“You would know this if you had thought but for a moment, or if you had relied on your powers of observation instead of blind faith to understand the world. You have not. This loyalty I receive, I earned it. You believe John to be spelled? When I picked him up from the streets, I could circle his wrist with two fingers. Oscar? Cut down from a tree where he had been left to slowly choke. Kitty? She was almost beaten to death by her degenerate brother. This is why they accept me, not because of spells but because of the human decency that I showed them where your powdered ladies and respectable gentlemen would not, and you? You come here with your belief that the town is tainted, throwing around your weight and your book, expecting some kind of recognition? You do not even realize that I do more for this place’s well-being in a day than you have done since you arrived.

“When you fail to garner the approval you expected, you do not ask yourself if you have committed a sin of pride. No, you just throw everything you have sworn to uphold down the gutter to assassinate a woman like some vulgar highwaymen, in the dead of night and in the middle of nowhere. You hide like the coward you are because you know the people would not stand this farcical sentencing, because you could not face your own inadequacies. You even hide from your own colleagues! You, a defender of justice? Don’t make me laugh. This is not justice you are seeking, but base revenge for your wounded self-esteem. Come on, look me in the eyes and tell me this is divine will. Tell me you could go back to Chicago and announce what you’ve done without being hanged until death!”

My inflamed declamation is received with stunned silence, and I realize that I may have just gone a little bit overboard. I am myself surprised. Perhaps I did have just a tiny bit of frustration backed up after months of harassment from that self-important cretin.

First to recover is the deputy to my left. He passes a gloved hand through his messy blond hair and addresses his superior with a helpless tone.

“She’s right, we shouldn’t hang her. We should bring her to another town and if she’s really a witch they can burn her just as well.”

“Fool, she will enchant them too! We are committed to this. Just imagine what will happen to you if she escapes now.”

“What kind of justice bears no witness?” I interject.

Inside, I am in turmoil. Not because of the trap, as losing the argument will not be my end. I just came to an awful realization.

I care about Marquette. I really do. I dislike my circumstances and the ensuing isolation from my kind. I hate the smell of burning coal and human excrement. The cacophony of yells, songs and moans that surround my nights make me want to gut them all. And yet, despite all of this, I don’t want them to suffer. They’re mine. I protected them and those who have grown to produce something useful or to serve me well fill my heart with pride. They are the results of my effort, my... my subjects.

Is this what ruling is like? How can master just travel from place to place like some obnoxious vagrant when he could be doing this instead? Nurturing those frail mortals into something that will shine briefly, but brightly. This feels like something worthwhile.

Meanwhile, the argument goes on between two sides. On one end, we have Sullivan supported by the increasingly angry lanky man, who is decidedly on edge. On the other side is the blond man who argues about silly notions like due procedures, the habeas corpus and all manners of nice things that frontier people do not care about. He is supported in turn by Mr. Stocky whose name I never bothered to remember, but who is apparently a firm supporter of the equal application of laws. His muffled but frequent ‘that’s right’ needle blondie forward and give him the legitimacy he needed to face the judge.

A fascinating debate.

No matter how interesting their moral qualms are, however, I should not stay to listen. I am on schedule. There is still the matter of the incredibly powerful spell being woven a few miles East to attend to, and I would rather address this issue before it explodes, or turns everything in a ten miles radius into turnips.

I know just the way.

Sullivan is still wearing a cross on his tie, the prick, and the warning aura that comes from it forces me to avert my gaze. Incredible how much would be revealed if they tried to exorcise me, or if they looked a bit closer at the spear I hold. Paradoxically, it is civilization that is protecting both parties. If they had just forfeited the trappings of law, we could have just gone medieval on each other from the start. I would have torn them apart, of course, but my cover would have suffered from it, to the extent perhaps that I would have had to disappear.

Hm, I really need to focus.

And Mr. Lanky is presenting me with the perfect opportunity. He is not wearing a cross and his paranoid mind is already inventing dangers where there are none. I meet his eyes and wrap him instantly. I push the fear to new heights. He is seeing monsters in every shadow now.

That’s right. You are in mortal danger. Your doom has come.

As his terror peaks, I lightly push Metis and she takes a step to the side with a light neigh.

That is enough for my target. His hand, which had been hovering over the handle of his pistol, plunges and grabs the weapon. He is taking it out before he can think.

“Gun!” I scream helpfully.

In an instant, all hell breaks loose. Blondie and Chops raise their carbines while Lanky’s aim wavers between the three of us. Sullivan also raises an engraved musket. I pretend to cower in fear.

From below my arm, I capture Lanky’s mind and force a fearful reflex. His finger tightens on the trigger. The shot sounds incredibly loud in the empty night.

“Stand down!” bellows Sullivan, a bit late. The others hold back at the last moment though tension is at its paroxysm.

“She’s a witch! She is, don’t you see? Burn her, burn the witch!” screams Lanky hysterically. The others do not react, but the moment has broken what little community they had. Sullivan frowns in frustration and barely contained anger, having sensed it too. I am now faced with a choice. I could start a bloodbath, or I could call this a victory and focus on my original task. In the end, pragmatism wins over. I wish I could finish this once and for all, I am just not willing to pay the price. Humility is a virtue I have but too few occasions to practice.

I wish Nami or Sinead were here, we could have done something interesting. Now I am reduced to a gracious retreat.

Time to make my exit.

“I am going to go on my way and let you men solve your problems. I am not stopping for anyone so if you are going to shoot me, you’d better do it now.”

Then I’ll have to run less to skin your sorry hides.

I push a mildly grumpy Metis forward. The smart girl can tell she just missed a meal, though I am not too worried. There will be more soon.

The horse carries me forward through the immobile men slowly, then I start a canter as I pass them by, which quickly turns into a gallop.

I handled this really well and I have no regrets about not hanging Sullivan with his own innards from that stupid tree before setting it on fire. Nope! No regret.

Alright I have regrets but I am proud I managed to act like the adult and patient vampire I am. He is completely discredited now, even in the eyes of his own men, and will no longer be an issue. If he dares show his face in Marquette again I will have him arrested by the militia. I am only surprised that they did not comment on my appearance. My horse and spear should have garnered a few comments at least.

I decide to put this behind me and return my attention to the beacon of power pulsating softly before me. I am almost at the safe house and yet still nowhere close to it. The might of this aura, even at this distance, defies understanding. I have difficulties accepting that something so massive could exist in our reality, for it feels more like the kind of spell the Court of Blue could produce. The closer I get and the more I realize that if this is the work of an individual, then there is little I can do to stop it. I can only hope that they are fully absorbed in whatever this is.

I soon reach the safe house and leave a message to the others, then go on. The vast plains soon turn to valleys, and I start to see more variation in the landscape. The path itself zigzags between rocky outcrops and denser patches of wood. Pines replace oaks and moss replaces grass. All in all, it takes me another two hours before I find something. Just as I am crossing an empty valley, a gap in the ridge to my side lets me catch a glimpse of fires. I circle around slowly and climb a small elevation to see what it is I am dealing with.

In front of me, in a small basin half a mile across, the most peculiar and remarkable of troops has gathered. A hundred men and women from all races and ages mill around in an improvised camp. Tents and wagons are spread haphazardly while the ground is covered with cooking fires, covers and personal effects. The place is messy and without order, a reflection of its inhabitants. Besides one morbidly obese man who looks like he escaped from the circus, all the others are painfully thin, dressed in rags and mismatched clothes and wearing haggard expressions. The whole place feels like the most miserable refugee camp that ever was. The only thing missing is bawling children. And yet, in the middle of it, stands a double circle of individuals chanting and raising their hands. The power coming from them is breathtaking, and the essence they weave is so potent that the naked eye can see it. Twirls of strange colors dance in the air, as ephemeral as flames. Sometimes, I think I see alien landscapes and once, even a city entirely made of bone. Curious, I keep looking, searching for priority targets. My surprise is complete when I realize what is missing.

This place has no leader.

On occasion, one of the lost souls stands up and goes to replace a caster who stumbles away from the circle to a cot or a cooking pit. Small groups gather and break, speaking in soft voices, but there is no focal point, no entity to direct this mass of wretches.

I do not understand. My instincts and experience tell me this is an impossibility. A military troop that large could never function, much less this pile of reprobates. There is more to it than I can perceive.

I need to get there and inquire.

I stand up and carefully make my way down the slope. There are a hundred people and I wager they are too eclectic a group to know each other well. I am confident that with a bit of Charm, I can infiltrate their ranks.

But first, I need to go right. Yes, right. There is something there calling to me, a buzz at the back of my head that I cannot ignore. I am sure that I will find some answers there, and when have my instincts failed me. Quite often really. No, my instincts have never failed me, though following them blindly isn’t always wise. That’s not what I am doing now. I am being very careful. Yes, I can tell now, those below are untrained mages like Debbie. They are no danger to me so I can just keep going and everything will be alright. It is completely safe.

My steps carry me along the edge of the basin and to a small mound that overlooks it entirely. There seems to be a promontory on top of it, but the walls are sheer. I circle around to the right, leaving the camp and its few lights at my back.

The path is deserted. Wait, what am I doing? I am doing what I should do, investigating this strange situation. I keep walking with the cliff to my left. If I can find an easy way up, I will have a commanding view from that promontory I saw earlier. Yes, seems reasonable. I should just claw my way up find a path because I am civilized and do not want mud on my pretty dress.

After only a minute, I find an inviting way in. A tunnel, dug through the stone. A pair of stylized lion statues guard the entrance on each side, below lit sconces. The light and perfume are strangely soothing. This is what I was looking for. No wait, this is wro this is what I was looking for.

Wait. This is definitely wrong. I saw this before. When I was with Bingle and the blood cult. Master had been looking for something in a similar… I am being Charmed?!

A massive wave of well-being flows through my mind and wraps me up in a comfortable cocoon. The presence it reveals gives up on stealth for a more direct approach, and the assault is not something I can stop. It is not something I want to stop. This aura is benevolent, it feels like…

It feels like family.

And this scent. Warm sun on hot sand, flowers, spices. It is so strange yet so familiar.

I step forward, at peace. I will now go and join her, because there is no other choice. I cannot stop myself anymore than I can stop the sun from rising.

The corridor of stone leads up to a rectangular room of stone with a small pond, decorated by climbing ivy. A square hole in the ceiling lets me see the stars and the Watcher. I lose myself for a second in his comforting embrace, and it lets out a cooing sensation, like someone seeing a puppy. A door leads farther in. I pass by a bedroom, a laboratory and a small indoor garden. The place is both luxurious and intimate, like the private quarters of a queen. Then, the passage leads up and I finally step on the promontory.

My mind freezes.

Unadulterated surprise breaks through the fog of the compulsion I find myself under. What I am seeing is impossible, and at the same time there were many signs that could hint at it. I know I am gawking like a bumpkin and cannot find it in myself to stop.

I stand at the edge of a circle once again dug through the stone by means unknown. A pair of chairs and a table with two cups and a teapot stand at the edge of the most complex spell circle I have ever seen by several orders of magnitude. The entire surface of the circle is engraved with golden runes so thin and precise, they are practically a work of art. The exquisite working makes Loth’s efforts look like childish scribbles. This is magic at a scale that should not exist. This is a world changer.

On one of the seats, a woman is resting daintily.

Once, I read of how Helen of Troy provoked a war that lasted a decade, and how Cleopatra seduced the first emperor of Rome. I found the stories silly. Surely, no being is beautiful enough to change the course of history so.

Now, though, I can believe it.

She wears a white toga of delicate make, tied to her waist by a golden cord. She has wavy hair as black as the night and as shiny as stars. Her heart-shape face is sensual and generous, her lips are ruby and her skin is gold. Raphael or Vermeer could spend hours painting the crook of her arm, the shadow of her calf, without doing them justice and still, they would paint a masterpiece. She is beauty made flesh, and I know her.

Once, I drank the most powerful blood in the world and I remembered an ancient ruler, one who inspired an entire civilization. Master did not see her beauty or rather, it did not matter to him. She was there, at the beginning. She guided his hand and his ire. She gave him the flawed elixir of eternal life so he would not succumb to his wounds.

He called her mother.

And now she is here, before my eyes. Her heart still beats, and breath still lifts her perfect bust after more than three millennia. The words form on my lips, unbidden, to confirm the mirage.

“Queen Semiramis.”

She turns and smiles with an otherworldly gaze that even Sinead could not match. I wish I could capture this moment and remember it forever. Her voice is, as expected, exquisite, a vibrant alto with a delicate lilt that enchants the ear.

“Greetings little one. Seeing you here is such a pleasant surprise. Come and sit. Join me. I insist.”

58. The First Queen

As I walk across the circle, I sense power beneath my feet and realize what is happening. The untrained mages outside are not casters, they are fuel.

Semiramis is casually channelling a spell that will change the world, sitting on a comfortable chair, while a hundred mortals unwittingly do her bidding. I have no idea how she pulled that off, but I know that the skill required to do so should not exist at all. The glyph pulsates with more energy than the Herald ever had. I feel like I am standing on the surface of the sun, only separated from my impending doom by a hair-thin barrier and my host’s goodwill. When she invites me to sit, I comply.

The ancient queen leans forward in a suggestive way that shows a hint of cleavage, and I do believe those who appreciate this kind of thing would have lost their minds by now. The gesture is sensual without being vulgar, and the pose is so easy and graceful it is worth painting. Despite the dire straits I find myself in, I try to commit it to memory.

To my surprise, she serves me a cup of infusion from her pot. The liquid has an exotic reddish color and an earthy smell with a hint of spice.

“Try it.”

I hesitate, then realize that I should not refuse her hospitality. I have pretended to drink tea on numerous occasions. This is but one more.

I wet my lips with the liquid and its fragrance covers my tongue. As expected, earthy and spicy.

Its warmth covers my palate and I swallow. It has a minty aftertaste, peculiar and refreshing.

Hold on.

I just had tea, as a vampire. Impossible!

My eyes widen despite my attempts to remain composed, and my host smiles lightly. She drinks as well, then gazes at me with a hawkish focus. I feel like a deer before a pack of wolves. Her tone turns glacial and laden with threat.

“Before we go any further, does my son know you are here?”

“No… I mean, I do not think so?”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“In dreams or in person?”

My answer surprises her, I can tell, yet soon enough the interrogation continues.

“Interesting… Answer for both conditions.”

“1803 in person, and 1812 in dreams.”

“Ah. You were one of the discarded spawns. Lucky you. Well, you are not a threat and I know who set us on a collision course.”

“Who?”

She lifts a beautiful hand, pointing up. I realize before lifting my eyes what she is referring to.

“I thought it only watched?”

“Mostly yes, but it does pull on the strands of fate on occasion. Answer me one more question. What are you doing here?”

“We are close to my city. I thought that perhaps, the spell was a threat meant to destroy me as I was nearing my goal.”

“Is that so? What is this goal you are talking about?”

“I need to remain in control of a city for twenty years to be officially recognized as a city master. This will allow me to use a loophole in the Accords to circumvent the execution order against me.”

“Ah, I see.”

The controlling glare of the judging queen fades away and I am once more but a valued guest in the world’s most remarkable tea party. She takes a sip and continues:

“If you are not here on your Master’s behalf, then we are not enemies. You find me at a most curious time little one. What are you called?”

“Ariane.”

“Ariane, mhh. An old name. In any case, I find myself occupied by this dreary task until the end of summer solstice, and I am in a mood to entertain. It has been a long time since I had a conversation for the sake of it. I assume you have questions?”

“Yes!” I blurt out, “Plenty!”

Her expression turns patient and understanding, like a teacher with an interested student.

“Ask then.”

“What are we?”

Semiramis looks stunned for a moment, then laughs merrily. The sound is like chimes in the wind, ethereal and pleasant.

“Aaaa yes, I can see why you could resist me so. Truly, you have a peculiar mind little one. Very well then, let me tell you a story. It will satisfy your curiosity I am sure, and there is no better way to pass the time. Ahem.”

The queen sits straighter and captivates me with her dark eyes. Gradually, the world around me fades until I can feel warm sand beneath my feet, the smell of heated stone and spices and the din of a humanity that existed at the dawn of time, before reason and enlightenment made man the center of the world.

“Almost three millenia ago, there was a land between two rivers where city states grew like roses in the desert. They flourished into empires or were sacked and dominated, but in the end, they would all perish to leave the scene to others. I was born in one such kingdom.

“It was a time where magic was not hidden. It was one more tool in the panoply of majesty that all rulers coveted, as only those favored by the gods could wield such blessings. When I was twelve, I manifested this magic, and used it to kill my father.

“Instead of being put to death, I was married to king Ninos as his third wife. He was eighteen and needed the support of gifted individuals to secure his rule and his line. Three years later, I gave birth to Nirari, my son. He is my only male child to reach adulthood. The others were assassinated.

“When he reached fifteen, he led our armies against barbarians from the West and emerged victorious. His arrows were the first to slay a foe and his chariot, the first into their lines. His skill and ferocity were made legend then, and when the Hittites slew my husband, I became queen with his support. By then, I had eliminated the other consorts and their progeny while warding off dozens of attempts on our lives. We had poured molten gold in the mouths of mercenaries bought to kill us and lathered the genitals and anus of assassins with honey before burying them in red ant’s nests. I had sent terrible curses on our enemies so that their fingers would rot and maggots would crawl out of their head as they were still conscious.”

Oh. Wow. And I thought brother Achilles and I had big fights.

“In the next few years, Babylon became unmatched. Tribes and cities would send us tithes and offerings of slaves and gold. They would send their princesses to give my sons descendants of their blood, but it was not enough.

“I was the greatest mage who ever lived and still, I knew that I had access but to a fragment of what could be done. I found reflections of alien planes and strange people, civilizations before which we were but children squabbling in the dirt. I needed more time than a human body could provide, much more time. And so, I searched far and wide for something that could pierce the veil of our reality, a reality that resisted magic more than most. It needed to be powerful enough to grant me what I desired, and honorable or patient enough not to destroy us. And in the most remarkable of places, I found it.”

“What? What did you find?”

Once more she lifts a finger. I am too stunned to accept this answer.

“Impossible!”

“Very much possible. The Watcher was all of that and more. You may think of it as both an almighty being and a toddler. The most accurate description I can give of it, is that of the sliver of a creator god. One day it will die and give birth to a new universe.”

“No that’s… You can’t know all of that. It’s impossible.”

Genuine dread constricts my chest and freezes my mind. She can understand what is unthinkable? That would make her mind that of a god and I refuse… I absolutely refuse to accept this. No human mind should comprehend this. It isn’t right! Surely...

“Trust me, I had a very, very long time to study my partner. Communication was arduous at first, but I did not give up. When I told you that I was the greatest mage who ever lived, it was not hubris. I really was, and I still am.”

I force myself to calm down a bit, surprised by my lack of control. I consider the might of the spell under us and the hundred people outside, laboring to an end they probably do not even understand. She can manipulate all of them, mesmerize me and cast this incredible working all at once, while sitting at a table having tea. Yes, I can believe her, and it terrifies me.

After a pause, she resumes her outlandish tale.

“I struck a bargain with it. I needed immortality, it needed knowledge. It was, I think, curious, and a little bored. In return for my prize, he asked to be let in. I could not achieve this. He cannot come to this planet, no more than a grown man can get into a thimble. So instead I offered him an aperture through which he could see and even interact by the tiniest of margins. Vessels to carry his essence. You.”

“Are you telling me… That we are tools so that the Watcher can spy on this world?!”

“Not spying. Spying implies a malevolent intent. It learns and, perhaps, entertains itself. I received the power to alter my essence into that of an immortal and in return, I created the elixirs filled with its essence to share and spread to humans who would interest it throughout the ages. The unleashed alien potential turned them into Progenitors, the first ones, whose bloodline powers reflected their very nature. All vampires carry this foreign mark. That is why your existence is denied by the sun purifier, why you cannot create life and need to steal it from others, why calls to a creator God deny your existence and repulse you, and why the soul of the person you were needs to depart before you can rise again. The Watcher cannot create here, only alter, and your nature is reflected by this.”

“Wait, hold on, wait. I still have my soul. I am still… me! It’s just changed! No?”

Semiramis shows something that I cannot accept: pity.

“You believe you are the same? Oh, poor thing. Her memories and spirit are yours now, but her soul is gone to wherever souls go, replaced by vampiric essence.”

“I… what? No, you are wrong. I am me! I am still me! Ariane Beatrice Lucille Reynaud! This is a lie, a travesty. Papa, he… I cannot accept this.”

“You are still you, yes, but the mortal girl is dead. I am so sorry.”

I don’t have a soul? I Don’t have a soul, at all? I am… not her? Then, when I woke up in that cell under the fortress, those were my first moments? Then… the human Ariane died under Master’s tender care, and her last three days were spent lying broken and bloody. Tortured. Defiled. Just for having addressed a man at a party?

I look at the queen, expecting a hint of disdain or amused cruelty, but there is none. When she sees my doubt, she adds with a soft voice:

“I am telling the truth, on my honor I do so swear.”

This is bullshit.

I thought I was continuing being me, a daughter, a sister and a friend. I thought I was honoring myself by enduring despite what life had thrown at me. And now it turns out that it was all for nothing? I was masquerading a dead woman after stealing her violated body? This was all for nothing?

It was all a lie?

Is this what this world really is about? Cruelty and malice without end? Endless destruction without meaning? Suddenly, all I have witnessed surges back in me, unhindered by my usually cold nature. I remember those children who died in their own dejection as cholera ravaged their frail insides, those people murdered and scalped for being at the wrong place or those others summarily executed for being the wrong color. When I arrived in Marquette, there were whores stabbed in the chest and left to drown in their own blood and men with gut wounds who died slowly, their blood poisoned by their own shit, for nothing more than a fistful of coin. Was there a reason for that? The girls barely entering puberty who would show up at the Dream pregnant by some relatives, those poor assholes with missing body parts left to die by the side of the mine, did they serve a purpose? All of those, I ignored because they were mortals, and suffering and dying is what mortals do. Now, it’s coming back, all at once. All the pointless misery and senseless suffering. All the horror that can be blamed on nothing but fate. Was there a point to Ariane’s existence, to be snuffed like this, so cruelly? And she was not the only one. What about Penelope who retired seven years ago, only for her to lose her husband and children in a flood and hang herself afterwards? The Stevensons whose only child died of a strange and painful disease? Is there a point? At all?

There is no God. If there is one, it is merciless beyond measure.

I hate it.

I hate everything. I hate being cheated by fate. I hate having no immortal soul. I hate the lies I told Papa and myself. Do I even have a right to call him father? I’m just some parasite who stole the lifeless husk that was left of his daughter after Master had his fun. Fuck.

“Ariane, look at my hand, I will make it all go away.”

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

Annoying bitch. Did I ask you something?

“Little one, it is not weakness to seek help in difficult times.”

“Would you erase your own thoughts because they are not convenient?”

“I have.”

I lift my head in surprise at this admission. Her face is candid and open, and though I suspect it to be artifice, I am still appreciative of the effort. When she sees that I am paying attention, she continues.

“Some knowledge will destroy the mind. But enough about me, am I correct in assuming that you have a bit of an identity crisis?”

“And faith crisis, yes.”

“If you would refuse my magic, would you still take my advice?”

“No, thank you.”

A flash of anger, gone in an instant. You are angry? Really? Who gives a shit? Not me and not the original Ariane, because she’s dead.

What a fucking joke.

My dad, no, Ariane’s dad, I lied to him. I truly am a monster wearing the face of his child. Just a thief born from an alien God’s perverse curiosity. So, Watcher, you enjoy watching your pet creature fuck, drink, and kill huh? You sick bastard.

God fucking dammit.

Alright, enough, I need to calm down. Now is not the time to panic. I pinch the bridge of my nose and resist the urge to glance at the vampire star. Normally, it would fill my heart with calm, like coming home. Now, I just want that transcendental arsehole to get a comet up its cosmic arse or something. Since I am still facing the second most dangerous entity I have ever come across, I close my eyes and do the next best thing.

In an instant, my mental fortress appears before me and I leave the bedroom at its heart to walk through its inner halls. Tortuous hallways and illusory rooms fade in the background as I walk to the entrance. I will never get lost here, this home is mine. I know the emplacement of each memento, each statue and each tree. When I reach the grand entrance, the double doors bang open as a reflection of my mood and the garden greets me in all its glory. The purple tendrils look more subdued today, almost quiescent.

I cannot resist.

I look up to the dark aster that I always considered an ally. It looks down and once more to the familiar split pupil and red sclera. Its unconditional acceptance fills my heart with peace. And grief.

I died. She died. And now I’m here.

I will deal with this. I just need a moment.

I prepare to bask in the otherworldly light but something tugs at me. Several tendrils are insistently pointing in a direction.

I follow and my gaze lands on a distant wall. There is something happening there. I draw nearer and look at the border of my mind. As usual, a forest of thorny roots and branches without end blocks anyone coming in, or at least it should. There is something there that doesn’t belong, moving quietly through the otherwise impregnable wall. I focus and see the strange thing.

This place is me, and that thing is not.

I become more aware of that part of my mind, I survey it and gauge it. I can feel the wrongness, but I cannot identify it properly.

I sharpen my will to a point and inspect the wall strand by strand. This is me, this is me, this is me…

The anomaly moves back, trying to escape. This is not me. Those are not mine! Somebody is trying to…

I open my eyes to see Semiramis’ hand move back by a fraction of an inch. Our eyes meet.

A single droplet of sweat pearls on her august temple.

WEAKNESS.

That thrice accursed donkey-shagged vixen tried something, probably some sort of mental-based Charm. The way she made me think this was part of me is the same trick I use to Charm someone through a magical protection.

KILL.

For one long second, tension reaches a paroxysm. She is weakened. I know it for sure. She has been casting for a full day probably without stopping, without sleeping, a spell of incredible might. She tried to pierce my mental defenses earlier through brute assault and then used a more indirect approach because dominating me was too costly. She is at the end of her rope. I think.

I could take her.

Or, she could forfeit the spell and turn that power against me to annihilate my form in a split second. Can I kill her before she can cast? I am far from certain of it.

More importantly, she has kept Master at bay and that fits me just fine. I know if I meet him again, he will be able to order me around but I feel more and more like myself and right now, him being busy at the other side of the globe is perfectly agreeable. I don’t need him. I DON’T NEED ANYONE.

But I do need her alive.

Yes, that is right. I can’t deal with my pain right now. I need to get out of here alive because her death would not be to my advantage even if I were to somehow succeed. I check my mind for foreign influence and find nothing. It appears that it truly is my own conclusion.

What now?

Survival comes first, then I will find a way to come to terms with, well, everything. How do I do that?

A trade?

Let us test the water.

“By the way, I would like to thank you for your hospitality queen Semiramis. You honor me.”

She smiles graciously and with perfect ease, assumes another enchanting pose. I know for sure those are all lies and masks, but I cannot help but envy her appearance. I used to be one of the prettier ladies around, or at least human Ariane used to be, but I now realize that I am an ugly duckling compared to her. King Ninos did not stand a chance, and neither would Jimena.

She resumes the conversation as if attempting to bend me to her will was just a passing fancy.

“It is my pleasure. It has been so long since I had a, shall we say, proper guest. I am afraid that my pursuit is a lonely one, and this is truly a pleasant distraction. Spell completion will occur on the summer solstice, tomorrow, at midnight. You should stay to see it.”

Oh, she wants to play. Good. We are like two wild cats arguing over the remains of a mouse. Neither of us is willing to get hurt for it. We cannot afford to.

She cannot risk letting me go until she is done, this is clear enough. I am fine with that, though I need to guarantee my safety while I am here. There is also the matter of three nights being my limit for going without blood.

“I would be delighted to, but I would not like to impose for so long.”

I am pretty sure that eternal life means she is a magical being. I can reasonably trust hospitality if she offers it.

“Of course, you are welcome to spend the night here.”

“And the day?”

Once more, I catch a small expression of annoyance. Did she really plan on letting me roast under the sunlight? Unbelievable.

“Yes, yes,” she adds as she waves a hand dismissively, ”you will be protected until the spell is done, then you can be on your way. You have my word.”

That went better than I expected. I just need to confirm one more thing.

“Thank you so much, why I know that you value your privacy, and I am privileged to be in your company tonight.”

“Indeed. I do not need to tell you that this has to remain our little secret. I hope you understand.”

“It is as if you read my mind. Of course, I swear never to mention this meeting to anyone but you.”

The oath takes me like someone grabbing my heart from the inside. With this, our deal is complete. She will have to protect me and stay out of my head till the spell is complete, then we both go on our way and I will not speak of this.

Semiramis delicately refills our cups. The strange infusion is still piping hot and as tasty as ever. I decide to ask more of her, since we are stuck here anyway.

“You asked about Master. Do I understand that you do not wish your presence to be known by him?”

“Indeed not. We are at odds, him and I. While I wish to attain divinity through magical means, he has a much more direct route offered to him.”

“You?”

She nods, the gesture strangely attractive.

“You are correct. My essence changed to that of an immortal being and his blood is that of the conquerors. Should he devour me, I believe he would be truly eternal. I, of course, object.”

“He would do this to his own mother?”

Her chuckle this time is slightly bitter.

“Nirari no longer cares about this attachment, not after two thousand years, and especially not after what we have done to each other. You see, once he showed interest in tracking me, I had to destroy the means by which he could do so. I destroyed his kingdom.”

“What?!”

“I could not leave him the tools to chase me effectively.”

This isn’t what I meant at all. She can destroy a kingdom? By the Watcher!

“Why did you not just stop him? Surely, someone with your magical skills could have done it?”

The queen raises brows in surprise and for one moment she looks incredibly haughty. I almost expect her to order hidden royal guards to throw me to the crocodiles. Just like everything else, she is incredible while doing so. I am a bit jealous. Still, she replies.

“You do not mince your words. Very well, I will tell you what you seek. I did not kill him, because he was what was left of my son. I could not harm him in any way. I even helped him at first, as much as I could. I taught him all I knew at the time of magic, which he had previously neglected in favor of statecraft. It no longer matters now. He can no longer be opposed.”

“What do you mean? Is it because he devoured too many powerful foes?”

“He would be mighty but not invincible. No, the crux of the matter is that there are two things that make him untouchable. The first is my mistake. In the year eleven forty-two of your calendar, Nirari tracked down the dragon on the desertic shore of Erythrea. There, he faced it in battle, defeated it, and consumed it.”

“What!?”

“I should have seen it coming, in retrospect, but I underestimated him. Our world only ever had the one, though it was apparently weakened by our plane’s scarce magic. Dragons are… different from any other planar beings. They are magic made flesh. By draining one, he obtained enough magical strength to overcome mine with sheer brute force. I can no longer face him directly.”

“I… Wow.”

Dragons? Magical duels? I was just trying to survive until I get proof that I was a city master, and now I am thrown in some sort of fairy tale?

With no consideration for my distress, the Queen continues.

“And the second is his right arm. Ah, Ariane, unless he has gone to ground to create a new offspring, there are now three of his spawn that still walk the earth.”

Surely, I misheard.

“Three?”

“Yes. Svyatoslav in Russia, you, and a last one. The only spawn he kept and raised himself.”

“I did not see him at the fortress.”

“You would not, he is seldom involved in diplomacy. Child, let me tell you of Malakim.”

She leans forward once more, showing just enough golden skin to be distracting even to me. Her voice shifts into that of a story-teller. Where before I could feel sand and sun, now there is only darkness, blood and the clangs of battle, and her tone is as ominous as her words.

“Malakim is hatred incarnate. It is said in those circles that know of him, that he was born from a corpse, that he was reared by a Scythian witch who laced her milk with man’s blood and the poison of snakes. It is said that he killed his first victim when he was seven. It is said that in his first battle, he slaughtered both sides until only he was left standing. It could all be true. Nirari found him in the middle of bloodshed, as was his wont, slaughtering Turks for the Holy League. He was impressed, captured Malakim and turned him quickly.”

She stops her tale to take a sip of tea. Her next glance to me is wary and she speaks more intimately, as if she were afraid we could be overheard.

“You have known your master’s touch. All of the spawns who were successfully interrogated speak of the same treatment. Oh, I see doubt in your eye. Yes, even the men. He debases and breaks them too. He breaks everyone. Except for Malakim. His anger protected his mind, just as it torments him endlessly, so that even in the face of death he would not relent. Your Master threatened a clan with that story and when his demands were rejected, he unleashed his new servant’s blood-crazed form on a small island of the Aegean, exterminating its entire population. When the usual knight squad came to slay the errant spawn, Malakim managed to escape on their boat, killing one.

“I need you to understand that it is, and remains, a unique achievement. It had never happened before in history, and did not occur again ever since. The incident was even kept under wraps to avoid a loss of face and faith in the Knight order. Having witnessed his tool’s extraordinary abilities, Nirari took him under his wing and taught him more, then by means unknown, obtained his loyalty. He encased his spawn’s heart and collar in armor made of an otherworldly metal that could keep shape in the heart of a volcano and uses him sometimes as messenger, sometimes as a taskmaster but more often than not, as an executor. Malakim has been his mouth, his shadow and his fist. And wherever he goes, he leaves few survivors.

“Perhaps you do not yet understand why he is such an obstacle. With regard to that man, it is not martial prowess or intellect that define him, although he has those aplenty. What defines Malakim is his sheer, stubborn hatred. He was flayed alive, dismembered and castrated. He was whipped until he was but a slab of raw meat, he was pierced by serrated arrows, he was boiled and burnt. Still, he would come after his foes, ever more ferocious. He cannot be cowed, dominated, or reasoned with. His rage flows pure and unending and no amount of wounds or torture can stop him whenever he is set on a path of destruction. He never relents, he never gives up, until he has received his due. Mental magic has no hold on him, for to peer into his mind is to call madness itself. He smashes through wards and endures their punishments with careless abandon. He went a week without drinking as a Courtier to hunt down a foe. The monster’s focus is impossibly sharp, and its fuel is loathing for all of creation, including himself. No one has ever managed to inflict a lethal wound on him, and many have tried. He always gets back up and he never forfeits.

“That is what anyone would have to face to stop the Progenitor of the Devourers, and so far, none have found a way to overcome those odds. Have you seen your Master fight?”

“Only once.”

“Know that he is at his most dangerous when truly challenged, for then he will use his full power. You will know it when he takes out his soul weapon, a glaive he named Heartseeker.”

I wish I could make fun of this tacky name, but the memory of Master’s hand through a lord’s chest is still vivid in my memory. I am also surprised, as I do not remember ever watching him wielding a blade.

“I only saw him use his hands and some spells.”

“Then you have not seen him fight, you have merely seen him play.”

By the Watcher, truly this world is vast. My own struggles and achievements seem so petty by comparison, that I feel like a child boasting the sale of a bucket of apple to a British spice trader. I look briefly to the eye in the sky.

Why did you want me to see this?

My perspective changes once more, with straight lines being strangely curved and distance becoming meaningless. The Watcher’s pupil is now intimately close. It whispers, with a roar that deafens me, a very specific feeling.

When I was a kid, I played by myself a lot due to there being no one close in age. It was not too hard, as I had an entire court of bears and puppets lovingly provided by my father. One day, I was playing with a tea set I had made from broken clay pots and realized I needed some actual water to drink. I picked up a jar, hoping to fill it with water. I walked back from the garden into our house, through the main hall and to the back. I noticed that the door to the fumoir was opened and peered in.

Papa was playing cards with three men from town. On the table between them, there was a small pile of money. I count several whole dollars. It was more than I had received in allowances and gifts in my life up to that point.

I stared at the pot in my hands and realized what adult games were, and for the first time in my life, felt inadequate.

This is what the Watcher is showing me.

This world is a vast and dangerous place, an eternal playground where powers fight for the resources, lives and souls of its inhabitants, and the more one knows and the deeper they go, and the deadlier the game gets. This is the abyss. The ultimate game. Master and his mother are locked in a millennia-long race for godhood and whoever wins, we may all lose. If Master succeeds, he will Devour her and then, with her no longer stopping his rise to power, he may just take over the world. Who would stop him? Who would even know there was someone to stop? Even the order of Gabriel, so effective against our kind, may not have a way to slay him for good. Even if they managed it, the devastation could be unheard of. If she wins, who knows what she may do with her magic? Would she change the fabric of reality until we match Sinead’s land in fluidity, then announce herself as its sovereign? This is what truly is at stake, and what I have been shown.

I do not know why.

Compared to those old monsters, I am but a flea. Those two decades spent consolidating power and training are but a drop in the ocean that separates us. Why are you showing me this, Watcher? Will you also show the games of kings to a beggar? Do you not know that the nail that stands out gets hammered down?

I can’t get involved in this. Even if the world should burn because of everyone’s indifference, I will not be the one to save it anyway.

I am too weak.

Semiramis does not mind the silence, so I raise my eyes and glance once more into the curious one.

Is this what you want? To give me perspective?

It does not answer, I only get the general sense of contentment he shares since I gave him the Key. I need to remember that the Watcher is barely sapient by our standards. There might be no reason at all. There might be a reason, but he might not understand the circumstances. A toddler could gather all its pet ants in a single spot without realizing that they are in the middle of a fight to the death.

I need to get out of here in one piece and at the very least be legally alive. World ending threats will have to wait. Sorry!

“You are thoughtful, and this is a surprise for me. I knew that Svyatoslav was sane, of course. He could not have achieved so much, nor garnered the respect of those stuck-up Vityazi vampires if he were not. I had, however, assumed he was an exception. Say, you have seen my son recently. Yes?”

It appears that Semiramis is ambivalent. On one hand, she assures me that human Ariane is dead, on the other hand she calls Nirari her son. I find myself sharing her feelings in this matter. I still cannot accept that I am not her, at least not fully.

I don’t want to think about this right now. I decide to continue talking with her.

“Yes, I have.”

“Could you tell me about it? I haven’t seen him in person for so long.”

For one moment, I feel anger bubbling inside me. What does she want me to say? That he does not bind his victims so that they always feel like they can struggle and escape? Before I can say anything else, the cold nature of my mind reasserts itself as fury is replaced by calculations. It is a testament to my distress that the idea of having no soul can torment me for so long.

“I can, and while I do so, would you allow me to do something?”

“What is it?” she answers guardedly.

“I would like to draw you.”

This time, her surprise shows. Is it because of exhaustion or because she feels safe now that our bargain is struck, I do not know, but her expressions feel more natural. With an amused smirk, she points at a corner of the room where a small stand holds supplies. I do not remark that there was nothing there a moment ago. I just stand up, pick the provided tools and start working on different views and expressions of her. While I do so, I relate what I saw of him in the vampire fortress, then in dreams. She does not comment, only asks questions, then starts mentioning anecdotes of her life as a teenager an eternity ago.

Semiramis is a smooth teller and her stories are extraordinary. Her tales speak of vengeance and plans within plans. After a while, they all blur together as I draw her smiling, defiant, menacing or nonchalant. I expand to drawing her full body, then details until the task absorbs me completely. In this simple occupation, I finally find the peace that I had previously failed to achieve.

Soon, dawn approaches and the queen walks me to guest quarters that I am quite sure were not there when I arrived. As she turns around to return to her spell, I come to a great realization that soothes my heart. Semiramis may be more skilled, wise, and powerful than me. Her beauty might be legend and her grace unmatched, but no matter what, and for all of eternity, I will always have the better ass.

59. Omen of the end.

This night, I wake up to a strange ceiling. Vampire minds are instantly clear and I am spared the instinctive panic of one who comes to, in an unexpected place. Instead, I decide to take stock.

The guest quarters are a set of two rooms and a bath, all in beige rocks, silk and goose feathers. The mix of both spartan and luxurious is peculiar, and I suppose this should be close to Persian aesthetics, though I could be wrong. There is even a basket of fruits, mundane ones this time. The antechamber doubles as a social space and its emptiness turns it from welcoming to ominous. There is not even a lamp right now.

I take a deep breath to settle myself.

Yesterday was taxing. I don’t really care about the incredible revelations I heard, although now I have further questions. It was taxing because I realized what I really am. Not some cursed human, but a new entity built from a corpse and the essence of an alien being.

I find that hard to digest.

I feel degraded.

More importantly, I feel like I lied to myself... and to Ariane’s father. Or is it Papa? I have not decided yet.

He helped and protected me after I escaped from the Lancaster arena. He gave me the Talleyrand rifle. He kept in touch via letters until I left for Marquette, then I had Isaac notify him that I had to go into hiding. I want to believe that he really cared, and so did I. We were there for each other when it counted. That was not a lie.

And yet…

Bah, enough of this. I will not get my mind off this loop any time soon and I already told myself I had to get away from here first. I should go see my host, after all, midnight is close with summer  nights only lasting a bit over nine hours.

I sniff my skin. Vampires don’t exactly smell bad, but we do have a scent and I have it now. I must now face a decision. Do I take the time to clean myself up or do I ask questions to the incredibly knowledgeable three millennia old archmage who created our race?

Let me just brush my hair.

Two minutes later, I emerge from the labyrinth of corridors and alleys onto the circle where Queen Semiramis waits. It appears that the facility is considerably larger than what this mound should be able to contain, which I would find stupefying any other day. Now, a giant walking broomstick could walk out of the ground to launder my dress and I would not even bat an eye. It has been that kind of week.

Like yesterday, she sits at the table with a pot of mysterious tea, clad in toga the color of sand that manages to show her generous figure without being vulgar. In the background, the enthralled people are still dancing around, looking worse for wear. They now move with manic passion and those who stumble out collapse immediately.

The queen looks exhausted. Dark pockets line her eyes and her face is tight. She blinks in a way that speaks of headache as soon as she sees me. If it were me, I would look like death warmed over. The queen, though, looks delicate and vulnerable. She is a tender rose that needs to be protected, never mind the thorns. And she does it so effortlessly too.

“Good evening Ariane. Come, join me. Have you slept well?”

“Better than you apparently.”

She snorts and by that I mean, she pushes air through her regal nose in a way that makes me feel that I am intimate with a great personage. Her alto voice is rougher than yesterday and it has a bite.

“I forgot how irreverent kingless people can be. I almost missed it. Now tell me, would you care for a talk? The grand spell is easy to channel but I cannot move from here, and I could really use a distraction from a proper conversationalist.”

I almost smile at the offhand compliment. She has the devil’s silver tongue, truly, and I am more than happy to oblige. I also need distraction. It is growing now, more and more. The Thirst. It has been three days.

For a moment I consider asking for her essence but I reconsider. She knows what our bloodline is capable of and if I ask, she may consider me a threat. Or rude. Not much difference as far as her family is concerned. I would rather have answers to some pressing questions, even if the first one is still risky.

“May I ask you about that spell you weave?”

Once more she looks like a teacher who finds her student amusing.

“This is the second question I expected you to ask, after the traditional ‘who are you’. Alas, I would prefer not to reveal its purpose. Just know that it is no danger to you, at least not directly.”

“Am I correct in assuming that it will change the world?”

This time she looks pleased.

“Only a small part of it, the one that matters to me. But enough of this. Ask more and take my thoughts off this growing migraine.”

“Right. First question, I am unable to cast a spell, but I was told that it could change?”

She nods in approval.

“Aah, impatient to dabble in the mystic arts, are we? Yes. If you survive long enough to become a master yourself, you will be allowed to touch your own essence. It will be your fuel for casting spells, just like human mages use theirs. Vampires have a knack for blood magic and I sense some potential in you, though it would not have awakened inside your mortal self.”

“Wait, do you mean that my family has mages?”

“Perhaps. Many mortals have traces of power, but in this realm they will rarely manifest. Such was the case for you.”

Again, without paying attention, she referred to my human self as me. I decide to let it go for now.

“Any advice on how to get started?”

“When the time comes, do not discard mortal teachers. They retain the drive and intuition that comes with their nature. For the same reason, do not despair when you progress slowly. It is inevitable, just as they will die of old age eventually.”

“Eventually?”

“Yes, mages of great power age more slowly. Most only reach a stage where it matters when they are already old. Beware a youthful archmage. They are the most gifted.”

I remember Belinda and realize that she may have been slightly older than I thought. Not that it matters now.

“Anything else?”

“Not specifically. Just follow your instincts when it comes to blood magic and you will do fine.”

“Thank you. Well, if it’s fine, I had questions concerning bloodlines. If I understand correctly, all the Progenitors come from elixirs you brewed?”

“Yes, and I may just do so again. I follow the Watcher’s whims on this matter. Thankfully, it happens less than once a century on average.”

“Master mentioned that there are fourteen bloodlines he knows of. Are there more?”

“Maybe. Why don’t you tell me those you have met, and I will tell you of them.”

More than fourteen bloodlines?! So much to DEVOUR. Alright, calm down. Answers, focus on answers. Let’s start chronologically.

“The Lancaster.”

“Ah yes, Charmers one and all. They became so talented at moving masses during the war of the roses that their progenitor was slain by a once-in-history alliance of mages, brothers of the Order of Gabriel and even some vampires. It was an entertaining time.”

“Ahem. Right. The... the Cadiz?”

“They can focus on a task with unerring concentration. It makes them particularly good duelists and helps with practising a craft. Their tunnel vision has hurt them in the past, however. Their Progenitor is gone. He is one of the few to ever cross a portal to another world. I still do not know how he managed it, why, and where he ended up. He was quite old as well, as he drank the elixir in the ninth century of your era.”

“Wow. Right. Next, the Roland?”

“Incredible willpower, though it makes them quite stubborn. They date back to the end of your eighth century and their Progenitor was changed quite close to the Cadiz one, geographically speaking. It was an interesting time for Europe, to be sure. I had to move more often in those times. Their Progenitor is currently in deep slumber. The weight of centuries lies heavy on the mind of the truly old ones. They need to rest for years, on occasion.”

I remember that Master used his unplanned shipwreck to nap at the bottom of the Atlantic, proof that he is not immune.

“How about the Ekon?”

“A curious bunch, always eager to experience new things. You know of their book, the one that recollects every new and unique experience?”

“My friend mentioned it, yes.”

“The greatest entry of all was made by Ekon himself. He died to experience the sun, and sent his impressions to a telepath on the very moment of his demise.”

Huh. Nami already mentioned it, I think. That does not suprise me coming from those madmen. Moving on.

“I met a Natalis spawn, he had turned rogue.”

Her face scrunches in mild disapproval, the most intense emotion she has displayed so far tonight.

“Their stupid strength is legendary. It can be an incredible boon, it is just a shame that they rarely have the intellect to match. I don’t understand why they do not recruit someone smart and strong, it is not like those people do not exist. Bah. Natalis himself disappeared. I personally think he got lost or drunk and the sun caught him. I do not know what the Watcher sees in them.”

Entertainment, probably.

“I also met a member of the Rosenthal clan…”

Semiramis raises her eyes in exasperation. Never mind the Natalis, apparently it is the quiet and peaceful defenders of knowledge who have drawn her ire.

“Those bores! How many times must I say no before they understand that I do not wish to be disturbed with their ceaseless questions? I swear, every decade some fresh-faced nincompoop thinks he found the holy Grail that will lure me away from my research. The fools! I would have razed their headquarters to the ground if they were not so useful. And that old bat of a progenitor is simply insufferable.”

I witness the explosion of temper with some trepidation. A sore spot, it seems. Either Isaac’s progenitor is incredibly annoying, or Semiramis’ control is slipping. Better distract her.

“There are no other clan I can think of right now.”

“Really,” she answers impatiently, “you have never heard of Constantine?”

What?

“The Speaker for the Accords, the nominal head of vampires in North America?!”

“The very same. Am I correct in assuming that you have never met?”

“You are.”

“That is a shame, for Constantine is fairly young as far as progenitors go, and I am unsure as to what his powers are. He has not sired any spawn yet.”

“Well, hm, good luck finding out?”

The queen frowns, perhaps trying to decide if I insulted her or not. I really need to keep her talking.

“Your majesty, how about other bloodlines?”

She inclines her head by a fraction, probably to show that she was not duped by my feeble attempt at distracting her. She still obliges.

“There is the Amaretta clan. They are seers and are interested in the future, perhaps a bit too much. You can recognize them by the veil they always wear.”

One of the knight squad members was an Amaretta then.

“Amaretta is active, but she spends all her time contemplating and gazing into the future. Not an action person, that one. The next are the Dvor. The second oldest clan after yours. They have land-based mentality and powers, and all their members are part of Eneru. Do you know the main vampire alliances?”

“Eneru is about ruling fairly, the Masks influence things from the shadows and the Brotherhood is about personal pursuits, if I remember correctly.”

“Aptly summarized. The Dvor progenitor is currently slumbering away in the heart of his fortress, somewhere in North Africa. Then there is the Erenwald clan. They are the only vampires animals do not fear. They wield some strange magic, primal and dangerous.”

Ogotai was an Erenwald! I need to check if I can approach animals again. In front of me, Semiramis chuckles with such a demeaning air that I feel like a child.

“Their progenitor turned into a tree. A tree! Can you believe it? Preposterous. In any case, the next are the Hastings and they are an interesting lot. They are physically weaker than all other houses, but the benefits are worth it, in my opinion. They can eat and digest human food, and stand the rays of the sun! The current head of the Masks is one of them and Lady Hastings fell for a human. They eloped. They live in a small cottage in the back end of Derbyshire.”

“What? How? Can’t he tell?”

“She would just appear as a sickly woman who doesn’t go out much. I was told there is no shortage of those in England. I am sure she has ways of finding sustenance.”

“Isn’t she more vulnerable living that way?”

“Few know of what I tell you, and fewer still would attempt to take advantage. Why risk the fury of someone who can sway the governments of the most powerful nations on earth when she voluntarily removed herself from the chessboard? It would be folly.”

“I see… Do you think…”

“You will never gain sun immunity like them, but perhaps it would allow you to wake earlier.”

I had felt hope for a moment here. So nice of her to squash it before it can grow. Yes, so nice.

“Oh, do not make that face Ariane, it does not become one who has survived so much.”

“There is a lot for me to process. You can hardly blame me for feeling out of sorts.”

“Of course, now who is next on the blood-sucking list, hmm? Ah, only two. Let us start with the Kalinin. They are mostly based around Russia and most of your Eastern sibling’s allies come from their rank. It is said that they can wield holy equipment, so long as their cause is just.”

“Are you sure? This feels… impossible.”

“Yes, they fight for this world even if they are not of it. It is closely linked to belief I suppose. Their Progenitor is dead by the way. He was slain and devoured by your Master.”

“I do not understand why people still come after him knowing all of this.”

“He would be more dissuasive if he were in the habit of leaving survivors, that is true. The last line is the Vanheim. They are a wild card and I do not know myself who their progenitor was. Their powers are random and surprising. A bit of chaos in the game, if you will. They are rare and mostly solitary, which makes them mostly wanderers. And with this, I believe we have addressed your question entirely. It has been so long since I gave a lecture. I was afraid of losing my touch.”

“Thank you for your answers, your majesty.”

“You are welcome, young one. I must interrupt you, unfortunately. We are reaching a crucial part of the spell, and I will need to focus entirely on it. Do enjoy the show, for you will never see its like again.”

Without further ado, she stands up and I mimic her out of politeness, only to realize that I am standing outside of the circle. I note in passing that space really isn’t behaving around here but soon all other thoughts disappear in the background before the incredible show.

I have my back to the entrance, and to my front and left, the overhang dips down to reveal the vale where her thralls are dancing. As I watch, the few tired dancers suddenly burst into motion, soon joined by frenetic companions. Concentric circles of men and women in mismatched clothes move with insane fervor, their clear exhaustion a sharp contrast with garish clothes and orgasmic faces. The mad waltz grows to a crescendo and from here I can see the sickly skin tones and the poisonous pleasure they have fallen prey to as they twist and jump beyond what their weakened frames can bear.

She is killing them.

The impact of their feet on the soil echoes with their heartbeats in a hypnotic music that makes me want to join them and drain them in equal measure. They scream in joy as the life is torn from their bodies, pooling visibly in the circle under their tormentor until the construct glows a vivid indigo. I have no idea how powerful a spell must be so that its fuel is visible with the naked eye, and then I find out.

The mortals outside scream all at once and Semiramis drops the barrier separating her glyph from the world.

Reality sobs. My mind blanks completely. Something incredible pulses once, as if the planet itself had a heart. I am physically compressed by the power unleashed and for one moment, I believe I’m going to die.

When I can think again, I need to take a few steps back. A double helix of pure power emerges from the ground to the sky above in great waves. The noise is deafening, and the heat and aura emanating from the woven strands force me to grit my teeth. Dark blood drips from my nose, eyes and ears but I cannot look away from the incredible scene. The queen herself floats above the ground with her arms spread wide. She speaks and I scream. We all scream. Her voice burns my mind with images of stabilized pathways and aligned spheres, concepts I cannot comprehend. Only my inability to comply saves my spirit from total destruction. Her command lasts for but a few instants, or for an eternity, I cannot tell.

After she is done, colors bleed into each other like spilled dye until the spell overhead explodes. Another pulse bends the word again, in the other direction. I cannot see. I press my hands to my ears but I cannot feel. Even my instincts are silent.

Darkness.

I am in darkness. All my senses are gone.

Am I… dead?

I reach into my mental fortress and find the comforting surroundings of the master bedroom intact. Not dead then, probably.

I return to reality to find that I can finally see. Technically, I only see shapes but at least there is some progress. As my view improves, my ears pop and now I can hear a high pitch whistle. After that I feel stone under me. It takes a few more seconds before I cough a gobbet of blood and pass a shaky hand before my face to clear out the dark blood covering it.

I can see now.

Semiramis is on her knees, in the middle of her circle now black and charred beyond recognition. She looks drained, weak, but there is a smile of triumph on her face as she looks in front of her.

BARGAIN COMPLETED, KILL.

I held until the spell was done, as promised. If I were to strike her now…

Before I can decide anything, I find myself riveted by yet another display of impossibility. The construct was cast, yes, but its result is only now showing itself, and what a result it is.

In the heart of the vale, human forms are strewn around like broken puppets. Some of them move weakly while a majority are clearly dead. At the center of the first circle of now deceased dancers, the world is broken. It is as if someone had brought a knife to a painting. In the background, we are still in Illinois. In the foreground, like seen through cracks in an opaque window, an endless desert of gray and pink stone spreads as far as the eye can see. Jagged spikes emerge from the ground under a sky of dusty blue while pale lichen clings to life under some round rocks. The sun bleeds an angry red, casting strange shadows on our side’s grass.

For a second, I fear I would disintegrate under the waning light but nothing happens. The foreign star’s rays leave my flesh alone.

Fascinated by this glimpse of another world, I almost miss the patter of heavy appendages on sandy ground and so I am surprised when something comes into view.

There is life there, and it is terrifying.

A herd of strange creatures trots forward from behind a larger shard of stone. A colder part of me reflects that they probably belong to the same species but with different purposes, like ants perhaps, or wasps. The vampire side reflects that those are clearly predators, COMPETITION, while the purely Ariane part can only think one thing.

What in the seven circles of hell is that unholy pile of abomination? What sick god gave birth to those horrors?

There are three types of beings. The first is the smallest and more numerous. They hover above their kin like a malevolent swarm. Dragonfly wings bat the air with a sinister hum, with two atrophied limbs tugged under a red lean body as large as a raccoon. Two more limbs ending in sharp claws encircle a triangular head with a smattering of eyes. They dart back and forth looking for the Watcher knows what.

The second kind is clearly made of outriders. I spot about two dozen of them the size of small poneys, with six limbs ending in talons. They are as red as their brethren, but their face has only two eyes and a pair of pincers.

And above them all dominates a horror I never thought could exist. The beast is as large as a small barn. Its six massive limbs support a body with a larger back end disturbingly insectoid in nature, while its face simply does not exist. Instead, the creature sports a set of tentacles equipped with bony protrusions facing inward. Whoever gets caught by this is not getting out, I believe. It turns towards me and samples the air with a long pink tongue. Its mouth is like a gate into the abyss.

There is a sound like broken bones being set back and one of the breaks in reality snaps close. Besides a quickly fading blur, it is as if there had never been anything.

The bigger thing sniffs the air once more then bellows. The sound is absolutely atrocious. The closest analogy I can find is a mix between shredding steel, a bobcat being skinned alive and a woman giving birth. I shudder in disgust.

And to think I had to go to a hellish landscape to find a serious contender to the squeals of flaming pigs as the worst sound ever made.

The abominable creature moves closer to the breach, surrounded by its unholy brood. I fight my body to force myself to move. I manage to close two fists and lift my chest off the ground but my legs are still unresponsive and I am growing Thirsty.

Come one, get up.

It passes its maw through the breach and samples the air again. The swarm around it grows agitated.

Please no.

The breach is too small for it, right? Right?

One more break snaps back to normal and the warning spurs the monster forward. The others follow it through the break as it gingerly tests the grass with a hesitant stumpy leg. When nothing occurs, it gurgles and its followers fall on the defenseless mages in an orgy of blood and violence. The few surviving men and women can do nothing but slowly crawl away as fliers and outriders slaughter and devour them alive. In the middle of the grisly melee, the larger creature grabs corpse after corpse and makes them disappear in the abyss of its gullet with a horrific gurgle.

A regal voice distracts me, easily covering the sounds of the feast.

“That would be a Merghol mana hound pack. I learnt of them in a long lost tome that fell through the cracks of the world. They are artificial creatures designed to hunt and kill mages, used in that dying world you saw.”

She sounds conversational, as if we were two ladies attending an event. Those who allowed her to come this far are being devoured as they still draw breath and she does not care in the slightest. They were just tools for her, and she sacrificed them without hesitation. Not even cattle would receive this treatment.

I am a vampire. I have little sympathy for most mortals but tonight she is the real monster. There is not a trace of empathy in the woman before me and even if her heart still beats, it is cold.

“Of course,” continues the queen, “there is little left here to sate their hunger for magic. Once they are done with the meagre fare, they will hunt the next mage with extreme prejudice.”

She stares down at me with a triumphant smirk.

“The spell is done, and we are now in a stable alignment with our closest neighboring spheres. You just witnessed a revolution in magic, little one, I hope you appreciated the show. As promised, you are free to go. I would hurry if I were you.”

I do not even contemplate going after her now that she has nothing else to focus on. Even in her exhausted state she could surely turn me inside out with a flick of her finger.

Wait, what does she mean I should hurry? I am no mage.

Unless…

The safe house is only an hour away from here, at a slow pace, surely they would not…

The biggest creature samples the air and its revolting snout turns West. Ah, please no.

With one last grunt the thing goes forth, followed by its menagerie. The swarm of fliers spreads out.

Merritt. All my followers… No, I won’t let them die. I stand up, turn to Semiramis’ amused figure and bow politely one last time.

“I shall take my leave, your majesty.”

“See that you do. For what it is worth, I had a pleasant time in your company. Until we meet again, little princess.”

I turn around and run, past the studies and the private apartments, past the bedrooms and laboratory. During this, I hear the chime-like chuckle of the immortal queen, glacial and merciless.

There are no unexpected space shenanigans and I find myself outside in record time, I whistle for Metis and she rides past as I grab for her.

Hold on, she was waiting outside all this time… Poor thing, I hope she did not suffer from deprivation too much…

A flash of pink attracts my gaze and I realize that the galloping equine is casually munching on somebody’s hairy forearm. Ah well, she can take care of herself.

Now that I am outside of the cave, I realize that Merritt set up a beacon and is probably looking for me. Such brazen display of magic is unusual, especially because she must have sensed the spell. It is not like her to be so careless… I hope I am not too late.

I angle Metis parallel to the path of the horrid creature and its nightmarish brood, leaving it to my right, and we soon gain on them. The Merghol creatures do not appear to be that fast, perhaps they make up for it in stamina… And I spoke too fast. An outrider jumps from an overhang to block the narrow valley we find ourselves in.

The fliers to spot and harry. The outriders to catch and corner. The behemoth to crush resistance. They are truly well designed, and this is before I know of whatever tool they have against magic.

I spur Metis forward. Not with actual spurs mind you, I am not suicidal. The proud warhorse sprints forward with a defiant neigh and I grab my spear from my saddle. When we are but half a second away from the ready beast, another one jumps at us from above. I stab up and push into its body then angle the shaft to the left, using its own momentum to smash it against a rock. It yelps in pain and rage.

I remove the spear with a gush of red ichor, aiming forward, for nothing. Metis snorts and as the other hunter jumps at her, she lifts herself on her hind legs and smashes down. I hear broken bones and screeches of pain, then silence as we leave its mangled form behind. She barely slowed at all.

“Well done!” I say, and pat her neck.

Unfortunately, our triumph is short lived. More howls sound from behind us and the first fliers catch up easily. They hover around us, diving in on occasion to try to harry her flank. I pierce the first creature in the head and find it surprisingly hard. Hits to the body fair better. As their number increases, I switch to just damaging the wings to disable them instead of killing them outright. After half a dozen fall, the rest move to a safer distance but they do not leave.

I now regret bringing nothing but the spear, and I have no way to warn Merritt and the others… Time will be short.

Metis and I soon overtake the small horde which we still hear behind our back. We tread through narrow valleys and escarpments at breakneck speed, leaving clouds of dust and broken needles in our path. I would be completely lost were it not for the beacon. I do not understand how Metis always finds the easiest path forward either, but I count myself lucky. Our window will be short.

The safe house is located on top a forested hill, hidden from view by a dense patch of pines. It is a simple one-story edifice of logs half-buried into the ground. Stores of powder and weapon racks would allow defenders to repel a vigorous assault, and a small cellar acts as a last ditch protection against this place’s most obvious weakness: fire. The problem here is that camouflage remains the most serious defense of this place, and this protection was thrown to the winds the moment Merritt announced her presence to anyone with a hint of magic.

I slow down Metis to a trot as we make our way to the ring of tall pines and whistle when I come in view of the inner clearing. I cut my signal short out of surprise.

In a single day, the unassuming bunker was turned into a defensible position by the apparent determination of Merritt’s group. A full barricade of sharp spikes surrounds the structure and from here I can see the tip of hats and bayonets. Torches on sconces light the entire perimeter, giving even mortals a clear visibility.

“It’s her!” yells a familiar voice. I approach and realize that quite a group has assembled here. My usual odd squad foot soldiers number around ten now, and they have joined with Merritt, John, and Nami. This is all well and good but we cannot stay here.

“Gather up, we’re leaving. There are monsters coming and they are after mages. Merritt, hop on your horse we will need to drive them away from the main group then break off.”

“What monsters are we talking about exactly?” asks Nami with a frustrated voice.

“They’re called mana hounds but I don’t know what they can do. No one has faced them on earth yet.”

“What did you just say?” she answers with surprise.

“It’s a long story, and…”

“Are you sure nobody has faced one before?” she asks with a widening, insane smile, “No one ever? We would be the first?”

Oh.

Oh no.

60. Big Game Hunting

All the remaining mortals, a dozen people including Meritt, gather around us to witness our untimely argument. I frown at Nami’s display. Our arrangement is clear, she may be my elder and a Master but as long as the year of service is not ended, I remain in charge. This has worked so far in part due to my lax approach to ‘service’ and our friendly relationship. That is why I did not expect insubordination from her, not at this time. I hiss softly, baring my fangs to her alone.

“You said those monsters hunted mages?” asks Merritt with a hint of worry.

I turn my attention away from Nami who only seems amused by my display. I’ll show her… later. Focus, Ari. Ignore the THIRST.

“Yes. Do not use spells. You will be fine, we will ride on Metis and…”

“What happens if I do run? Will they stop at some point? Before sunrise? If they lose us will they go for the nearest mage after me?”

“I don’t know… If you run…”

“What if they go after my kids?”

Ah. Yes, her children. They already have an aura, even though they cannot use it yet. Merritt realizes that I know very little about the beasts when I do not reply.

“What if they rampage through the countryside unchecked? Can they reproduce?”

David King, whom I bought and released and who joined the squad comes forth as well.

“Miss Lethe, we know you and Naminata try to purge the world from evil despite your curse. We will help you on this and, God willing, we will end this scourge before it can cause harm to the population.”

The other members of the squad nod in approval, white, black and native united in purpose around God apparently. When did that happen? Did I create a new order of Gabriel? An order of Ariane, so to speak?

In the background, John’s simple smile is unerring. If I say we leave, he is the only one who will obey without complaint. Mistaking my intention, he frowns in an attempt to show he is serious. The ghastly result could send a prison warden running.

“I shoot for you miss Lethe!” he adds while waving around the heavily modified wolf slayer. The ominous crossbow looks like a normal-sized weapon in his hands, meaning it would be otherwise mounted as a fixed piece of artillery on some castle wall. I sigh in resignation. I have been outvoted. Me, the supposed vampire master of Marquette. Ah well.

I pat Metis, dismount and jump over the barricade and pass between the group to the armoury below, adding as I go:

“Fair enough then, I’ll get changed, keep your eyes peeled for flying horrors and breaking trees.”

I rush into the main room currently covered in sleeping bags and personal effects, to a corner where my own gear lays. I change into my most heavily armoured gown, with an enchanted heart protector and add a knife belt, two pistols, and a long dagger made after Jimena’s gift but without the enchantments. I also pick up my spear, my rifle, and a mining powder charge which I place in a bag at my back. A knock on the door makes me look up just as I am done loading and priming the last firearm.

“Come in.”

John enters and closes the door behind him with measured movements, just as I told him to do after he broke too many pieces of furniture back in the Dream. He looks at me with shyness so I ask.

“What is it, John?”

“Miz Nami said you were too thirsty. She said you need a bit of blood. I want to help.”

I consider. They are both right, of course, but I have always considered John to be in the list of people I would not drink from. According to my own set of rules, I cannot take the blood from people I am currently cooperating with, supplicants before the deal and children. I hesitate. Is an offering the same?

“Miz Nami said if you say no, if you are hurt later then you will lose control and take blood anyway. She says you have a choice now, but you won’t later.”

That is fairly accurate, and yet…

“I say, why you don’t want my blood? Is my blood bad because I’m dumb?”

“What? No, no that’s not true at all.”

Somehow, I find the big oaf endearing. I do not want a follower to suffer needlessly. He is mine.

“Then take blood and help protect Marquette. I help too. I will always help.”

I sigh and smile softly, disarmed by his helpless look. Denying him would feel like kicking the world’s ugliest puppy.

“Alright John, you win.”

The man extends his wrist and I realize that there is a small logistical issue with feeding this time. His wrists are as big as my leg.

Five minutes and a painful jaw later, I come out of the cabin fed, armed and feeling like a brand new woman. The troop gathers around me, covered in weapons and primed for bloodshed. I feel a bit of pride at the sight. They are here because of what I built over the past two decades. Time for a plan, and as those things go, easier is usually better when we have so little time to prepare.

“Alright listen up. Those are magic-hunting creatures so Merritt, don’t throw magic at them, keep the beacon going until they find us then switch to guns. Now, there are three kinds of monsters. The first is small, flying ones, don’t shoot them unless you’re sure of your shot. Let Nami and me handle them, and if they attack you stab them in the chest, not the head. The next is big hound-like creatures the size of small ponies. Those are your priority, use everything you can to stop them from overwhelming us. Finally, the pack is led by a huge creature the size of a small barn, do not get close to its tentacle mouth and let Nami and I handle the close-quarter fighting. That is all. You two get inside and grab all the muskets we have and load them. The rest, take your positions and good luck, everyone.”

I turn around and take position at the tip of the barricade line. Behind me, mutters erupt in the group.

“Tentacle mouth? Did I hear that right?”

Welcome to the party lads.

A few seconds later I turn around when Nami leans on the earthwork besides me.

“How are you feeling Ariane? I have never seen you so out of sorts. Is there a worse danger that you have not mentioned yet?”

“No, nothing in the short term at least.”

“Are you hurt then?”

“No. I… came to a terrible realization concerning my condition.”

“Ah yes, ‘tis terrible indeed to be a virgin at your age.”

“…Excuse me?”

Naminata nods knowingly, trying to act mature. It is laughable though I appreciate the effort.

“You do not know the embrace of someone you are intimate with, the rhythm of sex and their skin on yours. You do not know about working together towards that sweet release, of your moans and theirs, of the taste of their lips and the scent of their arousal. The satisfaction of lying on the comfortable mattress wracked by the aftershocks of your orgasm afterwards. Tragic, really.”

“That is… What… Why do you… Arg!” I sputter. “First of all, I am not a virgin.”

“Are you referring to what lord Nirari did to you?”

“Yes?”

“Really? Did you have anything of what I listed just now?”

“Hum, no?”

How did this conversation start anyway? I have never felt so out of control in two decades.

“You don’t take a lover because you want your first time to be special, yes? Your first time making love?”

“Ahem, is this the right time to…”

“It is. Answer me.”

“I, yes. But…”

“See? Virgin.”

We remain silent for a few moments after that, but Nami is not done.

“Do you want to talk about what makes you sad my lovely little virgin?”

“I will hit you.”

“Ah, better. Now you are finally yourself.”

“I am always myself. I appreciate your attempts to distract me Nami, there is just a lot for me to think about, and that is not related to my sex life thank you very much.”

“Then do it some other time. Come on, we are the first to face those creatures on earth! And one of them is as big as an elephant if you are not exaggerating. Don’t you feel some measure of excitement? This is the hunt of a century! Vampires everywhere will envy us this prize. Let go of what you cannot control and embrace what you are, for this is our way.”

“I… Yes. Yes, of course you are right. I shall enjoy the moment for who knows what tomorrow is made of? Thank you Nami, ruling the city taught me to see the greater picture, and now I need to learn when to focus on the details. Tonight, we hunt.”

“That’s the spirit. I call dibs on the big one.”

“Not a chance.”

We continue our friendly banter for a moment and I find that I bet twenty dollars with her that I would fell their alpha. In a few minutes though, the drone of fliers interrupts us.

“Merritt, drop the beacon and help us reload. All of you hold fire,” I yell as I take one of the five muskets King dropped by my side. Soon enough, the first scout enters the halo of torchlight surrounding our camp.

Aim, shoot, switch musket. The first creature falls into the trees with its sternum turned into a smoking mess.

Aim, shoot, switch musket. Merritt is by my side reloading with mechanical precision. Fearless, this one.

Aim, shoot, switch musket. Nami takes a shot as well and gets one in the wings. Should have spent more time at the firing range, though I suppose I should be grateful she learnt at all.

Aim, shoot, switch musket. By then, several fliers are zipping around us and the baying of hounds grows closer. Nami switches to her pistol and takes down one creature that had drifted a bit too close.

Aim, shoot, switch to the Talleyrand rifle. The first hound steps into the light and howls with a nightmarish sound.

“Hold!” I scream, though the gasps of fear and surprise suggest they would have hesitated.

Aim, shoot, switch to a pistol. Two other hounds join the first one.

“Fire at will!”

The crack of muskets and clouds of spent powder fill the air. Two of the hounds fall immediately, pierced by numerous bullets. The odd squad is well trained and at this distance, they won’t miss. The third one yelps but still charges forward. Four other hounds enter the fray as we switch weapons and shoot as fast as possible. I empty my remaining pistol into a flier and send knife after knife into glittering wings. All the remaining scouts descend upon us just as the first outrider jumps over the barricade. Nami is already there. She stabs up and into its brain with her spear, before throwing the twitching corpse on the ground. Her war cry rouses the rest of us and we throw ourselves at the creatures with fury. The thrill of battle takes me and I rush into the melee. Screams of pain from humans and beasts merge into a glorious din. FIGHT WITH THE SENTINELS. LEAD THEM TO CARNAGE.

I dance from group to group, slicing necks and appendages with my dagger to help and save wherever I can, while Nami focuses on taking out the hounds in innovative and exotic ways. Despite my efforts, one of my men is already bleeding out from a missing throat and one of the Creek is holding his scratched face and bleeding eye. FASTER. The Thirst returns as I force myself to move in long sequences. The last scout falls to the ground and I turn to see a hound savage a bearded man on the ground as the hermit stabs it repeatedly. I grab the creature’s maw and force it open. It yelps first in surprise, then in pain as I break its jaw. SAVAGE? YOU DO NOT KNOW SAVAGERY. I WILL SHOW YOU. I claw its eyes off and stab into its brain. DIE. Then I dodge a flying piece of wood.

The brood leader is here. It crashed against the barricade, sending debris and a few men sprawling including poor Merritt. Do those things know no fear?

A slick barbed tongue shoots out and encircles King who screams in pain. I move and slice the filthy appendage. THIS MORTAL IS MINE TO DEVOUR IF I WISH. I will not share with you, stupid INVADER. KILL IT. I move to the side and hack and slash into the dense epidermis. The creature roars in pain and flays around with its many tentacles. I step aside.

Then it pushes itself away from the barricade, great bloody gashes spurt blood from its chest as it turns around and flees.

Oh no you don’t!

“Metis!” I roar in delight. The charger gallops from the treeline and I jump on her when she goes by. The behemoth crushes its way through trees with surprising deftness. USELESS. We ride after it. Nami is rushing as well, I will NOT LOSE. TROPHY.

We gallop after it, following the path of devastation it left behind. Stumps and splintered trunks litter the ground, and great tracks were raked through the undergrowth. A blind man could follow this. In no time I catch the creature. Metis weaves through pines and rocks in the wooded valley, over ridges and down narrow paths full of pebbles and vegetation with a supernaturally sure foot. At the same time, I harry the creature’s flanks but the spear now works against me. Its reach is long but it has two prongs used to keep boars away, or in this case house-sized tentacular abominations. It also prevents me from stabbing deep enough to inflict critical damage now. I dare not move on top of it in case I fail to cause a mortal wound and get hurt as a result.

Nami does not share my concerns. As we reach a clearing, she jumps on the hound’s back and runs to its head before stabbing down where the brain is supposed to be. Her own pike digs at least halfway through the creature.

Nami’s triumphant expression turns dismayed when the behemoth screeches to a halt and smashes the shaft with a slimy appendage. I smile and take my own secret weapon from the bag on my back.

Why bother precision when you can blow everything up? Those are the words I live by. I light the powder charge’s fuse and jump off Metis’ back, right in front of the brood leader’s maw.

“Hey, ya ugly bastard!” I scream, channeling my inner Loth.

It extends its tentacles and for one precious instant, its gaping maw is uncovered. My timing is impeccable and the sparkling herald of military engineering disappears in the creature’s gullet.

You’re dead now, PREY.

I dance away from the reaching appendages and turn my back to it, crossing glance with a stunned Nami.

The charge explodes.

With one last whine, the creature falls. I WIN. With class and pyrotechnics, as it should be.

I smile smugly and address the loser of tonight’s competition.

“Hah, right down the ha…”

The creature spasms and projectile-vomits a disgusting soup of saliva, blood, bile and half-digested body parts that covers me completely.

For one precious second, the valley is perfectly silent, then it begins. It starts with a long drawn out yelp of incredulity then chuckles that quickly turn into a full belly laugh. Naminata runs out of breath and needs long, winded respirations to keep cackling her ass off while I sigh in defeat and remove gnawed fingers from my hair.

Metis snorts, bends down to pick up a severed tentacle and trots off into the night.

Traitor.

“Tis… truly your… glorious victory… fearless leader!”, she manages to say between hiccups of hilarity, “Best twenty dollars I have ever spent.”

I find myself smiling at the absurdity of it all. Here I am, ankles deep in eldritch gastric fluid wondering what it means to have no soul while my friend is mocking me, and my horse just fled with a snack. I raise my gaze to the Watcher and feel the same tacit approval and comforting presence as before. I have been through a lot of unfair things, and I will certainly face even more desperate battles in the future, and that is fine. It should not prevent me from smiling now.

Nami interrupts my musings.

“Have I mentioned that we ran out of water at the safe house?”

Nevermind. Someone please just stab me in the heart.

61. Before the Storm

September 4th 1833, Marquette.

I awake in the darkness. As usual.

I slide the sarcophagus’ lid open and make a note to oil the hinges. The blasted thing already looks too much like a coffin, no need to have it creak ominously.

The secured room I am in is bare, except for a survival bag, a dagger, and a single lantern. I light it and let its yellow glare shed light on the bricks around me. This is my haven. It only has two exits. One of them leads to a side street and cannot be opened from the outside, while the other leads to my bedroom’s hearth back inside the Dream via a small vertical shaft. I follow it and unlock the passage, checking for heartbeats. I detect no mortal though Nami’s polite aura warns me of her presence.

My bedroom is almost cluttered with prizes and mementos now, so much that I had to send a few paintings to storage. I have portraits of Sinead and his bride hidden away for safety reasons, as well as a few sketches of the Queen I made from memory. I wouldn’t want anybody to see those. Portraits of others are displayed openly, and in the center is a special gift for Loth which I will finish soon. Nami already picked her favorite rendition of herself, a nude unsurprisingly. She is beautiful in a lithe and dangerous way, and painting her would have been a real pleasure if it were not for her constant teasing.

The muse herself is currently looking out to the many roofs of Marquette. She wears a simple white shift that leaves her shoulder bare. The muscles there and on her back are toned and give her a fierce touch, like those Amazons I read about. Tonight, she is in an unusually contemplative mood and I join her in silence. She smells of vampire and fresh sex and I notice that her hair is mussed. Ah.

“I will leave tonight.”

I nod in silence, marking my understanding. She is a wanderer at heart, and I am even surprised that she stayed here for so long.

“You know, you are an unexpectedly competent city master. We Ekon have difficulties living in towns we do not control. The masters there usually require a degree of reliability that we are not always willing to provide. It is in our nature to come and go where the wind will lead us, not to sign contracts for years of service against a fixed compensation. You were kind to let me travel when I asked for it. Such leeway is rarely granted.”

“I see us more as friends and you as my guest, as you know. It was a pleasure to have you and I hope our paths meet again.”

“It will, I am sure of it. Please make sure you do not die, yes?”

“I promise to do my very best.”

She hugs me and I awkwardly pat her back. I am not very tactile to start with, not anymore, and the feeling of her erect nipples against my own chest is a bit, well, too intimate.

We exchange a few more sentences, mostly me making sure that she has everything she needs before she leaves. There are no emotional farewells like when I left Loth behind. We do not have that kind of relationship.

After I see her off from the Dream’s inner court with John by my side, one of the girls comes to me with a message, a terse note by Merritt’s hand requiring my presence at the living quarters. On my way there, I come across a detachment of the Home Guard back from practice.

The Home Guard is one of my ideas though perhaps not one of the best. Following the Black Hawk war, increasing concern over security has led a group of local women to form a defense committee with the explicit purpose of arming and training themselves. It was made clear that they would never form an actual militia or be deployed, but only be able to defend themselves against roving bands of marauders, hence the name Home Guard. The initiative was mostly ridiculed by Marquette’s gentry and male citizenry until they called for my support. I knew that getting approval from the local council would be a near-impossible task, so I just purchased even more arms from the East and organized the whole thing in a discreet and efficient manner. There were only two dozen of them, and I was glad to share my love of ballistics. What was the harm?

That was a mistake.

After the first few training sessions, the local female gentry marched to the field and lodged a formal complaint about the trainees’ behavior, mentioning it was not ‘proper’ and that any sort of warfare was under the dominion of men. The wives of Marquette’s mining population came to show their support of the Guard and shared with the intruders their opinion of ‘propriety’ and in which exact part of their anatomy the malcontents could shove it. Followed a proper exchange of imprecations and threats that culminated with the intervention of old Marta Hartford, the spouse of a local caravan lead. An otherwise calm and composed woman, she had apparently had enough and unleashed the full might of her expansive insult arsenal. After a good ten minutes and a maelstrom of curses questioning the interrupting party’s beauty, wit, general hygiene, intimate hygiene, sexual preferences, weight, height, ancestry, eating habits, marital status and even species, the poor newcomers had left red-eared and mortified.

I noticed that the male population had wisely decided to lay low until the whole thing blew over, proof that frontiersmen’s survival instincts are top-notch and their down to earth wisdom, unequalled.

By that time, it was too late to withdraw my support as the issue had crystallized passions. This initiative undid hours of networking effort by Merritt with our more uptight citizens, and she still mentions it three months later. I don’t believe those old goats would have been of use to us anyway. Who in their right mind would refuse to fire a musket? It is such a relaxing occupation.

As for the Home Guard itself, their ranks have swelled to a hundred and they are quite motivated. They have become fairly accurate with practice, with most sessions ending in improvised tea parties where they mingle and gossip despite their differences in social status.

It’s not so bad, really.

I only wish Sybil Stenton would stop cackling every time she hits the target’s genitals. It is slightly disturbing. Especially because she is such a crack shot.

I leave the patrol behind and decide that since I am departing so soon, any major blunder I make now should only be seen as an experiment. They are not even that major anyway.

Soon, I reach the mansion used as living quarters for part of my employees. With a recent increase in business, I also used some of the lands next to the “coloured” quarter to expand. As a result, the place is much less crowded and only a few families now occupy it.

I get in through the main entrance and into the common room. Irma the housekeeper rears her ugly head through the kitchen door but recognizing me, nods soberly and returns to her business, which should be meat pies if my nose is any indicator. I climb up the step to the master bedroom and politely knock. A red-haired hurricane blows through and out, leaving me with a pile of documents, pamphlets and a childish drawing of what I assume is a cow.

“Gottagokeepaneyeonthekidsthanks!” it proclaims in passing.

I feel like life is moving on and leaving me behind. Is this what older vampires experience? I shake my head and walk in to see Ollie scrubbing spilt green paint from the floor with his shirt while Lynn is crying hysterically in a corner, holding a drawing covered in, incidentally, green paint. The culprit, an emptied pot of respectable size, has rolled under their bed leaving its blood all over the wooden floor.

I did not sign up for this. I signed up for mastery over mortal hordes, overseeing my numerous minions from atop a throne with the skulls of my enemies on the side and a handsome, virile man with a Claymore beheading those who disrespect me and don’t cover their nose when they sneeze. The man would be half-naked too. Playing nanny was not part of the deal, at any point.

Maybe I should just impress them? I hiss softly.

“Aunt Ari, I spilt the paint…” says Ollie on the edge of tears as soon as he lifts his eyes.

CUB.

I sigh and consider just jumping out the window and running very fast.

“I see that Ollie, it’s not too bad. First, we’ll get you and your sister cleaned up then we will see about the room. Yes? John, tell Irma we have an emergency, please. Now, where is the bathroom? Go wash while I comfort your sister.”

Five minutes later, I ambush my supposed ally as she sneaks back in from the garden entrance.

“Alexandria Winston Pyke-Merritt.”

The mage winces visibly under the ominous declamation of her full name. I step from the shadows and cross my arms. Her answer is rushed and just a bit panicky.

“So sorry Ariane, I really had no choice. The warehouse was about to close, and I had to get that shipment of beer…”

“And the fact that your bedroom was looking like a warzone, screaming victims included was just a coincidence hmm?”

“Sooorry. Hrm, did Irma say anything?”

“She expects you in the kitchen.”

“Ah. When?”

“Now.”

Another wince. Irma can indeed give an earful and under her roof, she is the queen. Merritt resolves herself to her fate, but not before delivering a parting shot.

“Oh, nothing new except for one thing. Mr Pruitt is retiring from the tannery business and he wanted you to meet his son. I told him you would be over there tonight.”

Ah, the treacherous knave. I grab her metaphorical arrow before it can bury itself too deep in my bosom and return it, plus interests.

“I will go then, oh, by the way, Lynn asked me for a trumpet for her twelfth birthday and I promised her one if she behaved. I will have it delivered before the end of the month.”

I turn away and leave, hiding my smirk as a desperate voice falls on my uncaring ears.

“A trumpet? Ariane? That was a joke, right? Ariane? I’m sorry! Waaaaait!”

Serves her right.

I walk to the tannery slowly, because I want to reflect and not at all because the entire workshop and its vicinity smells like a skunk mated with a three days dead Wendigo’s armpit. Even if I do not breathe, the insidious stench worms its way through my delicate nostrils and my vampire senses carry it in all its pungent glory to my unwilling mind. I need a distraction and the redhead was kind enough to provide one.

When Merritt first came here, she was like a cornered animal and her kids were not much better. Now, she seems much happier. She recently finished teaching tools for when Ollie and Lynn come of age and gain the ability to cast. I feel like she has finally settled.

I remember her saying that vampire-held towns were black holes where to stay after dark was to invite death, or worse. I would wager that her opinion has changed now that she is confident enough to leave her children with me. I wonder how others do it. Do Masks typically let citizens know of their existence? Do the members of Eneru rule like immortal aristocrats? I want to know, and soon, I will.

Earlier than I hoped, the tannery comes into scent and view. At the outskirts of town and downwind, the small building houses one of Marquette’s less developed, yet still vital industries. I walk into the main building and weave my way through the hanging skins and workstations to the back of the warehouse, where cured leather is stored to be later used in boots, tacks and machinery belts. Goodman Pruitt is bent over a desk, poring over a document while a young man with large droopy eyes stands at attention by his side.

It takes a few taps on the old codger’s shoulder from his assistant before he realizes he has a guest. He invites me in, and offers me tea and a conversation.

Pruitt is a respectable mortal. He started from nothing and made his fortune through hard work and dedication. He also never even entered the Dream and is still happily married. He apparently decided to retire and to leave his business to his eldest son. The purpose of the meeting is for the two of us to become acquainted. I am the tannery’s second most important customer after the mine consortium, having purchased quite a few cobbler shops where retired girls can find a source of income. It is just one more social call that is a vital part of any business where trust is of utmost importance, and so I carry out my duty with a smile. Staying in touch with mortals is important, they keep us grounded. After half an hour of getting to know each other, I wish the son and his old man their best and invite them to drink at my place sometime, an offer they decline with a blush. Then, I take my leave.

I head back to the Dream to take part in our next order of business. Someone came up with the idea of a poker tournament and I approved of it. I already allocated funds for the event but the finer points of organization and security are still to be determined. As I enter through the back door, one of the younger kitchen helpers runs to me to deliver a message. The envelope is thick and heavy, and closed with a wax seal bearing the rune of the Rosenthal.

Finally.

I knew this would come within the next few days, but I did not dare hope. With what happened last time I tried to reenter vampire society, I was half expecting a last-minute hitch to my plan. Not this time apparently.

I have done it.

This is all so anticlimactic.

I go back to my office and close the door behind me, leaving John outside.

This is an important moment.

Inside the letter, I find a note and a heavy parchment filled in Akkad, with three magical signatures at the bottom. I unfold it and read with trepidation.

Ariane of the Nirari,

By the present letter, we, the Rosenthal representative for North America, recognize that you have ruled over Marquette, Illinois, for a period of twenty years. As such, you are recognized as City Master under the Accords with all the responsibilities and privileges thereof.

We wish you all the best in your future endeavours.

Yours…

I close the parchment and take a deep breath.

That’s it, I did it. Under the Accords, no City Master can be considered a rogue and summarily executed. They have to be judged. Constantine may have sold me out for some reason but now he will have to acknowledge that I am not insane or break his own laws, which would spell his end as a ruler. I need but to signal the knights, in this case, Jimena because I am not stupid, and head directly to Boston for trial.

I find a protective tube I use to store my paintings and secure the certificate. It is not that vital anyway. The document can be produced again, even if it were lost. The only thing I need to make sure now is to survive.

I take the small note and read it. This one is in English.

Milady,

My name is Sorrel and I am a mage in the employ of your allies. One of your acquaintances requested to speak to you by sending. Will you allow me on your territory?

I will be awaiting your answer by  Marquette’s North entrance.

Respectfully,

Sorrel.

Interesting. I open the door and have Margie send a runner. Twenty minutes later, a knock on the door announces the arrival of the messenger.

Sorrel is a stately man in an expensive travel duster. He has a dark beard and deep-set eyes that take everything in the room as he enters. After Margie closes the door behind him, he bows smartly and loses no time.

“Milady, Salim of the Rosenthal requests an interview by sending. If it pleases you, I will call him now so that you may converse.”

“Greeting mister Sorrel. Yes, that is agreeable. Do you need anything?”

“No Milady,” he replies and grabs a leather bag by his side to retrieve a crystal orb with an intriguing aura.

The mage focuses and chants in a low voice. I feel a thread going from him to the artefact and then from the artefact to… somewhere. After a moment, smoke swirls in the recess of the sphere before parting to show me a nose.

I raise a questioning brow.

The nose retreats and I see that it is attached to a young man with caramel skin. He is clean-shaven with soft traits and large brown eyes. His face is crowned by curly brown hair in a small halo, that makes him look more like an artist than an accountant despite his sober attire.

“Is this thing working? Hello?”

Sorrel’s jaw locks fractionally as I hide my amusement.

“Yes, it is working. Am I addressing Salim of the Rosenthal?”

“Ah! Indeed, and you must be Ariane of the Nirari? It is an honor madam; I have heard so much about you!”

He… is younger than me.

This is not just his candidness. His gestures lack the grace and precision that comes with age for us. They feel a bit jerky to my experienced eyes. I realize that this is my first time meeting a younger vampire, though hopefully not the last. I feel strange. I always was the clueless newcomer and now, a youngling has heard of my prowess.

I feel flattered. I think I like it.

“Only good things, I hope?”

“Ah, yes of course! Is it true that you destroyed an entire compound of cultists by using swines set ablaze? Such tactics were recorded by Pliny the Elder as used against Carthage’s elephants, of course, but I never heard of any modern use! Quite an achievement.”

“Yes, haha, quite.”

Next time I see Isaac I’m releasing a boar family and a barrelful of firecrackers in his bedroom.

“But enough of this. I dispatched Monsieur Sorrel because of troubling rumors, rumors which I have since then confirmed. A man by the name of Sullivan has been making waves in Chicago and a fairly accurate description of your person has been shared by several intelligence organizations. As we speak, that Sullivan fellow has gathered a small army with the backing of a group we have not identified yet, and they are on their way South to, and I quote, purge Marquette of its devilish influence.”

I should have killed him when I had a chance. I have been too cautious and must now pay the price for my lack of foresight. Oh well, live and learn.

“We are pleased to offer you an escort to Boston that will safely deliver you in front of Constantine, before this army arrives.”

“Out of the question.”

Salim smiles lightly and his entire demeanor becomes lighter. What a change from the usual vampire’s guarded expression.

“Isaac said you would answer that. He says that he took the liberty of contacting Jimena to ‘arrest’ you just in case Anatole twists the rules even more than he already has. She is on her way. She will be in touch as soon as your town is deemed safe.”

“I appreciate it.”

He bows respectfully.

“You are most welcome, Ariane of the Nirari. I must ask though, is it wise to face that danger by yourself? This army is made out of roving bands of mercenaries and pardoned outlaws but surely, even this is too much.”

“Don’t worry, I was expecting something of the sort.”

“You were?”

“I was, and if they had not come, why,” I add with fangs displayed, “I believe I would have been disappointed.”

62. Eneru

September 22nd, 1833, Marquette.

The council room is stunned into silence after hearing my revelations. Ten years ago, I would have been ridiculed for stating those facts in public, in front of a ruling assembly. Now, my reputation lends credence to my words, and the resources at my disposal are second to none within the town. Even the mine consortium cannot match me in terms of military strength and influence. They know I speak the truth.

The mayor is the first to recover and passes a nervous hand in his thinning grey hair.

“Are you positive about their numbers?”

“Barring any major desertion, there should indeed be two hundred and fifty fighters at the very least, with a good fifth mounted.”

“I cannot believe it. Sullivan, what was he thinking?”

Silence reigns while members eye each other nervously. Holden, the banker and one of Sullivan’s previous supporters, steps forward. I have a good idea about what his argument will be and I need it to be stated and addressed here and now, lest it be mentioned later behind closed doors. We cannot afford dissent.

“Gentlemen, we are facing a destructive force but Sullivan himself is a known defender of the faith, if a bit misguided. Our first priority should be to enter into negotiation with them rather than seek bloodshed like savages.”

The owner of Marquette’s only luxury good store, an old man with a bushy white beard by the name of Dean, grumbles in the background.

“You call that misguided?”

“Please gentlemen, please, do not let fear and anger guide your mind. We are all civilized people here, I am sure that everything can be solved with just enough goodwill.”

“Easy for you to say,” replies the furious old man, “you licked his arse ‘till it shone like a freshly minted nickel!”

Oooh, good one.

“I am merely asking that we hear his demands and see if an understanding cannot be reached.”

His eyes bore into mine, or at least try to until he flinches.

“The sacrifice of the few to redeem the many is a small price to pay for peace and salvation.”

Jeers, insults and some cries of approval are exchanged by the participants until the mayor screams.

“ENOUGH!”

That… is the first time I have heard him raise his voice in all those years.

“This is pointless. Of course, there will be a discussion, and of course, it will be for nothing.”

The mayor stands up and walks through the room while we watch in wonder. He is usually such a stickler for protocol that even I find myself eager to see where this will all lead.

“I know what kind of man I am. During the seven years of my office, I have served as this city’s most senior public servant. The people have followed my recommendations not because of any sort of authority, but because I always found arrangements that would benefit everyone. I have always pursued concord and compromises in all my dealings. It was my goal to resolve issues in the most peaceful and agreeable way possible between the miners and the merchants, the rich and the poor, the farmers and the caravan hands, for the benefit of all. Oh, I know what they say behind my back. That I am meek and weak. And they are not wrong! I am not the blood of noble warriors and soldiers who carved this land and took it from the grasping hands of the old world like some of you here. I favour peace more than I favour victory, and I will admit it. And it is because of this that I tell you now, there will be no agreement here.”

By this time we are all drinking his words and the entire room watches, enraptured, as a leader is forged in a time of peril.

“Sullivan will not be content to close a bordello and bar a few drinking establishments. Do you believe a man who would forfeit due process and the rule of law so easily would be satisfied by a few concessions? Do any of you honestly think you will still have a voice in this council when he is done? No, I say. No. A man who is shunned and seeks to impose his will on the people not by his virtue or his ideas, but by the strength of his arms, will not stop until the world is broken and twisted to his vision. Sullivan will purge this city until its every responsibility, every position is filled by lackeys and sycophants. Even then, he will track opposition where he believes it may be. And if you ask for proof, ask yourself instead how he managed to rally so many men to his cause. Who backed up his claim with coin and arms? We do not know, but what I do know, Mr. Banker, is that an operation of this magnitude is an investment. And this investor will expect to be paid back. There is no wealth in Marquette but the one we created and own ourselves and mark my words, it will be taken.

“No, gentlemen, there will be no arrangement. There is only one word for a man who would impose his rule through strength and subjugation and that word is tyrant. As Jefferson once said, it is the blood of tyrants as well as ours that must from time to time refresh the tree of liberty. That time, gentlemen, is upon us, for I have not worked so hard and sacrificed so much to see my beloved city fall into the hands of a fanatic and a madman. Regardless of your decision tonight, I will fight this man to my last breath and send him and his minions to the depths of hell itself, one bullet at a time if I have to, for Marquette will stay free, no matter the cost.”

The room is so perfectly quiet you could hear the shadow of a pin drop, then old man Dean bursts from his seat and trumpets.

“Bloody well said!”

Thundering applause turns to a standing ovation. I am quite proud of our little mayor, and when did he even grow a spine? His incisive words shattered the peace party’s fragile unity in under a minute, as even the most cowardly of them succumb to peer pressure. The rest follows with a degree of efficiency I am simply unused to. A town council resolution written in a single hour and voted unanimously? That is simply unheard of. In short order, the council mobilizes the militia and draws defensive lines that are quickly barricaded. The entire city helps with its erection while the mayor enchants the masses with rousing speeches, giving the entire affair an air of festival. I know what is coming and make my own preparations. The Order of Gabriel prefers covert methods, and my old spellcaster enemies are all broken including the Pyke clan. That leaves only one faction aggressive and powerful enough to commandeer an army like one does a wagon.

Vampires.

September 24th 1833, Marquette

A vampire is coming to Marquette. I have Harrigan, my head of security, scout their encampment. Since he already looks like a highwayman he will fit right in, and I make sure to remind him that the Dream will be burnt to the ground if Sullivan wins, and not to get any bright ideas.

My henchman confirmed it. An old acquaintance is on his way, and I am eager to receive him with all the respect he deserves. I am not confident that I can defeat him in single combat, but I can stall him long enough for his rabble to disintegrate. Their ragtag band expects to intimidate a hundred militiamen at most. They have no idea about the pyrotechnic devastation I will unleash upon their sorry hides.

In preparation for their arrival, I have taken a few additional measures. I expect the fight to extend during the night and my minions, hrm, I mean my troops will need some light to see, so we erected pyres covered with pitch that can be lit easily from afar. I am sure that my own security will fight as I recruited them myself with this possibility in mind. The great question is, will the Home Guard?

As I make my way to their training field where they conduct a late practice, I consider that they have trained to take potshots at marauders and cattle thieves, not to hold back a determined force.

The warehouses of the Northern District fall away and as I pass the last guarded barricade, I hear the sounds of marching troops and clamours.

The Home Guard is drilling in their usual spot but without the usual good humor. I have avoided their meetings so far and only now realize how many of my girls are in their ranks, some of them have not even retired from the Dream yet. Their expressions are grim and determined, though a few flinch when they look at the group of men arrayed at the edge of the grassy expanse. Those spectators wear clothes of varying quality, and the only thing really tying them together is the general sense of anxiety they display. A few of them spot me and a portly old man in a mended suit limps towards me, waving a cane in the air.

“It’s your fault, it’s all your fault!” he screams in a shrill voice.

John stops him casually with a hand to the chest. The man’s anger turns to my bodyguard for a fraction of a second before self-preservation kicks in, and he cautiously steps back. A few others pile on behind him to join their accusations to his.

“You and your silly ideas!”

“Not the role of the fairer sex!”

“Cease this nonsense forthwith.”

And so on. I can easily imagine the cause of their anger. The Home Guard would have perhaps disbanded were it not for my support, and though the initiative was not mine, I am an obvious and easy target for their recriminations.

I weather their insults with composure and the certitude that a solution will show itself very soon. In fact, it is currently crossing the field with thunder on its brows.

A heavyset woman walks around the small assembly and plants her feet before the old man who now looks like a child caught stealing eggs.

“Augustus Edmond Schrödinger Junior!”

What a mouthful.

“My little dove…”

“None of that! You dare shame me before the entire damn town?”

“The front line is no place for a cutesy darling like you, wife of mine.”

“Don’t you dare butter me up, do you think I’m stupid? Y’all think that you can just go to your homes and wait for it to blow over, huh? Let me tell y’all something. Jenny there, she was in Johnstown when it got taken over by a bandit group and I don’t expect things to go better here if they get their way. If y’all pull your pants and turn around now don’t expect us women to be safe because a winning army always needs to be entertained, got it? Now Augustus when you married me in a barn, I didn’t say nothing, did I?”

This is getting pleasantly personal. The men present recoil for they know that tone, but we gossip lovers lean forward with anticipation.

“No, my honey pot…” replies the poor sod.

“And when you were off to drink with your buddies while I was sick with the runs and taking care of the kids you did not hear me complain, did you?”

“Well…”

“DID YOU?”

“No sugar.”

Ah, the wonders of selective memory.

“And when your ma came to live with us did I leave her out in the rain?”

“No, darling.”

“Then if you got to listen ONCE in your goddamn life it’s now because I sure as hell ain’t waiting for those clowns to walk around town like they own it.”

“But surely,” emerges a voice from the small crowd of men, “Mr. Sullivan wouldn’t let them…”

There is a precious, delicious moment of silence as the entire assembly looks at the culprit, a youngish man whose face turns red when he realizes that his neighbors have wisely decided to step away from him.

“Peter Willikins, is that you I hear spouting nonsense?” screams an elderly voice from the back. Before the lynching can begin in earnest, Mrs. Schrödinger signals that she is not done.

“Sullivan is an asshole.”

Gasps.

“Aye, I said it! Whoever thinks he’ll hold his word has forgotten his vow to uphold justice? To protect the people? Can you explain how we’re protected with an army moving on us? Penelope dear, what is it you said?”

“Those who would give up essential Liberty, to purchase a little temporary Safety, deserve neither Liberty nor Safety,” answers an owlish girl with a lecturing voice.

“…And they won’t get either,” Schrödinger continues  with a deceptive calm. “Mark my words, those kind of people, once they have tasted power, they’ll never give it back without a fight. We might as well fight now while we still can win.”

A hum of approval comes from the female crowd and poor Augustus sighs, defeated.

“I understand, wife, not that I like it but… I understand. I’m just so worried… I suppose it can’t be helped then. We must do what we must do,” he replies, and walks away.

The crowd disperses soon after, and while the girls go back to training, Mrs. Schrödinger and Stetson stay next to me. I break the silence once we have enough quiet.

“I need to ask them.”

I expected arguments but I don’t get any.

“Aye, I suppose you do. Not that we need your approval to fight, you know?”

“Of course not. I just want those beside me to know what they are in for.”

“Yeah yeah, just… let’s get this over with.”

We walk slowly to the field and the nervous women gather around in a vague circle. Some look calm, some less, but unless I miss my guess they are all here. Well, better get it over with.

“There are many forms of courage, and not all of them require violence. There are many ways to serve, to be useful to a community in peril. In the coming days, we will need hands to work, to take care of the wounded and to repair the destruction that will be done. I want you to understand that this is all anyone can ask of you. Tomorrow, Sullivan’s troops will arrive and there will be a battle. I want you all to realize that in order to fight for the town and your sisters in arms, you must be willing to look a man in the eyes and pull the trigger to kill. You must be ready to see your friends bleed, suffer and die, perhaps even make the ultimate sacrifice yourselves. There is no shame in joining the nurses or the clean up crews and there is more than enough time to do so. Those of you who gather on the square tomorrow must be ready to go all the way, for our enemy will have no mercy. I will now leave you to make your choice and hopefully, we will all see each other at the end of this. That is all.”

When I leave, the silence is complete, but it does not take one minute before the drill resumes. I have my answer. They will fight.

September 25th 1833, Marquette.

The moon is full tonight, and its light shines on us with a pleasant glow. The visibility is so good that even mortals have no difficulties moving around. I wonder if this was intentional, just like the timing of the invading force is intentional. The troop was set to arrive at midday but was delayed by their inherent lack of organization. They set up camp at the northern edge of town at nightfall and have been recovering and eating ever since, laughing raucously and singing ribald songs as if victory was already assured. My men have spent the day making preparations and I have refrained from looking at them from my dream palace, though I knew I could. I would rather save my strength for the confrontation to come.

Now we stand on horseback facing the quickly assembling louts. There are three hundred of them in eclectic clothes, more a mob than a proper force. They gather around bandit lords and mercenary leaders in dense packs. An army from another age, as fierce and undisciplined as Germanic warriors facing the Roman legions.

Behind us, the warehouse district is heavily barricaded except for an obvious weak point, the main street only has basic fortifications that a man can climb in a few seconds, manned in part by, well, women. Our purpose should be obvious. We look weak, so that they do not split their force to besiege us from less defended districts. We want them to look down upon us and charge forward expecting to smash our resistance in one fell swoop. It is working. My hearing picks assailants already commenting on what kind of girl they prefer. Hopefully, their lack of discipline will deny any flexibility to their leadership. We, however, have a plan which relies on drawing them further into the warehouse square. It has the merit to be simple, like most of my plans, and involve exploding things… like most of my plans, actually. We also have other options if they do not take the bait.

The small delegation by my side shifts uncomfortably. I have always endeavoured to look proper and a bit meek to offset my position as Madame. No one can look meek atop Metis. The Nightmare is a foot taller than even the tallest stallion and it took her all of two seconds to cow every other horse here. I am wearing my combat dress, which is sleek and form-fitting and looks exactly like what it is, armor. I also took my hunting spear and rifle which hangs from Metis’ harness, and two pistols as well as a long knife.

The various people of the delegation force their eyes forward, then cannot resist and one by one, turn to me. They blink when their eyes confirm my appearance and then resume looking forward. After ten seconds or so, disbelief forces them to look at me again to confirm that those outrageous memories are true. It’s a circle. If their cats had come home dragging the corpse of the neighbor’s dog behind it, they would probably feel the same. It’s on my side but it is also much more dangerous than I anticipated.

I care little for we have reached the end game. No matter what happens here, I will be gone in a few days. I am beyond worrying about my image.

There are six of us, representing Marquette’s citizenry. Half the council is here as well as another woman who represents the gentry and would not spit in my face if it were on fire. A few riders emerge from the quivering horde facing us and make their lazy way across the plain. There are twelve of them, which is a clear message and the exact amount of petty intimidation I expected by the man facing me, on their right. Besides Sullivan, he is the only person who does not look like he attacks caravans for a living.

Riding a nightmare, he still wears a beige ensemble from another age like the first day I met him. His handsome face is still crowned by dark hair and his blue eyes still show the same utter lack of interest. The only difference comes from his aura.

Lambert of the Lancaster, Melusine’s counterpart and lady Moor’s enforcer is now a Master. He meets my eyes and the annoyance he conveys is the most overt display of emotion I ever felt from him.

The moment passes and he stares with condescending amusement at the town behind me. I have been dismissed.

Sullivan stops uncomfortably close to the mayor and his own men do not exactly surround us, but the message is clear. He sneers when he sees me, and the arrogance of self-righteousness is clear to all as he first speaks.

“I will be short. I am not here to negotiate but to offer an ultimatum. You will renounce your wicked ways, or your entire city will be purged from evil. To show your contrition and acceptance of the light and will of God, you will deliver this… woman, and her staff, to my custody. You will relinquish your weapons and direct yourself to the town church where you will await judgement in prayer. Do so and I shall be merciful. Even those who opposed me will be granted an opportunity to atone for their sins and keep their property and families mostly intact. Resist me, and I shall visit upon you the wrath of the Lord himself. We will track and punish evil and slay all in our path, for God is just and will sort you out. You have an hour, do not tarry.”

And with all the dignity of the consummate bloodthirsty lordling, he turns around and leaves. The men behind stay long enough to growl and spit at our feet, and a few even ask us to resist as their men need to ‘unwind’. Lambert was the second person to leave. I did not even warrant a word from him, apparently.

The mayor turns with as much disdain and dignity as his short, portly frame allows and we follow him quietly back to the barricade. The sentries open a short passage to let us through and close it immediately after. Still without a word, we follow our fearless leader to the command tent where captain Wallace, head of the militia and entirely in my pocket, awaits us.

Instead of speaking, Mr. Mayor walks to his corner and rummages through his personal effects until he finds a plump smoked sausage. The rest of the council surrounds him in a half-circle but still he does not speak. Instead, he takes out a pocket knife and unfolds it, then plops the sausage on the town map I generously provided and that had remained free of grease stains so far. He raises his eyes and starts in a calm voice.

“My grandfather taught me a story of England, it is a good one, and though you may think my timing is ill-advised, I beg you listen to me now as all will be made clear.

“In sixteen forty-nine, a man by the name of Cromwell managed to install a republic and though we Americans see such regimes with benevolence, I assure you, it was anything but. Grampa told me of how they took power by defeating the royalists. A victorious regime will of course, for the sake of stability, purge the opposition from its government, sometimes permanently.”

He cuts the end of the sausage and discards it on the side.

“‘Tis only natural after all, and so nobody helped. Then, the Republic had to be united so the Welsh were next to be brought into the fold, and who would even help them? The others were not Welsh, and so they did not help.”

A new slice joins the first one.

“But then dissenters surged in Scotland and they had to be put down as well. By then there were few people willing to help the Scots. And see, the proud highlanders stood alone and divided, and were defeated.”

By now, the plump sausage is less than half its original size.

“And of course the commonwealth extended to Ireland. Cromwell brought the secession war to a close and who helped the Irish? No one, for there was no one left.”

There is a fat third of the sausage remaining

“And of course, for the good of all and the salvation of their soul, attending the Church of England was made compulsory, and who would oppose it? No one. They had to bend or be fined for every transgression.”

The mayor drops one last slice on the discarded pile and raises the stump of the original piece between stubby fingers. It is barely larger than the other parts.

“You are all brilliant men, I do not need to expand on this fable too much. Know this, when Sullivan realizes that the disappearance of Mrs. Lethe has not brought about the divine kingdom he envisioned, he will seek who he perceives as the nearest agent of corruption, then the next, then the next. By the time he is done, not one of you will be left whole. I will not even discuss his proposal with you for it is not a compromise but terms of surrender with a side of threats. Now, does anyone object? Speak now without fear.”

Nobody speaks, even the supporters of peace can feel the coming of pitch and gallows, and although some would disagree in other circumstances, they now keep their peace.

“Then it is decided. Mr. Wallace, we will proceed as planned. I will personally, and alone, deliver our decision to Sullivan. Gentlemen, it has been an honor.”

“With all due respect sir,” I object and everyone freezes, “I may have a safer and more obvious way to convey our refusal.”

“Do you, now?”

“Yes. I assure you, the message will be clear as day.”

“Very well. Gentlemen, return to your position and make ready. We shall express our opinion on Sullivan’s offer shortly and God help us all. Dismissed!”

Would the Christian God help me against another vampire? An interesting perspective.

The council files out of the room in order and they spread around. I step out with the mayor at my side. All the present troops mill around with no clear purpose, throwing furtive glances at us as if I could not see them all waiting for us to speak. Those mortals are so cute, pretending to be busy like that. THEY ARE MINE. WE KILL TOGETHER. I make a gesture and they slowly gather around me with a mix of determination and shyness. John takes his place by my side with a serious air and the heavy wolf slayer in his oversized paws. A full quiver hangs from his shoulders.

It takes a good minute for the bashful group to shuffle itself. The odd squad is spread around town, ready to suppress those I suspect of turning coat with only the Creek brothers present. The rest of my forces are all here.

From my right to my left, I find my security detail led by an eager Harrigan literally covered in arms. Then comes a group of armed volunteers who joined us at the last hour, led by Mr. Schrödinger who would not, and I quote, “leave my wife to give those ruffians what for.” Finally, the Home Guard is here dressed in their Sunday best of all things. Everyone is wearing blue armbands for easy identification.

I turn to the mayor and see him sneakily eat a piece of sausage. When he realizes I noticed, he shrugs and adds in a quiet voice.

“Eating always helps me settle down, sorry.”

Well, that explains his gut, and now his magnificent demonstration is ruined by the suspicion that he might have had further motives when savaging that poor snack.

“Would you like to do the honours?” he adds with a quiet voice.

Why, I am impressed! I never expected him to let me have command, for this is surely what he meant.

I move to the side and climb atop Metis. My persona goes from overdressed madame to warlord in a second and when Metis takes one step forward, they recoil. She snorts in what I could swear is amusement.

They are all waiting, and I need to be convincing, for the Lancaster’s speciality is their influence on mortals. Those bandits and mercenaries outside have been gathered under his orders and he will motivate them to unheard-of displays of savagery, I just know it. Lambert has always been the very essence of arrogance and petty destruction. It is not enough that I am taken out or captured, he will destroy everything I have ever built, erase each of my achievements from the map. That is who he is, and what his men are here for.

I take a deep breath and channel my inner predator. Tonight, I am no longer the hand behind the scene. I am Ariane of the Nirari, Princess of the Blood. I belong to the oldest clan that was ever made, and my essence is that of the conquerors. I have killed hundreds and carved a path of blood to survive, to free myself and now to rule. This LITTLE MONGREL cannot possibly understand what I have gone through. This field trip of his will be his last.

I smile wide and in one fell swoop, capture the entire crowd. My eyes find Harrigan first and I use what I learned from Loth.

“And where are my men, my keepers of the dream, gamblers and drinkers, fighters and killers one and all? Where are my rascals?”

They roar as I wake their bloodlust and their will to destroy and dominate. I turn next to the armed citizen of Marquette.

“And where are the militia volunteers? The fathers and workers of our city? Who took arms to defend their homes and their families? Where are the stalwart defenders of Marquette?”

Another roar joins the first, this one made of pride and determination. They are the peaceful men driven to violence by circumstances, and like all those unused to violence, tonight they will know no restraint.

“And finally, where are the women of Marquette, my Amazons? Where are the frontier harridans, the unbowed and unconquered? Where is the Home Guard?”

The third roar is shrill and high-pitched until a shriller voice yet interrupts it.

“Brave defender, pick your flintlock…”

And a hundred voices echo.

“AND REMEMBER, AIM FOR THE COCK.”

A small part of me is horrified while the other only thinks, GOOD, MAIM AND TERRORIZE. When did they even… Never mind. Let me just continue.

“No army will come and save us. No miracle will sweep our enemies from the field. Look at those around you. This is it. We are what stands between the ravenous horde outside and your loved ones, your families and your homes. Some of us will bleed and some of us will die, and it is up to everyone to make sure that this sacrifice will not be in vain. So take your muskets and aim to kill. Tonight, you are not wives, husbands and citizens. Tonight you are warriors, fighting for each other and for your town. So tell me, what are you tonight?”

“WARRIORS!”

“Then warriors, remember the plan! Men in front, women behind, sharpshooters to the sides. Fight without fear and slay without mercy, and any wanker that shoots before I order, I’ll shove their muskets up their arse!”

The roar that follows is deafening and I can see from here the enemies hastily form ranks. No fighters will surrender, who can make such a cry. YES, COME TO THE SLAUGHTER, PREY.

I turn to my artillery assistant, an old man with a serious expression.

“Let’s give them our formal reply. Half a mile mark, fire at will.”

The man turns and whistles, before shaking a red flag at someone far behind us. A moment later, it begins.

I always found the mortars make a deeper, more quiet sound than field guns. Few things offer a clearer refusal than indirect artillery fire. The first boom resounds behind us and makes the dust on the ground vibrate.

The shell climbs to the zenith of its trajectory, leaving behind a red trail and a whistle like the world’s angriest teapot. A few seconds later, the projectile hits the earth with a resounding boom that even distance cannot dull. A beautiful fiery plume erupts in the middle of the encampment, setting tents and supplies ablaze. Some men scream as they are torched by the Skaragg magical shell, the same one Ascendency used against us at the battle of Black Harbor.

I really much prefer to be on the side that does the bombardment. I only wish I could see Lambert’s face right now.

The mass of enemies is now running forward, a stupid maneuver that will have them exhausted before they reach us. Ah, but Lambert brought highwaymen to a war. I brought soldiers.

Our line waits silently in front of the barricade in orderly ranks.

“Check range and adjust,” I tell the spotter, and leave him to do his job. Merritt is good at what she does and with the support of the borrowed Rosenthal mage, they will be able to fire quite a few shells from the protection of a circle.

I signal the Creek brothers immediately after.

“Light them up.”

Soon enough, flaming arrows land on the prepared pyres. The pitch goes off in an instant and a reddish glow lights the field. My mortals will have perfect visibility.

We wait in silence and I turn with curiosity to the mayor. He is mumbling a prayer under his breath which irritates my ear. In his hands, he holds a Bible and a pistol.

“Praying for forgiveness, Mayor?”

“No Milady, I am praying for courage. Forgiveness will come later.”

He returns a wan smile and I tap his shoulder as a sign of support. He is here, it is all that matters.

The foes are still trotting towards us. Their screams and jeers offer a stark contrast with our own disciplined ranks. No one speaks, no one moves. There are only hard faces all around.

The mortar fire now falls behind the assembled mass until the spotter raises another flag and the next screaming shell lands this time a bit short, still blocking the path with an incandescent crater. Somewhere to my left, a man throws up, only to be offered a handkerchief by his neighbour.

The next shell lands squarely in the middle of the enemy. Two dozen men are instantly slain and their dismembered limbs rain on their comrades in arms, who remain unfazed. Lambert’s work, no doubt. It will take a lot to shock them.

“Hot out there, innit.” whispers one of my bouncers. A few dark chuckles welcome the comment.

In a few more moments, the first foes reach the halo of light. The blaze reflects in their manic eyes and the glint of their weapons. A low roar starts as we finally come in their view. The first few start running again towards us as the rest spread in the semblance of a line.

One hundred and fifty yards.

“Ready!”

The first rank lifts their muskets.

“Aim!”

A forest of steel-tipped branches leans down and forward. One hundred yards.

“Fire!”

The roar of the volley makes my ears tingle. The blue cloud of spent powder rises towards the sky as the first rank kneels and reloads without a word. In front of us, only a fraction of the men fell but the advance slows as even the most brainwashed moron hesitates to walk towards their death. A few of the rowdiest bandits return fire with little effect.

“Come on you bastards, you want to live forever?” screams a man in fancy clothes looking vaguely like a uniform. He raises a sabre and the foes resume their advance, faster still.

“Ready!” I yell again.

“Aim!”

Fifty yards.

“Fire!”

The Home Guard fires at a range where most can hit a target the size of a small mirror. More than twenty men fall instantly while others scream, holding mangled parts of their anatomy. The man with the sabre lets out a horrendous scream and falls to the side, holding what is left of his manhood. A girly titter with just a touch of insanity caresses my ears.

I turn to the mayor.

“It’s Stetson. She has a fixation.”

He just nods, looking quite pale. The forward line is now in full sprint and even the humans should be able to hear their many feet pounding the ground, the heavy breaths from their chest and the yells from their lips. They are like a gigantic creature with a hundred hearts, bleeding and hurting but quite alive and very dangerous. A maddened grizzly. We are a steel line in ties, hats and frills. And they will not break us.

“Ready!”

The first rank stands back up except a few too nervous to reload.

“Aim!”

Twenty yards.

“Fire!”

This time the volley is devastating. Dozens of men fall and roll to the ground, only to be trampled by the rest as they have worked themselves up to a frenzy. The fastest warriors sprint towards us with abandon.

“First rank, fix bayonets! Second rank, fire at will!”

With practised ease, the men turn their line into a deadly expanse of sharpened steel. The Home Guard behind is reloading frantically. The mortar falls silent after one last shell as the enemy is now too close to us.

And then it is too late to plan. The melee is joined when the first fighters jump over the barricade. The first ones end impaled but some manage to smash into our ranks, felling men here and there. It only takes a few seconds for the line to be bogged in heavy combat. Immediately after, the pressure is lessened when the Home Guard start firing on assailants as they climb the barricade. I see a man climb up and take aim at our line. I blow his brains out just as a quarrel from John’s own crossbow sends a pair of ruffians flying back over the edge. After that, the other foes get the message.

The barricade lessened the initial shock and my first line holds fast. On the left, the citizens fight defensively, covering each other with care and fighting with unity. To the right, my own security detail just makes use of the arsenal I put at their disposal to dispatch their foes with matchless savagery. Knives and balanced war axes fly through the air to catch the bandits as they pass over the barricade. Pistols are unloaded at point-blank range, more often than not in someone’s face. The supporting fire from the Home Guard makes a real difference but there are still almost two hundred and fifty enemies and little by little, they push through. Before long, too many men are atop the barricade for our muskets to dispatch them fast enough and it is the scoundrel’s turns to shoot into our ranks. The first female screams join the chorus of pain and fury. A girl beside me gets shot in the heart, fires her muskets and falls dead. Wounds accumulate and we are steadily pushed back. I reload my pistol almost inhumanly fast and take out officers and sharpshooters but it is not enough.

Then it happens.

A highwayman covered in clay pots climbs on a crate and holds two of his grenades to the cigar on his cracked lips.

“Damn it.” I curse with dismay. I need to… but no time… I grab a knife until a crack from my side surprises me.

The madman covered in grenades falls with a surprised look and a deep hole in his chest. The mayor looks at the spent pistol in his trembling hands. Nice shot.

I think it is time.

I whistle and get the attention of the spotter. He nods and takes a trumpet hanging from his side. The clear sound of a horn covers the din of the battle.

“Alright lads, lob it!”

Sparks emerge from deep within our ranks and soon, our own grenades arc overhead before falling amongst the chaos of the opposing side. The attackers mill around in despair. Some fall to their knees in an attempt to seize the bombs before they can detonate.

I turn around and gallop to a side alley with the mayor and John on my heels. Our troops use the confusion to run, clinging to the side of the street.

In the alley, Marquette’s entire mounted detachment awaits with impatience. Anxiety has been replaced by anticipation in the eyes of those men, and they are more than eager to join the fray.

“It’s about damn time,” grumbles their commander, “gentlemen, forward.”

I follow them as they slowly make their way into the main street. In front of us, men and women flee in disorder but as planned, they leave the centre of the main street free. The chaos from the explosions and relative lack of visibility allow most to slip away safely.

“Form up!”

The riders form a tight wedge behind their leaders. LEAD, CRUSH AND SUBJUGATE. No, let them do their job. If I charge now, I won’t hold back. Lambert is still missing.

“Swords out, CHARGE!”

The entire detachment jumps forward without restraint, men scream at the top of their lungs and somewhere in the middle, a musician with a trumpet is having the time of his life.

How does a disorganized infantry hold a cavalry charge? The answer is, they do not. The tightly grouped spear tip cleaves its way through the bandits, crushing them underfoot.

I do not follow. I move around, picking stragglers with my spear. Some of my mortals are on the ground and beyond my help. I still spot a figure in a brown dress leaning against the wall to the side. She is the last one.

I push Metis forward and we pick up the girl, who I remember is Penelope. She grabs my arm with a blood-stained hand. Her head rests against my shoulder. Somewhere in the melee, she lost her hat. Her brown hair tickles my nose as we ride back to warehouse square. We do not speak.

She spasms one last time in my arms. When I lower her lifeless body in the arms of nurses behind our back up barricade, they too say nothing. There will be time to honour the fallen after.

Warehouse square is the largest open space in the entire city. My mortals have regrouped and reformed rank behind a last barricade. Some are missing. Some others wear bloodied bandages if their wounds are not too serious. The wails of pain behind us comes from the infirmary. They remind everyone that there are no other fallback positions.

A minute passes and the cavalry detachment emerges in disorder from the main street, before turning right to their assigned position. The enemy does not follow.

Come on.

You smell blood in the water.

You want to follow us.

Soon enough, a sound reaches my ears and explains the delay. Thundering hooves make the earth shake and raucous screams leave us with no doubt. Their cavalry is in the city. They must have taken the time to clear the barricade and allow themselves in.

The sound of the charge grows louder and louder. The Dream security, citizen and Home Guard cling to their muskets with determination. They are bloodied but not down. Some look with undisguised anticipation at the piece beside them.

The line of cavalry emerges from the darkness in one great torrent, with Sullivan at the head. He holds a crucifix in one hand, his face a mask of exaltation. He screams with fervour when he spots us.

“It is God’s will!”

I could not have put it better myself.

“Fire!”

At the head of the charge, the riders show me a unique gamut of expression as they notice the gaping maw of the twenty-four pounder facing them. Curiosity, surprise, horror and even, acceptance. They all disappear as the field gun opens into them with a canister shot at optimal range.

The world goes deaf. The cannon vomits a storm of fire and steel that takes the charge in enfilade. Tens of men are turned to red mist and flying organs in a moment, and the survivors can only look in terror as they bleed and die from musket fire. To the sides, the cavalry detachment and a militia squad that was waiting in reserve for this exact moment maul the foe in a deadly crossfire. YES, PERFECTLY EXECUTED. WELL DONE, MY MORTALS.

“They have a fucking cannon!?” screams a mercenary with dismay.

Indeed not, silly human, indeed not.

We have two.

“Battery two, fire!”

The second field gun reaps a bloody harvest at another angle. Those who escaped the devastation of the first blow crumble and die. Panic spreads and for the first time, uncertainty pierces through the veil of fanaticism that Lambert placed there. They are RIPE FOR THE TAKING.

Sullivan looks askance at the bolt nailing his cross to his palm, courtesy of John who can certainly be petty when he wants to.

Our eyes meet.

I did not shred their ranks with my claws, I did not engage Lambert in a battle of Charm. I fought like a queen, and now, I WIN. Sullivan, you were outplayed from the very beginning.

“Checkmate.”

The lead ball catches the fallen judge under the nose. His corpse leans back, spread eagle on top of his panicked horse as it flees the carnage.

“Now lads and lasses, let’s kick them out!”

The order to charge comes from everywhere. Militia and cavalry sweep through the disoriented attackers like a tidal wave. Citizens and guards push forward with a great cry, eager to reclaim their land and the bodies of their friends, eager to exorcise the fear that had gripped their gut for days. It is too much for the bandits who expected easy prey. They disintegrate and run away with all the speed they can muster.

And yet, the battle is not over. Musket shots ring from our left and I realize the issue immediately. A significant part of Sullivan’s men, maybe half, went to the side. They probably expected to flank us.

I rally the militia, still fresh and out for blood. Their officer already feels the danger and rushes to their aid. I open the way with the ever-faithful John by my side, until I see him.

Lambert stands in the middle of a deserted shopping road. His usual air of arrogant nonchalance is gone, replaced by frustration. He is so emotionally dead that I wonder if anger is beyond him.

The militia behind me instinctively turns to a side alley to go on.

“You go as well my friend, this is my battle.”

John nods and reluctantly rides away.

This is it.

I climb down from Metis. Vampires are too fast to make mounted battle practical, and I do not want her to be harmed needlessly.

The street is empty. The shops there are barred and their goods hidden. It almost looks like a ghost town, but the red glow of fires and the cracks of discharging firearms belies the sense of calm that permeates it.

Lambert walks to me, he the Master and the enforcer, me the one who escaped and prospered. He thinks me weak, still. Even with his men fallen and his plans in tatters, his prideful demeanour is unchanged. He does not understand yet, but he will. I am Queen here, and he is PREY.

63. Reign of Blood

Lambert’s blue eyes are the cold of the deepest ice as he steps towards me with barely contained fury. I take my spear out and twirl it casually. We will come to blows but I wouldn’t mind talking a bit before that. Time is on my side in this case. Without his leadership, his rabble will collapse while my side has every advantage including numbers now.

As he stops at a respectable distance, I consider that I have not interacted that much with Lambert. I know why now. He was the enforcer while I was the errand girl. In a way, it is a mercy that we did not meet so often. His perverted drive to taint and destroy everything a person is and owns before killing them is the mark of a sick mind, a deviant, whose sole entertainment is ruin.

I use the silence to study him as he studies me.

Arrogance.

This is what he embodies. His posture is relaxed and confident. His handsome face is twisted by scorn and disdain. My enslavement and death are not even a game to him. They are a chore. Something he will inflict in passing before returning to more civilized lands.

He only wears one weapon, a luxurious fencing sword in a scabbard by his left flank. His hands are gloved with white and his spotless beige ensemble fits comfortably on athletic shoulders. By comparison, I am dirtier than a farm hand after a slaughter. I do not mind. Those are the marks of who we are.

I suppose Lambert expected me to threaten, beg, or negotiate. My uncaring silence has worn his patience thin and he is the first to talk.

“We meet again, peasant girl. I have been… sent… to retrieve you so that you may be judged for your many crimes. You can come peacefully, and I will be mostly gentle. Or you can resist, and I will remove your legs and arms and drag you back to New Orleans in a child coffin.”

I pretend to consider it for a moment.

“Such a generous offer… Are you convinced you are in a position to make it?”

“Lady Moor gave me leave to drag you back the way I see fit.”

“You are a bit slow Lambert. I am questioning your competence. Do you really think you can capture me? You and what army?”

“I don’t need mortals, you imbecile!” he hisses, “especially not frontier dogs.”

“Why bring them then?” I snap back, “don’t reply, I know why. You wanted to punish me for dragging you to this mudhole, am I right?”

Lambert tightens his fists, then relaxes, still in control.

“You think yourself victorious, as expected from someone who lacks vision. None of your pathetic accomplishments matter. After we are done with you, you will beg me to come help you burn this place down.”

“You are delusional.”

“You really do not understand the situation you are in,” he scoffs, “ the kill order on your person is still valid and even if you were to miraculously escape this place, the knight squad on your tail will not falter. I made sure they knew everything. You have run out of options.”

“Of course they are coming, I called them here.”

I did not, I called Jimena, but as long as she’s here I will be fine.

“You what?! You are insane! If you think Anatole will show you mercy…”

“Of course not,” I say dismissively, “but I do count on him respecting the Accords. You see, there is a way around a kill order.”

I have his attention now. Every minute spent talking brings his forces closer to destruction. He may fall back just to avoid being surrounded by hostiles. I do wish to kill him, but I also wish to take little risks. I am so close to safety, to recognition…

“In his great wisdom, Constantine included an amendment to the law. City Masters are expected to be the target of many a machination, and to guarantee that the Speaker is not dragged into local conflicts, a Knight Squad cannot be sent to slay one. They must be brought before the Speaker for judgement.”

“You cannot be serious…”

“I received recognition from House Rosenthal, the local branch of the clan. A copy was sent to Boston. It is done, Lambert, I am entering society properly this time, and you cannot stop it. Burning the city to the ground will not help, threatening me will not help. Even that devious and dishonorable blond cur will not raise a hand to me unless he wants to publicly break his oath to the Knights. You come as the game is already over, Lambert. I will go to Boston and claim my due. I have made it. After thirty years as a slave, pariah and fugitive, I have finally made it.”

“No, you have not,” he snarls, “I will take you back this very night and you will be our slave forever. No one mocks us and lives free.”

“Your army has failed, your machinations have failed, all at the hand of a ‘peasant girl’. And now you threaten me with violence? I am unimpressed.”

“We shall see, peasant girl, we shall see. The night is still young and there is much I will show you.”

Lambert draws and charges. I push him back with a quick jab and we start circling each other. I probe his defenses and find them formidable. Even my fastest attacks are lazily deflected by the tip of his blade. When he attacks, he tries to bat the spear away but quick footwork and bringing the spear back allows me to keep my distance.

Thank you, Nami, I cannot imagine how hard it would be to face him without your training. Lambert is clearly a master fencer and only my experience facing superior foes lets me fight him without already collecting wounds. His speed is only the same as mine, but his strength and technique are far above. PATIENT HUNTER. I will take my time. He looks down upon me. His overconfidence will give me an opening.

We move around the street. He moves in a line while I move in a circle, mostly to counter him. We go faster now that we are used to each other’s style. Then he stops and crouches. DODGE to the side.

In an instant, he disappears, and a fiery line ravages my left cheek.

“Better. Now you will hold your tongue.”

Silvery runes glow on his blade. An enchanted weapon, of course. The unfamiliar feeling of cold air on my teeth almost eclipses the pain.

Lambert blinks and inspects his left flank, where I left a little surprise. One throwing knife used, two to go. The Lancaster grunts and removes my weapon from his flank. Black blood seeps on his beige overcoat.

Merritt’s runes glow red. That has to sting a bit.

“You will pay for your insolence.”

I return a lopsided smile and we resume our fight. Lambert changes his style. He uses his strength more and tries to corner me recklessly. His blade bites into my left armguard but the blow is mostly stopped. The pain is still manageable. I retaliate by using more sweeps and exploiting his opening. Eventually, he tries to walk on my spear as I extend it. I dive low and catch him in the tibia with a horizontal swing that smashes him into a boarded window. He stands up with a snarl before I can capitalize on my victory, however, but a new black stain mars his trousers. He redoubles his efforts. I am on the backfoot and retreat as his attacks become ever more aggressive. He maneuvers me into an alley. I jump back then up, bouncing from wall to wall until I am on the roof to avoid being trapped in close quarters. I AM PATIENT. I cannot match him in strength. I just need to hold on and then, PUNISH.

“Ever tire of running?” he asks with an arrogant voice.

I keep my distance. I am a PATIENT HUNTER. I do not let my rage overcome me.

“You think that being part of vampire society will change your life. It will not. You are not ostracized because you are unlucky. You are ostracized because you are a monster made on a whim by an ancient horror. All of your master’s spawns are sick puppies and you are no exception. The only thing that saved you from immediate execution, is that you were not picked for intimidation but for entertainment.”

I maneuver around a chimney. Lambert just jumps on it and lunges at me. The shock of our weapons sends me to slide over the roof. I twist to the side to avoid a downward swing. We crash through the roof into a cluttered shop filled with cooking and gardening tools. I weave my way around stoves and piles of pans, avoiding large strikes that shatter furniture and send metal flying. I almost lose my balance on an errant pot. Lambert’s eyes narrow.

He lunges. I kick the guilty pot and it shatters on his chest, enough to deflect. The sword still bites into my upper right arm.

Lambert crashes into me, I manage to put my foot on his sternum and push with all my strength. He takes off and his back smacks against a support beam. I throw my second knife. Somehow, Lambert twists midair and it only draws a bloody line across his temple.

Lambert lands lightly and gingerly touches his now bisected ear. He does not show anger, and this worries me more than the blood slowly dripping from my dress. I move my tongue around my mouth and find out that the first wound is mostly closed and that I can speak.

I have nothing to say. He is just spouting nonsense. He tries to destabilize me. I’m a PATient… I am patient. And strong. He is just bluffing.

“That Russian mujik is only alive because he is the Vitiazi’s attack dog, kept on a tight leash by oaths and agreements. There is nothing for you in this world you wish to join. You will forever be a pariah, barely tolerated or hunted outright. Anatole is not an outlier. He is the norm.”

I parry the next lunge and counterattack. Lambert grabs the shaft and uses it to throw me through the front door. I climb to my feet to face him.

The enforcer steps out of the ruin of the shop’s entrance. He casually inspects the small wound I inflicted on his hand as he threw me. He is supremely unconcerned, and his eyes are so cold.

“I will remember each of your words and slights against me. I will have you repent for your insolence. One hour of agony for every second of annoyance you dared inflict on your betters. One limb for every wound. I will skin you, I will break your every bone, I will cut your tongue and cauterize the wound every night. I will have burly sailors line up to ravage you for five pennies a shot. You may even like it.”

That twit… I…

Lambert lunges once more, sliding under my guard. I twist into his attack and hit him with my shoulder.

I might as well have hit a train.

His hand reaches for my throat. I drop the spear and try to claw him. He drops his sword and captures my wrists, pushes me away without releasing his hold and drags me back.

Light in my vision. Pain.

I spit blood. No time. I dive before he can kick me in the face again and bite his unarmored sleeve. I barely pierce the skin before he releases me. I block a punch with an armguard, but still fly into the air.

I land heavily against a wall. Nose bleeding. Mouth bleeding. Dizzy. I shake my head and push myself back. Use the wall to get back up. Need to be quicker.

Lambert does not use the opportunity granted to him. He is still looking down on me, not that I can really blame him.

“Yes, little peasant girl, get back up. The trip here was long and tedious and I do need to unwind. Tell me, when you left us, did you go back home? Did you sate your Thirst on your family or did they just throw you out like the beast you are?”

“Didn’t.”

“I wonder if your father knew his precious daughter had died bleeding in some damp cellar, only to be replaced by you? Did he think of you in his last moments? Did he know the soulless monster desecrating her body was still walking around, whoring herself out to sweaty miners?”

“I…”

“Did you try to lie to him? Did you seek comfort? How long did it take for him to throw you out, you filthy scamp? How long did it take for him to discover the truth about what you had become?”

Not long.

Not long at all, in fact.

We never discussed soul, but he could tell I had been changed. That I was different. I told him I died. I did. I told him I did not know if I was the same girl.

I remember now. How silly. I tortured myself, wondering if I had betrayed his trust but I did not. I told him everything. This question was never for me to answer, it was for him. And he did. I was feeling guilty while Papa had answered decades before I even asked myself if I were still me.

Suddenly and with perfect clarity, I remember his words. They ring in my ears as clearly as the night he said them, after I walked home, free, for the first time in my second life.

“I remember that you told me you are not my Ariane, but you were wrong. You still carry the same spirit, the same aspirations and God forgive me, the same love for unladylike things that go boom.”

Yes.

“You think that being human is what made you my daughter. It is not. Being you is what made you my daughter. You have always changed and grown, this particular change is just the latest and the most dire. Do not despair and do not let go of your past and our time together, yes?”

Yes.

YES.

I am me. I am always me. Not just a monster, not just a person, not just my father’s child and not just a vampire. I am all of it, and more. I. Am. Me.

Ariane of the Nirari, previously Ariane Beatrice Lucille Reynaud, daughter of Hercule Reynaud and Diana Anjou, scion of the first. Friend to Jimena, Nashoba, Isaac, Loth, Merritt and others. Protector of Marquette.

And royally pissed.

I parry Lambert’s lunge before the blade digs into my heart. It slides along the armor, digging a furrow in my flesh. I grab the hilt and drag the sword forward until it digs deep into the wood. GOUGE THE TALON. I twist and slice, catching Lambert’s arm and cleaving him to the bone. He hisses in pain.

I am not done.

I rush him. I have a knife and he has nothing, the sword stuck in the thick log behind me. He blocks and dodges but not enough. His suit is half black with blood. SUBJUGATE AND DEVOUR.

Lambert winces and grabs something from his chest. My next strike is deflected by… a shield!?

DODGE.

I dive under a claw and block a foot, I am propelled back and when I look up, Lambert is snapping something around his left hand.

Ah.

I should have expected that, to be fair.

Lambert is a bloody mage.

“I will admit that your stupid savagery gives you some measure of resilience. I suppose I will have to make some effort to take you down, after all.”

Not good. I dive to the side and pick up my spear. I rush forward. I had no idea he could cast! I don’t even know how good he is.

This will be a close one. I need to finish this quickly.

I move faster than ever.

“Bind!”

Massive red manacles emerge from the gauntlet. They hiss and slither to me like snakes. My claws glow blue. I will only be able to deflect such a strong spell once before running out of energy. It matters not. I only need one try.

I slap the spell away.

Lambert’s face widens in surprise. Close. Lunge!

“Shield!”

“Pierce!”

The spear tip glows with Sivaya’s gift. The Court of Blue’s expertise clashes with Lancaster spellcraft.

The spear tip digs through my foe’s chest like a hot knife through butter. I lift his body and slam it into the ground, pin him like an insect.

YES.

YES!

No…

Hold on, something is…

“Bind,” a voice coughs.

I DODGE, but the angry links track me, find me. They snake around my arms and pull me to the ground. So heavy. Hurts. Everything hurts.

Lambert grabs the shaft and pulls the blade from his bleeding lung. He spits blood and slowly gets back up. Impossible! This is impossible! No vampire can stand after losing their heart. The very idea is ridiculous! Our heart is… our heart! How! I cannot be!

“Never thought…” he coughs bloody foam on his lips, “you’d push me so far… Few know of this.” He adds with a smirk as he grabs the spear’s shaft.

“Shatter.”

The lightly enchanted pole breaks in his fingers.

I… don’t understand.

Lambert painfully stands back up with an evil grin on his face. The chain constricts me, extending from his glove to my chest. The links grate painfully against my bones and the wound on my left flank. Without the Ekon’s power, I would be screaming.

“None of your efforts matter. You are out of tricks now, and in the end you fall, alone.”

“I am never alone.”

“You…”

Lambert screams as he dodges a silver quarrel. His focus breaks and the chains break and fade.

“Your servants will not save you.”

“I will admit the timing was impeccable, but this isn’t what I was referring to.”

He is right, I am out of tricks. I only have my ace left.

I take the silver cylinder on my chest, pop its cap open and down the contents. Cheers!

I despise this world. I despise it and those in it. It is drab and dull. They are uninspired simpletons. I only wish to go back, and so I dedicate my intellect to solving the one issue that bars our way: how to open a path back when the barrier on this side is so dense.

I will succeed, I must.

My eyes rest on the mountain of notes on my borrowed workshop. I need a break. My fiancé is up there, playing host and gallivanting. I do not know how he does it, but I approve so much. The Court of Blue is as rife with intrigue as the Court of Summer. I am glad I will rely on one so keen and witty, so that I may dedicate myself to my research. It helps that he is such a competent lover.

On a separate table, lies a side project. Sinead gave her his blood as a sign of trust and as a favor. The receptacle’s workings need to be maintained so that the blood is correctly protected.

She is… different. As drab as the others, to be sure, but at least there is a spark there, a drive. Perhaps I have been too arrogant in my dealings with her. It is not because she is beneath my station that I may not show esteem and gratitude. Virtue stems not from the others but from ourselves.

I step closer. I will return this artefact, with a gift. Let it not be said that Sivaya of the Court of Blue is ungrateful. Let it not be said that she does not support her spouse’s projects, no matter how… boorish they may be.

I carefully unscrew the top and prick my finger. A single drop charged with my immortal essence slides into it, mixing with the gift of Summer. The blood of a royal couple, given freely and with our blessing. May she one day realize its value and may her heart fill with joy.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAthatstupidtartAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

IT BURNS.

Always before, a struggle, always before, not enough, always before, Thirsty! Too much too much, it is too much. The vitality and power carry me like a torrent, a tidal wave! They are everywhere and they do not stop and there is always MORE. I am exploding but inside, and exploding again and again and again. The power bursts into my bones, my ligaments, my organs, everywhere! They force themselves into me and then they become me and more comes and becomes me as well. It doesn’t stop. There is more me, more of my essence, mine. MORE. There is as much power as in my master’s blood but it doesn’t let me stop, it doesn’t let me breathe. I should be the size of a barn, and yet it manages to push itself into my tiny frame and there is still more!

From my heart, I feel something pulsate once and find an echo somewhere above. It pulses again and again as each wave of power burrows itself into my essence and becomes mine. My wounds are long closed. My exhaustion was washed away in the first instant. Lambert is standing here, moving like a slug with horror on his face and I could snap his neck, but I cannot because I cannot move! I can only endure as the wave washes through me and in me, only to be replaced by another. The pulses come faster now, and I can feel it. My essence echoes from my heart to the rest of my body. My essence. I can feel my essence, for the first time ever.

It is mine and mine only, the touch of the Watcher. My inhuman soul. My aura flairs and expands with unprecedented might.

I am… a Master!

The power stops because it has pushed into me as much as it could, carrying me over the edge. I feel raw and tender but now the power courses through my veins, eager to be used. It purrs like a great cat. So much energy. I can do… anything!

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

I extend a hand to Lambert’s face. A rune appears in the air, one I saw in the dream when Nirari killed Wolfgang and the army arrayed against him. A red branch emerges from it and crashes through a hastily erected shield. Lambert screams as his arm is mummified in an instant. His blood crawls back to me, a droplet in an ocean. I am doing magic! How can I not? I am a GODDESS.

Why is that cockroach still alive? Power expands in a bubble and I see his own essence centered around his heart, which is… on the wrong side of his chest! Is that how he escaped death? A circus trick? Laughable.

It won’t help him now. He runs, no, he limps away. I already hurt him so much. I lift a hand and the spear head jumps to it, unbidden. I do not need to run.

“Heartseeker.”

The spearhead blasts away and pierces through the enforcer’s chest, two walls and into a smithy with an ear-shattering clang. So easy. PREY is on the ground, unmoving. I reach once more and the body is dragged towards me, but slower. The power is going out. Why?

Lambert’s heartless form is before me. I kneel and grab him by the collar. Ignoring his panicked eyes, I push his head back to uncover a white neck.

I bite down.

I know the taste should be exquisite, but my senses are dulled. There is so much that happened. The power in me has mostly petered out. The rest is seeping into my heart as fast as it can welcome it, completing the transition. I feel so wrung out. Beyond tired.

A pair of solid arms pick me up as I collapse. I see the softest smile’s on John’s hideous face.

“I help you now.”

I am safe. I close my eyes and surrender to the darkness.

64. Knight Takes Queen.

The dining room. Achilles is trying to look serious with his freshly grown adolescent beard. Papa’s eyes are full of mirth and my aunt Catherine’s are full of pride. Her husband Roger smiles peacefully as he eyes the cake with a hint of gluttony. It is so big and white and red! Covered in strawberries!

“Go on mon ange, blow the candles.”

I take a deep breath in and blow. So many little lights I need to extinguish. It takes a long time for every last one of them to die down but soon, I am finally done. Time to get a slice!

I stab and look up through the darkness. A desiccated man stares back with blind eyes set deep into his skull. Only parchment-like yellowed skin clings to it, not even a tuft of hair remains on his ancient scalp.

“W-what?”

“Took you long enough…”

The mummified corpse falls on the rotten table with nary a sound, joining the others there. I drop the knife. It stays upright, dug deeply into a woman’s sternum. She has blonde hair and a face I know all too well. Deep tear tracks mark her cheeks. Her warm blood rolls on the table and drips on my lap.

The corpses are sitting back up and they applaud, but I can only hear one person clapping.

The scene disappears like sand in the wind, and we stand at the edge of my mental fortress.

My sire looks like a prince gone slumming. He wears a dark suit and white shirt with the top buttons opened. His dark curls hang loosely, making him almost relaxed. His smile is just on the edge of cynical with still a hint of pride.

“I wanted to be the first to congratulate you on joining the ranks of Masters. I hope you will indulge me and forgive my interruption of… whatever this was. It is, after all, the last time I can freely visit.”

“What do you want?” I growl.

“No need to be adversarial, Princess of the blood. As I said, I am only here to salute a great accomplishment. At first, you were only an amusement, and now you have grown into a true princess. You have achieved much in a relatively short amount of time and more importantly, you have done so in a pleasing way. Your enemies crushed, you allies loyal, and your debts fulfilled. You are worthy of being my scion.”

“You do realize that your compliments mean little to me. You played no part in my success, if anything, I thrived despite you.”

“Yes, as you should. Devourers are self-made, at least the three of you that still survive. We survivors are few, but we are quite formidable. I will leave you now. You can expect your coming of age gift within a month. Do try not to die.”

He steps back and disappears. The thorny roots which had started to slither towards him pull back like disappointed cats. He said it was the last time he could come here freely. That means from now on the fortress is entirely MINE. Anybody who DARES disturb me will—

Knock knock.

With a step, I reach the border and the thick walls of sharp branches slide aside to reveal a parading figure in lean armor made of the white and blue of a summer sky. He struts in like a diva in an art gallery, annoyingly tall and annoyingly shiny. The Likaean prince lazily fixes his golden hair with an artist’s hand. The grass shimmers beneath his feet and takes on a different quality.

“Well done, poppet, well done indeed! I am so delighted with your progress! A few more decades and you will be more than marginally useful!”

“Sinead! What are you doing here?”

Before he can reply, another form joins him. Sivaya is radiant in her Likaean form. In shades of pearl white and ocean blue, she is beautiful and subdued. Her face is even more elfin and ethereal, almost too alien. When she moves, her steps are so light that not a blade of grass is disturbed, and only the barest hints of movements are revealed by her azure flowing robes. I address her immediately.

“Lady Sivaya, thank you for your gift. It was… unexpected.”

There is a long pause when both Sinead and I wait to see if she will reply. Eventually, she averts her head in a gesture that changes her entire demeanour from gracefully distant to plain bashful. Her voice has an ethereal quality as if heard through some echoing cave.

“You are welcome, vampire.”

Then she turns around and leaves. Sinead watches her as she disappears, looking thoughtful. Then he turns back and offers me another dazzling smile.

“So, you have broken your chains! You are your own woman, vampire, whatever. Think what lofty heights we will reach together! Can you join us now, or are you busy?”

“There is the small issue of the kill-on-sight order on my head and one of the most powerful clans on the planet trying to enslave me…”

“Pffft! Trifling matters. Wait until you have to unweave three plots against your life every month, then things get interesting.”

“That Court of yours sounds like a real treasure. Why, I believe I would have chosen exile voluntarily.”

“And thus you show your naivete poppet. The weak and unaligned are always taken care of, lest they become problematic later. But enough, I have not come to dispense lessons but to see whether or not you had squandered our gift. So, tell me, what did you use it for beside finally cutting the eldritch umbilical cord?”

“I killed an enforcer sent after me by a rival clan.”

“Only one? Disappointing.”

“Hey! Do it then you can criticize. Hrm. If I had known consuming your blood would allow me to go over the edge…”

“Tut-tut poppet, I will hear no recriminations or ifs, especially because you had ample opportunities to taste my fluids and didn’t.”

“Get out.”

“I will wait for a month or so then make contact again. No sunbathing while I’m gone! Ta-ta.”

The tall armoured figure saunters away, leaving behind imprints of vivid green that do not fade. I stare at the wall for a moment and realize that my supposed fortress has seen more use as a receiving room than an actual bloody keep. Should I try to think up a nice gazebo, where we would all come and sit for tea? I am speechless.

With one last sigh, I decide to return to my bedroom. I miss Papa and Dalton tonight. I will look at their copied portraits and reminisce for a while. It will do me good.

I wake up in my bed and stare in alarm. Something is wrong.

A crimson ray pierces through the room’s heavy curtains and basks a spot in the wall in an ominous light. It is death, death and agony. Terror grips my heart and I stand up to flee.

Or at least, I try to.

I feel so weak. My limbs are heavy and my attempted jump turns into a tumble. I slip from the bed and crash awkwardly on the floor. I feel feverish and weakened. With a supreme effort, I manage to climb back up to my feet and stare back.

The ray is still here, slowly travelling up.

Dread seizes me and constricts my chest. All my instincts scream of danger. I walk slowly to the fireplace and press a button on the side. The secret passage to my safe room opens quietly.

I do not take it.

Something strange is going on. I need to understand. These instincts I feel are most queer and this ray of supposed doom is quite meek for a deathly threat.

I watch and resist the urge to cower. It slides up and up, then disappears, and with it, my weakness. In one instant, I go from feverish and weak to perfectly alert, as usual. Understanding makes me widen my eyes.

The sun.

I saw sunshine. I was awake before dusk! I truly am a Master! This was not an hallucination. Then…

I close my eyes and relax. I feel it within myself. My essence. It is centred in my chest and expands outwards in veins and networks to my extremities. The channels are thin for now but they should grow, in time.

I try to hide my aura like Nami showed me, and though my control is already smoother, I have more difficulties. My aura flares and drops randomly. I am not too worried. I remember Isaac mentioning something similar. It will take at least a week before everything settles back to normal.

And now, for the moment of truth.

“Lord Nirari is a twit.”

I wait with bated breath which isn’t too surprising considering I do not breathe to begin with.

Nothing.

“Lord Nirari is a twit, a twit I say! Hehehe! Twit! Hahahaha!”

I can badmouth him! I can say bad things and I. Don’t. Care. This is fantastic!

“He is a twit and he smells bad! And he has poor taste in clothes!”

Those are lies. I am merely testing the limits of my newfound freedom.

“He can go and greet the sun! Hahahaha! Eeep!”

I jump in surprise when somebody knocks on the door.

“Ahem. Come in.”

Merritt’s tired face greets me. She stares at me with no small level of annoyance.

“Are you having fun?”

“I have no idea what you may be referring to.”

She rolls her eyes, something that Ollie has been doing a lot recently and that I associate in her with exhaustion. I got it easy, going to bed. She must have spent a lot of energy handling the aftermath of yesterday’s events.

“So, how are things?” I ask lightly.

“A lot happened while you were having your beauty sleep. Wallace’s men went after the stragglers for most of the day and made sure they couldn’t regroup. They think we’re safe now, especially with Sullivan dead. Most of the bodies have been cleared and there will be a service on Sunday for our own. We lost thirty-seven people all included and probably another four more before tonight. The rest should recover though we still have more than fifty wounded. The Home Guard lost six, including Penelope. Annabelle got two fingers shot off. Harrigan says your security lost three but many are wounded. The citizens lost seven, including Mr. Schrodinger. He died covering his wife’s retreat.”

I wince. I care so little for mortal lives, usually, that it feels strange when I do.

Merritt is not done.

“The militia found more than a thousand dollars in gold in their command tent. The council had an emergency meeting and decided that they would be used to repair the town and compensate the families of the victims. Marquette is still a mess and the barricades mostly stand. I expect it will take three days for things to return to normal.”

“I understand.”

Merritt shows signs that she has something else on her mind, so I wait. She seems rebellious for some reason.

“Where did you disappear to? I was looking for you the whole night.”

“I killed the vampire attacking us in single combat then I collapsed.”

All her built-up aggression melts in an instant.

“I’m sorry, I had no idea. It must have been hard.”

I remember scraping the wall behind me to climb back up, covered in wounds and with a broken nose.

“Yes. Yes, it was.”

“Yeah, sorry. And uh, thanks. So, I got to ask… are you leaving?”

Ah, so that is how it is.

“We have already discussed it. I am leaving, this very night.”

“Could you not wait until everything is settled?”

“Knights are going to come looking for me sooner rather than later. I have to go, Merritt, we already had this discussion.”

“Well… I guess!”

And for one moment, she is the young mage I met fighting Ascendency. Despite all her experience, Merritt is still the same emotive woman who had stood up and faced a knight squad by my side, three days after meeting me.

“I will miss you too.”

“What?” she sputters, “Hmm, yes I mean. Arg! Let’s just go downstairs. There is still something I need you to solve.”

I nod and before leaving, grab the backpack I prepared. Everything else is already prepared for shipping.

The Dream is mostly silent, which surprises me. Battle has a way to make people seek the purest expression of life and little says life like mindless sex. I make my way down to the workshop where only Merritt’s family’s belongings remain.

She is standing next to an anvil. I am surprised to see that the heavy piece is splintered in its middle.

“What is this?”

She wordlessly points down and I walk around the smithing implement to see what caused it to break in such a way.

“Oh.”

That would be the head of my spear. It’s still intact too! Sivaya does good work.

“Would you mind removing it? Teams of men tried and failed, and Mr. Sully wants it back.”

“Not at all.”

I brace against the solid piece of iron and pull the blade out with a shriek of tortured metal. I inspect the tip. It doesn’t look damaged. I’m impressed!

Merritt shakes her head and whispers “Vampires…” under her breath. I chuckle and she leads me back up, towards the main room.

As she opens it, I hear a plethora of heartbeats and soon it is too late to flee.

This is where the revellers were waiting. A legion of people lines the room wall to wall. They remain silent until I step in. Even the mayor is here.

He applauds first, then everyone joins him to create a thundering clamour that shakes the building.

Huh.

I am… I feel… strangely emotional.

Somebody hugs me, one of the girls who had joined the Home Guard.

“Annabelle…”

Before she can release me, another joins her, then another. Meanwhile, drinks and food are distributed around as person after person wishes me goodbye.

I was planning to leave unnoticed. One could argue that Sullivan came here because of me, that the army attacked us because I was there.

On the other hand, I did a lot for this city and I stayed when it mattered. I followed the spirit of Eneru, to rule justly. This is the conclusion of twenty years of reign.

I feel decidedly strange, and it is not because of my flaring aura.

I feel…

I feel sad.

I am leaving Marquette for good. For the past three years, this moment could not come any faster. Only now, at the moment of my departure, do I realize all the good things I will have to leave behind, and the best thing of all is the people. How I loved to hate them. Those frontier men and women. Stubborn and filled with superstitions, judgmental and temperamental they are, but under that, there was a kind and courageous heart. They came through when it mattered the most, when others would have panicked and fled. I make my way through the crowd and greet Oscar, my bartender, Solomon the rescue, the Creek brothers and the other members of the odd squad, Kitty and the girls, Irma and some of the families. Regulars who come every week and citizens who never stepped in here before, all come and pay their homage. Little by little I start to accumulate gifts as well. Harrigan leaves me one of his lucky knives, which has a bat skull as a pommel. Ollie and Lynn give me adorable drawings of me beating the ever-loving hell out of wolves and the judge. They even drew the fangs. I get trinkets, carvings and enough cutlery and tankards to start another inn. All of it goes into a giant coffer that I will have to ship as well.

It takes me a solid two hours to run out of faces to greet. By then, each farewell is made longer by my interlocutor’s advanced state of inebriety, and I have to extricate myself from more passionate declarations than I had to face in the past five years combined.

I step outside to face the hardest farewell yet. I cannot bring anyone with me as I will technically be in “custody”, and every aspect of my travel, including nourishment and security, will be in the hands of the Knight.

“John.”

The giant’s eyes widen completely and the bow of his horrendous mouth curves upward until….

“BWAAAAHAHAHAHAAAAA.”

His bawling sounds like a group of men blowing a pierced hornpipe. Before I can try to comfort him, he lifts me in his arms.

“Agh!”

Ow, there goes my spine. That would have killed a mortal for sure…

I awkwardly pat his shoulder while he turns the front of my dress into his personal handkerchief.

“Don’t worry, we will meet again. This is just goodbye.”

It takes a long time before he lets go and when he does, he looks lost. I recognize in me an emotion that I almost never feel while awake. Guilt. The cattle will be sent to Charleston as part of another agreement but John is different. He is not cattle, nor Supplicant nor Vassal. He is just a man who offered me his loyalty. And now I leave him behind.

“I need you to stay here and protect Merritt. She is strong but she cannot notice everything like you do. You stay here and watch her back. I’m counting on you.”

The simpleton nods and swallows his cries, which only makes his face even more tragic as tears trail down his ruddy cheeks. I am not too worried. Merritt can certainly use a bodyguard.

Speaking of the red-headed devil.

“So, this is goodbye.”

I nod. It is.

“I must say, two years ago I would never have thought… but then… God, I’m making a mess of things ain’t I?”

I wince.

“Ah sorry. Still can’t believe I’m taking over a large part of town on behalf of a friend who also happens to be an immortal creature from legends. I had to run for so long to stay away from the Pyke family and protect the kids. I was ready to die in exile, so to speak. Is this all real, or am I dying somewhere of fever?”

“If you are, stop dreaming of me facing mortal perils so often, pretty please?”

“Heh. Ah, enough of this. You take care and if those Knights cause you problems, I’ll come and kick their collective asses. Stay alive and come and visit sometimes.”

“Thanks Merritt. Be careful and write often. Goodbye.”

I grab my backpack and with one last wave, I ride into the night.

Then I stop behind a barn because John drooled all over my dress and I need to get changed.

Metis’ hooves join the sounds of the night in a rhythmical pattern. Beasts hunt, mate and die in a background of creaking wood and whispering wind. The scent of sap and dust is almost overwhelming.

The road leads us on top of a small hill. The land here is flat, with the odd copse of trees to bring some measure of variety to the otherwise uniform landscape.

I am nervous. This is it. A campfire shines clear in my sight, surrounded by three armoured wagons that an army would not dare assault. A small beacon has been lit, guiding me to them.

Jimena is here, but she is not alone. This is the moment of truth. For the first time since my escape, I will have to surrender my freedom to a higher authority and hope that they respect their own oaths. Normally I would never take such an inane risk, but this is the best chance I am going to get.

Metis presses forward. Next to the fire, I spot two figures in the grey lamellar armour of the Knights. Whoever else is there has decided to hide.

I take one last deep breath to keep my composure and discipline my aura.

Two sets of eyes track me as I dismount at the edge of the circle. I stop when I face them.

Jimena is as dignified as ever, except for the wide smile that widens further when she takes in my new essence. Anatole, on the contrary, looks like he swallowed a bucket of lemons. His hand never strays from the princely blade by his side.

“I see you have come to face your judgement. I was afraid you would run once more.”

With his blond hair, blue eyes and handsome face, Anatole still looks like the Prince Charming from fairy tales. The contrast with Jimena’s square jaw and tomboyish look is striking. The bombastic prick and the pragmatic friend. The judgmental hypocrite who invokes the rules and the honourable knight who follows them, in letter and in spirit.

I simply raise an eyebrow while Jimena adds in a slightly condescending voice.

“Should I read the warrant, ‘Captain’?”

The disrespect is barely veiled. Anatole glowers as he complies. His voice is coldly professional with a hint of scorn. His hands are tied, he knows it, and he knows we all know it. The powerlessness and rage in his posture are delicious and I find myself relaxing and enjoying the present humiliation.

“You stand accused of roguish behaviour and are ordered to stand trial before a jury of your peers and the Speaker. We will now take you into custody. You have a right to remain silent, you have a right to safety, and reasonable nourishment. You have a duty to uphold our instructions during your transfer. You have a duty to surrender any and all mundane and magical tools and weapons you may have, with no limitation. You may not keep company of any sort…”

“Including Metis?” I ask with surprise.

“Of. Any. Sort.” he replies with annoyance, “your transportation will be assured by my squad, and so will your safety. Are you willing to comply?”

He looks hopeful for a moment. I notice Jimena’s serene smile and her imperceptible nod. She is confident.

“I will comply, yes.”

I turn to Metis and release her from her harness. Once she is fully free, I turn to pat her but she surprises me yet again.

The proud Nightmare places her head on my shoulder. I am moved, and reach to caress her chin. As I approach she moves back, blows air into my face and gallops away with a neigh that sounds suspiciously close to a laugh.

“I see you have properly bonded,” Jimena comments drily. Anatole remains mercifully silent, focused as he is on my gear.

I approach and take out the spearhead, still not repaired, a silver pistol, three throwing knives and a dagger which I leave on the harness.

“Are you not a bit underequipped?” asks Jimena with a knowing smile.

“I know,” I reply, “I left my rifle and a few other things. I figured I would be travelling light.”

“Right…”

“Are you not forgetting something?” asks Anatole with impatience.

I think for a moment. Am I?

“Whatever tool you use to avoid detection.”

“Ah, yes.”

I take out my earrings. They join the pile of things that have helped me survive so far.

“Aisha, please come and verify that she is not hiding anything.”

As Anatole speaks, a secured door clanks open on the side of a carriage and the veiled female Knight who survived Suarez’s displeasure unscathed steps down, soon followed by the two other fighters. Her eyes are so dark they look like pits and with her perfectly controlled expression and aura, I find myself unable to read her. She picks Nashoba’s gifts with a subdued grace and inspects them carefully. The carved amber glints under the firelight. She nods.

“Does she have anything else on her?” Anatole asks as the rest of his squad exits the carriage.

The woman closes her eyes and faces me. I feel the softest touch of power, not exactly intrusive but annoying, nonetheless.

“No.”

Silence.

“Can we go now, or do you want me to frisk her too?” asks Jimena.

With sudden clarity, I understand the game. Jimena stands with her back to me and a deceptively calm appearance, clearly showing where her allegiance stands. Anatole faces me, which leaves his side open to Jimena. His stance is tense and his face furious, which I would be as well if a subordinate humiliated me so before both his squad and an outsider. Finally, the three remaining members of his squad sit on the sideline, showing neutrality and by extension, a lack of support to their leader.

The largest man of the squad is searching the hills for hostiles, probably. He is not a handsome man, and his shaved scalp makes him intimidating. I see that he found another shield and axe. The sneaky one with the knives leans leisurely against the carriage, and when our eyes meet, he winks. He is beautiful, with lush black hair and almond eyes so I suppose others may swoon. I have seen Sinead at work though, and I am partially immune to roguish charm. Too much trouble.

The woman is the strangest of the bunch. She is shorter than me and quite thin, and she carries herself demurely. Her only obvious weapon is a staff that I recognize as an old-fashioned focus. Mages these days much prefer gauntlets as they are small, effective and more importantly, innocuous. Carrying a magical staff around in a country that burnt witches to the stake only a century ago is not conducive to discretion.

With one last murderous glance, Anatole relents.

“Good, take her inside, we leave as soon as we’re ready.”

“I’ll do it.” Jimena answers immediately. Anatole stares coldly but says nothing as I follow my friend.

I understand.

Anatole brought his whole squad to arrest me and escort me back, and they were waiting not in ambush, but at the very least fully equipped. I know that Knight squads are valuable resources and he still decided to come with everyone to complete a task that Jimena could have done alone without issue. He still wants me dead. Thank the Watcher for Jimena’s presence.

The inside of the carriage is surprisingly spacious. Furniture in ash and white velvet gives the room a cosy appearance and I feel like I just entered a luxurious cabin in some line ship. A secured sarcophagus and a well-provisioned weapon rack are the only thing out of the ordinary.

I love it.

“Wow.”

“Welcome to my humble abode” Jimena declares proudly as a triplet of mortals lines out quickly, keeping their eyes down.

“Do you always travel with such arrangements?”

“Hold on.”

After they’re gone, Jimena locks the door, presses a rune and with a hum, magic is deployed. Any noise from the outside is cut off.

Jimena lifts me into a hug.

“Ooof!”

“A Master! You are a Master! I am so damn proud! By the Eye, you are full of surprises! How did it ever happen?”

“This is quite a story. I… got my hand on some Likaean essence.”

“The Fae? How did you… nevermind, keep it secret.”

“I drank it during my fight with Lambert and here we are.”

“You faced Lambert?” Jimena asks, suddenly serious, “Where is he now?”

“Ahem.”

“You killed him, didn’t you?”

“Yes…”

I stare at Jimena with worry but if anything she looks ecstatic.

“You killed Lambert… My dream… How I wish I were here to see the look of horror on his face as he turned to ash. Well done, well done indeed.”

“I thought killing vampires was undesirable?”

Jimena shrugs.

“In political conflicts between Houses and Clans, yes. It is not the case here, as you were fighting for your own survival. We are not talking about territories changing hands here, we are talking about abject servitude. If anything, the killing of a major clan’s enforcer will improve your odds of forming valuable partnerships. A competent and reliable ally is worth more than gold in our circles.”

“That is good to hear, but perhaps we are getting ahead of ourselves. I am worried about Anatole, and I will admit that I was not expecting him.”

“Ah yes, I am sorry about this. He caught up to me as I was waiting for you. Do not worry overmuch. His honor as a Knight demands that he brings you safely to Boston.”

“I do not think much of his honor.”

“Let me rephrase then, the perception others have of his honor matters to him. He would not try to slay you on the way, I am sure of it. It would go poorly if he tried.”

She smirks and lifts her arm. A weapon as dark as the void drops into her ready palm seemingly out of nowhere. One moment she is unarmed, the other, she holds a long rapier with a triangular point and a tip so thin, it could probably pierce through a sheet of steel by its own weight. The guard is delicate and small roses adorn its hilt. A scale is engraved into the hilt. It looks elegant and lethal.

“A soul blade!”

“Indeed, my dear. I present to you ‘Justice’, made recently with the assistance of the Cadiz smith.”

“Beautiful. I believe congratulations are in order?”

“For the both of us. Were it that we could celebrate properly. I am afraid we will have to wait a few months for a valid celebration.”

“The trial will take months?!”

“Not the trial, your entrance into Society. Your petition to gain House status will be conducted as soon as you are clear. You can expect the Lancasters to fight fang and claws to regain control over you, however. They are experts on legal matters and they simply cannot afford to make this easy for you.”

“I… need a lawyer?”

“I have made contact with a few prospective candidates. Do not worry overmuch, you have made quite a few allies and the Lancasters, quite a few enemies. They sent Lambert because they knew they had no ground to stand on, though if we are not cautious, they could demand significant reparations. I will not let this happen.”

“I see. So what now, do I stay inside until we reach Boston?”

“Of course not. It will take a bit under a week, with the mortals driving us during the day and us driving at night. Our horses are low-blood Nightmares and they do not tire. You may walk around when we are encamped, the rest of the time I would recommend you always stay within sight of one of us and no matter what, never be alone with Anatole. For the rest, use common sense.”

“I still don’t understand why he hates me so.”

“He is a Roland. Their unbreakable will sometimes makes them stubborn to the point of stupidity, and such is the case here. Anatole is, the Eye forgive me the term, on a crusade to rid the world of everything that does not conform to his twisted version of peace and order. You also proved to be elusive and smart, a combination that is sure to infuriate him. The only good news is that he has used considerable resources to track you down without success, diverting them from more important operations. Constantine’s patience is at an end and his trust in Anatole’s judgement at an all-time low. You may have felt the tension in our group?”

“It would be hard not to.”

“The others would very much prefer to hunt dangerous rogues and the newly appeared packs of werewolves rather than spend entire nights trudging aimlessly through the back end of Illinois, I assure you. His position is weakened and that is why I am able to defy him openly.”

“Yes, that shocked me. I did not think that someone as honourable as you would pick a fight with a superior officer.”

“I’ll pick a fight with anybody if they’re being an asshole. Ah, we’re moving. Come on, tell me more about that Merritt girl you were writing about and then I will tell you about how I made Aintza my human Servant.”

It is good to see Jimena again, and I realize as we gossip, that I am not so worried anymore.

65. Sur les Bords du Mississippi...

The Sweet Sunrise paddles lazily forward across murky water as I make my way to her deck. She is rather small as steamboats go, though no less majestic for it. The novelty of this experience has not worn off yet, and I enjoy it while it lasts.

Long as a barn, she has white flanks shining with fresh paint, railings, and a chimney cleaned to shimmering perfection. The flat bottom and broad hull make her look like a corpulent lady trudging peacefully downstream at a sedate pace. I do my best to enjoy the view as I walk leisurely along, stopping sometimes to catch a moment I may paint later. My notebook will soon be  filled with sketches of the riverbanks, of the sailors and merchants, of the officers and passengers. Time slows down and I use the meditative state I am in to think.

We have been rerouted and I do not know why, nor do I have any influence on our course. I am not even part of the planning. Aisha received a sending and the Knight squad changed course on the spot, all previous plans abandoned. When I inquired about the delay, Jimena gave me an apologetic look and the promise that the current crisis is not related to me. Knights will go where they are needed, with or without their prisoner in tow.

I only wished whoever sent them off had ordered Jimena to bring me back herself. That would have been common sense, a resource that appears in short supply around those parts.

I am left with nothing to do. I am bound to stay under their surveillance as I am now while they take care of travel arrangements, decide on security matters and they plan the next operation away from my sensitive ears. My only role is to stay put and to behave. Even now, I can feel the curious gaze of Alaric, their dagger-wielding flanker, on my back. There is always someone keeping an eye on me.

I am not in control of my fate.

I hate feeling powerless. It does not matter that we use a trusted captain and have a security detail that a king would find adequate. When dawn presses upon my mind, I join Jimena’s secured sarcophagus with the thought that I am at the mercy of men I do not know and cannot trust. It goes against all that I am and yet I do nothing. It would be unwise to act on it and so I bide my time. Any measure I could take to regain some independence now would harm my situation if I were found out. I will have to trust Jimena, and that is all I can do.

With one last sigh, I finish a simple rendition of a dead trunk bent over the water, with its branches caressing the passing flow, and slam the book closed. I turn around to the cabin from which the helmsman steers the ship and decide to join him on a whim. It would be too inappropriate for me to visit the engine room and I do not want soot on one of the three clean dresses I brought anyway. The perch from which the ship is steered will do nicely.

I deftly climb the ladder up and ignore Alaric’s gaze on my back and lower back.

The box is small, with windows offering a clear view of the surroundings. A solemn man is at the wheel, smoking a cigar and inspecting with care the land around him. He wears a comfortable-looking and well-cut shirt and his black beard shows traces of grey.

“Excuse me, sir.”

The man turns and glares with a frown. I can feel his rising temper in the beat of his heart and the intake of breath, but the insults and complaints die on his lips at my demure air and pleasant smile. I am no Lady Moor, but I have never been hard on the eyes either and few mortals could resist the benevolent attention of my kind.

“And what can I do for you, miss? You’re one of those folks that came aboard today aye? Something about an unexpected business?”

“Indeed. We were set for Boston, but were waylaid.”

He nods in understanding and immediately returns his attention to the water before him. I cannot see any danger, but he frowns at things I do not perceive and adjusts our course with a few light touches.

“The name’s Scoresby, mam, one of the two pilots of the esteemed Sweet Sunrise. Pleasure having you on board. To what do I owe your unexpected visit?”

The irony of a bunch of vampires travelling aboard a ship named Sweet Sunrise does not escape me, nor does the pilot’s guarded tone. It appears that I have intruded upon his sanctum and no amount of passive Charm will dent his offended pride. I decide to ask the difference between helmsman and pilot later.

“This is my first time aboard a steamboat, and I could not help but admire all I could. Why, I haven’t seen a grander thing in my whole life!” I exclaim.

That is a lie. I witnessed a millennia-old sorceress remake the fabric of the reality while sipping an infusion and throwing witty barbs. Nothing can top that. I still go on with my shameless flattery, buttering the old grouch up with thick compliments and a pinch of manipulation so that he spills his gut.

Metaphorically.

“I am sure you have seen so much and heard so many incredible tales! Would you mind sharing a few with me, to pass the time?”

His caution melts like snow under a fire spell, and he puffs his chest so much that I fear he may pop buttons. Too late, I realize my mistake. The fellow’s tongue is untied, the dam has been breached! A torrent of words escapes from his mouth with a Southern accent I realize I had missed.

“I’ve been on this ship for a good year, I have, and by the by, I’d say she’s one of the finest old ladies to grace this river. And I know what I’m talking about. I’ve been at this for a score years and the things I’ve seen and done, you could write a book about. Why, there is no finer pilot this side of Jackson, and I got the eyes of a cat and the mind of a fox, I do. No shallow or dark water there is that will make Andrew Scoresby lose his way, no mam!”

Not once did he glance in my direction. His gaze is always forward as he keeps us on course.

“We pilots have to remember all islands, reefs, sand bars and bends, yes ma’am, and they change all the time! We got to know the shape of the river like we know the shape of our wives, beg your pardon, better even! Like now at night. And here, we’re in luck because the stars and moon show us the way but when it gets dark as a negroe’s bunghole, beg your pardon, then it’s another thing altogether! All lines look straight, and all shadows look like snags. You think they’ll grab you like a scorned lover but no, tis but shades and bluster. And that bend that looks just fine will shove a rock up the old girl’s arse, beg your pardon, and cause the loss of fifty lives and a quarter million-dollar steamboat, it will. And that’s just the natural dangers we face. Tell me M’lady, do you believe in the… supernatural?”

He affects an air of mystery, or at least tries to.

“I try to keep an open mind,” I reply drily.

“Then listen here, there’s more that preys on ships than just treacherous waters, there is. I got a story from my cousin who was on the ship itself when it happened. He was a mechanic, mind you. Only eighteen at the time. I reckon the ship’s name was the Louisa and she could carry one hundred and fifty people comfortably.

“Once, they were making their way to the Kellog plantation pier. It was a dark night, darker than this one! A fine mist was covering the river and the land was so silent, you could hear the first mate fart from the engine room, beg your pardon.

“My cousin was off shift and he enjoyed watching the pilot work. There were two of them on the Louisa like on this one. An old crusty man by the name of Knutson and a new dandy one called Lannis. Lannis was on the wheel then. He was looking out the cabin and frowning mightily. Sometimes, he would mutter and turn around to look at bends that my cousin swear looks exactly like bends should look like! His nervousness must have been catching, because soon enough there was a small crowd at the fore, muttering under their breaths. Out of patience, my cousin went up to Lannis to ask the poor fellow what troubled him so?

“Heavens, the pilot replied, something is damn wrong with the river tonight. Be a good boy and go fetch old Knutson, because either my brain is playing tricks on me, or there is some devilish force at work!”

The pilot is not heated, fully absorbed in his story. He gesticulates wildly and points at imaginary things and people with one hand, the other still firmly on the controls. Even as he speaks, his attention never wavers from the river before him.

“The boy was scared beyond belief. Terror gripped his heart, but he did what he was told and woke up the old grumbler who first gave him quite an earful, but when he was told of the junior pilot’s words, his brow furrowed and he climbed to the bridge like a company of savages was at his heels.

“Lannis old boy, he bellowed, where in hell did you get us to?! Knutson old bugger, Lannis replied, we were abreast the Wallis farm an hour ago, and now God only knows where we are!

“The old man paled and climbed to the pilot cabin, muttering in his beard furiously. He came by Lannis’ side and took a gander around. Then with a great gasp, he recoiled and announced, Lannis my friend, no matter what happens you cannot have us flounder, you hear me? We must pull through!

“At his words, all the men at the fore were taken with a great fright, and they looked around to the shores but saw nothing but mist, reeds and gnarled trees with roots reaching into the water like witches’ fingers.

“Lannis carried on with old Knutson guiding him until they came to a sharp bend to the right in the river, with what looked like really shallow waters. There was a moment of silence as the pilot guided the ship port. He reached to his tube and called this engine room, telling them to go slow and steady.

“He slowly turned her starboard and the measures of depth were coming like bells tolling for midnight. Thirteen feet, they said, mark twain, eleven feet, ten feet! The men were clinging to the railings with desperation for they had never seen the old pilot scared and they knew in their heart that if they were stranded here, a cruel fate would befall them. Nine feet, they heard, eight feet and a half!”

Scoresby is now screaming with enthusiasm. I hope the other passengers to not think I may be assaulting him.

“Then suddenly, Knutson screamed: now! And Lannis grabbed the horn and yelled give me all you got, dammit, full speed ahead! The chimney vomited great gouts of smoke and the paddlewheel slapped the water with great vigor. They all heard sand scrapping the keel but a moment later, the ship was through!

“A great ovation rose to the sky and the two partners were celebrated for their skill and admirable sangfroid. Soon, the mist lifted and everyone could see a lantern to their right. The Kellog pier was in view, with a man sitting on a recliner who stood up and waved his hat like a flag when he saw them. Everyone started to relax and talk about that strange occurrence, and whatever happened to the river? Everyone that is, but the two pilots.

“Full speed ahead, screamed Knutson, don’t stop for anything!

“My cousin was terribly surprised and asked the old man what was wrong! His teeth were chattering, and hair was falling from his beard from the stress. Lannis was not much better. Cold sweat made his jacket cling to his lanky frame.

“The Louisa forged ahead as the passengers stared, mesmerized, and when it became clear that the ship wouldn’t stop, the man on the pier threw his hat down in anger. And his eyes were black as the devil’s heart, they were, not just the iris, the entire eye! Abject horror seized all aboard. They were so scared they almost suffocated, and a few of them even lost consciousness.

“Fools, Knutson said, we’re not out yet! And so the pilots kept going and soon enough, the shores became normal again and they landed safely a bit later.

“When my cousin asked the pair how they knew it was not the Kellog plantation, Lannis answered. The pier was right, he said, the man was right too, but the shore was wrong. Then old Knutson brought his partner, my cousin and a bottle of whiskey to the mess and talked about a legend that there was a wicked man who lived on an island in the middle of the river and made his wealth stealing from passing ships.

“One night, the river flooded and plunged the entire island under the water. The devil took his soul then, and will only let it go if he can bring enough dead to offset the weight of his sins. And that, m’lady, is why pilots are so important and why we need to know the river perfectly.”

I do hope we come across this interesting character. I bet he would taste nice.

“Thank you sir, I feel safer now that I know we are in such good hands.”

“Right you are mam, right you are.”

How I wish I could stay and hear more of those outlandish tales. Perhaps there will be more time after I answer this call I just felt. The Mississippi is long and my destination unknown.

“I thank you for your time, Mr. Scoresby. I will leave you to your work.”

That was a pleasant distraction. Unfortunately, I will have to shorten it. With one last smile, I step down the ladder to answer the summons of my smiling jailor.

The ability to feel my essence is a tremendous advantage in just about everything I can do with my powers. It is so helpful, that I have no idea how I managed without it.

I can better control my aura, which is now significantly more powerful and I am confident I will be able to hide it almost completely within a year. Healing can be directed now to specific wounds instead of just happening. I can move faster, more easily, and for a longer period of time.

All that I do tires me less and I wake up earlier every day. I also noticed that Charm works by sending a very thin tendril of essence to the targeted person or their aura, which means that I no longer need to imagine a rope, nor do I really need eye contact, though it helps.

I cannot explain why eye contact helps. This strange logic always leaves me feeling ambivalent. The rational part of me, the one that trusts science and enlightenment, finds it all very strange. I would go so far as to say nonsensical. The deeper part understands it to a level that no words can do justice to.

It remembers the fairy tales and the ghost stories, the strange rules of dusk, midnight and dawn. The power of oaths and beliefs. I am part of this realm and I know how to play the game, though I would be hard-pressed to explain exactly how, or why, it works. It is all quite peculiar.

One of the side effects of an attuned essence is that one can use it to ‘tug’ at another vampire. A sort of signal, if you will. I am convinced that Alaric is being if not rude, quite cavalier in poking me so. His familiarity grates on my nerves.

“Good evening Ariane, I see you found entertainment in this dreary place.”

Yes, until I was interrupted. I would find more entertainment by SHOVING MY CLAWS IN HIS GUT AND PULLING HIS INNARDS INCH BY INCH, but alas, he may object. And so, I show a fangless smile and keep a pleasant tone. I just need to reach Boston to be rid of those buffoons until the next turn of the century, or until someone mistakes their gaudy carriages for a bank convoy and blows it to smithereens. I would be happy either way, as surely, they would eventually let Jimena lead a squad. Even the most corrupt imbecile must eventually run out of incompetent people to promote to leadership positions.

Right?

“Good evening Alaric. Do you require anything?”

“Ask not what you can do for your Knight, but what the Knight can do for you,” he says with a laugh, “We are public servants of a sort, after all.”

This is my first real conversation with him, as so far I have only kept the company of Jimena, who has been very protective of me. I appreciate the efforts of my blood sister as I doubt Alaric has my best interests in mind.

“Very well then, what can you do for me?”

“I thought I could help you pass the time. We have not properly been introduced yet. I am Alaric of the Roland, the team’s Shade, at your service.”

Alaric’s voice is mellow and cultured, with a hint of British accent even when he speaks Akkad. He bows to me like a dancer after a performance.

“… and I am Ariane of the Nirari. I assume that I do not need to introduce myself.”

“I daresay you do. I have read the reports, not met the woman. Our only past meeting was too short and a bit too intense for my tastes.”

“What with getting your heart skewered?”

He affects holding his wounded heart with a convincing impersonation of a dying mortal, before returning to normal and continuing our conversation as if nothing had happened.

“Precisely. Lord Suarez is a prickly man where honor and duty are concerned. He often supports Knights when they operate on his territory. His censure was that much unexpected and, shall we say, heavy-handed.”

“You should be grateful. My own sire would have made an example out of you.”

Alaric leans against the railing and smiles disarmingly.

“Thankfully Anatole is not completely suicidal. So tell me, how was it, being a city Master? Tending to your flock, one Charm at a time?”

“It was varied and interesting. How is it being a Shade?”

He lifts a brow.

“Do you know what a Shade is?”

“I do not.” I confess, somewhat miffed.

“Well then, allow me to enlighten you.”

Alaric stands straighter. In one moment, he turns from dilettante to calm professor. Even his voice has changed.

“Knights are expected to face any sort of situation and are trained accordingly. The formation of squads allowed us to develop a higher level of specialization and although we are good at everything, we are experts of a few key subjects, divided by roles.

“The Vanguard is a soldier and an assassin, a weapon expert trained to slay its targets whoever and wherever they may be. The Shade is the scout and tracker who guides the team forward. The Vestal is the thinker, strategist, and magic expert. Finally, the Voice is the ambassador and infiltrator of the team.”

“Does your squad not have a Voice?”

The Shade takes a mildly disapproving air, one I would expect from a mentor whose pupil asked a question he should have known the answer to.

“This role is Anatole’s, obviously.”

I refrain from commenting. When your ambassador gets your entire squad ripped apart by a furious Battle Lord, it might be time to ask for a reassignment. Alaric takes my silence for the condemnation it is but instead of defending his leader, he smiles knowingly and steps closer. His demeanor changes again and I am now wondering if he should not be the infiltrator. He sheds personas like one sheds shirts.

“If you are looking to join our ranks, I am sure Jimena could vouch for you, though perhaps you should hold before doing it. You have never been part of our world as an equal. There is so much to discover, so many new experiences to be had.

“You should see the balls organized by the Masks with their byzantine codes and exquisite games. You could join a coven and live in one of our cities, be part of glorious Hunts for dangerous rogues or those new packs we have seen appear. There are plays that only our kind can produce and music only we can play, and more of course.”

He is close now, so close that I can smell his own perfume, similar to mine but not quite the same. The cold spice of vampires, alluring and dangerous. With a hint of vanilla and ethereal trickery. I find it enticing.

“Where mortals have passion, we have patience and dedication. Who but us can wait ten years for a sculpture to be completed? Who could create gardens that will bloom in half a century?  Who could learn how to make love like we do?”

“Who could hold such grudges?”

“Hah! You will find that it is rarely so. The enemies of today are the friends of tomorrow, sometimes. Only the Rolands keep grudges for centuries, I believe.”

“Like Anatole and you then? Just my luck.”

“I hold no grudge towards you. I swore an oath to uphold the code and I have no doubt that you will gain your freedom after we reach Boston. Then who knows, ancient enmities could disappear in favor of more… pleasant arrangements.”

“Such as those you mentioned previously, I suppose?”

“Music? Of course.”

The Shade’s smile is roguish and handsome. I am quite sure he thinks highly of himself and that some may swoon in his presence.

“Are you good at… music, Alaric?”

“You will find that my reputation precedes me.”

He is so close now. I could lean a bit and kiss him.

“I have a reputation too, for surviving.”

“A well-deserved one.”

“It would be because I know who I can place my trust in,” I say as I place a finger on his lips. I am not done. “You follow a man who wants my death and forced me into twenty years of isolation. I will see the balls and hear the songs, and perhaps when I am done, we will all meet again...”

I smile and show eight fangs, just to remind him of who he is talking to.

“… and share that Hunt you mentioned.”

The Knight’s smile freezes, then blooms again. He looks almost impressed.

“I will look forward to it.”

It is then that our ship reaches a stop, and the moment is gone. We part and watch the Sweet Sunrise attach to a small pier and goods and people making their way in and out. Alaric watches with attention and I find no reason to break the silence.

Five minutes later, a cabin boy comes running and stops when he spots the two of us. I can taste a trace of terror in the air before his rational mind silences his instincts. He approaches, swallows with difficulty and stands at attention.

“Yes?” I ask curtly.

“Excuse me madam, are you Ariane Nirari?”

How curious.

“I am.”

“That’s the thing…” he licks his lips nervously, “there is this Indian outside, says he knows you. Says he knew you’d pass by and that you two should talk. Should I… should I tell him off?”

An Indian who knew where I would pass? Could it be…

“Did he tell you his name?”

“Yes, mam. He said his name was Nashoba.”

Nashoba, so you were alive all this time. Incredible. I must speak to him, I may not have another chance

“I will see him immediately. Where is he?”

“At the pier, madam.”

I pick a coin from my pocket and toss it at the urchin. Double payday for that little twerp, for there is no doubt in my mind that Nashoba bribed him as well to carry this message. I am half expecting Alaric to stop me, as Anatole would have. Instead, he follows me behind and to my right, as if he were escorting instead of guarding. I would be grateful but I highly suspect that curiosity got the better of him.

My steps take me down the now empty plank as I take in my old friend. We have not kept in touch, though he could have contacted me by dreams. I was wondering if he had perished and now I realize that perhaps, he simply didn’t have the strength.

Nashoba is dying.

He is still handsome in a lost artist sort of way. He still has liquid brown eyes and mismatched cloth that reveal skin. There is grey in his hair and his hairline receded, but that only would make him look wiser if it were not for the rest. His skin is sallow, with a yellow tinge. It clings to his frame too tightly and his posture is slightly stooped, like someone who is in constant pain. He smiles before he turns to me and I am surprised once again when I realize that he came alone.

“Nashoba.”

“We meet again, daughter of Thorn and Hunger.”

Behind me, Alaric hisses softly when he hears the tongue of Akkad in a mortal mouth. He does not react further, and I decide that it is safe to speak, for now.

“I did not know if you were still around. I met… some fallen tribesmen.”

“Yes, they went North, did they not? We left in waves after the white men took the last of our lands and set us on the trail of tears and death. One of the waves was lost in the swamps and… you know the rest. My new home is West of here now. We just settled.”

“I had heard your people had been exiled, but…”

“We were. You will have to remember that for we mortals, oaths are only binding among equals.”

“Oh, I will not forget that lesson ever again.”

He bows his head slightly and gives me a sad smile.

“Yes. Dalton’s loss must weigh heavily on a mind that does not age. My apologies.”

“No harm done, my friend. Now, I assume this is not a courtesy visit?”

My tone may have been a little more abrupt than I intended and Nashoba notices it.

“No, indeed. Are you displeased to see me?”

“No,” I add with regret, “I just wished it had been sooner.”

I just exposed my friendship with Nashoba before Alaric when I confessed I missed him. This was a mistake. I am being careless again.

“Forgive me, it took all my strength to delay the inevitable and then, manage it. This is the most terrible ordeal my people have ever faced. I had no time for myself nor for my friends. And now, I must apologize, for I come asking you for a favor, as you have guessed.”

My hands are bound now but perhaps there is something I can do.

“Tell me.”

“I would like you to help me die.”

Heh?

“I beg your pardon?”

Nashoba smiles once more and his posture conveys so much vulnerability that even my instincts are silent. There is no Hunt to be had there. He is as defenceless and weak as a child.

“You have noticed my failing health. I am in constant pain. I want you to help me on my final journey. Please.”

“What is going on here?” says a voice that tightens my chest. Anatole is here without Jimena. This is the worst thing that could have happened.

“Who is this man?”

“He is a supplicant, come here for the Last Gift,” answers Alaric, “he asked for her by name. They know each other.”

“Do they now? Do you speak English, savage?”

“Probably better than you, pretender.” Nashoba answers sharply.

Anatole’s face is a mask of horror, then it twists into a scowl of deep hatred. His aura overflows and I shiver at the cruelty I perceive beneath. I have no idea what is happening, I only know that I must not let Nashoba be hurt by what may follow.

“If you wish for the Last Gift, I will gladly provide it,” says Anatole with a sinister smile.

INTRUDER. THIEF.

“You dare? The Last Gift is sacred, you philistine!” I hiss.

“I decide what you take, creature.”

KILL HIM. No, wait, no, I need to beat him through words, but how? Think Ariane, think. What can I trade for?

Ah yes, his pride. I need to play this well. I remember Lady Moor and her demeanor, her poise and haughty expression that made anyone feel like insects polluting her air. I do my best impersonation and though I know I fall short, the cold in my voice surprises even me.

“I did not imagine that a squad leader would stoop so low as to steal his captive’s leftovers and deny her nourishment. What is next, oh mighty one? Will you borrow my spare boots too?”

My aura is frigid. It spreads over the pier like a blanket of ice.

Anatole frowns. Taking Nashoba now would go against his vow to keep me well-fed as well as common courtesy. Alaric’s eyes narrow at his leader and his crossed arms show mild disapproval, something that his squad has refrained from showing so far. I hope it is enough. How I wish my blood sister were here instead of the cabin with Aisha and the axeman, Alec.

“If you must, I will allow you to draw from his sickly essence. We will keep watch, of course. Do not try anything.”

Oh, this… brute! The Last Gift is sacred, and he is going to police it? I clamp my jaw before I say anything I might regret. Nashoba was unwise to provoke this fiend, though I know why he did it anyway, despite the danger. My friend is scared. Scared, and in pain.

I wish I had more time to talk to him. I can tell that the burden in his shoulder is heavy. In a way, death is a mercy.

I take the shaman in my arms. He winces in pain until our eyes meet. Gently, I Charm the pain away. I smother it and shove it in the background where it can be ignored. Nashoba takes one shuddering breath and almost collapses. Tears of relief drip down his pallid cheeks.

“Are you ready?” I ask softly.

“I was ready before coming, you know, because I…”

“… can see the future,” I finish with a smile. I gently take his neck as he eases his head back. I bite down.

I take the rope and tie it to my neck. I left my shirt and other things on a stone. That way, they will know what I have done and maybe little sister can get a spare shirt. I am strange. The others don’t like it. They call me cloud head. Now they are bullying little sister too, because she is my sister. I will die now and everyone will be better. Me too. I hope. I pick the stone and walk forward but something bumps against me. I look down. There is a big turtle. She bumps my leg with her tiny head.

“Hello.” I say.

The dream vision is so clear, I am a shaman now, bound to the turtle spirit. She is enduring and smart, though she is slow too. She values vision and planning because when it takes so long to walk anywhere, you cannot afford to do the trip twice.

The one I foresaw is here, she’s here! She is an Anglo girl, and her mind is cold like a mid-winter night. She is lost, I can tell, like me. She cautiously steps out in the open and sniffs the air. Quick, I will present my offering, my blood. I hope we can be good friends.

Dalton is dead and this part of my life is gone. Ariane, Daughter of Thorn and Hunger, leaves. It will take a long time for her to earn this moniker, but I am confident that she will one day, long after I have passed. With the earrings I gave her, her foes’ feeble tracking attempts will fail. I wish I could see her again before our last meeting, though I fear I will not have the strength to spare for a dream visit.

They invited us as Dancing Rabbit Creek and some of us went expecting a party. I knew what was coming but there was nothing I could do. Our land is claimed by the United States. To stay, we will have to become citizens. I have seen what befalls those who are not of their race and though some of us will stay, they will just suffer longer. Leaving remains the most pragmatic choice.

I am sick and tired. The ache in my liver is now a constant pain that permeates everything I do. I am reaching the end of my path and my tribe will survive in Okla Humma, the land of the red people. There is only one thing left to do before I can finally rest. I have to give her the key so that she may grow into what will give this world a chance. I must strengthen her gift. Then, I can finally sleep. At long last… I am so very tired…

It is done.

I pull back and Cradle Nashoba’s unmoving shell. He is dead. We have known each other for thirty years and we haven’t talked in twenty and now the chance is gone. Time caught up to him like it caught up to my father and others. I feel… brittle. I can find no other word for it. Beyond sadness, I am overwhelmed by a sense of vulnerability that does not affect my body but my spirit. This is one more anchor to my human part I leave behind.

I slowly lay the body on the ground.

Once more, I wonder how someone could look at a corpse and think the person is asleep. The mouth is open, distended, and the vitality is gone from its muscles. My friend has passed and what he left behind is a painfully thin flesh puppet. It already stinks of relaxed bowels and soon, rot. There is no dignity in death. My kind is lucky to leave only ash behind.

I jump in surprise when Anatole grabs the body by the ankle, and starts dragging it towards the boat.

“What are you doing!” I hiss in anger.

Anatole turns to me with a smirk.

“Taking out the trash.”

And with a lazy swing, he drops the corpse into the river.

“Nooooo! You heathen! How dare you!”

DEFILER. I move forward, have to recover the body but something holds me back. Alaric, I realize, has grabbed me under the arms and lifted me up so that my feet cannot find purchase.

“Why would you do that? He was my friend!”

“I am not surprised that a bumpkin like you would befriend a barbarian.”

“You dare!”

“Calm down Ariane,” says a voice from behind, “this is just a husk.”

“It’s not about the husk it’s about respect for the dead! It’s about us, and what value we place on the departed! How can you do this?”

Anatole’s cruel smile widens. He is most amused. KILL HIM, KILL HIM NOW. That’s it, I am done with those idiots! I will…

I will do no such thing.

I stop struggling and let the coldest part of me smother my heart before it can kill me. This is what Anatole wants, one more trap to force my hand into resisting him. He knows the game is almost over. Now he resorts to dirty tricks in a last-ditch effort to execute me before the journey ends.

I can play that game too.

“Release me,” I ask Alaric with a soft voice, and he does. I glare at Anatole and slowly, painfully, force myself to smile too.

“Corpse defiling now, Anatole? You are a failure of a Knight and a leader. You are no hero, you only have the appearance of one. Nashoba was right, you are just a pretender.”

The word bites deep, deeper than I thought they would. He takes a step forward and his claw-tipped hands spread with animalistic fury. Oh, yes, you hypocrite, I can sting too.

“Bring her back on board and confine her to her quarters.” Anatole says with a voice strained with anger.

I dodge Alaric’s hand on my way up. The shaman’s body has disappeared in the current and it is too late for me to do anything about it. One more debt to be repaid.

The future is uncertain. Revenge isn’t. When I am ready, I will find this man and kill him myself. I will add his essence to my garden and every night for a year, I shall pass by his kneeling statue and repeat the word that wounded his pride.

Pretender.

66. ... un alligator se tapit.

The veil of thorns parts. I move past the fog with all the speed I can muster, not believing my own instincts. For a moment, I see nothing, hear nothing, yet I do not slow. Eventually, the mist fades and I find myself in a clearing. Wheat and wildflowers cover it in a vivid cushion upon which a gigantic tortoise is resting. She is taller than I am, even with her legs splayed on the side. A figure leans against the marked shell with a relaxed posture and an easy smile. He is young again, with lean muscles and the eternally mismatched clothes.

I stop in the middle, even more surprised. There is sun on my skin. Sun. Not the unforgiving fire that keeps me hidden and afraid, real, honest, July sun. I raise my head to see an endless sky of azure and lift a hand to cover the glare of the golden orb.

“A gift from me to you, as an apology for not keeping in touch.”

I am crying. Thirty years. Thirty long years and now this memory that I will keep and cherish, untainted by the transformation.

“I would let you get a tan if I could, Daughter of Thorn and Hunger. Unfortunately, we are on a schedule. My friend here cannot extend my stay for too long.”

“How are you here? You are…”

“Dead. Yes.”

Immediately, guilt makes me bend my head.

“Your body…”

“… was fished out of the river by my son two minutes after falling in, and given a proper funeral. Of course, I would not come alone, nor let an alligator snack on my most excellent features. How could I let that happen? Don’t you know? I can…”

“… see the future. Of course.”

I chuckle merrily. I was right not to attack Anatole and now I no longer have cause for regrets.

I will still kill him though.

“What did you mean by pretender?”

The tortoise snorts and Nashoba’s smile fades, his expression turning serious.

“We do not have time, I’m afraid. You can get that story elsewhere. I came because I have to tell you about your dreams. Of the future.”

“I only had one since arriving in Marquette.”

“It matters not how often you have them, only that the possibility exists. You had a seed of potential that would not have awakened while you were a Mortal, and a vampire’s ability to grow such skills is immensely stunted. But there is a loophole, so to speak. As a Devourer, you can take the essence of seers and prophets and use it to develop your own. You will need it.”

“Can I force dreams? I think I did before. I saw the day battle at Black Harbor.”

“That was a vision of the present, of events happening less than a mile away, and in which you were heavily involved. Other visions will be harder. As a general rule, you want to rely on mundane means as they are more reliable. The best use you can make of it is to keep an open mind and follow the current when it catches you. Do not fall into a trap of counting on them. It is not your nature to be a seer yourself, but let fate give you a helping hand and set you on the right course.”

“Why do I need it?”

Nashoba smiles sadly.

“The world is changing faster than ever, and it will change faster still. Conflicts that have spanned millennia will soon find a conclusion. Yes, I am referring to the race between those two, and yes, there are more. Unless you and a few others rise up to the task, the planet will die in less than two centuries.”

“Hold on, less than two centuries?! Really?”

Nashoba grows taller and his eyes shine like stars. His voice sounds like a choir of singers speaking in unison.

“Darkness, ash and thin air.”

As quickly as it came, the moment is gone.

“That is all I see, daughter of Thorn and Hunger. This is my burden. I pass it on to you now. It will not come now and it will not come quick, but make no mistake. The end is nigh, unless someone keeps it at bay.”

I step back and pick a tulip. Its petals are red and silky.

“You forget that I am weak. My sire killed a Lord without trying and his Mother could probably unmake me with a gesture. Can I really make a difference? Can the World be saved?”

“Perhaps.”

He winces.

“My time has come. Remember what I said. Build your strengths, prepare, and when the time comes, step up to the challenge.”

“Fair enough. One last thing?”

Nashoba places his hand on my shoulder. The touch is soft and intimate, it conveys more emotions than a book could.

“No, we cannot meet again. I do not know where you will go when your time comes, but it is not my destination. I am sorry.”

The tortoise puffs again. The world fades around me.

“Farewell, my friend. And good luck.”

The mist returns. I am once more in my garden. I decide to stroll along the garden, between hidden paths and statues. I try to forget what I know for sure happened. I refuse to consider it.

He lied when he said perhaps.

No, he was probably wrong.

Probably.

I wake up to a ceiling of lacquered wood. Jimena’s cabin.

I expected spartan furniture aboard. Instead, each vampire-occupied room is lined with chocolate-coloured planks varnished and polished to a lustre, with assorted chairs, table, and cabinet. There are no windows and we are at the bottom, behind several layers of reinforced doors. Between those precautions and the guards, it would take an immense effort to eliminate the squad.

To kill us, one would need to catch up to us, board us, and fight through well-trained and well-armed guards. Then, they would need to escape as the men have instructions to scuttle us if it looks like the battle is lost. The intruders would have to dive and recover the sunk sarcophagus through the wreck and then blow them up before night comes. A daunting prospect.

Despite those many measures, the most secure defence of the ship is still its anonymity. The steamboat carries carefully vetted goods and people aboard. It appears, for all intents and purposes, like any other ship sailing this great river. Truly, we are in good hands. The luxury is just an added bonus.

I sit up and look around. Jimena’s fortified coffin is at the side of the bed, and the woman herself is reading, already fully dressed. I am only wearing a modest shift to sleep.

“Good evening, sister,” I say.

The poor woman frowns and her hands flex on her book, the claws scratching the cover. Her lips draw into a line.

“Enough,” I add with a smile, “I told you it is fine.”

“And I still disagree. I should have been here.”

I stand up and shake my head, giving up on the argument.

“Do we have any plans for today?”

“No. It will still take one day at our current speed to reach our destination. I suppose I can tell you now, we are going to New Orleans.”

I stop in my tracks.

“Fret not, I told you this was not related to you in any way.”

“You did. Since I have nothing to do, I was wondering if you were willing to answer a few questions…”

“Naturally. We can start here, then we should go outside at nightfall. If I enjoyed being cooped up like this, I would have become a nun.”

I make full use of this opportunity to learn more about my world, or what will be my world if I can finally stop being delayed.

There are about one hundred and twenty vampires on the continent, an extremely low number for such a large territory. Half of them renounced their allegiance while the others are autonomous branches of existing clans, bound to the rules created by the Speaker, Constantine.

The man himself is an intriguing character. Jimena describes him as a talented mage versed in several schools, a rarity among our kind. As a Progenitor of his own bloodline, he was a master upon first waking up and had immediate access to singular amounts of essence.

This, combined with his personal guard, allowed him to enforce rules that the European clans agreed to. Jimena reveals that it was much more profitable for them to set up the New World as a neutral ground where clans could peacefully make money, rather than cross the ocean and dedicate great resources to subduing a Progenitor, just for the privilege of being piled on back home by competitors exploiting their weakness.

As for his bloodline powers, no one knows for sure what they are, and he has yet to sire a spawn. All she knows is that he dislikes bureaucracy and politics, preferring research which might explain how Anatole managed to get the kill order out of him. For all his apparent leadership flaws, the Accords are still an exemplary framework. Under their light rules, clans have a margin of liberty for expansion and covert actions while large scale conflict is heavily restricted.

I am surprised that such an ass.. such a person could create good laws and fail to implement them until I remember that the gap between being good at theory and simply being good is an abyss.

Jimena then goes on to explain that the Cadiz, Ekon, Lancaster, and Roland clans have territories while the others have yet to come. There are less than ten Lords and Ladies, which again, is very small. When prompted, she informs me that the difference between them and the rank of Master is the ability called Magna Arqa. It apparently channels our essence in a pure expression of power that breaks the rules of reality. Each power is expressed differently and reflects the personality and skills of its wielder.

On top of that, Lords usually have access to soul weapons, which I learn are the vampire’s crystallized essence, given form by a crafter. There are only a dozen such crafters in the world and they are untouchable. No vampire will raise a hand against them, and they can travel everywhere even in time of war without fear. I inform Jimena that I saw Suarez use his power.

“I know,” she answers with a smile, “he told me all about it. His power makes a few of his strikes unstoppable. Incidentally, there is a Roland lord whose power makes him invincible for a short period. There are standing bets as to what will happen if they clash in battle.”

“I bet the world will break.”

“Silly woman,” she scoffs, “how would you collect on that bet, then?”

I learn more about Masters next. Now that I can manipulate my essence, there is something I can do that I never considered.

“You can sire a spawn, though I would strongly advise against it. Not only would it be poorly received, but it would weaken you for a very long time. The older you get and the more concentrated your essence is. The more powerful the essence, the less time you need to recover from siring someone.”

“How is it even done?”

“Once you have made your choice, you can let your instincts guide you or so I have been told. You concentrate your essence in a few droplets of blood which your spawn must drink three nights in a row. The process is highly unpleasant, though it has a few advantages such as keeping the recipient alive through diseases and wounds that will kill most mortals.”

I shiver. Agony, cold, thirst. I push the memories away.

“I am sorry.”

“It is nothing,” I force myself to say. Becoming a Master did not erase all scars. Even my cold mind still reels from remembering those nights.

“Ahem, yes, in any case, once the process is started, it will end with a drone or a corpse. Or rarely, as a fledgling I suppose. Ah, it is night, let us take a stroll along the gangway, sister!”

We link arms like the best of friends and enjoy the summer evening. I used to do that with Constanza when I was still human. She is a grandmother now. I could even take a look at her, if we pass by… No. I will not. Not while Anatole is around.

We have a pleasant time, standing at the fore and looking out to the shore, its sleepy villages and budding farms, whispering in low voices about newly created spawns and the few newcomers who landed recently, until a distraction offers itself. Two gentlemen walk up behind us, confer in low voice about who should court whom before politely accosting us. Jimena and I exchange knowing smiles.

“Good evening, ladies. It is such a pleasure to meet good company. Are you enjoying the view?” asks the first, a suave man with an auburn mustache and a top hat, of all things.

“We needed fresh air; my friend was a bit out of sorts,” I answer with mischievousness.

“Yes, I felt light-headed and I would not want to go down on my friend.”

I cough into my elbow to mask my surprise. I have spent enough time in a brothel to get acquainted with that specific expression. Note to self, never try to tease Jimena. She plays dirty.

“If I may, perhaps you should sit down as well,” adds the second, broad-chested and sporting impressive sideburns in an old-fashioned suit.

“I apologize if I am stepping out of bounds,” he continues, “I am a medical practitioner. It comes with the job.”

“Oh, not to worry,” I add, “she’s healthy as can be.”

“My family doctor says I could live forever,” Jimena deadpans.

“You two seem very close. Oh, but where are my manners? I am Francis Levine and my doctor friend here is Frederick Schuyler. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“The pleasure is ours. I am Ariane, and my friend is Jimena.”

“No last name?” asks Francis with a smile that shows he does not feel rebuked.

“For now,” I answer.

“You two are quite close,” Frederick observes.

“We are…” I reply.

“Like sisters!” Jimena adds.

We spend a few minutes in banter, the two friends asking us questions and us dodging them with an air of mystery, until Francis exaggeratedly shivers.

“It’s a bit chilly, are you not cold?” Francis asks with a convincing expression of concern.

“Now that you mention it, the front of the boat is a tad windy. Come Ariane, we would not want to catch consumption.”

“My blood runs cold at the very thought.”

We have been competing with puns since the start of the conversation. I will admit that Jimena is winning. Quoth that witty Frenchman Victor Hugo, puns are farts of the mind, and shame wars with amusement within my heart.

“Say, how about we continue this conversation in our cabin? We have a bottle of…”

“Francis!” exclaims Frederick, shocked, “this is entirely inappropriate.”

“We do not mind, we are convinced that you will not do anything untoward,” answers Jimena. I nod in assent. Frederick looks a bit flustered and possibly a bit scandalized, though he is too polite to object. Together, we make our way down.

Half an hour and a pleasant meal later, we leave the two resting comfortably with an empty bottle on the table and extremely fuzzy memories. Aisha is waiting outside for us. In civilian clothes, she wears a surprisingly colourful dress with middle-eastern influence and a heavy shawl with which she masks her lower face. It sometimes shifts enough to show unmarred skin. Whatever causes her to hide herself, it is not disfigurement. She bows elegantly and addresses Jimena.

“Knight, Anatole requests your presence in the command room. There have been developments. Do not be alarmed, I will keep your ward company.”

An elegant way to tell her to get moving and that she will be my watchdog. I appreciate the politeness, if nothing else. Jimena frowns but she cannot disobey a direct summons. At least, not without reasons.

“You will be with Anatole,” I remind her. Realizing that she will be keeping an eye on the cause of my woes, she relents and leaves with one last warning look towards her colleague.

I almost jump and claw off the petite woman’s face when she grabs my hand. Her eyes are wide and convey a sense of urgency.

“Quick, I don’t have much time. I know you have no cause to trust me, yet I beg you. Please follow me!”

And then she drags me through an alley and down a set of stairs below deck. We pass by a patrol of guards who ignore us after a quick glance and to a smoking room, mercifully empty at this late hour. She practically slams the door closed and locks it.

The stench of cold cigar is omnipresent, though the leather couches and warm tones are pleasant. She turns to me and bow deeply, to my surprise.

“Forgive me. Our window is short.”

Her tone is clipped and her voice, lower than I remember and a bit coarse.

“I must present you with two gifts.”

“But why…”

“There is no time. I am Aisha of the Amaretta. I will help you. Set you on the path. Now onto the first gift.”

She takes out a sharp silver knife. AMBUSH. KILL. I hiss and step back, still uncertain. Aisha does not even spare me a glance. She digs the tip of her blade into her arm and slices along the artery. Before I can properly react, she bows low again and presents me with the bleeding wound.

What is she… SUPPLICANT. Can vampires even be… OF COURSE SHE IS A SUPPLICANT. BLOOD OFFERED FOR AN AUDIENCE. DRINK THE OFFERING. LET IT NOT BE SPOILED.

I bend forward and lick the wound, all caution thrown to the wind. Power overwhelms me and drags me under.

We meditate, all together under Amaretta herself. She will never stop but we come and go as we are needed, as we are sent away on missions or to recover. She needs us to help her focus and she needs us to alter the world, to carefully influence it for a better outcome. Once, it used to be for our own development and power, others be damned. Now, it is for survival.

The world as it is, a complex network of information expanding horizontally.

The world as it could be and will be, a great pattern of data expanding outward and upward, to infinity. Instants turning to seconds turning to minutes. Flows so dense and complex, we only perceive it in hues and ever-changing shadows. For us, following it is as impossible as predicting a pattern in the flames of a roaring bonfire. For her, it is the wave on which she sails and we are her helpers.

It is beautiful. We could lose ourselves forever in the myriad of futures that exist and flourish and die as potential becomes certainty, and certainty becomes fact. She chides some of us who fumble, let others go and be lost forever. Is it punishment, or reward? The more time passes and the more I have doubts.

The tapestry is shrinking. The infinity of time and space is closing on us. It is not a sign that the world shall perish, but that we will. Something, or somebody, is clipping our wings. Week after week, month after month, our future narrows and dies.

For hours now, I have been following our Mother on a specific task. She sorts through strands as I do my best to assist her focus. Suddenly, a pair of vivid green eyes turn to me and my concentration shatters.

“Go West, past the ocean. Seek the spawn of the Devourer. Set her on our path.”

I gasp and open my eyes. I sit in a circular amphitheatre in the heart of our sanctum. On the rafters, other Masters sit behind the vestals who sired them and in the middle of it all is an open casket. A prone form lies with, surrounded by fresh lilies. Her skeletal face is at peace, or so I thought. As I watch, a tiny droplet of blood the color of midnight pearls at the edge of her aquiline nose. I leave the room with a hurried step.

I pull back.

“Wow. That was… abstract.”

I have no better words for what I felt. The sense she used is not something I possess. The memory of using it as naturally as if I had been born with it is disconcerting. I do not have the time to consider it further. The small Knight collapses in my arms.

SUPPLICANT.

“Speak.”

Aisha gasps through her shawl and grabs my shoulder with her hand. It takes her a few moments to recover. When she does, she stands back up at a respectful distance, as if nothing had happened.

“I shall teach you how to control and develop the foresight you have. I shall speak for you during the eventual trial that will set you free. In return, I ask you for one favor.”

“Do tell.”

“I need you to prevent my death, which will happen two nights from now.”

Ah.

That is surprising.

“I cannot promise to save you. I can promise that I will do my utmost to do so.”

I will not make false promises like I did to that redhead under the governor’s palace.

“That is enough,” she says. She silently walks to a couch and collapses in it with catlike grace. Outside, a trio of drunkards tries to open the door before giving up. We wait in silence until their laughs fade in the background.

“I suppose I should tell you more. We have been summoned because all contacts were lost with clan Lancaster.”

What?

“Please, stop smiling so openly,” she scowls, “the possible loss of our kind is not to be taken so lightly.”

“I respectfully disagree.”

It looks like she wants to argue then thinks better of it. I don’t care about the Lancaster being vampires. They could be talking unicorns from Atlantis that I would still dump the whole lot of them into the nearest volcano, given the chance. I would sell Melusine to the order of Gabriel for three pennies and a rusty fork, and I don’t even eat. Hell, if I were in a room with Moor, Nirari, Semiramis and two pistols, I would shoot Moor twice.

Aisha continues her briefing with a noticeably darker mood.

“They were in conflict with a major spellcaster group called the White Cabal. We have so far ignored the Cabal, as they are defensive in nature. They mostly track down rogue spellcasters and they are surprisingly effective against the Order of Gabriel. It appears that the Lancaster drew their ire, due to their… aggressive recruiting practice.”

“Let me guess. They abducted one of their members and turned them?”

“As far as we can tell, not just any member. A well-appreciated enforcer and defender. The Lancaster expected the Cabal to lay low, instead, they rallied and brought the fight to New-Orleans. That was a week ago. Since then, we do not know what happened. It is not unusual for a House to go dark during an all-out fight, but never for that long. Constantine asked us to move in just in case. His caution proved warranted.”

Ooooh, go dark! This is all so very mysterious and exciting, and the Lancasters could even be dead!

“Could this Cabal truly have taken out the entire den?”

“Unlikely, but possible. Some Houses grow complacent and many of Lady Moor’s resources are nothing but rejects.”

I frown.

“Present company excluded, of course,” she adds hurriedly.

Well, she’s not wrong. It just stings when someone else says it.

“Pray tell, do you know how you will die?”

“I do not. Only that it will be violent. You appear in the strands where I survive, so your contribution is required.”

“Fair enough. So, no matter what there will be a fight?”

“It is inevitable, though the details are blurred.”

“Could you not just refuse to join?”

She glares coldly.

“Would you?”

“Of course not,” I reply with a smile. Well, this should be interesting. Let’s start with the most obvious.

“Say, Aisha, is there any way for you to conveniently have my weapons around when things go to hell?”

“I’ll see what I can do. In the meanwhile, take this.”

I stare at her offering.

“That… is a deck of cards.”

“Yes.”

“Texas hold’em? Three-card brag? Omaha?”

Aisha tsks and lightly slaps my hand.

“This is not a standard deck.”

“I can play Tarot, no worries.”

“Will you stop this!” she hisses. “This is a vision deck. It contains twelve pairs of opposite concepts. For some reason, it is easier to guess what you will draw. We use this to train our fledgelings. Now, what concept is this?” she says, drawing a card at random.

“Err. Vengeance.”

“It’s not even on the list!”

“How would I even know what’s on the list!” I hiss back. I realize that we are very close, fangs out. I am supposed to let her teach me. This is a part of our agreement that helps both of us. I made a commitment.

I pull back.

“Tell me what I am supposed to do.”

She sniffs disdainfully. I have not left the best of impressions. Neither did she.

“Do you know how to meditate?”

“Yes.”

“Try to do that and leave yourself open. I will present you with a card. Focus on the card and just the card, nothing else. When this works, you will be able to glimpse details of it. Just tell me those and we will see if this worked.”

Right. Nashoba said that distance, time and level of involvement all affect how easily I can see. The bloody thing is right in front of me, it’s the present and I can hardly be more involved. This will be child’s play.

Probably.

“You latched a tendril of essence to the card.”

“Should I stop?”

“No. Latching won’t help you read the card but it might help you focus. Go on.”

Card.

The card.

Card.

The world, in all its horizontal glory. The infinity of potential upward and beyond.

A crux. Two choices. One branches from immediate satisfaction, the other, from maturity. The second choice leads to a better path. I will need to act out of character. It will require-

“Forgiveness! Ow!”

I collapse forward. Aisha prevents me from hitting the floor by steadying me. I grab my head to ward off the beginning of a terrible migraine. Something sticky rolls to my lips.

“Forgiveness is not in the list, although I can tell you saw something. Come, let me guide you to your room. You need rest.”

I don’t know who I will have to forgive but if it’s Melusine, we’re all doomed.

67. Expect the unexpected.

The Sweet Sunrise docks without issue. Nobody challenges us as we walk down the gangway, which should not be happening. I was joking earlier, but perhaps it is true. They may all be dead. Without a word, the Knights and their staff form a small convoy and as we walk directly to the residence of the Lancaster clan, I do my best to hide my reaction.

I do not recognize the city.

The mix of blacks and whites is the same, and French is still prevalent, yet now German and Irish have joined the mix. Gas-powered lamps have popped up from the ground and added their unwavering light to the lanterns and candles, reflecting on the gold and silver of jewelry on wrists and earlobes. Fashions clash and compete in a carnival of colors. The smell of spice, alcohol and sweat has not changed, but it is now multiplied to match the tide of humanity clogging the streets, glad to be out after a day of suffocating heat. Only the architecture, showing hints of Spanish influence, has not changed so much yet.The city has grown and fattened formidably.

I knew that the world would move forward without me, yet being subjected to irrefutable proof of the march of time still troubles me. And now is not the time to lower my guard.

I trail behind the squad of Knights, with Jimena at my side and mortal workers at the back. I half-expected them to look like a military squad mid-operation, but it seems that my disdain for Anatole is clouding my judgement. They move seamlessly in and out of the flow of people. Anatole is the rich scion of a merchant family while Aisha is a meek girl on an errand. Alaric is the smiling rake, robbing hearts and catching the attention as he goes. Alec plays the role of the silent thug, on his way to ruin someone’s evening and quite possibly, their kneecaps. He does not need any acting skill for that.

They fit in.

Only someone who would know to look for them could identify them. They do not even walk at the same speed.

Without incident, we leave the Vieux Carré behind and walk to the outskirts. The night gradually takes back its right and the deafening din of people lowers to a murmur. We come across fewer people and those who look at us lower their eyes and scurry away. They have good instincts.

The Lancaster’s mansion is dark.

Anatole lifts a fist and after a quick series of signs, Aisha and Alaric disappear to the sides. Alec recovers a shield and axe from a crate. I check around. The last bystander is hurriedly deciding to change path.

Hey, all the vampires in the squad have a name that starts with an A! Truly, Jimena does not belong. She should quit this silly notion of upholding the law across the globe and join with me instead…

I am interrupted in my subversive thoughts when the rest of the team moves forward. As a prisoner they are not authorized to leave behind, I have received clear instructions on how to proceed. They can be summarized as follows.

Stay right behind

Don’t get in the way

In fact, don’t do anything

Also, shut up.

The language was a bit more flowery, but the meaning was clear.

As soon as we pass the outer gate and the manor proper is in view, I can tell that something has gone wrong. One of the double doors of the entrance lies slightly opened and there are visible traces of damage. I can smell a faint scent of old blood beneath the usual roses and cedar. Anatole signs again and the others move. They stop at the threshold, inspect it for traps and get in.

After a few moments, I join them.

I have never seen the main hall so deserted. The place is empty and smells of dust and a bit of rot. There are no lights. A lone decorative amphora lies on the door, smashed. The door to Baudouin’s study lies open.

The squad is somewhere, silently clearing the place. Their aura is masked and they are silent, so I am not sure where they went.

Slowly, I approach the study. I notice that the door has been forced.

The office is wrecked. Someone went through it with methodical violence. The bookshelves are empty, their contents spread on the ground. A spilled pot of ink made a stain that dripped on the carpet. All the paintings are on the ground. I notice that one of them was hiding a safe which is currently closed. It looks like somebody attempted to open it without success.

“You used to live here, yes?” asks a neutral voice. I school my reaction and turn to Anatole. The bastard crept up on me.

“I did, for about six months.”

“Can you think of any place where survivors might be hidden?”

Suddenly I am useful, and he is polite. I could inform him that he is welcome to find the nearest bundle of bayonets and sit on it, but I manage to control myself. The matter is serious.

“There is a panic room of sorts, behind the pantry.”

“Lead us there.”

I pass him by and make my way through the ground floor with the rest of the team in tow. Aisha and Alaric join us from the side alley, quickly signing what I assume is the code for “I ain’t found shit.” We move quickly and silently. Since I have the lead, I am extremely careful. There are no traps though. No steel lines drawn across the corridor, no hidden powder charges and no magic. Nothing.

What I do find are blood spots. People died here, but their corpses were disposed of.

I open the pantry door carefully after checking through the keyhole and sniffing it for good measure. I focused on my hearing in case somebody trapped it like that priest trapped his home back in Marquette. Still nothing. The pantry itself is well provisioned and from behind a cupboard, I hear breathing.

Something warns me and I move my shoulder before Anatole can touch it. I refrain from hissing. He is not looking at me but at the safe room. The squad carefully deploys while Alaric and Aisha remain in the corridor to guard the rear.

Anatole slowly slides the piece of furniture aside. It moves on prepared railings with little noise. Behind, we find an empty room and in it, one of the cattle in maid uniform sobbing uncontrollably. She stinks of old fear and sweat, she also relieved herself in one corner of the room. The stench is horrendous.

She disgusts me.

We make cattle by removing from them what we appreciate in humans. The irony of despising our own creations does not escape me.

The mewling human is still cowering as Anatole lights a lantern. She takes in his dark countenance and her tear-marked face turns ecstatic.

“Oh Master, Master, thank you!”

“Shhh. Tell me, what happened here?”

“Yes, yes of course. Where to start…”

“This place was attacked.”

“Ah, yes! The White Cabal found us. You know about them?”

“I do.”

“They assaulted during the day. The guards were quickly overwhelmed. Their vicious soldiers fought with no mercy. I was so scared!”

“Go on.”

“They killed Sophie. She forgot to lock herself, she was just slumbering in a bedroom upstairs.”

Hold on. There were seven Lancaster vampires here when I arrived. Eight if you count the one that died in the fortress. I killed Charlotte the fat sow when I escaped, and Lambert in Marquette. Sophie the nitwit died here. That only leaves Moor, Melusine, Wilburn the rapist and Harold the bully. By the Watcher, I’m halfway done! What an auspicious night!

“They failed to locate the others since the resting chambers can only be opened from the inside,” the cattle continues.

Defense of a vampire nest is always the same. The enemy attacks at dawn. They need to successfully overcome the mortal defenders and then locate the vampires. We always sleep beneath the ground so it takes wit to find us and explosives to reach us. Sometimes, the mortals will also set the building on fire to slow down the assault like they did at the vampire fortress. If the attackers fail to eliminate everyone in time, the Lords and Ladies wake up first and they are usually displeased at the intrusion. I am talking about ripping your limbs off and bludgeoning your friends to a pulp with it levels of miffed. Then, as time passes, the situation grows more dire. It is a race against time, one that the White Cabal lost.

People who attack a fortress during the night are simply suicidal.

“The mages escaped quickly when they realized they could not get at our Masters. They left the unarmed ones alive.”

How very humane of them. I will have to remember this weakness.

“At night, Lady Moor ordered the others to pursue the Cabal and exterminate them. One of her mercenaries successfully managed to track the retreating group to a small hamlet North-West of here called Triste Chasse. Melusine was put in charge because Lambert is still not back from hunting that deviant.”

A Lancaster calling me deviant? Pot, meet kettle. I hear Jimena scoff lightly at my side. Thank you for the support, sister!

“What about Lady Moor?” asks Anatole.

“After the others were gone, she evacuated the building with Baudouin, the new fledgling and a few others. I don’t know where they went, I swear!”

The squad leader is silent. I can tell he disapproves of a Lady leaving this insult unanswered. I can only assume that he and Moor are not acquainted, or he would know that she does not have a speck of honor. She does, however, care about her reputation. There must be more at play.

Anatole does not react at the mention of a fledgling. He already knows of her poaching activities.

“Why are you still here?” Anatole asks.

“I knew you would come back. I am here to serve, Master!” the cattle says with an empty smile. Her eyes are full of blind adoration. Most likely, she is too far gone to live by herself.

“Of course. You have done well.”

I can tell what is coming. All my instincts are screaming of it, yet I still raise a brow when the Knight decapitates her in one smooth summoning of his soul sword. The smile is still there on the detached head, manic and strained.

Anatole is expedient. I am not sure if I approve of the waste. On the other hand, she would have slowed us down.

“We follow protocol. Then we go after the attack group,” he continues.

The others nod, and we depart.

It turns out that protocol dictates that any compromised lair must be purged. As we leave, I turn to take one last glimpse at the blazing inferno engulfing the manor, enjoying every second of it. The devouring fire cleanses Lancaster presence and my memories from this place, the flames climbing up to the heaven in a great roar. They cast strange shadows on surroundings that used to be familiar and that I am now leaving behind.

Aaaaaah, yesssss. Enemy things set on fire.

Beautiful.

I could watch this all night. It’s only missing a screaming Lancaster or two roasting on a pit to make it even more interesting. I could also laugh maniacally. Fortunately, I am a mature and devious Master vampire and I have no need of those artifices to feel satisfaction.

It would still be nice though. Ah well.

Our steps carry us North West through swampy ground and slums resulting from rapid expansion. Both the Mississippi to our South and Lake Pontchartrain to our North conspire to make the air humid and oppressing. Our mortal followers fan themselves despite the late hour. Our guide, a local contact we picked up near the pier, leads the way. Sometimes, he turns around as if to make sure we were still here and flinches when some of us are. The squad patrols along our small convoy by group, so when the poor man checks on us, he never sees the same faces. The others come and go without a noise. After two hours at a brisk pace we come in full view of our destination.

Triste Chasse is a dump. It also means “sad hunt” in French which I hope is not prophetic. No more than two hundred people live here at any time, piled in squalid houses centered around a central pair of workshops and a small church. Our guide informs us that the city provides cheap ceramics and tablecloth for the whole region. I will admit that Marquette was not much to look at, but even I can tell this place reeks of misery, of people barely eking out a living. There is no paint, only a few decorations, and piles of refuse litter the place. I smell the stench of rubbish and filth even under the acrid scent of smoke.

That is the other important thing. Triste Chasse was the scene of a recent battle, of which traces can be clearly seen. Plumes of black fumes dot the city. More indicative of vampire presence, the church is missing, presumably collapsed.

“Form a camp. Hide,” Anatole orders, and the mortal assistants move to the side of the road with well-practiced ease. In the meanwhile, the Knights pick up their gear and leave for the seclusion of a thicket to get changed.

Ah.

I now realize that I can never join their rank. Ever.

Now dressed in their armor and fully equipped, they spread out and disappear into the dense woods surrounding our destination. Jimena, Aisha and I are left behind, advancing at a sedate pace. The Vestal has her staff out and I feel magic coming from her, though it’s extremely subtle. I use the down time to lean towards my sister.

“So, hrm, do you always get naked in front of each other when you don your armors? Just like that?”

“By the Eye, you ogled us didn’t you, you little pervert.”

“Did not!”

“Alaric has such a perfect butt…” she adds dreamily.

“Well, it’s rather nice I suppose,” I answer before slapping my mouth. Jimena does not say anything. Her “gotcha” grin speaks for her.

I got manipulated by Jimena of all people! Arg! I really need to focus or I’ll never manage to save Aisha tonight. I keep silent and look around until we enter the village proper. The outer ring of houses has been barricaded. Furniture and bags of half-finished cloth are in the way, yet there are no signs of violence here. The entire setting is bizarre. It looks like the city was ready for a siege, but no one warned the authorities. It could be Lancaster influence at work or else, something more sinister.

A hoot sounds to our right. We leave the first of three concentric circles of houses behind and move towards the sound. We also encounter our first victim.

“A White Cabal combatant,” Jimena comments.

The dead man is set against a wall, head bowed. He wears a white jacket stained with blood caused by multiple chest wounds, delivered with a blade. Sloppy work, that. A broken musket lies by his side. He does not have any gauntlet that I can tell.

“Not a mage then,” I whisper.

“Not all of the White Cabal can cast. Their ranks also contain foot soldiers. Do not underestimate them, their training is comprehensive and they are dedicated.”

I nod noncommittally. I rarely underestimate my opponents to start with.

We go on and I keep looking around, searching for any signs of hostility. I find none. What I do find are blood tracks. A lot of people died here, yet only a few bodies have been left behind. They could have run out of time to clear out everything, I suppose. My unease grows as the strangeness of the situation only increases. There is a lot here that makes little sense, and so I keep searching around for hints. I inspect every house we go by for runes, in case our foes managed to hide the spell’s auras. I check every window for movement in case they successfully masked their presence. So far, nothing.

It takes us only a minute to reach a taller house closer to the center, moving low and fast. Our destination is grander than any other edifice we saw so far. Why, the planks are even a bit varnished! The proprietor attempted to imitate Victorian house architecture with modest means and poor judgment. The resulting horror is what I would expect if a skinwalker could turn into a building and were caught mid transformation. It even smells a bit similar.

There really is no accounting for taste.

Shaking my head at this embarrassment, I follow the other two inside. The rest of the team has converged into a living room of sorts. Honestly, I would just call it a surviving room instead, it is far more fitting. The furniture is made from wobbly planks, the couches are slightly decrepit and there is a dented tea set on a table near the entrance.

As I enter, my nose revolts. At least half a dozen people died here, less than three hours ago. The blood is still sticky.

And in the middle of the room, there is a conspicuous pile of ash.

Four gone, three to go.

“Report,” says Anatole. The other members speak in turn. I learn that all the houses are empty, that there are tracks going out of the town’s only road, to the North, so the population was presumably evacuated recently. The church is completely gone, but the pot factory still stands, and its entrance and few windows are heavily warded. Of the Lancasters, there are no signs.

I do not pay much attention as the others exchange ideas on how to breach the workshop. If somebody is going to kill Aisha, taking us by surprise is still the best solution. I focus and look outside through windows.

And I find something.

“Excuse me,” I say, and the Knights turn to me. Before Anatole can tell me off, I point at a nearby house and say: “I would like to inspect this ruin.”

They all turn to see where I point at. My target is a half-collapsed home near the main road to the North, slightly closer to the center of the town. The destroyed church is right next to it.

“I’ll go with her. I want to look at their defenses,” says Jimena. I am once more grateful for her continuous help.

Anatole lets us go without a word and the squad resumes their preparations, no doubt happy to see the back of us outsiders. Now that being an absolute tit interferes with his chances at survival, Anatole has been unusually amenable. I shall enjoy it while it lasts.

Jimena follows me out. We move like shadows from cover to cover. At the edge of the road, she stops me.

“You do your thing; I want to look at the workshop.”

I nod and return my attention to the place I chose while she climbs a tree to get a better view.

I did not choose the place at random. Nothing happened so far, and the city is empty. The Lancasters no longer have the numbers to kill Aisha, so the White Cabal are the most likely culprits, especially since they killed at least one of their attackers. If I want to know more and get some measure of warning, I need to gather information and this is the best place to start.

The edifice in front of me shows extensive signs of battle. The logs that form its walls are pockmarked with bullet impacts and singed by more than a few spells. A White Cabal corpse lies near the entrance with half his head torn off, killed as he was getting in.

I move across the road and through the door. The smell warns me in advance, but the spectacle is still impressive. Inside, I find at least four tracks of blood where bodies have been dragged out.

There is also a pile of ash. Five down, two to go.

I am just a little bit worried now.

Besides the ash, only one body is left, and he is not White Cabal.

Decked in a leather armor dyed black, the man is young and athletic, with a short mop of raven hair. He fell against a pile of rubble then to the side. The cause of death is a bullet to the temple made by a small caliber, one of the many wounds on his person. I count three blade cuts and another two firearm shots besides the last. One that broke his left arm and another that grazed his flank. He went down fighting in a puddle of his own blood.

When I see him, I feel an inexplicable sense of loss. I push the silly emotion away, but it slithers back into my mind and settles there, increasing my apprehension. Something happened here. Something bad. I need to understand.

I notice that on top of an elaborate rapier, the fallen warrior also has a mage gauntlet of exquisite facture. A patch on his shoulder bears the stylized “L” that Lady Moor used as a seal for her important correspondence. A quick inspection reveals nothing else. No notebook, no convenient farewell letter.

Frustrated, I close my eyes and open myself to other senses. The stench is nothing unusual. Blood. Sweat. Feces. Spent gunpowder. The night is as silent as it can be in the middle of summer.

A pulse of magic comes from behind the man. At first, it was so weak that I dismissed it as a remnant of the numerous spells cast here, but I should have known better. I should have recognized the cold aura. I do now.

I pick the corpse under the arm and lightly lift it, before placing it carefully on his back. On a whim, I close the dark eyes one last time and position both hands on his chest. This simple gesture makes me feel better and I now realize why. The man fought to the end, and with his dying breath, covered another body. A shock of red hair and pale arm dotted with freckles emerge from the rubble, previously hidden by the fallen warrior.

Melusine, saved by the sacrifice of her Vassal.

I remove the heaviest logs of wood crushing her body, uncovering it. Her petite figure is covered by the female equivalent of the Lancaster leather armor. I pull a few sharp spikes from her body, flinging them away with droplets of black blood. It takes only a few moments for her regeneration to kick in, as the wounds were not too serious. A caving in her skull pops back with a nasty sound and she blinks awake.

She takes a deep breath in and whines in a broken voice. Uncaring of her surroundings, she crawls on the ground then on her knees towards the prone form. She keeps trying to breathe and say things, but only dry coughs emerge from her tortured throat. When she has reached her vassal, she sits on the side. With a shaky hand, she approaches a wound in his chest, then another, recoiling every time as if worried to hurt him. Her eyes finally find the hole in his head.

The shaky hand collapses into a fist, with which she weakly hits his shoulder. Then, she pushes on the body and tries to make him move, show signs that there is still life.

It takes a few seconds before she gives up. Her head dips until they touch forehead to forehead, and she wails. Her voice is weak and broken, so low that even Jimena should not be able to hear it. For a few minutes, she only cries, suffocates, then cries more. Her claws hold the fallen Vassal’s armor in a death grip.

Eventually, she stops.

When her face comes up, blood drips freely from her eyes and on the dead man.

Finally, she notices me. Her eyes find mine and she chuckles. It is not the laugh of amusement, but of someone who has gone beyond grief and emerged on the side of madness. No words are spoken. She bends her head, silent.

I understand yesterday’s intuition.

Forgiveness through shared loss.

This is what this is about, and the true question. Can I forgive her for who she is and admit that we now share something in common?

Is this it?

Preposterous.

Absolutely ridiculous.

Should I forget my nature and who I am for a so-called better outcome? No. The very notion goes against all I have done, against everything I am. We Nirari do not forgive. We get even. No amount of pain and suffering will erase the debt, unless we inflict it ourselves.

With that said, there are several ways to get even and I do believe it is time for the smart one.

“As amusing as it is to see you crawl on the ground, I must interrupt you,” I say.

“What do you want?” she croaks without much conviction.

“For starters, tell me what happened here.”

“What didn’t happen… By the Eye… Arthur…”

I seize her neck between claws and press down in a gesture of domination that, with delicious irony, she taught me herself. She hisses but does not resist.

“What do you know?” she asks, panting slightly from the pain and the loss of her bond.

“You came here with Harold, Wilburn and your Vassal. You fought the White Cabal.”

“Yes. They had prepared the terrain well. We pushed them all the way back to the pot workshop and they barricaded themselves inside after we destroyed the church. It was Arthur’s idea to scorch it from afar, and it worked well. The holy ground was supposed to be their last redoubt. They did manage to kill Wilburn in a house. He disobeyed my orders. They lured him with a woman.”

That disgusting swine. Good riddance.

“Hold on,” I add, “why is Lady Moor not with you?”

“A trick. To make it short, I was on the verge of having her recalled to Manchester on charges of embezzlement. It wasn’t much, but it would have allowed me to take control of the local branch. The shrewd harpy must have guessed my intentions, because she captured and turned a talented White Cabal enforcer, only to send the rest of us to deal with the aftermath. She fled, didn’t she?”

“She did.”

“Bitch. Well, it doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing does.”

“Focus. How did the Cabal beat you? Do they have special weapons?”

Melusine scoffs, and sniffs, then unsuccessfully tries to wipe the blood from her cheeks.

“Stupid girl. Did I not tell you? We beat them, cut off their retreat. They found temporary refuge in the workshop.”

“If they did not defeat you, then who did? Who killed Harold and your Vassal?” I ask with no small amount of curiosity. Instead of replying, Melusine points a bloodstained claw to the North, towards the road.

A red light grows and grows there, increasing in intensity by the second. Soon, the sky is lit as if by a crimson dawn that does not reach the stars. The source comes into view. An army of torches lights the night with a vengeful radiance, some others move to the side and ignite the outer barricades, covered in cloth. From all around us, fires burn until the entire perimeter around the city is but one gigantic inferno, and from the North, the army of embers crests the edge of an incline, and its carriers come into view. At the forefront, sturdy men wield shields covered with crosses and silvery pikes, forming a wall. Behind, ranks upon ranks of musketeers in the uniform of the order of Gabriel march forward. They are led by a man on a horse wielding a battle standard upon which a winged archangel slays a horde of demons with cleansing light. His voice rings true.

“For if God did not spare angels when they sinned, but sent them to hell,

If he did not spare the ancient world when he brought the flood on its ungodly people

But allowed Noah to live, and seven others, and rescued Lot from heathens,

Then the Lord knows to rescue the godly from trial and to hold the unrighteous for punishment on the day of the judgement!

And that day has come!”

“Amen,” a hundred throats answer in unison.

I turn back to Melusine’s prostrate form, surprised that I managed not to gawk.

“That would be them,” she says laconically.

Well, shit.

68. Dies Irae

I cast a last glance at the army arrayed before us and return my attention to Melusine. I note in passing that she feels like a Master now, though weakened as she is, it is hard to tell for sure.

“They trapped you too?”

“Hard to believe, is it not? They managed to kill Harold. I heard his screams before part of the house decided to fall on me.”

“I just… how? How did it come to this?”

“You are so young, still. You believe the Order to be nothing more than a nuisance. They always managed to kill some of us every decade or so, back on the old continent. We cull them but they always come back. Always. What you see out there is the cream of the crop of this generation. They were probably after the Cabal and caught us as well, and now, you.”

“How can it be? How did they know we would be here?”

“They were probably not expecting you. They pulled out recently after their assault on the  workshop failed, probably to regroup before delivering the last blow. They took their dead with them. I imagine that they are delighted that their snare would catch yet another prey. As for knowing of your coming, you probably marched through the road like we did. It takes but one scout to warn them of our advance and they have plenty of people willing to take that role. Arrogance was my mistake. Carelessness. And now…”

Melusine takes a deep, shivering breath. I remember that it helps with the feeling of suffocation. For a while.

“We thought that with three vampire clans present, they would not dare approach the city. They are fanatical, not stupid. They must have thought they could get away with it and with lady Moor gone, circumstances prove them right.”

She grabs her sternum and hiss softly, in pain. If we fight now, she will be mostly useless.

If I let her live, that is.

“Whatever happened to Lambert? He was supposed to go after you?”

I press her neck until my talons draw blood. Her breath accelerates and she closes her eyes to deal with the pain.

“I ask the questions.”

“Yes…”

“Now we are in an interesting situation. I could kill you and the others who came with me would be none the wiser. Or, you can make it worth my while, and I could be convinced to make some efforts to ensure that you get through this ordeal in a form that doesn’t fit in a funerary vase.”

“I… I want vengeance. I don’t want to die just yet. What did you have in mind?”

I had been thinking about something that would help me in the long run, and I believe I have just the thing. Melusine listens to my three conditions, even smiling cruelly at the end.

“Yes, I believe that would be adequate. And well-deserved by all. Very well, I consent, and I have to admit, I expected you to demand something truly demeaning of me.”

“We do not all enjoy seeing our opponents crawl at our feet like the miserable worms they are.”

She stares.

“Alright, I do also enjoy seeing my opponents crawl at my feet like the miserable worms they are, but since you still have access to resources, and because you are one of the most devious, spiteful, and vindictive painted trollops I ever had the displeasure of coming across, I figured I would at least try not to give you undue causes for revenge.”

“That’s more like it. And don’t you worry, you mongrel-born Nirari meathead. Among those I wish to flay alive, you do not even make the top five.”

“Excellent.”

With our truce firmly in place, I drag the filthy degenerate harlot up and we calmly make our way back to the Knights. The first condition is that she will let me have her blood once she has recovered, something I need to demand a lot more often if I ever hope to get powerful enough to stand against the mightiest Lords. The second is that she will help me in battle, once, in the moment of my choosing. The last is for the hearing to gain House status.

I have no doubt that I will be acquitted, so I require no help for my trial as a rogue, but the hearing will take place just a bit later and Jimena made it clear, in no uncertain terms, that the Lancaster were a crafty lot. Even if they do not reclaim me, they could still demand compensation for my loss and this is not something I want to waste time on.

We cross the street at a sedate pace, not trying to hide. The workshop harboring the Cabal remnants is not in view anyway, while the order troops have blocked the only path out of the fire, content to let us roast. There is barely any wind so it should take some time for the flames to reach us but the air is already heavy with smoke and, more unsettling, the smell of roasting meat. While we move, I think. We need a plan to get out. The order blocks the only access and they will shoot and pray away whoever gets close. Even the Knights would have difficulties breaking through that perfect setup. In fact, I believe Aisha will die if we try it. We need a way to cancel that advantage.

Jimena jumps down as we pass by her tree. Her expression is sombre and does not improve when she sees who I help limp along.

“Color me surprised.”

“Did not expect me to make it, did you?” asks Melusine with a raspy voice.

“I expected you to survive the mages, but not my blood sister’s wrath.”

Melusine’s eyes widen. What Jimena just did was to freely acknowledge our bond. It is a mark of support despite the political cost of doing so, something that genuinely pleases me. Ah, Jimena. You are so stupid. In a cute way.

“We came to an agreement.” I reassure her.

“Is that so? In any case, I have finished scouting the workshop though obviously it matters little now.”

“Does it?” I wonder.

Hmmm.

It could work.

“For now, we should return to the others. Time is short.”

“Yes, forget about dawn, we will be ash before two hours pass.”

Jimena and I drag the skank with us and find the squad where we left them. Anatole seems preoccupied, a sign of how serious the situation is.

“Ah, you are here at last. Who is this?” he asks, pointing at the weakened vampire between us.

“A survivor,” replies Jimena, “from the Lancaster force. There are no others.”

Melusine does not object. She is staring in the distance, sometimes taking deep breaths.

“I see. I will save my questions for later, for now, we have an emergency. I hereby change the parameters of this mission. We shall break through the order’s army and retreat back to New Orleans, where we will find shelter for the day.”

“So, how are you going to do that?” I ask, curious. Anatole frowns, then remembers that my security is his responsibility and keeping me in the dark does not help.

“We have well-established strategies for assaulting well-entrenched order troops.”

“Let me guess: don’t?”

If looks could kill, I would be lying on the floor right now. With a supreme effort, Anatole retains his self-control.

“Not all of us will turn tail at the first sign of danger,” he retorts, “when required, squads will attack using their speed and the terrain to force a reaction. Harrying them as they waste their bullets on our fleeting forms. So long as we are not cornered, victory can eventually be ours.”

Aisha will not make it. I may not either.

“So, a frontal assault is the plan? That sounds… stupid.”

“Unless you have a better idea, wench, we should go now while smoke offers us a measure of cover,” Anatole replies with a voice dripping with contempt.

“I do, in fact, have a better idea.”

Everyone stops moving. No one does immobility quite like vampires, I think. Anyone entering now would have to take a moment to realize we are not statues.

“And… what would that be?” asks Anatole with regret. Yes, imbecile, you should not have given me such an opening.

“A truce with the white Cabal.”

Melusine’s breath hitches in her chest and I look towards her, but she does not even lift her head. I remember the horrible void I felt following Dalton’s loss and I only managed to assuage it by consuming the depleted essence of half a village, something that only Devourers could manage. I will credit her for not whining. I suppose the strumpet has some spine after all, it is just a shame that it is not attached to a heart nor a brain.

Anatole looks almost relieved.

“And here I thought you would surprise me. Enough of this, let’s go.”

“Hold.”

Anatole’s eyes widen in shock as he realizes Aisha was the one to speak. Even Alec shows surprise on his bald rock of a face.

“It costs us little to try…” she continues with a timid voice.

“I will not tolerate insubordination. I said, let’s go.”

“She’s right,” adds Alec.

Oh, how I do so enjoy watching the squad leader squirm. A mutiny! How fun.

“Obstacles are tools, enemies are weapons,” adds the grim axeman. It sounds like he is quoting something.

Anatole appears to consider. We carry a lot of meaning through body gestures, when we want to. Alaric is currently neutral, but Aisha, Alec and Jimena all cross arms which is a clear sign of disapproval. I remain neutral. I do not want to squander my chances of fulfilling a promise for the pleasure of needling that bastard. After a short consideration, he concedes.

“Very well, you may go and discuss terms with them, though Jimena will guarantee your safety. Keep in mind that every minute you waste, the fire spreads and our window of opportunity shortens.”

I nod and exit the room, Jimena in tow. To my surprise, Aisha comes after me.

“Wait! I have what you asked.”

What I asked? Oh! My weapons!

“Here you go,” she announces with pride, and hands me my dagger.

Dagger.

“Hum, Aisha, what about the rest?”

“I only took your proper vampire blade!”

“Not the rifle? You know, the thing that would have let me take potshots at the order and snipe down their leaders? Thin their ranks? That rifle?”

“But…”

“Fat lots of good that toothpick is going to do, aye? Proper vampire blade she says. The audacity!”

“I am sorry… Does this mean…”

The proud Knight looks completely dejected. Pah. Elite group indeed.

“It means nothing,” I reply, “I’ll make do, as always.”

I turn around and my sister and I make our way to the fortified workshop. A dagger. I swear… Well, nothing to it. Time to implement the next phase of my plan and try diplomacy. First, I need information.

“What can you tell me about the Cabal’s hideout?”

“Everything is heavily warded except the walls, though it’s mostly rushed work. The points of ingress are the windows, the office entrance, the wagon entrance and the cellar. The windows are shuttered and barred, and the office and wagon gates are both to the front of the workshop so the approach has no cover. The cellar door is the most heavily fortified and it’s made out of steel. There are no easy ways to get in and I suspect they may shoot you on sight.”

“Any chance of them surviving the fire?”

“None. Even if the workshop was not made out of wood, it is not the flame itself that kills mortals, but the smoke. They will suffocate long before their retreat is set ablaze.”

“Hmm. Show me the cellar. I might be able to get through.”

The workshop is rectangular. The cellar door is at the back, opposite the two other entrances. The approach is covered by stacks of crates and other sundries left in random piles. I suspect that the workers just dump whatever they are not using there. Their carelessness is a boon, as we make our way undetected.

Jimena points to the gate, a double door made out of steel set almost horizontally against the wall. There is a thin line where it doesn’t close exactly, and from it, I can hear moans of pain and low whispers. Under the smoke, I smell a bit of blood both old and fresh. I understand now.

“They put the wounded belowground. They probably plan to escape from there if they get overrun.”

“Fascinating but unhelpful. What do you plan on doing?”

I can feel the wards placed here. There is an alarm, but mostly they increase the durability of the base material. It would take a direct hit from a cannon to blast through the thing. There is however, an obvious weakness. The space between the two doors is thin but not thin enough that I cannot get my claws in. I bet that they forgot to reinforce the steel bar.

“Why, knock politely, of course.”

I grab below each pane, get down on my knees and with a grunt, channel both the Herald’s power and my essence for an additional boost of strength.

A month ago, I could not have easily bent steel by pulling on it.

A month ago, I was not a Master.

With a terrible shriek of tortured metal, the way opens to stairs heading down. At their bottom, a man with his arm covered in bandages wakes up with a jolt and stares at me, uncomprehending. I calmly walk down while Jimena stays behind just in case. In short order, I find myself in a vast open room with a stone floor.

A dozen people lie there and they are all wounded. Most are men, ranging from a grizzled veteran to a young and portly man with what I imagine is an attempt at growing a moustache. There are women as well. A grandmotherly one holding the stump of her hand, and a girl with curly black hair and a bump on her head the size of a quail egg. They all stare at me with expressions ranging from disbelief to plain horror.

Only one person is standing, a young woman with liquid red eyes and white hair tucked firmly under a nurse hat. She slowly lifts a trembling hand clad with a mage gauntlet. Before things can devolve, I raise two hands to show that they are empty, a universal gesture of peace. Not that being unarmed makes us harmless.

“My name is Ariane. I wish to speak to your leaders and offer a truce.”

Nobody moves and I figure out why the nurse’s eyes appeared liquid. Fat tears drip down her eyes as she opens her mouth.

“Bwaaaaahahahaaaaaaa…”

She starts bawling. Her face turns into a red mess with snot dripping down her nose. Her still-raised hand wavers but she does not lower it.

She just keeps crying like a fountain.

It just doesn’t stop

Most of the wounded are awake now, and look at each other and the crying nurse, at a loss.

Still crying.

It’s a little bit awkward.

The door opens and a mage walks down the stairs.

“Sola? Is something the matter?”

He freezes when he sees me.

“For Christ’s sake Jebediah, not you too. Go back up and fetch Jonathan and the Dog, Ariane here wants to talk,” says a grizzled veteran with an annoyed voice.

Jebediah opens and closes his mouth a few times like a beached fish, then turns around and mechanically climbs back up. Moments later, clambering footsteps and yells of alarm ring throughout the building. The door from upstairs bursts open and two men come in.

The first one is panting heavily and holding his gauntlet and a large cavalry saber. He wears a more elaborate version of everyone else’s white uniform as well as a thunderous expression. With his long grey beard and serious figure, he looks like an old general in the midst of battle.

The second figure is deeply calm and walks in without fear, though not carelessly either. His familiar dark eyes take in the situation in an instant.

I will admit that I am surprised. I knew this man as Bradley when he tried to blow me up back in Marquette. He was with the order then. How convenient for mortals, to be able to change their allegiances so. His heartbeat is the only steady one here. He must have guessed it was me from the name. There are so few of us, another vampiric Ariane would be extremely unlikely.

Though, now that I think about it, if there is one I will have to find her and convince her that I am the Arianest of them all.

The old man charges down the stairs like an enraged bull at the sight of the still sobbing nurse.

“I swear, if you hurt her…” he starts.

THREATENING ME?

“If I hurt her then what?” I hiss softly, and completely release my aura. About half of the wounded are mages, and they shiver before the arctic onslaught. Even the old man’s steps falter. As quickly as I displayed it, I pull my presence back in until it is entirely subsumed within me.

I made my point.

The nurse collapses in a heap, and other wounded drag her out of the way. WEAKLING. No, she is a healer. They have their use and should be respected.

“I have come to discuss a truce and temporary alliance,” I say.

“Why should I believe anything you would say, monster,” replies their leader, still bristly despite my rebuke.

“You should,” says Bradley.

All attention turns to him. Normally, I am good at picking up leaders and influencers in a crowd, but in this case, Bradley’s subdued presence misled me. The others look at him with respect, almost reverence. I did not anticipate that. Let us see if this can be leveraged.

“What do you mean, Jonathan?” the old man asks.

“I met her before. She held her promise, despite our enmity.”

“You faced a vampire in combat and lived?” asks a young mage with admiration.

“I tried to trap her and failed. She captured me.”

At those words, everyone in the room stares with renewed fear and this time, respect. Apparently, piercing through their wards in seconds through guile and expertise doesn’t count but one word from this ruffian and I’m vetted? Typical.

“She let me go because I amused her. She kept her word. I believe we can trust her,” he continues in his calm voice. I remember him sounding the same when we were negotiating. Does this man ever show any emotion? I do not know who I should pity the most, his foes or his lovers.

The crowd nods and even the old man goes from fuming to contemplating in a heartbeat.

“Very well, I will hear your proposal.”

“First, I offer a truce, between my faction and yours, for a week.”

“Done. What’s next?”

That went better than I expected. The next step should be easy then.

“I propose a temporary alliance, to face a common threat.”

“And ally with your kind? Never!” he spits with renewed anger.

I jinxed it didn’t I?

“Hold on,” says a female voice in the room, and silence is made. The person who talked is the old woman with a missing hand. She stands up from comforting the red-eyed nurse who she had been hugging. Her skin is pallid and there are deep pockets under her eyes but her voice is firm and her expression, cold and resolute.

“Sigismund Abelard Coolridge, a word please. In private.”

The full name treatment? Somebody is in trouble.

“Is the timing well-chosen, woman?” asks a noticeably nervous Sigismund Abelard Coolridge.

“Don’t make me tell you twice.”

The gloves are off. The proud warrior leans towards his spouse and they confer in whispers. I can hear their conversation perfectly well. It is the age-old debate. On one side we have ‘Can we trust them?’ and ‘I wouldn’t be caught dead working with vampires’. On the other, we have ‘All those kids are going to die from your stubbornness you pig-headed fool’ and ‘One more hour and you’ll be caught dead alright. We have no choice’. I leave them to their arguments and return my attention to the former Gabrielite.

Is Gabrielite even a word? Whatever, it is now.

“So, Bradley…”

“I go by Jonathan now.”

“Jonathan. Is that your new identity?” I ask with amusement.

“In fact… that is my real name.”

“Hm.”

It tastes like the truth. How queer. Could it be that he is more honest about his current alliance than the past one?

“How did you come to be a well-respected member of a mage group? They would certainly be looking at your past allegiances with distrust,” I remark in a low voice, low enough that the crowd looking at me with a mix of wonder and fear lean towards us in an amusing attempt to eavesdrop.

“I told you I was tracking a group of evil magickers.”

“I remember.”

“I followed rumors and gruesome crimes to their hidden base. The White Cabal was investigating them too. That is how we made contact.

“I am surprised that you would willingly reveal yourself so.”

“I did not. I took two of them for a scouting party and captured then interrogated them. They told me of their allegiance. I decided that we could benefit from working together.”

“That could not have been more than a year ago. How come this… Dog? Believes you.”

“The Black Dog is the head of the military in any White Cabal cell. Coolridge is in charge of this war party.”

“He seems to hold you in high regard.”

“When I joined, they thought slinging spells equalled fighting. I proved them wrong. They opened to non-mages and varied their training afterwards.”

“And this is your doing? This assault on the Lancaster? Being trapped?”

Jonathan smiles so lightly that some would have missed it. His smile has a sad and fragile quality that makes me want to draw the ephemeral moment. I commit his face to memory, for later. If we make it.

“I recommended against this assault. The leadership would not take the loss of Cyril without retaliation, however. I came because I knew I could save a few lives.”

An act of courage and sacrifice. How many of those ended up with more cattle for the clans I wonder? Futile. Cyril must be the fledgling the maid mentioned. He is already changed and on his way to parts unknown, a member of Lady Moor’s entourage.

I understand their feelings all too well though. I would have done the same, had one of my people been taken. Before we can continue, the couple returns. The woman sits heavily, with a clear wince, while the Black Dog walks up to me. He is quite tall, and draws on his size and girth in what looks like an attempt at intimidation.

I am not amused.

AGGRESSION. DISSUADE OR PUNISH.

The Dog pales and takes a step back just as I realize I had been letting a low hiss and showing just a hint of fangs.

“Cease your pathetic attempts old man, I have faced nightmares that would have swallowed you whole and lived to tell the tale. You are nothing,” I growl.

“Sigismund dearie, if you could stop being a pig-headed ass for one goddamn minute?” asks the old woman with a deceptively calm voice. The Dog gives her a quick, angry glance, though he also calms down.

‘Right. We—“

A few people snicker.

“I SAID, we have decided that we would entertain your proposal. Of an alliance. What did you have in mind?”

That was quick.

“First, I would like to ask, did you have any plan to get out of this situation?”

The old man immediately grows suspicious but Jonathan replies with his usual calm.

“I gathered all our remaining black powder and made charges with the clay pots we found here. I was planning on detonating them on a hunter path to the South.”

“Why?” I ask with curiosity.

“It is not a well-known fact. Explosions will snuff out flames, though if there is fuel they will restart. I believe it would have been enough for some of us to pass through.”

I look around as I understand the implication. The path would be terribly hot and smoky. Those who manage to pass would have light burns and lung damage. The wounded… would be left behind. Would they truly do this? I imagined the White Cabal to be suicidal idealists. They attacked a vampire city, after all.

“I never said it was a good plan,” says Jonathan, amused at my lack of reaction. The others lower their eyes as the mood plummets.

These people are desperate. My intrusion distracted them for only a few minutes before the thought of their imminent demise returned to haunt them. I should not have worried about this alliance. Their leader’s defiance aside, they are ripe for the taking.

I just need to give them hope and they will eat it from my hands. And I do believe I have just the idea. The powder charges are the last tools I needed for the plan I had been considering.

“I will offer an alternative. Our main problem is not the fire so much as the order troops. Dig in or escape by blowing up a path, the problem remains the same. The order is coming for you, and for us, and you will be too slow to escape their fury. If they are defeated, however, the road North will open and you can go home safely with your wounded.”

“We know that,” the Dog snaps, “it’s just that a frontal assault would be stupid.”

“Not if we use the right tools. Their advantages lie in the presence of a chokepoint, their ranged weapons and their tight formation. I have a way to neutralize or even turn those advantages against them. It will require my group and yours to work together. We will need…”

I expose my idea, and doubt is replaced by attention, then by a blooming excitement. “Yes, this could work,” their bright faces say. Jonathan assists by making adjustments and corrections and even the old Black Dog offers a few pieces of advice based on his mages’ abilities. We end up with a workable plan in less than five minutes. A miracle.

“Give me a moment while I tell everyone upstairs. Unless there are major objections, I will confirm the alliance and we will then implement the plan while you fetch your allies. Is that… acceptable?”

Oh, he is trying diplomacy. How cute. I nod and he climbs back upstairs, casting fearful glances behind as if I would suddenly murder everyone around. Jonathan follows him without a word.

I am left alone, standing in the middle of the room while a dozen people gawp at the vampire. I do not enjoy being the centre of attention like this, not unless I am playing a role.

To my surprise, the uncomfortable silence is broken by the nurse. I remember that her affliction is called albinism, and it makes her sensitive to sunlight. We have something in common, then.

“How could I not feel you? Your presence was hidden,” she asks with a vaguely offended voice. She probably blames me for her public meltdown. Before I can think of a proper answer, I find myself misquoting Sinead.

“I am a Master vampire, why would I have anything less than mastery over my own aura?”

The mood changes once more as morbid curiosity turns into fearful respect.

It… it worked?

It worked!

Oh Sinead, Master of half-truths and boisterous claims, I bow before thine expert windbaggery. Your pompous turn of phrase allowed me to awe those mortals. I shall never doubt thee again, great one.

Properly chastised, the nurse seems to deflate. I am almost disappointed that her spine would disappear so quickly.

“It took great courage to face me,” I say, remembering how she almost soiled herself and could do nothing but stand there and cry like a fountain.

“To protect your charge.”

I realize that I mean it. She is not a fighter, but a healer. She still stood there and faced her death head-on. WORTHY PREY. No not prey. Remember Ariane, no eating your allies. It’s important.

“Thank you! Hm, what I meant was, you cannot tempt me, night creature!”

And there she goes and ruins it.

“Sola, help me up,” the old woman intervenes with a tired voice.

“Are you sure?” asks one of the younger men, “the warriors have not agreed yet.”

She shuts him up with one glance. Slowly, the wounded who can stand are helped up by comrades. Nurse Sola closes her eyes and a pulse of energy expands from her chest. The power spreads around the room harmlessly and I now remember what is missing.

Corruption.

Anytime I walked around a field hospital, the stench of opened bowels and souring wounds would assault me. Not so now. It smells of fear, pain and blood, a scent that I am accustomed to. The rest is missing.

Is this some sort of healing magic? Interesting. I can understand why the Lancasters would shop for talents among the Cabal’s ranks. I am tempted myself, though I think I can devise a much better way than plain open warfare. I believe I have understood the essence of openly negotiating as a vampire. Since it would be insane to work with me from a mortal perspective, I merely need prey finding themselves in absurd circumstances and appear as the sane choice.

Like I just did now.

It would be mad to walk through a fire, leaving wounded behind in the vain hope to escape an order war party. The world has grown insane, therefore doing insane things is the path to salvation. I am no longer a fledgling harried by the Thirst. I can establish working relationships with the powers that be, and they need not be vampires.

I return my attention to the present when Jonathan pops his head from the upstairs door and addresses me.

“They agreed. Meet us in front of the workshop.”

So… so cavalier! Addendum one to the previous proposal, I shall establish working relationships with the powers that be and teach them proper manners! Being surrounded by a blazing fire and outnumbered by fanatics sworn to your destruction is no cause for such wanton vulgarity. Pah!

Miffed, I exit the building from whence I came and meet with Jimena. She throws me a questioning glance.

“What is the matter sister, did they not agree?”

“Oh, they did, they were just not very respectful about it.”

“Oh sister, you did not get your fill of groveling servants? Allow me to assist.”

She stoops and scurry at my feet with a false limp.

“Oh Mithtreth, thine geniuth ith unmathhed, thine intellect shineth like a beacon! Allow me to polith thine toes with mine unworthy thpittle!”

“I’ll tell Aintza where you got the soldier fetish from.”

“Ack!”

We stand in the corridor to hell. Red flames and smoldering husks make up the world and a black cloud masks the heaven. The fire flickers and casts dancing shadows that turn into mocking demons when I am not looking. Suffocating smoke stings my eyes and unbreathing lungs like acid and this is not the worst.

The only egress is forward, through disciplined ranks of well-trained, well-equipped, and dug-in vampire killers and this is not the worst either. No, the worst is the heat, a physical wall that crushes my mind and body like a cover of lead. It wipes my mind and bends me with its domineering presence.

It tells me that I do not belong in this world, that I need to be purged. It tells me that my clock is ticking and sooner or later, it will get me. The heat will consume me and only ash will be left behind.

To move is torture, to stand is agony and yet I trudge forward. No sweat can protect me from the inferno’s rage. Even paces away and through my cover, it still sends embers to kiss my bare skin, blackening it like paper. The dark voice in my mind screams and harries me. It wants me to run, to find the darkness and cold that will welcome me in its blessed embrace, yet I endure. I must.

Ping!

A silver bullet hits the warded door, causing a small vibration to travel up my arm. For one instant, I falter and the improvised shield drops a bit.

HIDE.

With a hiss, I bring it back up.

“Hold,” the order commander screams, and no other shots are fired. Even with my senses, I can barely hear him over the roar of the fire, the creaks and groans of the dying homes.

We move forward.

I am at the head of the formation, with Jimena and the A squad’s brawn by my side. They hold torn off doors and plates facing forward, like roman legionaries of yore. The weight of those covers is beyond mortal ability to carry, and this is where we come in. Our steps are slow and measured to prevent gaps from appearing in the improvised wall. Behind us and to the sides, carriages loaded with wounded and covered with tarp protect the flank from the implacable heat. Behind us, mages walk low. Their faces are covered in wet rags and they stay close to the ground with tears dripping down their abused eyes.

I must have been insane to propose this. Perhaps I should have listened to Anatole when he announced he was not a glorified shield bearer for a sorry mass of uppity magelings.

Ah, who am I kidding? The Knights would have suffered the most. This heat is too much, even for them. It assaults my mind with the urgency of my situation, of how I am fighting my own nature. No training will ever allow me to face this without dread.

“Steady now,” Jonathan says with a hoarse voice. His voice drags me back away from the panic. I focus on putting one step in front of the other. FIRE. I know, me, shut up.

Fifty paces. We walk along at a steady rhythm. We had no time to rehearse, and we will have no second chances.

I lost track of where we are. I dare not check through gaps to see our progress, lest the wall be disrupted. I can only stare at my boots and take another step forward, and another. My entire existence is reduced to that, and biting down whenever an errant flake adds yet another small burn to my growing collection. One step, silence my screaming instincts, another step, keep going. It goes on and on. It never ends. It never stops. My arms hurt.

“Halt.”

I almost miss the signal and need to take my foot back. There are sounds from around us. The order has broken formation?

I put the shield down, in case some order bastards decide to shoot my toes off. I bend and look through the hole where the handle used to be.

A few outliers wearing heavy coats are trying to flank us. With their back to the flames, they slink at the edges. They are trying to enfilade us.

“Shields take a step forward, mages at the ready,” says Jonathan in a calm voice.

The first flanker finds a gap and lines up a shot.

“Firebolt!” someone roars, and the Gabrielite is skewered. A few others rush to the side and take potshots but most of them are lost against the sides of the carriage. The order’s formation is working against them. The flankers have to move out of cover to get in position while our mages can fire safely and more importantly, en masse. The order commander realizes it and rescinds his order.

“Back, back, tighten formation.”

This is it.

“Shields up, forward!” says Jonathan firmly. I realize that the temperature is dropping. We are doing it, we are leaving the fire behind. And now, in front of me are those responsible.

Ah, yesssss.

Soon.

Very soon.

“Stop!”

We are so close. I can hear the Gabrielite’s heartbeats, their controlled breath and the horrid prayers they mutter to themselves. They have spears and we don’t. They have powder and we don’t. Their shields will stop our spells. We have to charge through, and when we drop our shields to do so, they will unleash a barrage that will mow us like wheat.

Or so they think.

“Now lob’em!” screams Jonathan, and a dozen improvised powder charges arc over our heads to fall among them. Cries of dismay echo as some foes run, pushing others away and disrupting formation. A few pick up the heavy clay pots hoping to send them back, in vain. Jonathan is a master artificer and his fuses are perfect.

The homemade grenades explode. Blood mist erupts in the enemy ranks as limbs and innards rain around. Their discipline is momentarily weakened by the incredible shock.

“Now, CHARGE!” bellows Jonathan.

Finally!

I raise the door with a roar of fury and toss the heavy metal and wood protection in the face of a very surprised enemy shield bearer. The heavy piece of hardware smashes into three men and squishes them like bugs. All around me, projectiles start flying into the surprised mass of the order. It is as I expected, they do not know how to face a combined force of mages and vampires. I rush forward and soon, there is no more room for deep thought.

I kill.

Slice up and down, slide under a man to avoid a shot, steal a pistol. Get pushed back by faith, slash a heel on my way down, gut a man on my way up. Throw the body on my foes, shoot a man yelling orders, stab and maim and roar and bite. YOU WANTED ME, I AM HERE. My essence sings as the air overloads with the smell of death and blood, the din of battle and the screams of men and women in a fight to the death. They do not break, they do not flee. They stand and fight. They rally and regroup.

We are not facing bandits but dedicated and well-trained groups. WORTHY FOES. Pain in my flank. An errant bullet found me. I steal more guns from standing men and corpses. SLAY THE LEADERS, CLAIM THEIR HEADS. The other Knights are zipping across the battlefield. They disrupt formations and force the Gabrielites to react or to die, while the mages and soldiers of the White Cabal rush forward. Behind them, some of the wounded stand up from their carriage to shoot spells at targets of opportunity.

It is not enough.

Here and there, our mortal allies fall to bullets, blades and spears. As I watch, the old woman with a missing hand moves in front of the nurse. Her chest explodes in a red mist and she falls, face twisted in pain. Aisha has an arm missing. Alec is spilling black blood with every movement, his stature making him a target through sheer size.

And I realize what is wrong. Alaric, Anatole, Jimena and even a weakened Melusine are at the edge of the battle on the other side, fighting defensively while Alec and Aisha, though bogged down, slowly make their way to them. The vampires are not fighting to win, they are fighting to escape, and they are right. This is the smart thing to do. Our alliance is not formal, we are fighting the same foes and that is all.

We never said we would stay.

I lose my focus for one instant and am rewarded with a bullet punching through my shoulder. Hsss. Hurts, dammit. I can’t… I can’t…

I don’t know what to do.

Aisha pulls through with Jimena’s help but as I watch, Alec finally takes a bullet to the back of the head and falls forward. He is immediately surrounded by shield bearers while a man takes out a silver spike.

Not happening. I move forward and grab a dead Gabrielite with a loaded pistol. I channel the Natalis and werewolf essence as strongly as I can and throw the corpse. Prayers are not enough to stop their dead comrades and the line collapses backward. I aim and shoot the would-be slayer through a gap in their defense. Anatole is there in an instant. He takes Alec by the foot and extracts the heavyset man as if he weighed nothing. I follow.

The world cools down and darkens. The vampires made it out, even Aisha.

The Cabal is bleeding and dying behind us.

I stop. The bullet in my flank exits from the wound to be replaced by unmarred skin, a benefit of Masterhood. I am still fully capable. I could still fight but I need not to.

It is done.

I have accomplished what I set out to do. All those I wanted to rescue made it out and the rest are but small fry. I can go now, leave the fire behind and rest in the gold-leafed and baroque buildings we call our own, and yet, I will not.

This is wrong.

My instincts are telling me this. Those are allies I left behind. I obeyed only the letter of the agreement, not the spirit. Those mortals by our side displayed bravery and gallantry in the face of certain demise. They are worthy. They are…

They are mine.

After a fashion.

And the day has not come that I will give up what is mine to those bigoted pricks.

I turn around and face the world painted red, and for the first time since the beginning of this battle, my instincts and mind align. This will be dangerous, yes, but also exciting. I will face this horror and I will defeat it. My essence sings and my heart pulses once. I feel a hum of approval from the Watcher. It likes it, I think, when I do what I live for no matter the cost.

I know what to do now.

I whistle and from behind, the heavy stomp of dark hooves sound like war drums. The other vampires stop and watch with blank masks as I stand aside and grab the harness as she goes.

“A true-bond Nightmare…” Aisha whispers in awe.

YES. Go Metis, go! For blood, freedom and gunpowder!

I lean to the side and pick up a spear as we approach the melee again. The largest bulk of the order has rallied around their leader, a tall man bearing a battle standard.

Perfect.

A few heads turn when they hear the nightmare charging at their back, a few pray or scream to alert their friends, in vain.

The leader turns, sees me. He turns a cross around.

I roar.

I throw the spear like a javelin.

The projectile goes through his chest without slowing, then through the back of men facing the mages.

Then Metis finishes her charge in their packed ranks. Physics plays its merciless role when the heavy steed’s body impacts that of the squishy mortals. The back rank flies like pinwheels. YES, WE ARE WHERE WE BELONG. Metis stops in the middle and, essentially, unleashes her bad temper. She raises her front legs and shortens whoever she lands on. Her back hooves dent shields and skulls as she kicks and with each bite, she steals ears and noses. I am not idle either. I pick up a spear and protect her flanks, but soon our predicament becomes clear when the poor girl neighs in pain. Someone shot her! YOU DARE. I hiss and turn. A few musketeers have created distance and are already lining shots.

I can’t reach them.

I will be too late!

Then their heads start to fall. Jimena is here, picking those out of positions with ease.

“Come on men, one last push!” screams Jonathan from the other side.

And then, what I never expected happens.

“Fall back,” a Gabrielite yells with authority, “fall back!”

His men all pick up shields as they can and stop shooting. They grab their wounded and slowly retreat in a defensive formation, looking like a large turtle. I use the distraction to get back to the Cabal ranks. I stand down and check Metis’ health. As I watch, a slash on her chest slowly closes. She will heal.

I sigh as fear leaves me.

This was too dangerous. She could have died. Is it wise for me to bring her in fights like that, where bullets fly while she does not have my speed? There is only one reasonable solution. I need to get her a full plate barding, Dvergur-made, because I am not giving up on riding her into battle and I suspect that neither will she.

Silence descends upon the field as the Cabal combatants lower their weapons and look around with disbelief.

The battle is over. The night is ours, but no cries of victory sound through the night. There are only stares of disbelief and cries of relief. Only fifteen Cabal orders are still standing from a group that must have been around fifty two days ago. Many of the wounded will recover, yet they have still lost almost half their numbers. A terrible blow.

I feel little pity for them. They were fools to attack to begin with. If Jonathan had not been here, none of them would have returned. I climb back on top of Metis and turn her around. Reddened eyes filled with grief follow us. I glance one last time at the old Dog, holding the body of his dead wife.

I care not, my task is done.

“Our bargain is fulfilled,” I say, and ride out into the night.

69. Trial

We make our way to New-Orleans without incident. I remove a silver bullet from Metis’ flank though she did not appear to be bothered, after which she trots off while munching on an arm. Jimena informs me that only a Nightmare and vampire with a true bond could call on each other like that, and that I must have been an exceptionally talented and domineering owner for her to be so subservient. When I inform my sister that Metis is anything but subservient and that the haughty, overgrown pony has a tendency to wander off when she feels like it, I am faced with a complicated expression.

“Somehow, I am not surprised,” she declares after a while.

Whatever that means.

We take shelter for the day inside of the building that had hosted my fateful duel against Jimena. I learn that it acts as a sort of embassy, inn and government office rolled in one for the local vampires and their visitors. There, the Knights relay the situation to a representative of the Roland and Ekon clans who quickly dispatch mercenaries to the location of the fight. When they arrive, both the White Cabal and the Order are long gone. A night later, we take a ship to Boston with Melusine, who is to be interrogated about the whole disaster and her role in it.

We settle in another boat ride which leads to yet another case of boredom. There is only so much coast I can watch before it becomes tedious. I occupy my time by drawing some of the things I saw like Jonathan’s half-smile, the old woman sacrificing her life to save Sola, the albino nurse herself facing me despite her fear but before too much snot drips down her nose etc. Anatole stops harassing me and I get to practice guessing cards with Aisha’s help, something she assures me I am moderately talented at. In addition, I exchange a few words with Melusine on occasion. Our conversations are usually like this.

“Oh, Ariane, I thought it smelled like sweat, mud and sugar cane around here.”

“Is that you Melusine? I thought it was someone important.”

And so on.

I am so beyond ennui that I wouldn’t mind a pirate attack. I would scream the random words that Dalton taught me and have somebody, anybody really, walk the plank afterward. Alas, the days of the dread pirate Ariane have not come yet. I pester a sailor until he informs me that we sail at a speed of seven knots, then pester him further to learn that it is equivalent to eight miles per hour which is apparently really good, for a sailboat. After a week of travel and at sundown, we come in view of Boston harbor.

The sea is covered in ships, warships, steamers and rowboats of all sizes. White sails and dark hulls contrast with the muddy green of the ocean. The flurry of activity does not stop, even at this late hour. We pass a few islands before our destination comes into view. An elevated landmass covered in buildings sits here, surrounded by waterways.

“Water on the other side as well,” an old sailor comments laconically.

Rows upon rows of warehouses and factories start from the shore and continue out of view. The uniform mass of their dark roofs is broken here and there by the spire of a church, or by the white columns of official buildings. Columns of smoke rise into the night air like so many snakes, and the air is charged with the perfume of brine and burnt sugar under the overwhelming stench of raw sewage. I scrunch my nose with distaste.

It doesn’t take us long to moor at a pier where several carriages drawn by lesser Nightmares await us. We disembark and climb in without a word, and mortals soon lead us through the city.

I look out the window as we pass by. I have never been to the original colonies, so this is quite exciting! We pass endless rows of factories, herds of animals led through the street and a few markets smelling of meat, rum, and tobacco. The population here is so… white, compared to New Orleans. And the richer denizens sound weird, with an accent I have never heard before. I drink the sights until finally, we reach the southern part of the city and nature makes a reappearance.

I return my attention to the interior of the ride. Jimena, Anatole and Melusine ride with me. I cross eyes with the red-haired harpy.

She smiles lightly and her lips spell the word “bumpkin.”

Perhaps I should look outside more, it wouldn’t do to slay her while she can still be of use.

Cut stone and painted wood gives way to maple and birch as we ride South. After a few more minutes, we follow deserted trails until we enter a forest of tall pine trees. The scent of their sap and dried needles soothes my increasingly nervous mind, until we leave their cover behind.

The path we follow leaves the forest behind and descends into a small expanse of flatland covered in vegetation. There, hidden from view, greenhouses and patches of greenery alternate with small homes lit by lanterns, with a few larger barns casting darker shadows. On the sides, the land falls abruptly into the sea so that an intimate valley is formed. In front of us and after the flatlands, a large mound of sheer cliff dominates the landscape, with the road dug into its stony flanks. Light shines from its summit and I can already see the edge of a slated roof. The carriages do not stop, and we slowly make our way up, past two security checks whose guards wave us forward. Soon, we reach the top and a manor comes into full view.

We first travel through a last gate and a garden designed to look natural. Rows of trees block the wind and create hidden paths where revelers would have the illusion of intimacy. Behind that, the road ends at the foot of a majestic U-shaped edifice with the main body parallel to the sea. Its walls are of pink sandstone with only light decorations. Three wings, each more than sixty yards long, shelter in their embrace a French style garden centered around a fountain. A straight path leads from the entrance to a monumental set of stairs decorated on each side by columns separating the garden proper from a covered promenade. French windows on the left give me glimpses of a ballroom that could easily fit a hundred, and the entire second floor is adorned by one uninterrupted balcony. I can tell that there is a third floor and attic, and I expect that as in most vampire strongholds, a significant part of the structure will be buried.

The most striking thing is not the architecture, however, but the vampires. A dozen of them cross the garden at a sedate pace and lean from the balconies in small groups of two to three. They affect indifference, but I can feel the weight of their attention on us. Their auras are deployed yet peaceful, and I can tell that most of them are Masters with at least one Lord thrown in.

Jimena exits first and takes my side as I follow. We walk in behind Anatole, and I thank Sinead’s harsh training for without which my aura would have betrayed my stress.

Instead of a standard hall, the entrance leads to a lobby with the opposite windows offering a view of the sea and beyond that, the mainland. Tables and couches set on thick rugs form a harmonious rest area around a hearth in which a fire burns quietly. Light is provided by multiple candles though it remains subdued. On each table, pots filled with dried flowers and herbs perfume the air.

It is not enough to mask the cold spice I associate with vampires. The air is heavy with it, both a welcome and a warning.

A man stands in front of a front desk with his hand folded against his back. He wears an elaborate black suit with a bowtie that would look like a butler uniform were it not for the jacket being slightly too long and suspiciously heavy. Despite his obvious role as the welcome party, I find myself intimidated. His aura is powerful, probably more powerful than Moor’s, and it has a wild quality to it that reminds me of werewolf. His eyes are so dark that I cannot tell the iris from the pupil and he wears his long sandy-colored hair tied in a tail, as well as a short and well-trimmed beard of the same color. His face has a ruddy quality, as if he had been an outdoorsman before being turned. From his expression, I can tell that he is not pleased.

“The Speaker expects you in the courtroom,” he starts with a deep voice, “immediately.”

His tone makes it clear that this wasn’t a suggestion. We turn left into a soberly decorated corridor, and then right into an antechamber. There are no windows here, only an empty desk and a few chairs. A single large door leads further in, and on each side stands a sentinel.

And here the veneer of civilization falls off and the iron fist beneath the velvet glove is revealed. The pair are a battle Lord and Lady without a doubt. They held pole weapons the color of the void and were clad in a twin set of Dvergur-made enchanted armor that would cause Loth to whistle in admiration. I realize that there is enough might in this room to depopulate a small city and repress a shiver. The sheer pressure of so many crushing auras in such an enclosed space strikes me with a claustrophobia that has nothing to do with the lack of exits. Despite their fearful appearance, they open the door in silence and let us through without pause.

This is it.

This is where my fate will soon be decided. Jimena takes my hand for a fraction of a second and releases it, for which I am grateful. I let go of a breath that I had been holding since the garden. I take a second to inspect my surroundings. The room is split in two in its middle with rows of seats on each side. The top rows have unadorned desks with partitions allowing privacy. They lead to an elevated area with a tall desk which I remember is called the bench. I can see three highly decorative seats to the left and a door to the right leading to parts unknown. Large windows set high into the wall only show the night sky.

The room is empty.

Our advance grinds to a stop and I expect the others to be at a loss. I am quickly proven wrong, as Jimena leads me to the left front seat while Anatole and his squad sit on the right. Jimena proudly takes her place by my side and I hear a single click when Anatole’s jaws lock together.

We wait for only one minute before the right door bangs open and a man in a dark magistrate robe steps in.

I don’t know what I expected from Constantine but whatever it was, I am not disappointed. North America’s only Progenitor is very tall, but also quite thin. He has a hooked nose and sensual lips as well as large chestnut-colored eyes. His hair is dark and cut very close. His face’s strange features would be ugly on anybody else, but on him the arrangement is eye-catching and magnetically attractive.

His eyes immediately fall on me and I feel a pressing weight settling on my shoulders for a moment before he turns his attention to Anatole with obvious displeasure. His voice is a soft baritone that would be more fitting in a lecture hall but right now, it is dripping with sarcasm and disappointment.

“So, this is the rabid rogue you spent so much time and resources tracking down, Anatole? The bloodthirsty and barely coherent monster you promised?”

“Please, your excellence, do not let yourself be fooled by-”

My eyes widen in surprise. Seriously? That little, pathetic, ungrateful prick! We fought together!

“-her meek appearance, she-”

“Silence.”

Constantine says a single word, and his aura bursts out.

Power. Unbridled.

I gasp in surprise and pain, and even Jimena winces before the merciless display. My neck bends forward under the ominous pressure and I fight to remain upright.

This is the power of a Progenitor. And he is the youngest of them? By the Watcher, Semiramis was right. I have never witnessed my Sire take anything seriously.

“Answer my question carefully, Anatole. Is she a rogue?”

The abominable wanker licks his lips with nervousness. How I wish I could KILL HIM for the… the sheer audacity!

“Perhaps not,” he replies, “but I have proof that…”

“This trial is to decide the rogue status of a young and isolated vampire who thoroughly outplayed you, using loopholes in my carefully constructed laws to make a technically correct claim. I think the verdict is clear.”

“Yes, but…”

“But you have another litany of charges to submit against her, wasting countless more hours of my valuable time, yes?”

“Excellence, I assure you that she has shown signs of working for unidentified forces. Those earrings, for example, could never have been made by a savage as she claimed…”

I’ll kill him. I’ll fucking kill him and I will make it slow, shameful and excruciating. I will peel the skin from his back, I’ll…

“I have had enough of you and of this whole farce. Ariane of the Nirari will be thoroughly interrogated to determine if she presents an active danger to the Accords.”

I feel shock overcoming me. Don’t I have a say in that? Jimena mirrors my expression of dismay.

“Yes, Excellence,” answers Anatole with a dangerous glint. Oh no, please no…

“Not by you of course, by Ignace. If declared innocent, she will be cleared of any and all charges from her rebirth until now and her petition for House status will proceed immediately.”

Anatole scowls. Though he wisely decides to remain silent.

“In addition, Anatole, you will be stripped from your position.”

You could hear a pin drop three rooms over.

“You do not have the authority to have me removed,” he slowly enunciates. Instead of exploding, Constantine raises an aristocratic brow.

“Let me clarify. You will be banished from North America on pain of death. If this occurs, the Knights will have little choice but to have you replaced, won’t they?”

Both Jimena and Anatole stand up in protest after he is done but the Speaker’s voice covers them all.

“Enough! It is done. Take her away.”

The two sentinels grab me by the shoulders, and despite my hiss, take me away with ease. I do my best to calm down as they drag me down several steps of stairs until the coziness of the manor gives way to bedrock in dark granite.

It should be alright. I can answer truthfully to any question they have, except perhaps on Semiramis… By the Watcher I hope it will not count against me. It shouldn’t. I have done nothing to harm the Accords. Yes, if anything, I have been quiet and cautious. I think it will be fine. I will be fine.

The pair opens a heavily reinforced door at the end of the corridor and we enter a square room dug directly into the stone.

A chair of dark iron.

Heavy restraints.

Pliers, pincers, a brasero.

A painfully thin man with his chest bare turns as we come in. His face is dour and his dull brown eyes are lifeless.

“Good evening, I am Ignace. Should we begin?”

No…

“…”

“Ah, the issue with oaths is an intriguing one. Our minds are still surprisingly human, we are not automatons who consider all possibilities after all, yes? Sometimes, oaths may contradict each other. Take the case of a loyal knight who swore to protect king and country. What happens if he realizes that the king is insane? Would it be better to revolt to protect the country despite the destruction it would cause, or fight to defend the king? An intriguing situation, is it not? In our case, it will cost us, but we will decide or realize which oath is the most important. And so, some people could swear to withhold information before being questioned and thus be shielded from confession. That is why we should proceed this way. In the end, I will break you and learn all there is to know, and then, eventually, you will make a full recovery. Begging is useless. Bargaining is useless. It is but one hurdle to pass, but pass it you will. I am good at what I do.”

“I worked on some of your siblings, you know? They were always too far gone for us to learn anything worthwhile. It is such an unexpected pleasure to cooperate with you.”

“…”

“Oh, but this is a cooperation. I shall teach you much while we make our path together. For example, you care too much about your body’s integrity and nudity. You are no longer a mortal, yes? Your body will always recover from harm. It is just a vessel. Losing an arm is a hindrance, not a life sentence. Losing your eyes just means you need to rely on other senses while they regrow. Speaking of which…”

“The most sensitive parts of the human body are the hands, the face and to some extent, the genitals. Vampires are especially sensitive to losing fangs. You can still feed properly even if you are missing some of them. Remember, they will grow back. Now, drink.”

“To grow back selective parts more quickly, you need to focus your essence on the wound. You will know it works when the severed limb turns to ash. Try again. Faster, this time.”

“Tell me of your path up till now. You were a city master, yes? Quite the smart little trickster you are. It will be a pleasure to see you grow.”

The Master learnt that she could see into the future.

“A seer hm? You do not have the contemplative personality to make full use of it, but I am sure the intuition that will result from this practice will be of use to a warrior such as you.”

The Courtier drank the royal blood and became Master. She slew the enforcer from the enemy clan.

“You treat the Fae as a faction? Oh, this is so very precious. You are an interesting one, Ariane of the Nirari. I have not been this pleasantly surprised in a long time. Rest assured that this tale is safe with me. The sun will grow cold before I break the secrecy of the confession, it is, after all, my most precious oath.”

The Courtier followed the beacon.

“I would rather not hear this story. I know of whom you speak and would prefer not to attract her attention.”

The Courtier ruled over Marquette.

“An interesting mix of Mask and Eneru doctrines. You will undoubtedly fit well with either group when the time comes for you to visit our birthplace.”

The Courtier tracked the key and faced the Herald.

“Magnificent. And to lose such an excellent Vassal and carry on. You are a wonder. Those alliances you made will serve you well. Very few of us attract the favor of the Rosenthal, not to mention a major Dwarf clan.”

The Courtier lived and fought alongside Loth and for a time, the human Bingle as well.

“There are forces at work that operate on a different level than us. It is unusual for any of them to be so heavy handed. I wish I could have witnessed it.”

The fledgling ran through the wilderness.

“You did extremely well. Most fleeing fledglings are quickly caught by simply following the trail of bodies. It takes cunning and caution to survive on the run.”

The fledgling served the Lancaster as their ward and their slave.

“It is not unusual for covens to pick up errant Fledglings and Courtiers from other clans. The way you were treated is an anomaly, however. Only the arrogant and foolish sharpen the blade that will be used against them.”

The fledgling struggled to remain herself after waking up.

“A most difficult situation. I understand that most Masters carefully select and nurture those they will sire over a long period of time. It has been so for the past half a millennium.”

The girl…

“Go on.”

She…

“I said, go on.”

Third night. The naïve girl swallows air in big dry gulps between two cracked lips. Her body is but one large sore covered in scabs from which blood slowly seeps. Broken bones and failing organs. She is dying and knows it. She wants the embrace of death, to just make it stop. It will not come. Something dark is eating her from the inside, keeping the reaper at bay. It should not be. Her feverish thoughts are muddied. Demons crawl from the walls and from under the cot she was dumped on to scratch at her mangled flesh, to gnaw on her shattered digits. Please, just let it end. Please.

Heavy footsteps. The monster is coming back. She tries to scream. Only a broken rattle escapes from her tortured throat. He bites her again. He forces her to drink the black thing. It is even more delicious than yesterday and the pain of drinking it, the feeling of violation, is even more. Her heart stops beating. Her lungs give up. Her last vision was that of the amused monster and a corner of dirty ceiling.

“Go on.”

Second night. The naïve girl wakes up with a jolt. She fell asleep in the hospital bed. This is not the hospital bed. He took her back. She panics. Then, she calms down a bit, regains control. She is hurt. Soiled. Not broken. Not yet. She slowly sits back up. The claw marks on her stomach make her moan but she endures. She makes herself fall from the bed and gasps in agony. It takes her a minute just to stop shaking. One of her arms is broken. The left one. There is just an ocean of pain between her legs. She is in a cellar, somewhere. The door is open. She sees it by the light of a lantern. It is still day. She doesn’t know how she knows it. She knows she must escape. She crawls forward. Drags herself with one hand. With each movement, the wounds around and in her core reopen. Tears fall down her eyes but she bites down and endures. Little by little, she goes on. She passes the door.

On her left, a man with dark curly hair and a muscular back sits at a desk. She freezes. He finishes writing then turns around with a smile. He says something in a language she does not understand. She screams when he picks her up, when he breaks the fingers of her right hand. He bites her neck. He forces her to drink something. It is intoxicating, the most exquisite thing in the world, but it burns everything on its way down. The pain and violation defy description, but she cannot stop. The pain makes her consciousness shatter.

“Go on.”

First night. The naïve girl and her friend Constanza flit from group to group in the prestigious New Orleans venue. The reception room itself is larger than any place they have ever been in, including the church. Smartly dressed waiters circle around richly dressed revelers, offering bubbly flutes and appetizers. The two friends have a lot of fun. They are newcomers, and the novelty of their presence as well as their pleasant appearance made them the center of attention for the young male gentry. They bask in the glow of their attention and enjoy their first outing in the big city thoroughly. The naïve girl is not interested in the men her age. They speak of parties and events and gossip about childish things. She wants someone who speaks of economics and politics, who understands market trends and treats her like more than just a pretty thing. The naïve girl has projects aplenty. She also had two cups of champagne. One man attracts her the most. He is slightly older but not by much. He is mostly silent, as if bored, yet his eyes drift around the room, seeing everything and nothing at once. She is intrigued. She should have asked to be introduced, as is proper, but she is tipsy. Her face is flushed and her heart full of bravery, so she will display a little bit of derring-do.

At first, the man seems cold but after she has talked for a minute or so, he asks questions. She tells him everything. She speaks of producing rum and the infrastructure and funds needed. She speaks of investment, of distribution networks. She speaks of the home she wants for herself and even what kind of husband she wants. She doesn’t stop speaking. He is a good listener. He knows exactly when to needle her on and when to focus her when she loses track. She feels like she has known him forever. She feels like he could be the one. She asks for his name, and if they could meet again. She wants to lick her lips and trail her hand against his broad chest, to feel it against her own.

Constanza comes and bids them to go, as it is quite late. She agrees. She wants to meet the man again, later. The two friends leave. The naïve girl giggles as she speaks of him. Constanza teases the naïve girl. They walk to the inn where they stay and where they left their chaperone deep in his drinks. They pass next to an alley when it happens. A monster grabs the naïve girl. Her friend screams and threatens. The monster smiles. It claws the face of Constanza. The girl falls, cradling her head. Red blood drips from it in great gouts. They scream. The monster takes the naïve girl. He jumps from roof to roof. He lands near a deserted lumber mill. She tries to flee. He snaps her left leg. She falls and sobs. She fights, still.

“… do not need this arm anymore.”

A snapping sound. The naïve girl howls. The monster shreds her dress. The naïve girl fights the pain more than the man. The naïve girl cannot believe this is happening. The naïve girl sees herself as if she were outside of her own body. The monster moves between her legs. The monster defiles her. The monster bites her neck. The monster holds his own arm up. It stops moving. The monster slashes its wrist. It forces thick blood as dark as a winter night between her moaning lips. The naive girl drinks. The blood tastes divine. It ravages her insides. It is an indescribable experience. The monster takes the naïve girl in his arms…

In the now, a door bangs open. A human girl charges in. She is a Servant, with a hawkish nose and sensual lips.

“Ignace, you hijo de puta!”

“Meliton. You may not enter here, I have your Master’s permission for this.”

“Fuck him, and fuck you too. You think me stupid? You already know if she is a threat for sure, it has been three days!” the Servant says in fluent Akkad. Behind her, a vampire with short dark hair and a face more handsome than pretty stares at the naïve girl with guilt.

“Mierda, Ariane…” the vampire whispers.

“I still have much to ask.”

“Bullshit. She was talking to you about her change at the hands of that old beast. You can easily tell if she did anything to harm the Accords. Did she?”

“…”

“DID SHE? I swear to fuck Ignace, if you do not answer me right this instant…”

“No.”

“That’s what you were fucking asked to find out you twisted fuck. Release her, or having you greet the day will become my life’s purpose.”

“… very well, I suppose I know enough.”

“Hurry.”

The manacles are removed just as the naive girl regenerates digits three and seven. She grabs her own fingers and pulls on them, one by one. They were no longer mangled and out of position anyway, but it feels good to do so. The vampire and the Servant help the naïve girl take out the silver spikes in her body. The naïve girl removes the ones inside her nose first, then from her face and then from the rest of her body. The naïve girl has no more spikes. The female vampire smells good, like family.

“Right, let’s get you dressed. Slowly.”

The female vampire helps the naïve girl into a large tunic that falls to her knees. The fabric is very soft. It feels good. Like when the silver spikes are removed from her teeth.

The two take the naïve girl and guide her. They touch her but it is fine. The vampire is sister. The human is a Servant. Up up up they go. They come across a Lord in a black ensemble. He has sandy hair and a beard.

“I see you found your solution, Jimena,” the Lord says.

“Fuck off,” the Servant says.

She is very angry.

They climb more stairs. Up up up they go. They arrive in front of two large doors, with a battle Lord and a battle Lady on each side. The Servant walks in unopposed. The naïve girl is dragged in too. They are in a pretty office. There are many books and precious things. A man stands behind a massive desk. He is more powerful than a Lord. He, too, has a hawkish nose and large lips. The Servant screams at him in a strange language she never heard before. She is very angry. She is angry for a long time. The man tries to interrupt but she keeps screaming. The man stands up and approaches them.

“Listen Mel, I had to be sure…”

The girl screams some more.

“She will be fine! She is a Master, they always recover. Look she is already…”

The man crashes against the desk then on the ground with a trail of dark blood dripping from his flattened nose.

The naïve girl looks at her fist, still in the air.

Nobody moves, they just stare, astonished.

“Asshole.”

“Asshole,” she repeats.

“Asshole, asshole, asshole, asshole asshole,” I say. I jump on him. I punch him more.

“Asshole asshole asshole!”

“Calm down, by the Eye, not you too,” the man protests while doing his best to fend me off. I am very fast and still manage to land a blow in his kidneys.

“Oof! Enough of this. Promethean,” Constantine says.

His aura flares, Thick binding chains emerge from his hands and capture me with blinding speed. I call the power of the Herald but I am weak, it is sluggish and does not even manage to crack one link. I fight against the restraints, with no result.

“And you two, are you not my bodyguards?” the Speaker asks.

“We are not to interfere in arguments with your servant. You were quite clear,” the male Lord answers coldly. In vampire terms, this is a scathing rebuke,

The room falls silent, except for me. I am still fighting the bindings.

“I suppose I was hasty.”

“Not the first fucking time either. I told you, brother, if you can’t be arsed to get off your fucking books to rule properly then give the throne to someone who cares.”

“There isn’t anyone I would trust with this responsibility.”

“Then how about biting the bullet and doing your fucking job, since you committed to it? Huh?” the Servant retorts, unamused.

The Progenitor clenches his jaws but does not answer.

“Very well. Since Ignace found nothing so far, I declare you cleared of all wrongdoings, including your… most recent attack on my person. Do not do it again. Appearances must be preserved, and I would be forced to take drastic measures.”

“Asshole!”

“I heard you the first ten times, Ariane of the Nirari. Mel, find her a room in the left wing and stay away from the right one. The Lancaster delegation is there. The Hearing will begin tomorrow. Now, go.”

The others take me somewhere as I desperately pull on my fingers but no matter how often I do, the phantom pain remains. Come on, cold mind of mine. Do your thing. Push the memories in the background where they lose color and intensity. Make me forget.

Please.

“In there,” Jimena whispers, “Lie on the bed, Ariane. It’s over now. I’ll stay with you. Mel, I’m calling Aintza to me, can you get Wilhelm to send up something? Jasmine would help.”

“I’ll go now.”

Jimena caresses my head and I touch my fingers, one after the other. They’re all there. They’re fine. All there. All straight. Fine. Fine fine fine. Yes. Fine. All there.

The door opens once more and Aintza comes in. She looks a bit older now, older than Jimena in any case but not shockingly so. She lies by my side, so I am between them. The covers are comfortable. Aintza is very hot also, so the feeling of her warm body next to mine is strange and rather comfortable too. A few minutes later, Meliton returns and lights a few candles then starts a fire in the hearth. The perfume of jasmine takes over the room. It is nice. Jimena smells good, the room smells good now as a result. And safe. I slow down on touching my fingers but I do not stop. I move my toes, also. Sometimes I move my arms because I can. The pattern of the fire is fascinating. The fire dances and rolls without pause, never twice the same. I watch it. At some point, the room grows darker because they close the shutters.

Dawn comes.

70. Painful hearing.

“Do not worry overmuch, I assure you that you are in good hands,” Jimena assures me.

“That would be a nice change,” I answer with a wince. Jimena says nothing, and she makes no comment when I lightly pull on one of my fingers.

We make our way to the dreaded courtroom. I have no time to prepare, no time to work on anything. My hearing is to start tonight and this is it. My only saving grace is that the request not to delay came from my self-appointed lawyer, Salim of the Rosenthal, the same Courtier who warned me of Lambert’s coming. Jimena assures me that he is both experienced and competent.

I do not have an eidetic memory, nor was I a lawyer in any point of my existence, so I shall rely on him. As my father would have said, they who choose to represent themselves have an idiot as a client.

I just wish my fate did not depend on someone else, no matter how talented they may be.

“Just a warning sister dear, if the Lancasters gain custody over me, I’m going out with a bang.”

“If it comes to that, we both die tonight,” she answers with a thin smile. There is not a trace of apprehension in her, though whether it comes from confidence in Salim or acceptance of death, I cannot say. Seeing my worried expression, she continues.

“Fret not, you will be a House before this is done. Then you will be free to go anywhere on the continent, visit Charleston, Boston, even make your own coven! Think of all the travels we could enjoy together, the people we will meet, and eat! It shall be glorious.”

“Yes… Yes, I am so tired of being hidden.”

“You will soon be embraced as one of us. You shall see.”

“Hm.”

I was settled in a second-floor bedroom. The central wing of the manor is almost entirely dedicated to lodgings, as well as a few private reception rooms. The right-wing contains suites meant for larger parties as well as a library, while the left-wing is dedicated to offices and records. The underground floors go deep and are extremely well defended, with wards and mechanisms that make any day assault hazardous at best. Even Jimena does not know the full extent of its defenses. She tells me of a well-furnished armory, a sophisticated training room, magical workshops… and a torture room I suppose.

We make our way along a corridor soberly decorated in earthy tones and dark woods, and down a large set of stone stairs. Wards are set at regular intervals and designed to reinforce the structure and, unless I am mistaken, to resist fire. They taste of snow and suffocation.

The stairs end with a corridor crossing the one I had taken three days and an eternity ago. We turn right and soon come in view of the courtroom.

We walk in. I remember to relax my grip on Jimena’s hand when one of her knuckles cracks. She does not utter a sound.

This time, the antechamber’s desk is occupied by a severe-looking woman with mousy brown hair and a pinched face. She nods when she sees us and waves us in. Her aura is that of a weak, or very young Master. I recognized the well-ordered feel of the Rosenthal though I also notice a strange spikiness to it. Before I can notice more, we go between the two sentinels and into the room where my fate will once more be decided. I sure hope things will go better this time.

On the right side, the plaintiff-side I remember, there are five people and I recognize most of them. At the top of the table, Lady Moor’s onyx hair is held up in an elaborate hairdo. Beside her is a vampire I do not recognize. Male from the clothes, with very pale hair in a black suit. Directly behind her, I see the backs of Melusine, Baudouin and if I am not mistaken, one of the Roland twins who presided over my duel with Jimena thirty years ago.

Then my eyes look at my side. At the front sits Salim of the Rosenthal. Behind him, Naminata lounges in a fancy white cotton dress with a lot of frills while behind her, Aintza is sitting upright next to a man I’ve never met. I look at him as I pass by and notice to my surprise that he is a very old Dvergur with a wild look, a large bald spot and a scruffy white beard. He stares as I go by, his eyes assessing.

Jimena stops by Naminata and lightly pushes me forward. I sit next to Salim who gives me what I assume is an encouraging smile. I do not find the strength to retort. Instead, I close my eyes.

Fingers fine.

Toes fine.

Fresh air.

Can move.

Good.

I repeat this mantra in my head. It helps. I hoped that my cold mind would smother the memories. I suppose I should not be too greedy. A mortal would have needed… actually a mortal would have died.

We do not wait long. It seems that Constantine is not the kind of person to make others wait as a power play. He enters the room from the right-hand door with three vampires in tow.

It is only now that I realize the implication of being here. Boston is the vampire capital of North America and I am in the seat of its government. The first man to follow is tall and very muscular, not like a worker but like a circus strongman. The brown ensemble he wears is bulging, and though it was obviously custom-tailored, it looks painted on. As if somebody had stuck a bear in a tuxedo. I do not need to taste his aura to recognize a Natalis and I can tell that this one is old and very powerful.

The second person to come through is a dainty young woman with blonde hair and crystalline blue eyes the color of the coldest ice. She wears an elegant sleeveless white dress and high gloves. She smiles innocently as she sees me and though her aura is subdued, I can tell without a doubt that this is a Lady.

The last man to come in is a Lord as well though his aura feels like something is missing. He wears a scowl under bushy eyebrows and shoulder-length gray hair. His suit is also the color of ash, and shows a lean but muscular physique. His face is a bit older than the average vampire and with his steely eyes, he is like a wolf. He surveys the room calmly and without apparent interest.

And to think I was impressed a few days ago. Forget about depopulating a small town, there is enough might in this room to destroy an army. Of course, they will probably never agree to fight side by side.

The three newcomers take the elevated seats to my left and behind Constantine. They are diagonal compared to us, and their position gives them a commanding view of the proceedings to come.

Constantine walks behind his pulpit and without ceremony, begins his speech.

“Ariane of the Nirari petitioned the Speaker to obtain House status under the Accords. House Lancaster, the local representatives of clan Lancaster, exerted their right to object. We shall now examine the validity of their claim. The verdict will come from a jury of neutral peers. Please welcome Lord Jarek of the Natalis, Lady Sephare of the Hastings, as well as Lord Torran of the Dvor.”

To my surprise, Salim’s eyes widen at the mention of the last name. I feel a shift in all vampires present. Apparently the man is important. Good for him.

“Keep in mind that anybody caught telling an outright lie will be left in Ignace’s capable hands, no matter their rank. Barlow, you have the floor,” Constantine finishes.

“Thank you, Excellence,” the pale-haired man answers. He stands up and walks to the front. The man is quite handsome in an aristocratic way, but his sneer when our eyes meet twist his face into a mask of cruelty.

“In 1803, following the decennial conclave, House Lancaster took custody of Ariane of the Nirari as she was just a fledgling by agreement with her sire. The House dedicated a considerable effort and resources to raising her, effort she repaid by fleeing her responsibilities six months later, after cheating on an Accord-ordained duel and assassinating a coven mate in a cowardly way. Following this, she left a trail of destruction across America that proves without a doubt that this… woman… cannot be left to her own devices. We argue that House Lancaster was wronged, and that our generosity was spat on by the defendant. All that we demand is justice. We ask for reparations and that the culprit be released into our custody until the debt is repaid, for her own good. Thank you.”

The scoundrel walks back to his seat with dignity. I seethe. The audacity of these people… Will this abuse ever end?

“Salim, you have the floor,” Constantine says in turn.

Salim stands up with a slight smile and takes the place Barlow had occupied.

“The defense argues that the liberation of Ariane from the torment she was subjected to was at the time, a Lancaster internal matter. We argue that the plaintiffs do not have a legal ground to stand on, and that they waste this noble assembly’s time with flimsy charges to get back at the vampire who outplayed them so thoroughly. We beg for the assembly to see through the ploy and bring the proceedings to a swift and just end.”

It lasts for one moment but I can tell that Salim’s plea finds echo in the Speaker. He did strike me as a man who sees his own time as precious. Too precious, perhaps. My lawyer understands the judge well, an auspicious start. As Salim walks back, I realize that for the first time since leaving Marquette, I am feeling a new emotion. Hope.

“Barlow, you may start.”

“Excellence, I call forward Lady Moor of the Lancaster.”

The haughty woman walks forward and to a small circle to the right of the open space I had not noticed before. She stands there as if her mere presence was a privilege we should appreciate. Her testimony is a heart-wrenching tale of how she ‘rescued me’ from the clutches of my sire, a man known for his depravity and the horrendous way he treats his spawn.

No objections there.

The Lady then elaborates on how she wanted to give me a chance at life despite my unfortunate ancestry, and did her best to educate and guide me until my fateful betrayal. I am furious though I hide it rather well, and find out that being angry helps. I do not feel so haunted anymore. Instead, I add Moor, Anatole, and that snivelling little prick to the list of persons I will personally flay alive then dip in a barrel of freshly squeezed lemon juice, before roasting them over a pit.

Salim’s turn comes. The difference between him and Barlow is striking. While the unctuous bastard speaks in flowery language interspersed with witty traits, Salim is sober and to the point.

“What compensation did you receive from Lord Nirari besides custody of my client?”

“Objection,” voices Barlow energetically, “irrelevant.”

Constantine returns his gaze to Salim, indicating that he may answer.

“Excellence, the plaintiff presents taking Ariane as a favor done to her. I merely wish to demonstrate that it was anything but.”

Constantine’s attention goes to Moor.

“This is a false dichotomy, young sir, I can act in a way that is beneficial to both Ariane and myself. Intelligence in business is not a flaw.”

“So this was a business deal first and foremost, and as for beneficial, I have a copy of a letter sent to the Accord’s administration dated August 1803 signed by your hand, asking for recognition for, and I quote, neutralizing the threat of a Devourer spawn. I suppose this was you displaying ‘intelligence’ while being your usual benevolent self, Lady Moor?”

Silence.

“No further questions, Excellence.”

I know that nothing concrete was achieved with this exchange. This was merely a preliminary testimony to establish the circumstances of my servitude, and yet Salim broke their narrative. My status went from protegee to that of asset in only a few sentences.

The next person to come up is Baudouin and I force myself not to smile at the implication. Melusine should have been next if they wanted to prove how much they contributed and how I repaid them. Their decision is probably for the best, though the jury might wonder why she did not intervene.

The loyal Servant explains in English, and in gory details, how I cleared a warehouse for him. He remembers how in the course of my work I displayed cruelty and malice beyond what was needed. He speaks of broken wrists and shattered limbs, of men and women drained of blood as soon I was given the opportunity.

His twisted tale does not anger me. Baudouin is a Servant and Servants align with their Masters. It is the way of things.

After Baudouin is done with his wild exaggerations, Salim stands up and smiles.

“How many separate missions did you trust Ariane with Lancaster business? Give us an estimate.”

Trust. Smart choice of words, Salim.

Baudouin hesitates.

“You mentioned at least thirteen different instances where she proved excessively violent, so I ask again, how many missions did you send her way? Fifty?”

“More or less…”

“Remind me, how many Lancaster vampires were present in the city during that time?”

“They were not always there.”

“Answer the question please.”

“Seven.”

“There were seven vampires to handle Lancaster affairs, and yet you relied so much on a fledgling from a different bloodline?”

“Their time is precious. I do not know how you conduct your business but here, we do not have lofty individuals waste their time on menial tasks.”

“To defend the financial interests of your House is a menial task? Are you saying that you employed Ariane so many times because all other seven vampires in the coven could not be bothered with menial tasks, and this despite your apparent disapproval of her conduct?”

“I did not imply that.”

“Let me summarize your tale Baudouin. You repeatedly called on my client for sensitive affairs despite being extremely displeased with her savagery, because all seven other members of the coven were busy with extremely important and sensitive cases. Yes?”

Silence.

“Don’t bother answering Baudouin. Another question, when you mentioned my client ravenous Thirst, how many people had she already fed on those nights?”

“I am not responsible for the vampire’s feeding habits.”

“Ah, but as your Master’s executor you should have been aware of the status of the fledgling you unleashed upon the city, yes? Surely you would not have let a Thirsty fledgling run around without supervision and without feeding her? Such an irresponsible act would have been a grave violation of the safety clause of the Accords.”

“She was not running unchecked. I was very careful.”

“Were you? How did you enforce her obedience?”

Silence. Up till now, the jury had been quiet. This last sentence wakes up their interest. Suddenly, the atmosphere gets heavy and the weight of their attention falls on the Servant.

“Answer the question, Baudouin,” Constantine says in a deceptively soft voice.

“With a pain-based control bracelet.”

Painful, awkward silence as four judgmental sets of eyes land on Lady Moor. To her credit, she doesn’t flinch. I know I would have.

“To summarize, the Lancaster benevolence implied grueling work, poorly managed feedings of a fledgling and loyalty enforced by a pain bracelet. For once, I will agree with the plaintiff, there are indeed reparations to be made. No further questions, Excellence.”

Baudouin walks back to his place as if he were on eggshells. The hostility in the jury’s aura is an exceptional thing, as our instincts will naturally blunt the desire to harm Servants. It appears that I am not the only one who despises captivity, and worse, captivity under someone who isn’t a vampire.

I steal a glance towards the Lancaster bench. Barlow and Moor are as impassive as ever but behind them, Melusine’s fists are clenched. Our eyes meet briefly.

I understand that Salim is well-prepared and doesn’t need my input. He knows much about me and what I have done through Jimena, Nami, Isaac and Loth. I still think him reckless for proceeding so fast. There could be information I did not share yet and could be relevant for the trial.

The next witness to be called by Barlow is one of the Roland twins. He recounts how he presided over a duel and confirmed it was to the death under the Accords. Salim only objects when Barlow implies my duplicity instead of demonstrating it, and does not ask questions. Then Constantine declares a short recess. He leaves the room first, followed by the jury. They gauge me as they pass by.

They look interested.

The defendants are the first to leave and we are escorted to a receiving room by one of the Speaker’s silent sentinels. The groups do not leave together as a precaution against sudden violence. A wise choice, as I would happily stab them if I could get away with it. We sit on couches, including the old Dvergur who looks completely out of place, and also vaguely smells of fish for some reason.

“Introductions first?” I ask in English to be polite, and look at him.

“A noo who you be, lassie.”

This voice, the insane eyes, the incredible age…

“Are you… Erlingur?”

“Aye.”

I know of Erlingur. Loth mentioned him often. Erlingur is ancient and pretty much a legend in Dvergur clans. His temper is the subject of many a ballad and so is his lust for women and mead. It is said that he broke his first axe on the head of one of Trajan’s legionaries. It is said he plied his trade as a mercenary from the cold Kievan Rus to the shores of Hispania, that he was a captain in the Byzantine Varangian and a bodyguard for the first Calif. It is also said that he once wrestled a roast boar at his ex-wife’s wedding. The boar won.

He is not exactly known for his shining intellect.

Nevertheless, Loth thought of him fondly last time we talked. It is Erlingur who taught him English after coming back from a stint in the Scottish Highlands. He is also my friend’s oldest surviving uncle.

“Is it true that when you caught that Narwhal…”

“Ahem,” Salim interrupts. I was distracted, and it felt nice. Though judging from the old man’s scowl, I should have picked another story. Definitely not the one with the squid though.

“Our time is short,” the lawyer continues, “I need to ask you if you are in a good enough state to testify.”

“It would certainly have been better if you had given me time to recover,” I hiss in response.

All there. All straight. All fine. No, I need to focus more. Calm down.

“There is a reason. Am I correct in assuming that you refuse to give the Lancaster anything?”

“If they gain custody in any way, this will be my last night, and I shall take as many of them as I can on my way out.”

“Then consider this. The final decision is to be made by the jury. They are the ones we need to convince. They are visiting dignitaries from Europe and they know of your recent ordeal...”

“They do?”

“Yes. They know that you were callously used by Constantine in a power play between himself and the Knights. To know and to see are different things, however. Constantine does not understand the pain. He cannot.”

Salim’s expression grows clouded and I recall Isaac mentioning torture training. He knows.

“There isn’t a Lord or Lady alive who hasn’t suffered enough pain to madden a hundred mortals, yet here you are on the very next night, down but not out.”

“You expect them to feel sympathy?”

“Not sympathy, Ariane. Respect.”

Hmm.

Jimena sits closer. With a light finger, she brushes the side of my arm. On the other side, Nami bumps my shoulder.

“Very well, I will do it,” I reply.

Salim prepares me for the next fifteen minutes, insisting that no good lawyer asks a question he doesn’t know the answer to. I use the opportunity to indicate that Melusine’s loyalty is uncertain, something that Salim is sure he can exploit if they try to use her. After that, I ask for a bit of privacy with Jimena. The others queue out of the room without complaint.

“When?” I ask.

“When will it stop?”

“Yes.”

“I am sorry sister; I wish I had an answer but I do not. Lord Ceron could help you… Ah, perhaps later. Know that once this is over you will be free and have as much time as you need to recover. You have been either hiding or fleeing since you became one of us. Consider this, you will be able to visit any of our cities and be welcomed as a guest.”

“I am not so sure…”

“You will be welcome here, in Charleston by my clan and in New Orleans by the Ekon. There are libraries, teachers and trainers you will call upon. There are wonders to visit and parties to attend, people to meet who were alive when Columbus was soiling his britches. Think about it.”

“I can’t. I can only… never mind. Let’s get this over with, I will not be able to calm down until I know I am safe.”

“Very well.”

Weakness. Powerlessness. I had forgotten for so long how it felt and now I am reminded of it once more, in this room filled with old monsters.

“Did you plan on cheating during your duel against Jimena of the Cadiz?”

“No.”

“Did you do anything that could be considered cheating”

“No.”

“Did you know you would face her in battle?”

“No.”

“You must have suspected something to happen though?”

“I expected something to happen, yes, so I was very surprised when she stabbed me in the heart.”

The members of the jury shift, perhaps amused? In any case, my innocence in subverting an Accord’s sponsored duel should be established. It was not my ploy, and if they doubt my word, they can always ask Ignace for confirmation. That is one less tool in the Lancaster’s arsenal of slanders and half-lies.

Next, Salim has me go into details about the many tasks I had to do for Baudouin. My answers show a deep understanding of their structure and priorities, something that a barely contained thug would not have known. I briefly explain why the trophy-hunting mage’s attack and Nami’s subsequent rescue made Moor doubt my allegiance, and how she did not hesitate to use me in her arena. Moor tenses visibly at the mention of how much money was probably involved and Barlow looks suddenly quite interested.

Take that you dishonest hag.

Salim’s measured diction calms me down and I realize soon that the three members of the jury intentionally subdued their aura. They do not feel so domineering anymore, instead, they are slightly protective. Yes, they are dangerous, but not to me or at least, not right now.

It still takes all my willpower to stay upright. I just want this to end. I will go on a little bit more and all will be fine.

Barlow stands up to interrogate me.

Salim’s advice was to answer the truth and not to worry about any impression I left. So, I will do that. I do not think hard, and I do not play coy. I answer concisely and that’s it.

“You went back to see your family, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Did they welcome you back?”

“Yes.”

It doesn’t seem to go as well as Barlow thought. I suppose that after considering me as a bloodthirsty moron for so long, the Lancaster ended up believing their own myth.

“When did they throw you out?”

“They did not. I left the same night and maintained a loving relationship with my father until his death three years ago.”

“…”

And so on.

“How many people did you kill during your flight from New Orleans?”

“Some mortal to slake my Thirst, and a vampire.”

“Francoise?”

“Yes.”

“You disposed of a fellow coven member to mask your treachery?”

“No, I killed her because she was about to slay Aintza,” I say as I point to the Servant in the room. A shocked gasp escapes the Hastings Lady’s mouth.

“She had already broken her fingers,” I add helpfully.

Of course, at that time Aintza was not yet bound to Jimena, though I fail to elaborate on this specific point.

“Ahem. Yes. But what about after that. How many mortals perished by your hand?”

I count. The three idiots who were lynching that escaped slave named Toussaint, incidentally the first time I got drunk. Then father Perry and his entourage.

“Six,” I answer, and explain who they were and the circumstances of their demise.

Barlow ends with a few perfidious and slanderous comments, implying that my testimony is unreliable and that I may have killed those I had been feeding on without realizing it. He points out to the increased number of disappearances during that time period, to which Salim objects. This ends his counter-interrogation.

Already, members of the jury display signs of impatience. They make it subtle enough not to insult their host but easy enough for the rest of us to pick them. The fact that they sit slightly behind Constantine helps. Salim smiles and introduces the next witness.

“The plaintiff questions my client’s ability to function alone. I will now demonstrate without the shadow of a doubt that she strived and succeeded beyond what can be expected from a one-year-old fledgeling as soon as she escaped her tormentors. For this, I shall call upon the testimony of King Loth of Skoragg.”

King?

Erlingur stands up and skulks his way to the front with a box in his gnarly paws. The artefact is an intricate silver construct with a needle on top, and a moderate magical aura emanates from it. It tastes like…

It tastes like Loth, like mountain and steel! He made the enchantment himself.

“Erlingur, please state the reason for your visit,” says Salim. It is extremely subtle, yet I notice that the Courtier’s expression is just a bit amused.

The reason soon becomes obvious.

“Loth ashked me. Aye, a knew him as a wee bairn. Ya ol’ walloper he sed, ya spend aw day scunnert oot yer mind in ya fucken hoose loik a pure twally, ye disnae wanty go oot he sed, so a sed shut yer gob ye hackit goon ‘fore I batter it, a don wanty, so he sed, get oot ‘fore I burn doon yer gaff a got a job fer ya so I sed aye and here I be.”

Silence falls over the room. Constantine’s gaze drills into Salim who looks on placidly. The Hastings lady opens a fan to mask her obvious smile.

“What did he say?” the Speaker asks, annoyed.

“Erlingur is here at the behest of King Loth.”

“… I see, and what task was he given?”

“I know,” an extremely low-pitched and gravelly voice says.

The one who speaks is the Natalis Lord. His voice is surprisingly soft for someone his size, and his words are slow and measured.

“It is a voice record box, a Dvergur creation. They are very precious and rarely used. He is here to open it.”

“This one can only be activated by the blood of a relative. It is a safeguard to prevent the message from being tampered with,” the lord with the long gray hair adds. His voice is still a basso though not as low as his neighbor’s. He also has a strange accent even in Akkad. There is rhythm to it, as if he were reciting.

Constantine considers the item with curiosity. He’s probably never seen one before.

“We shall hear your kin’s message then,” he says.

The sentence is barely finished before Erlingur pricks a thumb on the device. The box shines blue with runes, then an illusory globe rises in the air. It vibrates slightly with each sound the enchantment produces.

“Am busy! Get tae fuck!” my friend’s inimitable voice says. A rare emotion fills my heart and I raise both hands to my chest. Loth’s aura spreads through the room now, as if he were here.

“Is that bloody thing even on, ah yes. Ahem.

“My name is Loth of Skoragg. I have spent the past century in North America and for ten years, I welcomed within my home and hearth Ariane of the Nirari. During that time, she respected all the terms of our arrangement without fail. Never did she kill one of my citizens, and never did she endanger my life or secrecy. She showed loyalty and candor in her dealings, curiosity and ingenuity in her pursuit of knowledge. She fought by my side and bled with me no matter the odds or the risks to her person. She helped me face my demons and made me a better man, not out of self-interest but because she wanted ta help. She was in turn an apprentice, a confidante and an aide, and more than that she was a friend. A real friend who I would risk my life for without a sliver of hesitation. Ta all of ye oversea bloodsuckers, whoever ye are, ye have a diamond in yer midst and I regret every day that she can’t be here with me instead of these arse-licking, unruly ninnies. What good Hunts we would have, hah! Anyway, I’ve said enough. Ariane if ye’re here, next time we meet I’ll make ye a gun that will blow an asshole’s head clean off from a mile and then do it five times more without reloading, ye’ll see! Awrite. This is King Loth, signing off.”

The sound bubble dissipates and I let out an uncontrolled gasp and lightly bend forward.

Happiness.

This emotion is so fleeting and precious that I forgot about the whole hearing to focus on that elusive warmth in my chest. I let it go through me. Only when it dissipates in the cold recess of my unbeating heart do I open my eyes again and straighten out. Both the jury and the Speaker are looking forward though I know they saw my reaction. They pretended not to see my momentary weakness. That is a sign of respect.

On the other bench, the Lancaster discomfort is obvious.

If I had to judge how the Hearing is going for them so far, I would have to use the word “disastrously”.

Despite their numerous setbacks, Barlow hasn’t given up yet.

“Erlingur, the two of them spent ten years together. Would it not be possible for your King to have been under her influence?”

Ah, trying to discredit the witness in front of his grumpy uncle? Brilliant idea, moron, let’s see how that works out for you.

“Ye’re off yer fooken heid ye daft cunt,” the old man’s spits, shivering with rage, “dinnae talk mince course we checked his mind, ya wee fanny!”

“He respectfully disagrees,” adds Salim, deadpan.

The only sound is the groan of wood as Barlow’s claws slowly dig into his desk.

Beautiful.

“I think this is enough,” Constantine declares while glaring at the Lancaster side.

“One last thing, sir, if I may,” Barlow interjects respectfully.

Gah, when will you give up? Constantine remains silent which the lawyer interprets as permission to continue.

“We also have proof that Ariane of the Nirari allied herself with the White Cabal, a hostile religious order of mages who inflicted great pain upon our House. We argue that her cooperation with an enemy of all of us is a crime that requires punishment.”

“And the reason why you did not mention this before?” Constantine asks, out of patience.

“Our witness is Melusine of the Lancaster. She recently suffered a tremendous loss and we would have preferred not to cause her undue stress.”

Right.

Melusine stands up and replaces Elringur at the front.

This is going to be good.

“Melusine, after the battle which cost your Vassal his life, you bore witness to Ariane collaborating with the enemy, is that correct?”

Silence. Melusine’s shoulders are tense and her face is a frozen mask. I dare not imagine the tumultuous emotion ravaging her mind right now, and I rejoice that she decided to honor our oath above her loyalty to her clan.

“Is that correct?” Barlow repeats with visible anger. If I had been humiliated like he was, I would be angry too.

“Melusine you forget yourself. Answer the question,” he insists as Lady Moor’s eyes throw daggers at the little minx. A condemning silence! This could not have gone any better.

“…saved me.”

The sound is barely a whisper, so silent that the mortals could not have heard, and yet for us it is like thunder in a blue sky.

“Pardon me?” Barlow half-screams.

“She saved me. You want an answer? I’ll give you an answer you sanctimonious twit. That blonde glorified peasant saved my life that night. She dragged my maimed body through fire and smoke and broke through while I could not. She showed cunning and ruthlessness, sending one group of worshippers to slay the other and fought fang and claw while your mistress fled with her tail between her legs! All of this because she nabbed their precious warlord and didn’t deign to cover her tracks like the DUMB BITCH SHE IS,”

Melusine is screaming now. I bet they can hear her on the other side of the bay. Nevermind my earlier comment, this is a thousand times better than silence.

“Moor you conniving piece of shit! My Arthur died because your stupid self could not be arsed to do things right and you sent me without backup to clean your shit! And now you ORDER me to help? You think you’re smart? You think you won the game? When the throne receives my report on your embezzlement and your scams, not even the miles of dick you normally gobble will save your scrawny ass from retribution!”

Forget the bay they can hear her in London.

“Loyalty to the cause? Hah! Fuck the cause, fuck the clan and fuck YOU!”

The room grows quiet. Or at least I think it does, my ears are still ringing. By the Watcher. Wow.

I am floored.

Barlow and Moor gawp like a pair of beached fishes, aghast.

“Anything to add?” Constantine adds politely while the irate redhair is still gasping for air.

“I… I want House status!”

“As a political refugee, I presume?”

“Yes!”

“Your petition is accepted. Lords and Lady of the jury, I propose we stop here. Do you need time to deliberate?”

“No, Speaker.”

“No.”

“Indeed not.”

“And what is the verdict?”

“I, Jarek of the Natalis, reject the Lancaster claim.”

“I, Sephare of the Hastings, reject the Lancaster claim.”

“I, Torran of the Dvor, reject the Lancaster claim.”

“The Lancaster claim is rejected. The request is granted. Welcome to the Accords, House Nirari.”

And that, as they say, is that.

Glossary.

List of bloodlines

Amaretta: A bloodline focused on prophecy and vision. Their Progenitor is active but only meditates. Most Amaretta members are female and they are concentrated around the western Mediterranean.

Known member:

- Aisha, member of the North American knight squad

- Amaretta, the Progenitor

Cadiz: A clan based in Spain, whose members are known to achieve supernatural focus. They boast many of the world’s greatest duelists, though they sometimes suffer from tunnel vision. Their Progenitor has gone through a portal in search of a challenge. Many of their members support the Eneru faction.

Known members:

- Ceron: Lord, first met by Ariane in the fortress, contributed to her escape in exchange for Lancaster confidential information.

- Jimena, Ariane’s friend and blood sister, knight, owner of a soul sword called Justice.

- Suarez: Lord, first encountered during the Charleston heist. Ariane had previously rescued his Vassal and he repaid his debt by helping her escape the knight squad when they came to slay her.

Constantine: Constantine himself has not yet sired a Spawn. His powers are unknown.

Known members:

- Constantine, the man who established the political order for all vampires in North America, under a unified system of laws called the Accords. He is the Speaker. He has some limited military power and is also one of the world’s greatest living blood mages, making him a powerhouse.

Dvor: Dvor vampires bind with a territory and mostly remain there. They are significantly stronger when defending it against intruders and weakened while away. All of them support Eneru and make up most of the alliance’s upper ranks. Their Progenitor is asleep in his city somewhere in North Africa, while his descendants concentrate around the Middle East and Eastern Europe.

Known members:

- Torran, Lord. Not much else is known at this juncture.

Erenwald: Based in Germany and central Europe, Erenwald vampires favor nature and the wilderness. They are the only bloodline animals do not shun, and rear most Nightmares. Some of them can perform druidic magic and their Progenitor turned himself into a tree. They contribute heavily to the Followers of the Path, the third vampire faction.

Known members:

- Ogotai: Ariane’s jailor back at the fortress when she first woke up. He turned against his superior Lady moor out of hatred and opened the fortress to the Order of Gabriel. He was killed years later.

- Wilhelm: not much is known about this lord, only that he is Constantine’s steward.

Hastings: Hastings can walk in undirect sunlight, though they consider it unpleasant. They also naturally wake up early and can consume food and drinks. In exchange, they are physically weaker than the other bloodlines though they should never be underestimated. Their Progenitor recently eloped with a mortal and they hide somewhere in the English countryside. The clan is a major contributor of the Mask alliance. They concentrate in the United Kingdom and France.

Known members:

- Hastings, the Progenitor. She is on holiday.

- Sephare: not much is known about her yet.

Ekon: Ekon vampires are obsessed with new experiences, gathering their impressions in a magical repository known as the Great Book of the Ekon. Their Progenitor died to experience the sun and share his experience. Several copies of the Book exist across the land updating themselves as soon as a new entry is made.

Ekon vampires possess increased Thirst and pain resistance to assist them in their endeavor. They are mostly neutral and seldom gather, preferring to travel the land in their never-ending quest for the new and the exciting. As a result, they do not have a main territory. They are also one of the few clans recruiting in central Africa and the Guinean gulf.

Known members:

- Naminata the Singing Spear, Master, Ariane’s friend. Known for her reckless nature and legendary sexual appetite.

- Kouakou: Lord, one of the few Ekon who does not travel much. He handles Ekon financial interests in Louisiana and is a major supporter of the clan as one of their few sedentary Lords.

Kalinin: Kalinin vampires can resist and even wield holy symbols so long as they believe their cause is just. Their Progenitor was killed in combat and devoured by Nirari. They make their home in western Russia, particularly around Moscow and Saint Petersburg. They are neutral.

No known members so far.

Lancaster: Lancaster vampires are exceptional at Charm. They are the other clan operating in the United Kingdom and also support Mask. Their Progenitor was killed by a once in history alliance of mages, Gabrielites and even some vampires.

Known significant members:

- Moor: Lady, (previous) head of the Louisiana House.

- Melusine: recent Master, made a nuisance of herself for Ariane. Capable mage. She recently entered a truce with Ariane.

- Lambert: Master, enforcer, mage, had his heart on the other side of his chest. Slain by Ariane in single combat.

Natalis: Natalis vampires boast incredible physical strength. It comes at a cost to their intellectual abilities, though most of them are not completely stupid. Their Progenitor has disappeared and some suspect that he has died. Natalis are mercenaries and bodyguards, having very few holds of their own. Most Natalis Lords support the Eneru faction.

Known members:

- Jarek, Lord, not much is known about him yet.

Nirari: The Devourer bloodline, the first vampires. Nirari can absorb a fragment of the strength of their victims and keep it for themselves at the cost of particularly strong instincts. Because of the Progenitor’s use of his Spawn, only four Devourers are currently alive while some newer bloodlines boast numbers in the hundreds. Lord Nirari himself is locked in a secret war with his mother, a conflict that has spanned millennia. He is considered unstoppable by most organizations.

Known members:

- Nirari: Ariane’s sire. Ancient Prince of Babyon. The first one to receive the elixir of flawed eternal life. He is cruel and vindictive though he always respects his word.

- Ariane: you know.

- Svyatoslav : the first Spawn to gain his independence. Svyatoslav was a prince of Kivan Rus'. He is currently operating in Russia.

- Malakim: Nirari’s right hand, a tortured soul devoured by hatred.

Roland: Roland vampire boast an unbreakable will that lets them train harder, fight longer and pursue passions with more determination than any other bloodline. They, unfortunately, tend to be stubborn as a result. They are based in France and make up the core of Mask’s military. They have a tradition of being patrons of the arts, even more so than the Rosenthal. Their progenitor is currently slumbering in an unknown location.

Known members:

- Gaspard: Lord, slain by Nirari at the vampire fortress after provoking him.

- Anatole: a Master previous head of the knight squad, he is an arrogant prick. He went after Ariane hard out of blind hatred and got exiled for it. Nashoba called him a pretender.

Rosenthal: The Rosenthals boast an eidetic memory and synthetic mind. They are completely neutral and act as the lorekeepers, bankers and administrators of vampirekind. They benefit from a positive relationship with other factions of the supernatural world and boast a powerful mortal military made of well-trained and loyal mercenaries. Rosenthal vampires are mostly uninvolved and are forbidden from taking part in conflicts by their Progenitor herself. They operate out of Switzerland but recruit everywhere.

Known members:

- Isaac, Ariane’s banker and wealth manager. He became a Master following a hunt they shared. He has a rebellious streak.

- Salim: Isaac replacement after he departed from America.

Vanheim: The wild cards of their kind. Their powers are unpredictable, and the Progenitor is unknown. Vanheim are rare, few, and often isolated though they are not shunned outright.

Known members: none so far.

The three vampire alliances:

Mask.

Masks dominate Western Europe. They favor infiltration and influencing the world from the shadows. They are known patrons of the arts, funding extravagant works and hosting grand balls. Their games and contests are often cruel. Masks dominate Western Europe except for Spain.

Eneru:

Eneru members postulate that vampires, as long-lived and resilient individuals, have the potential to be superior rulers. That is not to say that any vampire has the necessary leadership skills, of course. Member of Eneru will semi-openly rule small domains over which they have near complete control, employing talented mortals as representatives and agents. They tend to be traditionalists though many of them still understand the need to change. Eneru vampires control Spain, parts of north Africa, parts of the middle east and parts of the Balkans. They are more fragmented than Masks.

Followers of the path.

The Followers are isolationists and can be considered a faction only insofar as they oppose the two others. Followers control central and Northern Europe as well as Western Russia.

The Accords.

A good number of vampires have moved to North America, until a community formed under the patient rule of Constantine. The Accords heavily regulate conflict between the eclectic members of the group. Constantine’s personal guard as well as himself and a squad of knights ensures that discipline is enforced with deadly efficiency.

The White Cabal.

Based in the state of New York, the White Cabal is a group dedicated to the protection and development of mages in north America. They have recently started to gain a significant amount of power. Their budding military mixes mages and mundane soldiers and uses specialized tactics.

The Order of Gabriel.

A fanatical order devoted to the extermination of all things supernatural, they are well-trained and well-funded for the most part, and do not hesitate to sacrifice their lives in the hope of killing one more monster. They go mostly after practitioners, rogue and otherwise, but will attack vampires if they think they have a shot at taking one down. The attrition rate of the order is extremely high but there is no shortage of volunteers to join their ranks as supernatural entities often leave many vengeful victims in their wake.

Other characters:

- Achille: Ariane's brother, currently still alive. He is a bit on the judgemental and stubborn side though he does have a good heart. We know little of him save that he made the family business prosper and had many children.

- Aintza: Jimena’s Servant and long-term lover. She was instrumental in freeing Ariane from Lancaster servitude.

- Arthur: Melusine's Vassal, he died saving her from an order ambush.

- Cecil Rutherford Bingle: an adventurer and a gentleman. He returned to England after sharing an adventure with Ariane, and married the woman he had met there, Rose. He has a peculiar magic that turns everything dramatic around him.

- Dalton: Ariane’s first vassal, he was killed by the key of Beriah during the 1812 conflict. His death was avenged by Ariane after a major battle after which she gained the ability to destroy magic with her claws, at the cost of energy.

- Erlingur: Loth's uncle. One of the oldest living Dvergur and possibly the dumbest as well, he is known for a strange mix of courage, blind luck and sheer stupidity.

- Harrigan: Ariane and now Merritt’s head of security, a despicable but disciplined man.

- Jonathan Hopkins: dark hair, dark eyes, a sober man with a mind like a bear trap. Jonathan first joined the Order before switching allegiance and turning the White Cabal’s military into a professional force.

- David King: a rescued slave who joined the odd squad after Ariane bought and freed him. His father died fighting wendigos.

- Kitty: the Dream’s leading girl.

- Loth of Skorrag: A Dvergur (dwarf) from Scandinavia, Loth is a master artificer and a deadly fighter. He is also a scholar who will happily talk about his family’s long and tumultuous history. He recently returned to his home country. Loth is extremely tall, bulky and the proud owner of a dark bushy beard. A few strands of silver have made their way into it, not that he much cares. Notably fond of mature beauties.

- Alexandria Merritt: previously free mage who joined Ariane as her second in command. Merritt is loyal though she is still fond of the occasional mischief. She has two children: Ollie and Lynn. All three are redheads.

- Semiramis: Nirari's mother and the single greatest mage who ever lived, she was granted immortality by the entity known as the Eye or the Watcher against allowing his essence into the world. Semiramis is sometimes tasked by the Watcher with creating an elixir of flawed eternal life. Upon consumption, the chosen will become the Progenitor of a new bloodline. She is trying to become a goddess and is locked in eternal conflict with her son Nirari, the first vampire. Her den possesses strange dimensional properties.

- Sivaya: an ethereal beauty and princess of the Likaean court of Blue, she is a magical genius. Politically, however, she is a disaster according to Likaean standards. She is currently working on a way for her people to go home.

- Sola: a beautiful albino girl, a rare natural healer and purifier, capable of closing even grievous gut wounds. She is part of the white Cabal.

- Nashoba: shaman of the Choctaw nation. He made the earrings Ariane is still using to evade detection. He could see the future, and called Ariane 'daughter of thorn and hunger'. He died from Ariane's hand as a way to escape the pain of his disease. Ariane liked him fondly and carries his memory.

- Papa: technically named Hercule Reynaud but effectively Papa forever, Ariane's dad was ever supportive of his child even when she lost her soul. He met her several times and they kept a steady correspondence until his death in the early 30's. His wife Diane died very early in Ariane's life, making him her sole parent, a role which he dedicated himself to.

- Sinead: the most powerful Likaean on the planet, and a prince of the Court of Summer. He is at time a rogue and a dilettante, and at times a deadly schemer. No matter what, it always looks like he gets what he wanted in the end. Both Ari and him have done things for the other that they did not have to do...

- The Watcher: the embryo of a creator god, the Watcher will one day 'die' to give birth to a new universe, or at least this is what Semiramis believes. Nobody is exactly sure what its agenda is, or indeed if it has one to begin with. All that is known is that the Watcher is sapient, can communicate and is intimately tied to vampires and their existence.

71. House Nirari

I stand in front of Constantine with my arms crossed while he adds the finishing touches to the official document. It is a mere formality but it appears the Speaker enjoys his formalities.

Once he is done, he delicately puts his pen down and crosses his hands before his mouth.

In the following silence, neither of us yields. In the end, Constantine speaks first.

“The tasks of a leader are many. It is our burden to take difficult decisions for the good of all.”

I lift a hand in the air to interrupt him. His eyes light with anger.

“You forget that I also ruled for twenty years.”

“Ruling a backwater city is not the same as ruling the entire continent’s vampirekind!”

“And that’s where you are wrong. Whether a group of five or five million, the basics are the same, only the scale changes. It is all about politics.”

“And that is what I have done. I needed Anatole replaced and you gave me the perfect opportunity. With your testimony guaranteed by Ignace, the Knights were compelled to have him replaced.”

“Rulers like you are fine with large sacrifices, as long as they are done by someone else.”

“Enough!” he yells, “I don’t expect you to understand…”

“I understand that you took the easy way out, just like Melitone said. You chose expedience over subtlety without considering the cost to me.”

“All Masters heal, eventually.”

“You have no idea what you are talking about. We cannot faint. We cannot escape. We only have our instincts as our teeth reform to be broken again and our fingers regrow to be mangled once more. You do not, cannot understand the horror and the agony. What you think of as three days of unpleasantness is HELL! Hell, you hear me? I would have walked through piled glass for the privilege of greeting the dawn after one bloody hour. My mind was broken. You do not know what you are talking about!”

I stop, realizing I was screaming. Constantine remains silent.

“I read the Accords, you know? You did a good job but that won’t help much. You probably think that by introducing a sound power structure, you would be exempt from petty politics. You are naïve. No system is good enough that it cannot be destroyed by nepotism, clan politics and power games. It would have been easy for you to outmanoeuvre Anatole after his show of incompetence. Instead, your so-called thoroughness has cost you my allegiance, that of a Devourer.”

“I care little about your bloodline young one, I am a Progenitor.”

“Do you know how many Progenitors have already perished?”

Constantine’s brows furrow.

“If you are threatening me…”

“I have no need. The Lancaster progenitor was slain, and so was Kalinin. You rely on your status too much and think yourself untouchable. You are not. For now, your so-called allies accommodate you, just like they accommodated this farce of a trial of yours, because they are still fighting and reeling from the previous war. Right now, it is convenient that the New World remains neutral and accessible to all, but as we grow and become richer, the temptation to take over resources and new territories will become too strong. They will come for you, eventually, and by that time you will have allies and subordinates, or you will die alone.”

Constantine considers me quietly. He shows no anger at my provocative speech which is a good sign.

“You are not the kind of woman who speaks in vain. Am I to understand that you would work for me?”

“I will never work for you, but I would work with you, under one condition.”

“Name it.”

“Your blood.”

“You… want my blood?”

“Oh, don’t act so surprised. You must know how we Devourers gain strength. Your blood, freely given in secret, and I will do your bidding against compensation, while trying to forget the excruciating pain you have subjected me to. If you get caught in a power struggle, I will even help you instead of making sure you suffer as I did before mounting your head on a spike.”

“You are quite bold, I’ll give you that.”

I wait patiently while Constantine ponders my proposal. I am too weak to do anything to him, yet. The past few days have shown me that despite reaching masterhood, I am still a small fry compared to the real decision-makers. I may be safe from rogue hunts or arbitrary execution now, but I am still a pawn in a chessboard full of ancient and cunning creatures to whom mercy is but a weakness to exploit. I will take time to recover and I will enjoy the world, and I will also start working on the future. If I want to face the threats Aisha hinted at, I will need power both personal and political. I shall train, feed and find weapons. I shall also ally with those I can rely on, be they vampires, Likaeans or mages. Hell, I would even work with werewolves and forfeit their sweet, nourishing essence. And tolerate their stench. Perhaps.

Constantine sits back into his cushioned chair. He has reached a decision.

“Your words have merit. Melitone mentioned something similar and as much as I regret it, I must deal with the world as it is instead of as it should be. Here is my proposal. Complete a task for me and I will let you draw my essence under strict supervision. Afterward, you will be in my employ for a period of two years, during which you will have the liberty to refuse the tasks I give you. I will also compensate you more than generously for each one that you complete successfully. If your work is as satisfactory as your record hints at, I will grant you a territory to call your own and back you up should it be infringed upon, and then we can consider further collaboration.”

It sounds like a great deal…

“I will let you consult your loyal friends before you accept. As for the first task, Torran of the Dvor has asked for a protection detail while he is here. He asked for you specifically.”

“He is a Lord. Why would he need protection?”

“The Dvor are linked to their domain. Inside its boundaries, they have great powers to call upon, while outside they are weakened. Both Jimena of the Cadiz and Naminata of the Ekon vouch for your combat performance, and that is high praise coming from that firebrand and the Singing Spear of the Ekon. You also slew Lambert and you are a Devourer. You are more than qualified.”

“Do not mock me. I am neither able nor willing to protect anyone right now.”

“Just talk to him, then give me your answer.”

The Speaker hands me an official House declaration, properly folded. I know when I have been dismissed. I take the scroll and leave his office, greeting his mousy-haired secretary on my way out.

I turn to the butler as I exit. He has been waiting for me and made no secret of it. I consider that with so many vampires around, rules and tact must apply differently. The personal rooms and offices such as Constantine’s are warded of course, but the rest is not. Nami already taught me that etiquette demands I maintain my aura overt and non-threatening out of politeness, but what about the rest? Any whispers in Akkad will be heard from half a wing away. Everyone smells as soon as you enter the room if you have been intimate, and with whom. They know if you have been to the city or if you have been gardening, or if you haven’t bathed in more than a day. I am reminded of living in very close space with nosy relatives.

Suddenly, the notion of having my own sanctioned territory and only coming here to mingle sounds all the more attractive. I could strike a good balance between the countryside and its many exotic creatures, and the city and possible new bloodlines to add to my growing collection.

“Allow me to congratulate you on your ascension,” the man says in a soft and cultured voice. I do not reply and glare instead. I am convinced that Jimena came to him for help and he sent her away. This is not the kind of resentment I can simply give up on for the sake of expediency. The truth is that I hate them.

I hate them all.

Resentment is no longer the smouldering fire in my chest that it used to be when I was human. It is a cold and hard thing, both patient and quite unpliable. There is a debt, and sooner and later that debt will be paid. What Ignace said was wrong, my body is not something that must only be preserved for the sake of survival. I am also my body. By maiming it repeatedly as he did, he hurt me in a way that I had not been even when my heart was damaged.

Contrary to my expectations, the butler only smiles.

“Would you care to share the cause for your amusement?” I ask.

“Not amused, only relieved. If you had been all smiles after what was done to you, I would have known you to be a snake. Instead, you show me your teeth so I know you to be a wolf.”

“And I know you to be an asshole, what am I to do with this piece of information?”

“Language, young lady.”

“Fuck you.”

He sighs, giving up.

“Not that I do not enjoy our current conversation, Lady Nirari, but I feel obliged to mention that your friends are waiting.”

Ah yes. I stop rubbing my fingers which are all there, intact, and indicate that he should lead the way.

“By order of the Speaker, the South Wing suite number two is yours for the month. You have also been granted access to a secured vault, should you prefer to slumber underground. Your friends are waiting for you in your personal quarters.”

We climb up a set of stairs, coming across two mortals in colorful dresses showing plenty of cleavage. Their cheeks are flushed and they smell of perfume and sex. The pair curtsies, keeping their heads bowed as we cross paths. I can feel through my aura that their vitality is a bit depleted, signs that they fed someone recently.

“Lord Jarek occupies the other suite,” Wilhelm comments in lieu of explanation.

We come across a Courtier in a form-fitting, daring red dress of expensive make who also bows as we pass by, and quickly reach our destination. The butler also bows before presenting the suite. There is a lot of bowing going around and, fortunately, I am not the one doing it.

“Here we are. We should discuss your introduction ball at some point. Come see me once you have recovered.”

I go in without waiting. The ball can wait. I want to talk to everyone.

As soon as I close the door behind me, everyone inside stands up to welcome me, even old man Erlingur. I notice that Sorrel, the mage who allowed me to talk to Isaac through a crystal focus back in Marquette is also present.

The small number of guests is at odds with the grandeur of the receiving room. Contrary to the rest of the manor which favors earthy tones, the decorations here are in shades of white and deep blue. The furniture is lavishly decorated with bronze and engravings. There are enough seats to host a party.

My friends have gathered around a central table upon which a few snacks and drinks have been set. Erlingur is nursing his second bottle, and looks distinctly tamer than before.

I approach with a smile. I am safe here, and surrounded by friends. All is fine.

I force myself to relax my shoulders. All will be fine. In time.

“Congratulations!” the yells erupt. I am quickly surrounded, though I also notice that they leave a respectful distance between us. I don’t want that. Nami is in front of me, so I grab her into a hug.

I trust Nami.

Clawed hands part my hair, rest against my neck for an instant, then trail down my spine. I shiver lightly at the intimate touch. A low rumble shakes her chest.

Suddenly, another pair of arms surround me from the back. Jimena’s scent is familiar and comforting. For the first time tonight, I truly relax, and let out a shaky breath.

“It’s not fair…” Salim grumbles. Our trio chuckles and they let me go. I join the small assembly and sit in a throne-like chair they left for me, facing the entrance. As if planned, everyone goes to a small pile of containers in the corner of the room that I had not noticed before. I give Jimena a questioning glance, but she just winks. Soon, my guests form a line and approach me one by one, Jimena first.

“Congratulations on becoming a Master! As I have mentioned before, reaching the stage of Master is a momentous occasion and a great cause for celebration. Even neighboring covens will often join the festivities. As your sister and the most important person in the room—”

Groans from the audience. Since she spoke in English, everyone can follow. I am appreciative of the favor she does the mortals.

“—it is my privilege to be the first to grant you these gifts I bear.”

She hands me a small crate filled with books.

“Go on, have a look!”

I pick them up one by one, amused, and read the titles out loud. The books themselves are of high-quality paper and either brand new or truly ancient.

“Vampire History Throughout the Ages, a Primer.”

“A Guide to Proper Etiquette and Not Ending Up Skewered and Beheaded.”

I notice that this copy is old and has seen good use.

“Lady Hornicia and the three brawny lumberjacks…”

I glare at Jimena’s impassive face while behind her, the group exchanges knowing smiles.

“… with Illustrations,” I finish, hearing a few “ooooh”. I notice that Sorrel is embarrassed. There goes my reputation.

The next books contain written guides on many things vampiric, including the infusion of essence and aura. This is of special interest to me as those are the first steps to our version of magic.

I thank Jimena with a smile and she walks back to her chair while Nami takes her place. I open her box, fully expecting something sordid, and take from it a strange shawl of a very light blue fabric. The garment is ethereal and practically floats in the air. I caress it, enjoying its soft and cool texture.

“This is so beautiful, what is it?”

“Tis called a cave shroud. Do not be alarmed when I tell you that it is in fact a spore colony from a rare form of magical flora. It is alive and will grow in length if it doesn’t perish. Only the Erenwalds know the secret of its making.”

I hold the piece of clothing between two hands and enjoy the smooth feeling. The shawl indeed has the lightest aura.

“It fears fire and the sun, just like us. Take good care of it.”

“I will.”

I wrap the shroud around my neck and immediately feel better, while Nami goes back to her seat and Sorrel takes her place. I am surprised that the mage would step before Salim, and he answers my questioning look by taking out his transparent ball and chanting a few incantations.

The crystal apparatus grows cloudy, then clears away to reveal a desk organized with manic attention. Isaac smiles as our eyes meet.

“Ah, Ariane. Excellent! Excellent, yes. Congratulations on reaching masterhood and House status. I was already glad to call you a friend, and now I am proud to call you a peer. I have prepared a small gift to celebrate your independence, please accept it as a substitute while I correct this unfortunate situation.”

“It is so good to see you Isaac. Your consideration is gift enough, I assure you.”

“Nonsense. I will not be found wanting, my dear. And while you are at it, I do have a request.”

“Yes?”

“Please wait a bit before becoming a Lady, if possible. My heart can only take so much.”

I smile at his words, and after a few more pleasantries, we cut the call. We have not spoken for half a minute and Sorrel is already on the pale side. While the spellcaster sits to recover, I open his chest. Inside, I find a deed to a significant share of the coal company operating in Marquette, as well as a notebook enchanted to accept more pages. I set them aside with a smile.

Salim is next, and he offers me a card upon which is the address of one of Boston’s most up and coming tailors. He managed to get me exclusive services for two weeks. I will finally have the opportunity to replenish my wardrobe.

“Please, do not see it as a criticism of your current apparel.”

“Not at all. Thank you, this is very thoughtful, Salim.”

“You are welcome.”

After that, Aintza gives me a pair of small concealed pistols which I immediately love, and Erlingur delivers a massive crate with a small letter covered by Loth’s unmistakable scribbles:

“Ariane,

Here is a suit of armor, hope you didn’t fatten too much and that I still got your measurements right. I’ll send you an experimental gun you might like as well. It is not suitable for humans but perhaps you can put it to good use.

I hope to see you soon,

Loth.”

I take out a black, heavily enchanted ensemble. It is to my old suit what a ball gown is to a maid’s uniform. Plates and scales cover every inch of it with glossy darkness, each enchanted separately and linked with minute precision. The chest is covered by a single large plate upon which a haunting rune is etched. It looks like a circle open at the top, with two wing-like lines going up and to the sides. Mid-way through the wings, downward formations have been placed, looking suspiciously like fangs. Forget discretion, this is an armor made for war. Anyone who sees me in that will know that I am here to kill, and that I can afford to do so in style.

I bet that thing could stop an enchanted blade, or a volley of bullets. It is a royal gift.

Now I understand why Loth always complained about poor tools and materials. This is what he can accomplish with proper instruments. This is what the true work of a centuries-old Master is. This is the dress of a Queen, made to clad her form as she drenches the world in blood. I love it. Love it, love it, love it.

I want to try it on.

Even the others are looking in wonder. I grab the thing and disappear through a door leading to a luxurious bedchamber in the same style as the receiving room. I quickly remove my last surviving dress and put on the armor, fastening it quickly.

The inner fabric is smooth as silk and though the armor itself is heavy enough that a mortal would struggle moving in it, it doesn’t hamper my movements in any way. I feel giddy and when I walk back out, the vampires cheer while the mortals look on with mixed dread and admiration. I wish I could use a mirror.

I decide that tonight is not the night for a test run. I do not know if I can just run around the property, I do not know if it would set nearby alarms and more importantly, I would not be able to appreciate it properly. I change back, and we have a pleasant time together, speaking about everything but politics and torture. Between Jimena’s knowledge, Salim’s wit and Nami’s and Aintza’s humor, the conversation is as effortless as it is pleasant. I also learn that I am free to organize my introduction party and that they look forward to it. When I mention Constantine’s offer, all agree that it is an excellent deal, almost suspiciously so. Salim wagers that Constantine is trying to mend our relationship while Jimena believes that the Speaker sees me as a potential enforcer. Nami merely asks that I make sure to have hunks on hand for when she decides to visit.

Sorrel is the first to leave, exhausted. Erlingur soon follows, but not before I make sure he leaves with the gift I prepared for Loth back in Marquette. Salim is next as he has work to do, and I smirk when Nami manages to drag both Aintza and Jimena away. She is the very soul of corruption, that one.

Once I am alone, I retire to the bedroom. Somebody left the secure sarcophagus I always use on a small dais by the bed. Before retiring for the day, I make a list of everything I will do next.

I need to plan the ball. I already know what I want to do, what sort of image I want to give.

I need to accept Constantine’s offer and get in touch with Torran of the Dvor, see what he needs.

I need to network while I am here, and find new creatures to sample.

I need to learn how to do magic.

I need to learn how to obtain a soul weapon.

Only when I have everything will I take the next logical step, replace Constantine as the head of our kind in North America. And not as Speaker. As Queen.

72. All that Glitters

I wake up and slide the sarcophagus open to an unfamiliar view. The ceiling is ornamented white plaster, a bit gaudy but a welcome sight. Nothing bad happened. I awake truly free for the very first time since I woke up in the Louisiana fortress. There is no abusive Mistress to obey, no knight squad to hide from, nothing. It took thirty years to achieve this state but achieve it I did.

My elation is short-lived. Outside of these thick walls, the sun’s merciless embrace lights the world with its radiance. Its weight makes me sluggish even here, behind walls of unyielding stone. I feel it like a buzz, or a roar at the very edge of my consciousness. Come out, it says, come out and face your nature. You live on borrowed time. You will be ash. Eventually.

I shake my head and force my fingers to open one by one. I need a distraction. I also need to secure a supply of blood before tomorrow, as I doubt that the Speaker tolerates poaching on his territory.

I dress quickly and walk into the reception room. All the windows are shuttered. A pair of enchanted lanterns shine with a light blue glow. A mortal woman in a maid’s uniform consisting of a black dress under a white apron, with a cute little hat, sits at her desk and reviews documents.

I send a tendril of essence to nudge her and she blinks owlishly. Then, her eyes find me by the door.

She lets out a minute gasp, though she recovers quickly. She does her best not to show fear and surprise as she stands up, a good idea when dealing with us. With a careful hand, she places the sheets she was holding on the coffee table beside her before curtseying.

“Good evening milady, my name is Solveig. I will be assisting you during your stay, if it pleases you.”

Solveig is a tall woman with golden blonde hair in an impeccable tail. I would place her in her early forties, though she would look younger to inexperienced eyes. Just like Jimena, she is more handsome than pretty, with a ramrod straight back and a sensible air.

“I am Ariane, it is nice to meet you. What assistance can you provide?”

The maid lets out a small breath of relief. I suppose that some guests can be adversarial, and adversarial vampires can be a daunting prospect.

“Much. You can count on me to arrange anything from baths to a cab. We can get you clothes, weapons, send messages and arrange meetings with vampires and mortals alike. I am also free to share with you details on whoever is available, as well as arrivals and departures, should you wish to engage in social activities. You have access to loyal mortals should you wish to partake in their blood without hunting. Finally, the Speaker has granted you an allowance of two hundred dollars per week for expenses.”

Convenient. Two hundred per week is more than I used to earn at the beginning of my reign in Marquette. Now though, it is merely a pittance. I still appreciate the gesture.

“There is more milady. You have received three letters, and an unknown Nightmare is occupying your reserved stable.”

Excellent, I had been wondering if she would show up.

“She is a picky eater. Let me know if that becomes an issue.”

Solveig blinks slowly, apparently at a loss.

“I-I will relay your words to the stable master, milady. That is all for now. Is there anything I can help you with?”

“Yes, have a bath drawn please.”

“As you wish.”

I sit down and pick the first letter as she heads for the bathroom. The first one comes from Merritt and arrived before I did. I open it with trepidation.

“Ariane,

Everything is fine here, though I have news. Your John eloped yesterday—”

WHAT!?

“—with Irma’s cousin, Gladys. Now, I am not exactly complaining or anything, but I would appreciate it if you could get him back. He’s been morose since you left (I believe this is the right word), and, well, you’ll see. Let me know how things are going on your end!

With all my love,

Merritt.”

He eloped? In ten days? I need to see this. I make a note to summon John, his wife and members of the odd squad who so desire as I expect I will need some hands to complete my missions. The day has not come that Ariane of the Nirari will be outgooned by the locals. I shall show them that when it comes to thugs, I have both quality and quantity.

The next letter comes in an envelope sealed with wax and contains only a few words. Torran of the Dvor cordially invites me, in a sublime cursive, to discuss our possible arrangement at my convenience. He insists that he will wait for me. I find the attention flattering, but I smell a hidden agenda. He probably needs something from me and I better find out sooner rather than later.

The last message is in English by someone with an uncertain command of the written word, asking for an audience. The wrinkled piece of paper is signed with the name “Urchin”. This can wait. There is still much to be done.

Solveig comes out shortly after and I give her my instructions. Tonight, I shall meet Torran, then take a carriage to town for some overdue shopping. To my surprise, she does know of Urchin. I watch, amused, as her manners conflict with her resentment.

“He is one of your own, milady, though, perhaps not quite as… What I mean is… Well…”

I snort, amused by her inner turmoil.

“I shall meet this Urchin and see for myself the cause for your discomfort.”

Her face twists in disapproval, though she only nods. After giving the rest of my instructions, including a letter to Merritt, I finally take that bath.

It was long overdue.

I enjoy the warmth seeping through my bones, but I do not luxuriate. Every time I close my eyes, I remember.

Regrow two and seven. Two is my left-hand ring finger. Seven is my right-hand index.

Regrow one and six. One is my left-hand little finger. Six is my right-hand thumb.

They are still here. I check. Yes, still here, and still fine.

I stand up and towel my body. The pale skin is unmarred, as it has been since the day I was born again. No trace remains of the decades of abuse I subjected myself to. No scar, no blemish, not even a change of texture. It is as soft and spotless as ever.

It feels wrong. I can still taste the ghost of pain. There should be something to show for it. The discrepancy grates on my nerves. With one last shake, I push these thoughts at the back of my mind. There is much to do.

I dress quickly and realize with pleasure that my other dresses have been cleaned. The one I choose is a light grey ensemble with little embellishment. Only the form-fitting cut and the quality of the cloth mark it as a high-quality product.

Those who see it as a sign of meekness will only betray their own lack of insight.

Also, my more elaborate dresses are full of holes, so…

As a last touch, I add Nami’s shawl and, again, feel better as my neck is covered. Solveig brushes my hair with a softer touch than I would expect, then I follow her outside.

“The Knights have left, and so has the Lancaster delegation, milady. Your friends Jimena, Naminata and Salim are set to stay until the end of the week, at least,” she comments as we go.

Torran’s suite is somewhere on this floor, yet despite the short distance, we still come across a Courtier. The man is tall with the build of a soldier, a squarish jaw and angry brown eyes. His aura is undisciplined and tastes of the Roland.

The first chapter of the book Jimena offered me deals with greetings. When on neutral ground like we are now, it is customary for the Courtier to offer a minute bow to the Master who would then return a small nod.

The man’s aura lashes out and he displays signs of defiance.

I stop as Solveig stumbles besides me, and look the man in the eye. I will not tolerate any sign of disrespect, especially not from a youngling.

My own essence uncoils like a lazy snake. Tendrils latch around the man’s figure, smothering his power. In them, I pour my cold anger, my suffering, and the promise of retribution.

The Courtier perceives what I am. He bows respectfully, and I keep going. Things are as they should be.

He and I understand each other.

Solveig swallows nervously and lets out a shaky breath as we leave the man behind us. I cannot let myself be challenged, especially not now.

We make the rest of the way in silence. Torran’s suite is directly opposite mine, I discover, and as soon as he answers Solveig’s knocks, I dismiss her.

“Please make the arrangements I requested.”

“Of course, milady, you have but to ring a bell to summon me or another maid when you are done.”

She turns around and leaves as the door opens. The woman who lets me in isn’t Torran but his Servant. She inspects me with hooded eyes darkened by kohl, curious yet respectful. Her head is completely bald and covered in an intricate lattice of henna tattoos set in subtle patterns. They exude no aura, and I understand that they are purely decorative. She tilts her head before pointing a bejeweled finger to my host.

I turn and take in the surroundings. This suite is a mirror to mine, though while mine is all azure and alabaster, his is crimson and gold. The gaudiness is less pronounced, thankfully, and the darkness gives it a feeling of royal intimacy. Torran himself stands by the fire where two high-back chairs have been placed.

Our eyes meet. The Dvor lord bows first, a greeting I return, and invites me to sit.

We take each other’s measure in silence. His eyes are the color of steel, and his grey hair is bound back in a serious ponytail. A modest smile parts his ruddy face, taking the edge off. He is quite the handsome man if one sees past the wolfish countenance.

Once he sees that I am done gauging him, he nods and speaks first. His voice is rhythmic and strangely melodious.

“Thank you for humoring me, Ariane of the Nirari. Did Constantine convey my request?”

“He mentioned a protection detail?”

“Inelegant, yet accurate. It is tradition that I ask for an escort while conducting my business abroad. We Dvor are cut off from most of our powers while outside of the lands we control. I am far from defenseless, of course, but I have not reached this age by taking unnecessary risks. I would be honored if you would consider accompanying me during my stay.”

I need to confirm something. Nami mentioned such arrangements before. Sometimes, visiting dignitaries are offered a vampire of inferior rank as a guide, guard and intermediary. Physical intimacy is often part of the package, and it is not something that I am willing to offer.

“Before we go any further, I would like to ascertain what your expectations are. I would be willing to guarantee your safety…”

“I understand,” Torran replies, “this is not what I am after.”

I am curious.

“Then what are you after?”

“If I must spend time with someone, why not with a capable and beautiful woman? Beating the Lancaster at their own game is no small feat, and doing so while ruling a city piqued my curiosity. Between this and your reputation, I am confident you are the best person for this task.”

“My reputation?” I ask with a frown.

Torran just smiles. His next offer takes me off-guard.

“Could I interest you in continuing this discussion outside?”

“Outside? What do you mean?”

“Wilhelm keeps a flower garden near the cliff. It is rather beautiful. Would you care for a stroll?”

“Hmmm.”

Come to think of it, I have been cooped up for too long. Some fresh air would do me good.

“Very well. Lead the way.”

“Of course.”

Torran stands up, opens the window, steps on the balcony and casually drops down.

Ah.

I look at his Servant, currently busy reading what looks like a poetry book. She did not even raise her head.

Well… Jimena’s book certainly did not cover that part?

I follow the lord outside and drop down as well, careful not to let my dress flare. I wouldn’t want to give everyone an eyeful on my first night of freedom!

“Is it a common habit to ignore the exits?” I ask the waiting lord.

“What? No, I merely wanted to avoid unwanted social interactions,” he replies without concern.

“Forgive me for asking, is that a common occurrence?”

I would rather find out before someone drops from the ceiling.

“Not at all. Foibles in Courtiers become eccentricities in Masters. What is the point of living so long if I cannot drop from balconies when I please? Shall we?”

He offers me his arm, which I take, and we pass by the fountain. With the inverted U of the manor at our back, we turn left. I remember that the road up the mount is to our right, so I have never been where we are going now.

Torran’s pace is slow and deliberate. The road beneath us changes to a path of white gravel surrounded by grass, until we reach a wall of hedges of tall boxwood, split in the middle by a large entrance above which vegetation closes, forming a natural archway. We duck underneath and walk between two rows of solid oaks, interspersed with yet more hedges. Illumination is provided by runes shining green. We follow the tortuous path with no vision of the outside, until lights are revealed at the corner of a bend.

A massive flower garden opens before us. Small paths weave between artfully arranged beds mixing several species by color and theme. Behind it, a few stone benches against a wall mark the edge of the cliff and beyond that is the bay, with Boston’s shimmering lights far in the distance. The view is breathtaking, especially coming out of the tunnel, and I make a note to return later to spend a few lonely hours drawing and dreaming. With the sketches of the Mississippi, the burning house of the Lancaster and the faces of the mages, my painting list is getting a serious backlog.

Torran quietly guides me around as I take in the exotic perfumes. Wilhelm has gathered four separate beds each with their own personality. The first is red and wild, with earth the color of fresh blood and tall flowers on thin stalks standing proudly and shamelessly. The second is green, blue and pink, with modest bushes arranged as if nature had received a divine inspiration. Only the smallest details reveal the hand behind the arrangement, the will behind the graceful chaos.

In the center, a pond lies around a circle of lilies, surrounded by a handful of mangrove trees.

The last bed is nestled against the wall and it speaks to me the most. The earth is black, and on it, thorn bushes and twisted trees with dark bark and branches like the fingers of a hag struggle for space. The flora is ominous, and yet there is beauty under the apparent savagery. Precious small flowers shine in the moonlight like diamonds on a midnight dress, fearless and uncaring. Elegance and doom living in harmony.

I like it a lot.

I stop Torran when we leave the pond at our back. The last garden, wall, water and sky form four bands of color with the Watcher at the top.

It has been so long since I gazed into its depths. I do so now. The strange entity draws me in. I relax in the familiar embrace as it croons and drinks my madness. It takes the suffering and the hatred and inspects them carefully, then it returns them in full.

I lower my eyes. My fingers are still all here, all straight and… feeling good?

Torran has taken my hand in his own. With one, he massages my palm and with the other, pulls delicately on each finger one by one. When he realizes that I have returned, he smiles sadly. The expression of sympathy is peculiar on his lean face.

“You are not the only one to find herself at the losing end of a political struggle. I developed this method long ago. I had hoped I would never have to use it again.”

Then, as if sensing that he overstepped himself, he lets me go.

“What a bodyguard I am,” I say bitterly.

“You have not agreed yet,” the lord reminds me, amused, “do not be so harsh on yourself. You can take all the time you need to recover. I do not intend to leave the city for a while, and we are as safe as can be. In fact, I would enjoy a little bit of tourism. Can I tempt you into accompanying me?”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Music, tomorrow at ten. L’elisir d’Amore, by Donizetti. I am told it is the fury in Milan right now.”

“An opera?”

“Yes.”

I have never been to the opera!

“Well, of course, I would be delighted.”

I have a social life! And it is fancy!

“It is decided then.”

“I need to find something to wear,” I half-mutter to myself, “Oh, and can you please tell me what you meant when you mentioned my reputation?”

Torran does not object to the abrupt change of topic. If anything, he sounds helpful.

“Certainly. In the following nights, you will meet quite a few new faces, I’d wager, and though you will never have heard of them, they will have heard of you. Most Nirari Spawn are abominations. They are renowned for their physical prowess and the difficulty to put them down in a battle of attrition. And here you come, with allies and plans and tricks. You managed to stay hidden for a decade then two, became the blood sister of Jimena of the Cadiz, have Lord Suarez defend you against Knights and Lord Ceron vouch for you at a Conclave. You befriended the singing spear of the Ekon, a Dvergur warrior King and ruled a city. You overturned a kill order on your person, the first such occurrence in North America, and finally, they say that you defeated Lambert of the Lancaster in single combat. Is that true?”

“Yes. I ate him too.”

“Good.” Torran declares with a smile, and then as an afterthought:

“He was a massive prick.”

“Sir!”

“Ah, don’t sir me. He existed only to despoil and the only positive contribution he made for this planet was when his ashes fertilized the ground.”

“Ahem.”

“But I digress. Suffice to say that others may be apprehensive of you, as they are of any individuals who can show both guile and brawn, as well as the will to use them. But enough of this. You ruled the town of Marquette, would you mind telling me more? I am a member of Eneru, and I am curious to know how a young vampire could take over a town of modern people. You see, I once debated another Dvor Master on this very subject…”

For the next half an hour, Torran and I have a proper discussion. We compare notes on how we rule our respective territories, the main difference being that his people know of what he is and respect it anyway. I find the notion outlandish, until he reminds me that his lands occupy one of the most remote and parochial reaches of the Austrian empire. The locals have been his for generations, and mistrust strangers with a ferocity that no Gabrielites or mages could hope to overcome. My style is closer to the Mask doctrine of hiding in plain sight. Rather than being offended that I would use his competitors’ methods, Torran praises me for creating a sustainable system from scratch. We exchange anecdotes until a heartbeat emerges from the tunnel entrance. A maid I do not recognize timidly informs me that a carriage has been arranged.

I steal a glance to the side. Torran’s appearance is cold when he looks at someone else. His countenance turns predatorial and pitiless though I suspect he is only uncaring. It would be interesting to see him hunt. Perhaps I can arrange something. In the meanwhile, I am on a schedule. Torran walks me back to the garden entrance then stays behind, with a promise that we will meet tomorrow an hour before the start of the opera. I make my way to my bedroom with a busy mind, nodding on the way at the Courtier with a red dress I had seen yesterday.

Nami and Jimena are inside, playing a game of chess while Salim is filling some papers. I do not mind that they let themselves in but I make a mistake by not greeting them immediately. My sister immediately realizes I am a bit flustered.

“What is the matter Ari?”

What is the matter indeed? The matter is that I just realized what happened in that garden.

“I… Torran and I held hands,” I tell her.

Just as the words cross my lips, I realize my mistake. Jimena and Nami share a knowing look, like two wolves spotting a limping fat deer.

“You held hands? Pervert.”

“And on the first night, you shameless hussy.”

“Harlot.”

“What is going on in here?” Salim asks with a worried expression.

“Torran and Ariane held hands,” Jimena answers with mock shock.

The sly lawyer winces in pretend disgust.

“Please spare me these tales of wanton debauchery. Holding hands? Scandalous. What is next, a stroll in the garden without a chaperone?” he asks in a horrified voice.

“Ariane, you must not succumb to your base desires, or next thing you know he and you may link arms,” Naminata remarks.

“I heard that’s how you catch the pregnant,” Jimena adds helpfully.

“Are you all quite done?” I ask, exasperated, “you forget that due to my status as a fugitive, I had little opportunity for hand-holding.”

“We all know that your dry spell is the size of the Sahara, Ariane. We are just delighted that you would consider his courtship.”

“Hold on, it is a bit early to talk about courtship, is it not? We have only just met. Perhaps he is just being friendly?”

“If I want to know with certainty, I usually walk into their bedroom naked,” Naminata suggests innocently.

“Thank you for your input Nami, I shall consider the next time I want to strut in a vampire den in the state of nature.”

“You should try it. The face on these snobbish twits when you show them a proper ass is always priceless.”

“Yes, well, perhaps later. Now is the time for shopping.”

“I’m coming as well!” Jimena decides with enthusiasm.

Naminata decides to stay behind to “sample” Lord Jarek while Salim waves us off with a last “You couldn’t pay me enough to go shopping with a pair of bored girls.”

We leave hand in hand, and for the first time since leaving that dreadful dungeon, I feel no need to check my fingers. Torran’s massage was surprisingly effective. I should ask him to do it again. Because of the therapeutic value, of course. Yep.

The trip back to Boston proper takes half an hour. Jimena informs me that the maids and other mortals I have seen moving around are not cattle but employees from families that have served us for generations. Their loyalty is not taken for granted either. All those who come here are screened and submitted to redundant security checks. Constantine also has a contract with a die-hard mercenary company and the favor of the local governor, not to mention a dense network of spies, agents and informers handled by his secretary, Sophia of the Rosenthal. It would take an army to make the manor fall when a mouse could not reach it.

I am, of course, not convinced. No matter how good defenses are, there is always a way to get through. Jonathan would find a method, I am sure. I am without alternative at the moment though, and will trust both my host and Loth’s reinforced sarcophagus.

The tailor we are to visit works from the outskirts of Boston, hidden between a large inn and a few barns meant to host animals before they are sold in the city’s many markets. Lines of high trees mask the small workshop and its customers from view. We are welcomed at the door by an old man with curly white hair and beard, and smart chestnut eyes behind a pair of round glasses. He bids us in, clearly expecting our arrival.

“Come in, come in. You must be lady Nirari, I was told you would arrive. My name is Gunther Goode, tailor for over two decades. And you are?”

“Jimena de Cadiz.”

“A pleasure. Please, follow me.”

The workshop is a single room, with models and fabric at the back. It lacks the usual counter one could expect from a business open to the public. A small table holding measuring bands sits near the entrance and this is where Goode leads us. He directs me with expertise, measuring everything and muttering about lavender and blush and whatnot.

“How many dresses did you need?”

“Four would be best, with one at the end of the week and one for tomorrow, if possible.”

“Difficult, but doable. May I ask what the occasion is?”

“I am going to the opera.”

“Ah,” he comments, delighted. The old man loses his professional countenance, replaced by genuine wonder.

“L’elisir d’Amore. It has everything to warm my old heart. Love transcending social barriers, music to melt a statue’s heart, passion, a quack doctor! Yes, I will have your dress ready.”

The old tailor continues his measurements, humming happily under his breath. I find it endearing. He is competent and creative, just what we admire in mortals. I am not surprised that my host would have him on retainer.

“Say, are you two related to Mr. Constantine?”

“He is a distant cousin” I answer vaguely, “why?”

“All those of you who live there, you have this… something…”

His eyes lose their focus. A callous finger traces the edge of my dress to the skin of my wrist.

“Most mysterious…”

His mouth opens slightly and his nostrils flair. I hesitate to intervene but thankfully, there is no need. Goode blinks and blushes, red as a poppy. He promptly removes the guilty appendage and finds the courage to meet my eyes.

My instincts are silent. This one is no threat and his touch was a mark of adoration. I shall tolerate it. This once.

When he realizes that I am not offended, the old man sighs in relief though his embarrassment remains.

“Ahem, where was I? Ah yes.”

It doesn’t take long for the measurements to be over and the tailor to usher us out so that he can focus on his craft. Jimena leans into me and whispers as we exit:

“You should tone down your aura my dear. I knew you had absorbed Lancaster essence, I never imagined it would show so much.”

Before I can reply, I feel a tug on my essence.

The feeling defies description, like a tether attached to a part of me that does not physically exist. I recognize it now thanks to my practice with Aisha’s cards.

Fate is calling. I focus on my senses to see if I can perceive anything and soon, I do.

“Shhhh. Do you hear that?”

Jimena tilts her head, then her eyes widen slightly. Thuds, impacts, grunts of pain. A serious brawl is taking place on the other side of the inn. The lack of drunken yells is proof enough that the participants are taking this seriously.

I smile and point up. My sister grins and jumps on the inn’s thatched roof in one graceful motion while I fasten the hooded cape I took to avoid attention. I move to the side of the wall, then behind, and see a sight I did not expect.

The tavern’s back court is a rectangular space occupied by crates, barrels and an outhouse. Four rough men in worker clothes are trying to corner a fifth one and not doing a great job of it. Two others are already out cold on the ground. The brutes are nothing special, the average dregs. The last man, however, is quite a sight. His attire is suitable for court and certainly not for this sorry joint, marking him as an outsider. He wears a black ensemble with a white shirt and stock tie, and even a top hat which currently lies discarded on the ground. In his gloved hands, he holds a scepter with a silver pommel, with which he strikes knees, jaws, noses and as I watch, testes. As a third man falls to the ground holding his abused crotch, a lucky kick finally makes the lone fighter stumble, an opening his opponents use to disarm him. The heroic combatant still escapes their grip and raises his fists in a pugilist guard.

“Now you shouldn’t have done that,” the biggest goon threatens in a low voice. He spits blood and removes a very large knife from his vest.

Now that won’t do. I can’t use a man robbed of his innards after all. I step out of the shadows.

“I believe that is quite enough.”

The three men jump and turn to face me. The lone fighter uses this opportunity to make some distance and I realize that he favors his left side. He did not come out of the ordeal unscathed.

“Who are you? Are you his girl?”

I can almost hear the rusty cog turning in the lead bruiser’s cavernous head. His primitive brain associates me with weakness, and then weakness with hostage.

“Why don’t you come over here girl, and we won’t hurt you. Much,” he declares with a nasty grin while waving his pig-sticker in what I assume is an attempt at intimidation.

I could, of course, kill them in an instant.

I could also Charm them into stabbing each other.

But that wouldn’t be fun. Naminata had it right, gloating is the guilty pleasure of our kind and I am confident I can get the best out of it.

“My dear sir, I fear that you brought a knife,” I say as I pick Aintza’s gift from my left pocket.

“To a gunfight.”

Click.

The leader scoffs.

“Pffft, what are you going to do? Shoot me?”

I don’t think I fully understand mortals anymore. Why would he tempt me so? I pull the trigger. The lout falls to the ground, clutching his knee.

“Aaaaaah you bitch! You shot me!”

“Very perceptive of you, sir.”

“Baldy, Shivers, get the whore.”

The two men hesitantly take a step forward, no longer so certain about the outcome of the battle. I calmly holster the first pistol and take out the second one, with the predictable effect. Now that is proper intimidation. Dalton, wherever you are, look down and laugh, for you did not show me this trick in vain. On the field, the two remaining foes smartly step back.

“Take your boss and sod off,” I offer generously. They grab their whimpering leader and the sad trio limps out, leaving three of their numbers on the field, as well as quite a few teeth.

Once we are alone, my rescue greets me with a smile. He has black hair in an aristocratic cut and dark piercing eyes. His face is elegant and refined, even with the beginning of a bruise. As I put back my weapon, he walks forward and grabs his cane and top hat, before offering me a dazzling smile and a flawless bow.

“Cornered and beaten I was,

By treachery and despair,

Till the villains were given pause

By such a maiden fair

Never has there been a rose,

With such a thorny flair.

Now this beauty did give them cause

To fear a new nightmare.

Milady, I thank you for your timely assistance. Nathan Riley Bingle, at your service.”

Hah, his name is Bingle. Just like… Just like…

By the Watcher.

Oh hell no not this again!

Noooooooooo!

“No need to thank me sir, I am merely doing what honor demands. And now, please excuse meeeeee.”

I run away to the corner then move, just as Bingle junior decries “Milady, wait!” I rush headfirst into the carriage and order it forward. Jimena lands atop of it and slides by my side an instant later.

“What was that?” she asks, at a loss, “is he dangerous?”

“Much worse!” I hiss, “He is interesting!”

73. Mise en Abyme

Wilhem’s office shows a lot about the man himself. The walls are covered with rough wood, giving it the mood of a log cabin. The furniture was handmade by a patient craftsman. There are few decorations, yet the carvings show a level of intricacy and dedication that only hours of meticulous work can create. The few paintings are of landscapes by day. Wilhelm favors forests and mountains.

In the corner, a grizzly head greets visitors with a silent roar. The hunting trophy would be tacky, were it not for the insane size of the beast. It would have been at least twice my size standing up on its hind legs.

From behind his redwood desk, Wilhelm addresses me with a slightly bored voice.

“The introduction party is a show of strength, milady. Branches of mighty clans display their wealth and power, while exiles use it to create new alliances. The party can be anything, from a masquerade to a hunt. The Ekon’s morbid festival is still the talk of the salons a century after.”

“I gathered this much. Can I use the ballroom?”

“Naturally. All our facilities are at your disposal.”

“Then I would like the ball to be in a week. Invite everyone.”

“Everyone?”

“Well, not the Lancasters of course.”

“An open invitation for the locals. Very well. What else do you need? What sort of event will it be?”

“A vernissage.”

If Wilhelm is surprised, he does not show it.

“A vernissage. Yes, we can make it work. The ballroom will do nicely, if you have enough creations to exhibit, of course.”

“I do.”

Eighteen years spent hiding out in the boonies with only a flesh-eating capricious pony as company can be a tremendous source of motivation. It was that or collecting pretty rocks. And going slowly insane.

“You will reach the most people if the celebration occurs four days from now. It will also be enough time for Lord Suarez and Lord Ceron to come here. I was told that they had an interest in your success.”

“And that will give me time to get everything out of storage.”

“Very well. I will have Solveig act as an intermediary for the details. Was there anything else?”

“No. Goodbye Wilhelm.”

“Goodbye Ariane of the Nirari. My door is always open.”

Wilhelm writes a few notes while I leave. I consider his parting words on my way back to my room, maid in tow. The ‘butler’ is more of a steward, I decide, and these words he said indicate that I have his ear. It might be that he was just being polite, or perhaps he is enthusiastic about a helping hand joining his coven. I remember the difference Nami made in Marquette simply by taking the odd mission. Vampire Masters are useful enough that even the crustiest grumbler will try to stay civil. Time will tell if Wilhelm proves useful.

“Solveig?”

“Yes, milady.”

“I would speak with this urchin fellow. Now.”

“He is in a guest room on the first floor milady, should I have him fetched?”

“Yes.”

My maid leaves on her errand while I return to my den and settle to wait. Jimena has left for the night, so I prepare a list of the paintings I want to exhibit and consider including my best takes on the Watcher. Those are special because they get the most extreme reactions from their viewers. As I am done, a polite knock on the door announces the arrival of my guest. He walks in and I immediately understand why Solveig would disapprove of him.

The man is a Courtier with a curious, flighty aura like nothing I have felt before. The cause for my faithful aide’s disapproval, however, is appearance. Urchin wears a blouse, beret and threadbare pants, something I would expect from dockworkers. His face and poise firmly place him in the alley thug category, and not just any alley thug either, the vile kind. He exudes sleaze and low cunning. His rat-like face and crooked nose, his messy hair and hunched back. His hair-covered, gnarly hands. His small stature. He is like the living embodiment of the scam, the duke of deceit, the devilish deviant. A gullible Samaritan would not trust him with a broken shoelace. And he’s ugly as sin.

I am honestly impressed.

“You must be Urchin. Come, have a seat.”

“Sit? Ah, sit. Thank you.”

Even his Akkad is atrocious. I remember that not everyone inherits the knowledge from their sire’s essence, yet surely, after all this time, he should have learnt. No?

“You wished to speak to me?”

“Ah. My Akkad, not so good. English?”

I frown with disapproval. Negotiations between vampires should be in Akkad. This is the proper way of things! Using English desecrates our interaction, makes it… weaker. I hesitate, though in the end, I allow it. This man’s command of the tongue is pathetic. We will get nowhere by sticking to tradition.

“You wished to speak to me.”

“Yes, Lady Nirari. I’ll be brief yeah? My name’s Urchin. A little bird told me you have a territory, yeah? I want to move in.”

My talons click on the varnished wood of the throne-like seat I chose. Sensing the mood, Urchin lowers his misshapen head with respect.

“As your follower, of course, beg your pardon miss.”

At least he didn’t call me ‘guv’nor’. I suppose I shouldn’t be too judgmental.

“And why should I allow you on my territory, Urchin?”

“I know my way around the city, I do.”

I stay silent.

“Also, I can do this. Watch!”

Urchin furrows his caterpillar-like eyebrows and something peculiar happens. His aura flares, then a tendril whips out and strikes me with blinding speed. I raise a hand in reflex over my heart while jumping in the air, but the tendril just moves past it and latches on the shawl I am wearing. Then, it moves back, leaving my neck unprotected.

HE DARES?

In an instant, I am on him. I place one hand over his heart with the other around his neck. His large eyes widen comically but instead of resisting, he bares his throat. The gesture stops me.

Smart.

“Give. It. Back.”

I take my silky property from his helpless, and quite frankly grubby hands, and fold it again around my neck. The smooth and cold fabric comes to rest against my skin and I immediately feel better. I need this. I need to feel protected and in control, at least until I make a full recovery. I take a small moment to luxuriate in the feeling before opening my eyes. Urchin is desperately trying to burrow into his seat and appear inconspicuous at the same time, failing miserably at both. I find out that I am no longer angry, and I reflect on what just occurred.

His ability is strange. It was not a spell; I am sure of it. It looked like an instinctive ability, something that a Courtier should not possess. Unless…

“You are a Vanheim.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“You are Vanheim. A wild card. You are of the fourteenth bloodline, are you not?”

“I have no idea, miss. I just woke up one day and I was like that.”

“You do not know your sire?”

“No.”

His face shows pain, betrayal, then burning resentment.

“I got thrown away like an old shoe. Don’t even remember my name, or who I was before that.”

Scorn. I can work with that. I can also work with something else.

“You may prove useful after all. I will allow you to serve and live on my territory, if you pay the price.”

“And what would that be?” he asks with a hint of apprehension.

“Only the absolute proof of your submission,” I answer with a fanged smirk.

I stand still as Solveig makes the finishing touches to my hairdo.

Goode delivered. The dress is of a very light pink color I would normally avoid, and of an interesting take. The design is asymmetrical, with a brighter piece of fabric draping over my right flank, elegant yet daring. Both my shoulder, back and cleavage are completely covered, therefore I do not show more skin than is appropriate. Instead, the lack of modesty comes from the design itself. The cut is quite close to the body, including a skirt with barely any flare, so that my shapes are easy to spot. Some would find this distracting. The rich fabric and flawless work mark the garment as the work of a master, and so the result is ambiguous. Conservative busybodies could stare with disapproval for hours without ever being able to pinpoint exactly where I cross the line. I admit that the old codger is worth every penny we paid him, though I cannot help but think he may not be as innocent as he looked.

To complete my image, I asked Solveig to pull my hair up, freeing my neck. I intend to wear the shawl even if the colors may clash a bit.

The maid inspects her work one last time, then nods to herself. I cannot see for sure what I look like. I hope that Torran will like it.

Also, I apparently care what Torran thinks of my appearance. Huh. I should probably not let this get to my head. He is probably just being nice. It is not because he is polite, respectful, smart, knowledgeable, interesting, handsome and thoughtful that I should be interested.

Nope.

I review the list of selected paintings and circle two of them to send to the special exhibit. Out of all the efforts I have made to evoke the Watcher with an image, these are the most convincing. It is just unfortunate that humans would feel distressed by it, and so they will be hidden from the mortal attendants in a separate pavilion. Such a bother. Besides those, I have one large battle scene as a centerpiece, quite a few landscapes, nightlife scenes, and portraits of vampires and mortals alike. In total, I pick my thirty best works in so many years, with the exception of the gift I sent Loth. I finish this and go over the guest list, realizing that I have no idea who those people are. As promised, no members of the Lancaster clans are invited. Serves them right. I finish setting up John’s future living quarters when a knock on the door makes me put my pen down. Solveig walks up and lets Torran in.

He takes in my appearance and smiles brightly. I am inexplicably proud as I stand and curtsey, a gesture he politely returns with a short bow.

“You look ravishing, Ariane.”

Yaaaaaaa of course I do! Alright Ari, calm down.

“Thank you for your kind words. You don’t look so bad yourself.”

Torran is a bit on the strict side with a grey coat over white shirt and trousers. Wearing white is a statement for us, as the smallest droplet of blood will leave a stain. It speaks of great control and trust in one’s abilities. For us, white never speaks of innocence, for none of us has clean hands.

Nor would we pretend to.

Torran chuckles at my words and offers me his arm, which I take, relishing the feeling of solidity he gives off. We make our way down and out to a waiting carriage. As a true gentleman, he holds the door for me and pretends to help me up, then follows. I get a whiff of his scent as he passes by. It is the same cold spice as the rest of us, with a touch of something earthy, like midnight on a mountain.

“How are the preparations for your ball of the debutantes?” he asks.

“Pah, don’t mention it!”

I start by complaining about staff being disturbed by my innocent painting of the godlike entity that breached the barriers between the worlds and unleashed a plague upon mankind for its own obscure amusement, then talk shortly about Loth who got me started on painting, then of Bingle and yesterday’s meeting. When I ask Torran if he ever witnessed something similar, his answer surprises me.

“In fact, I have. We have several theories about their existence, the most common one being that they have the blood of powerful entities who use them as sources of entertainment, or who simply gave them their traits. We call them godlings. I personally came across a godling of love, a century ago.”

“It must have been horrible.”

“Not exactly. As you have surmised, powerful emotions are something we crave and the godlings cause them by their very existence. The whole love triangle, misunderstandings and brooding part I could have done without, however.”

“You must be correct about them being a source of feelings. I have rarely been as annoyed as when Bingle was around. Has anyone tried to conduct experiments on them?”

“Likely, though not recently. As I mentioned, they are discussed among those with an interest in the unfathomable. Theories abound yet only one thing is certain. No one captured or killed one on purpose, then lived to tell the tale. My theory is that they can die, but only from characters inside of their own stories.”

There goes my last-ditch solution to avoid the Bingle effect if we ever meet again.

“But enough about research,” Torran continues, “I wanted you to have this.”

I pick up his gift which happens to be a small booklet.

“The opera is in Italian. Do you speak it?”

“Not a word.”

“This is a summary of the story. There are also a few words on the actors themselves and Donizetti, the composer, if you are interested. Some people prefer to learn very little of the show before seeing it for the first time, so that they get a fresh impression.”

I nod and leaf through the booklet. The story is relatively simple, and takes a single page. I also learn that all the soloists are from a famous Spanish troop while the choir and orchestra are locals. We shall see how well they work together.

I am so excited!

It so happens that Boston doesn’t have a proper opera house yet. Instead of spending tens of thousands of dollars on a proper edifice to rival those of the old world, the powers that be turned a barn into something that might pass. The carriage deposits Torran and me at the steps of the building’s entrance, not far from Faneuil Hall and its market. Some efforts were made to add Doric columns on each side of the monumental gates, and admission is done by doormen wearing impeccable suits and grave expressions.

It is not enough.

The building looks like what it is: a glorified animal pen.

Torran leads me through a small hall and throngs of spectators, up a flight of narrow stairs to the second floor, where our private booth is situated. Despite our restrained auras, we catch more attention than I deem wise from staff and guests alike. My pride will not let me try to fade into the background, however. I note with interest that the other visitors are not from the richest population of the city. Instead, we are surrounded by what appears to be merchants and their adult children. Perhaps the most affluent citizens do not deem opera as ‘proper’ fun.

By silent agreement, Torran and I neither mingle nor tarry. We walk along a semi-circular walkway, then pass through a small door and find ourselves on a dais overlooking the ground floor seats, the pit where the orchestra is busy setting up, and the scene, now shyly hidden by a massive curtain. There are four small seats crammed here, and my host and I sit on the central ones.

I will admit that whoever switched the building’s function from cattle to the fine arts made a real effort. It is just a shame that my eyes are too good to be fooled. The golden decorations are cheap paint slathered on by untalented craftsmen. The wooden carvings are the work of apprentices, littered with flaws, scratches, and holes. Even the smell of varnish doesn’t mask that of sweat and humanity. My excitement turns into a cold ball that sits in my stomach and burns it with resentment. So many unpleasant details accumulate and fray my fragile nerves, betraying my expectations.

Then the lights dim, and suddenly all those flaws no longer matter that much. The orchestra is tuning. In waves and groups, they prepare their instruments with chaotic accords that fill the air and make my body vibrate, until from many notes it becomes a ringing whole. Strings start, then they are joined by the wood and brass instruments in a glorious explosion of discord that stops as quickly as it started. The remaining whispers from spectators die off as all remaining lanterns are blinded to plunge the room into darkness.

I lean forward to see more.

The conductor lifts his hands, causing the players to raise bows and flutes with military precision. Then the true music begins.

I have heard groups, including a quintet on the street back in New Orleans. The songs they played had made me want to dance and sing. They had filled my heart and lungs with vivacious energy. The emotions I felt then formed some of my most pleasant memories. Even those moments do not compare to my experience right now. The orchestra transcends individual instruments in a harmony so breathtaking and unique that my jaw hangs open. This is unfair. This is madness. Wood, metal and catgut have no right to sound so hauntingly beautiful, to overwhelm me with such ease. I am no longer hearing with my ears. That simple explanation does not do the experience justice. I am hearing with my essence.

The overture fills the air with a joyous melody, soon joined by the wood instruments. They play together to create beauty as ephemeral as it is poignant, and they carry me, helpless, to the beginning of their tale.

The curtain lifts on a scene of village life. The mortals walk around under an illusory sun that doesn’t burn me in simulated chaos. They are so perfect. Their clothes are free of mud and their face of the ravages of exposure, and their idleness is as fake as my innocence. They move with disguised purpose to trap us into their story. Their voices rise to the painted heaven with power and grace unlike anything I have ever experienced at church. They tell me, in Italian, of their simple life. They tell me that the sun is too hot, an opinion I can only agree with.

The arias follow each other as the story progresses. Nemorino the peasant, played by a handsome lad with sandy hair, is in love with Adina, a rich landowner. And here she comes! The woman is not a classical beauty, but she is striking. Her dark and hooded eyes inflame those around and her steps are confident and proud. She shares the story she is reading of Tristan and Isolde, how the brave warrior stole the favor of the beautiful Irish princess from his uncle thanks to a love potion. I wonder if those really exist. And behold, the young peasant gets ideas! Oh, you cad, you want some alchemical assistance in your courtship, don’t you? I have maimed some for less. And look, a newcomer! A dashing officer with his platoon arrives. He aggressively courts the cold-hearted beauty, caressing his square jaw and showing his muscular figure. A little while later, Nemorino declares his love but Adina sends him packing. She wants a lover a day! Hah, you do you, my girl. And now, a solution appears in the person of a quack doctor with a large gut, who sells the naïve boy cheap booze disguised as an elixir of love. Shenanigans ensue, ending with Adina promising to marry the officer, Belcore.

The curtain falls. The first act is over.

It was… It was…

I turn to Torran and try to express what I feel, but words fail me. I end up helplessly flapping my arms.

It was…

More flapping.

“You seem pleased.”

“Yes! It was so… All their voices together! And the acting! And the instruments… And… And everything! It was so great! I don’t know what to say!”

Torran’s face was a mask, yet when he hears my words, he relaxes completely and a soft smile shines on his lips. I can tell that it was important for him that I enjoy myself. He now looks as pleased as a cat who found the pot of cream.

“I am ecstatic to hear that, Ariane. I enjoy and play music myself.”

“Really? What do you play?”

“This and that, though my favorite instrument is the organ.”

“The organ?” I ask with surprise, “but, aren’t most of them in churches?”

“Exactly!” he exclaims with sudden passion, “this is ridiculous! The best organs are in the hearts of cathedrals and basilica, and what do they use it for? To animate the mass with stale hymns and flat Kyries! The waste! Ah, the things I could do with those wonders of art and engineering… Did you know that…”

I stare with amusement, and a bit bewildered, as Torran lists all the best organs, their impressive sizes and the time it took to build them. He is clearly an enthusiast. Being locked out of the best instruments remains a sore spot, not to mention that stealing one is completely unfeasible. After that, we quickly discuss the performances of the various singers. Torran observes that Nemorino is nothing special, but Adina is a prodigy, playing her role perfectly at the age of twenty-one. I was going to ask about the part of the quack doctor, Dulcamara, when the door to our lodge bangs open and a man sneaks inside, slamming it close behind him.

I gently massage the bridge of my nose.

The INTRUDER is, of course, Bingle.

By my side, Torran stands up.

I always thought him to be pleasant, with an edge. Now I realize that he is the edge. He radiates offended nobility and threat, and the most interesting fact is that he does it without his aura. His power only slightly circles but never escapes his steel grip to spread across the place, and yet, I gaze at him and shiver.

Before he punishes the newcomer, I place a light hand on his sleeve and mutter ‘Bingle’, causing him to sit back with a knowing smirk.

The walking calamity who invaded our privacy still wears his dark suit, with top hat and silver cane, giving a new dimension to the term “conspicuous.” In short order, the annoying mortal turns to us and realizes that the lodge he chose as a hiding spot is occupied, and recognizes me in one swift motion.

“By jove! My fair rescuer, in this place?” he whispers.

I did not realize it last time because of the surprise, perhaps, but Bingle sounds just as positively English as his relative.

“What are you doing here?!” I hiss in a low voice.

“I am here to save a life and solve a crime, milady. The soprano, the woman who plays Adina, is in possession of a most precious gem. The rakes I am trying to avoid are after it, and her!”

By the Watcher. Why? Just why?

“If I do not reach her first, she will never return home tonight. They will make sure of it. Milady, I know I have no right to ask, but I fear that alone, I will fail. Please, will you not help me? It would be a most noble and valorous act, worthy of your valor.”

“You are absolutely correct, Bingle, you have no right to ask.”

“Ahem,” Torran interrupts softly, “dearest one, would you please save her on my behalf? Singers of her quality are rare. Her disappearance would ruin the entire season,” he finishes in Akkad.

The opera season, ruined? That simply will not do.

“Oh, very well. After the second act.”

“Milady, time is of the essence,” Bingle urges.

“I assume that they will not try to abduct her mid-performance, yes?” I ask, annoyed, “It can wait.”

“But surely…”

ENOUGH. I grab him by the shoulder. The young man winces at the pressure as I pull him close enough to bite his nose off.

“Listen here, young Bingle. I am having the time of my life enjoying my first opera ever, after a very, very difficult week. I will watch Nemorino steal the cold Adina’s heart or die trying, even if I have to dismember every last mortal in this room. So, you will sit down and watch the show, or I swear I will tear off your arm and shove it down your crumpet-eating, tea-drinking throat. Is that clear?”

“Ariane?” Torran asks in a soft and slightly worried voice. At the word, Bingle’s face enters a mesmerizing metamorphosis. From apprehension, he switches to incredulity, wonder, then excitement.

“Ariane Delaney… It’s you… It’s really you!”

Ah god fucking dammit. Now I’m in it for sure.

“Father mentioned you so many times! I thought he was embellishing the stories but no, the legend was true. Incredible! You really did not age, and this blazing spirit! But, were you not in Georgia?”

“That was almost thirty years ago. I moved.”

“Astounding! I cannot believe my eyes, Ariane Delaney in the flesh. Oh, thank God. With your help, we will surely get to the bottom of this!”

“I assure you He had nothing to do with the situation. Now quiet, or it is to the bottom of the river you’ll go.”

Bingle Junior lifts his hand in surrender, and it doesn’t take long for spectators to regain their seats, the light to darken and the show to resume. The magic is intact, and I let myself get carried away by the otherworldly music. Adina and Belcore’s wedding is in full swing, a ruse by the cruel beauty to make Nemorino jealous. A lot of effort for such a small result but oh well, she is a rich single lady who lives in a village. Perhaps she is supremely bored? In the meanwhile, the poor peasant has conveniently inherited a fortune making him suddenly popular. More shenanigans ensue, following which Nemorino contemplates the single tear he saw in his beloved’s eye in a heart-wrenching, sublime aria that makes me gasp with pleasure. Una furtiva lagrima! All leads to a happy ending between the lovers with Belcore remarking without spite that there are plenty of fishes in the sea, and the quack doctor claiming undue recognition for what inebriation achieved.

It is finished.

The actors leave the stage, under thunderous applause.

I lean back into my chair, close my eyes.

That was perfect.

I turn to see an indescribable emotion in Torran’s eyes. His smile is soft and just a little sad when he tells me, with his strange lilt:

“Sometimes, I wish I could forget everything and experience music for the first time again.”

I nod. Yes, this was a life-changing experience, one I will never repeat. As a mortal, I could have died before attending a single opera, and how is that fair? How is that sane? Madness, I say. Utter madness.

“Milady…”

“Yes, yes. We should depart now so that we can be backstage before the singers return.”

While the artists salute the crowds, we quickly make our way out into the small concourse circling the second floor. Torran guides us to the right up till the end of it, then down a set of stairs hidden behind a heavy curtain. At the bottom of it, a heavyset man turns, his eyes widening when he recognizes Bingle. Without pausing, Torran slaps him into the wall.

I realize with satisfaction that the unfortunate thug is still breathing. Leaving bodies lying around is oftentimes more trouble than it’s worth, unless we are assaulting a remote location and everybody can mysteriously perish in a tragic house fire. The situation is only exacerbated by the presence of the godling. Judging by what I have seen so far, he would probably complain about the sanctity of life or measured response or some such annoying concepts. Personally, I only care because a corpse could have the opera closed for an enquiry. The horror.

I take a look around. We are on the ground floor, in a part of the structure not meant for public access. No gaudy decorations adorn the walls here. We are in the naked guts of the structure where magic is made. Piles of props, seats and leaflets line our way. We make a sharp right through a door, into a passage with a gate leading outside. High windows give a glimpse of the stone walls of a nearby office. Directly in front of us, the artist entrance lies closed, guarded by a heavyset man with crossed arms and a stubborn air.

I have a lie ready. I will just pretend to be the actress’ childhood friend. From Madrid. I will even utter the few Spanish words my friend Constanza taught me, if I can remember them.

In front of me, Torran does not slow down.

“Stand aside, boy,” he says calmly. The doorman takes a short look at the impeccably dressed herald of doom bearing down on him, evaluates his chances after refusing a rich and influential man, and finds them wanting. He obeys.

Or we can just do that.

Torran did not use his aura at all. I am slightly annoyed now, and decide that I will not use power at all next time I try to convince a mortal. I’m sure I can do it just as well!

The staff area is currently empty, and I assume it will be another few minutes before the artists stop drinking in the adulation of the spectators and pass through here on their way home. We find ourselves in a well-lit, large room with a way to what should be the pit. Discarded instrument cases litter the ground, as well as food, music sheets and even a lonely sock. Three private rooms share the cramped end. We head there.

“It will save us a lot of trouble if we can avoid the attention of the entire orchestra by waiting for your friend in her private quarters,” Torran comments.

“Indeed, sir, very astute,” Bingle comments. He must be unused to basic common sense. I am not even remotely surprised.

We check the first room, which contains an impressive number of empty liquor bottles.

“The director’s room,” Bingle says, “singers avoid strong alcohol since it can damage their voices.”

Torran nods, and we inspect the next one. That room has a small mirror, a pile of faded bouquets in the corner, and enough makeup to repaint the Sistine chapel. Flashy costumes and fake jewelry are strewn haphazardly across the cluttered ground.

“This is the right place,” Bingle claims with a smile. Torran and I wait until he turns away from the mirror and take position by the far wall. I notice that envelopes are tied to the flowers and retrieve an opened one.

“Madame, your lips...”

Ah, this kind of correspondence.

As we wait, Torran and Bingle finally introduce themselves properly. Upon learning that my companion is from Hungary, Bingle says a few words in Magyar. I can tell his pronunciation is horrible, though the vampire does not seem to mind. This is a neat trick to break the ice, and I make a note of it.

Eventually, the diva herself closes the door behind her, takes a deep, exhausted sigh and turns to find her sanctum desecrated by a troublesome trio. Before she can release a mighty scream, Bingle gives an impeccable bow, and addresses his scared rescue.

“Senorita Diaz, please, do not be alarmed.”

Her yell dies in her throat, replaced by a panicked croak. I am surprised as her last name is listed as “de la Vega” on the leaflet.

“Who are you, how do you know my real name, and how dare you break into my room you maldito?”

“Forgive our intrusion. My name is Bingle, and these are my friends Ariane and Torran. I came here on behalf of Princess Padma, to warn you of a terrible danger!”

I barely have time to raise an eyebrow at the mention of royalty before Bingle starts the most outlandish tale I have ever heard. That Diaz woman was apparently given a jewel by Princess Padma of the kingdom of Mysore, for safekeeping. Indeed, that jewel is part of a trio of precious stones that adorn the mythical Scepter of the Tiger, a royal ornament that the princess wishes to hide from her evil and manipulative uncle. Should he lay his hands on them, he would be able to reforge the artefact and claim the throne for himself! But alas, the secret was leaked, and the ruby and emerald of the Tiger already fell within his hands. Princess Padma called upon the illustrious adventurer Bingle to protect the last sapphire and its guardian from a most cruel fate!

What a pile of rubbish.

“I can scarcely believe it,” Diaz whispers with a worried voice.

Yes, neither can I.

“I never thought this day would come that we are found out. I must warn my cousin, then we must escape.”

Gah! After a last look of shared disbelief, Torran and I follow the pair out. The other players are surprised to see strangers in their midst, but since Diaz vouches for us we continue unmolested. The diva knocks on the third door where we are answered by the man playing the quack doctor. Without his wig and fake belly, he appears significantly younger.

“Sara? Qué está pasando?” he asks.

“Oh Miguel, we are found out! Foes have come after us and the jewel. We must escape promptly.”

Alarm fills the poor lad.

“How? They probably have us surrounded?”

“If I may,” I interject. When their attention is on me, I expose my plan.

“We could leave with a large part of the orchestra and choir. These thugs will never dare to assault a large group. We will leave their encirclement, then disappear once we are far enough.”

“A splendid idea, Miss Delaney.”

To be fair, I used that trick with Constanza back when I wanted to dodge ugly suitors after mass. They do not need to know that though.

Without any prompt on my part, Torran steps forward and he sort of… inflates. Not physically, though, and not through his aura. I do not know how, but suddenly he has become the center of the room, the person around whom all groups orbit. He claps his hands once, and the sound reverberates like thunder through the entire room. Silence smothers all conversations.

“Your attention please! I am Prince Torran Dvor, from Hungary. I cannot express how pleased I am to find such brilliant artists here, so far away from Prague and Vienna. It would be my honor and pleasure to invite you all to the Blue Jay for refreshments as a gesture of my appreciation.”

Whispers of glee at the offer of free food and drinks spreads like the plague through the eager musicians. They grab their effects and rush to the exit like a swarm of locusts spotting a wheat field. We are carried forward, and spill in the streets where a pair of men with hungry eyes see us go by without recourse. I almost stop in my tracks when I casually Charm one of them, feeling the lightest resistance.

Interesting.

Torran easily makes his way to the head of the horde and leads us forward with a sure step and enough speed to force our pursuers to scramble after us. We leave large streets and stone buildings behind for a more narrow street filled with people, then into a three-storied hotel and restaurant. A butler with jowls and a receding hairline looks worriedly at the approaching crowd, then recognizes the man at its head.

“Sir?”

“I am sorry to intrude upon you, Sylvester. Do you happen to have a private room we may use?”

“Of course sir, right this way. May I ask what the occasion is?”

“Certainly,” the vampire answers as he leans in. He makes up a story about a scorned lover and a daring escape for the poor diva, a tale of unrequited attraction that leaves the stoic waiter with the barest hint of a mischievous smile. Bingle, Diaz and Miguel speed to a backdoor for a quick escape, but not before I reassure the astounding adventurer that he can get in touch with me by leaving a message here. Then, the rest of us are led to a separate room where the musicians are promised drinks and appetizers. After a few minutes and some excuses, Torran pays the bill in advance and we leave through the front door.

“I admit that I am curious as to why you would allow him to keep in touch with you. From what I can tell, you find his presence unpalatable,” my companion casually remarks.

“Yes, but I think I figured out why we were drawn into his story. I just need to confirm my theory. And I’m quite Thirsty.”

“Well, we picked up a tail.”

“Two birds with one stone. We should turn here.”

We make our way in a narrow alley that only holds service entrances. Our pursuer rushes in only a few seconds later. I grab him and inspect his throat, ignoring the weak complaints. Mortals do not scream when they choke.

“Observe,” I comment as I point at two barely visible fang marks. They are very recent, and the cause of my prey’s small resistance to domination. Torran’s eyes widen slightly at their sight, for he knows what we face.

A vampire.

“We were not brought in for amusement. We are here to balance the scales.”

74. Vernissage

When vampires hold a party, there are no half-measures. Take the manor’s receiving room, for example. The solemn space could host hundreds of people under its exquisitely molded ceiling and crystal chandeliers. I could place a throne at one end, a pair of guards and pretend to be in Versailles' Galerie des Glaces while dukes and counts dance and plot. The long rectangular surface is lined on one side by french windows leading to the inner court and its fountain, and on the other, by countless mirrors that do not reflect me. It is grandiose, but still mostly empty.

Wilhelm and I welcome the partygoers by the door and direct them to the exhibits. Starting to the left and alternating with the windows leading to the manor’s inner courts, I have placed my portraits. Loth, Dalton, Jimena, Nami and even Jonathan alternate with more exotic takes on human nature, such as the Herald before and after his transformation, one of the more courageous English soldiers right as he died and the insane face of one of the cultists. There are no Likaeans displayed, for obvious reasons.

After that, the visitors can appreciate scenes such as “A Slave Family’s Home”, “The Roofs of Marquette” captured on the coldest winter’s coldest night and “A Werewolf on the Hunt”. My favorites are those depicting the charging wendigos and the submissive mermaid shaman as she offered me her blood. In all of those scenes, I paid attention to the illusion of movement by catching my subjects mid-motion, or by adding elements such as fabric held by the wind. The result is that of life as if caught in amber. It took me a long time and the study of many bodies, most of them still alive, to achieve this.

Around twenty such paintings line the left wall to its end. The back wall is also covered in mirrors, a curious choice that makes the place eerie, as the reflection does not have as many people as the actual room. The strange discrepancy makes it feel even larger than it actually is.

My largest work thrones there. I painted the Choctaw, Muskogee and American infantry charging English lines at the battle of Black Harbor. The scene appears mostly normal until one looks more closely. First, they will notice that the largest celestial body looks strangely like an eye, then they will find Loth’s colossal form clad in his battle armor, cleaving through ranks of men like an unstoppable god of war. Further examination will show that the twirls of shadows draw shapes of war chariots and ancient soldiers wielding glaives and severed heads, and the best part is that it takes some time to notice everything.

I did not draw myself in that painting. I have not completely forgotten what I look like, I just cannot picture it well enough to paint. It bothers me just a little bit.

To the right, a small pavilion covers the exhibit’s main piece. A small notice on a pulpit by the entrance warns mortals that the view inside is disturbing and can lead to one being hypnotized. I left this to prevent any guest from having an unpleasant experience, fully expecting the pavilion to mainly attract vampires.

I should have known better.

A few daring individuals watched the Watcher, so to speak, and shared their experience with disbelieving friends. Soon, the attraction became a center of morbid curiosity, and my work was examined not only by the staff waiters but also the maids, the guests, the cooks, the handymen, the gardeners and no less than seventeen soldiers and assorted bodyguards. I refused three separate offers to sell the paintings, for a good sum too.

Mortals are strange. They are curious when they should be scared and scared when they should be calculating. Oh well.

The last part of the ballroom is occupied by tables around a bar where those of us who still digest can get refreshments. A few of the individuals sitting there are hired to provide a more vivacious kind of snack for those with a bit more bite to their Thirst.

I greet a trio of vampires who present themselves as Rolands. The Master then moves to the side, with her two Courtiers trailing her like chicks after a mother hen. Wilhem informs me that they are refugees from a coven that found itself at the losing end of a power struggle back in Spain. They are here to find another coven to join, or for the right to establish their own. The butler adds that such visitors are quite common, and even more so during times of strife. The exiles will be using this gathering to network and make enquiries.

The next person to go through the door fills my heart with joy.

“Lord Dvor, welcome.”

“Please Ariane, call me Torran, always.”

“If you wish. Come to enjoy my paintings?”

“I wouldn’t miss them for the world. I’ll leave you to your duties my dear. Do find me when you have the time.”

He kisses the hand I present and leaves behind the lingering touch of his fingers. His mysterious Servant bows deeply then trails him. Her respect appears genuine.

“I do not believe I had seen Lord Torran smile before,” Whilhelm comments offhandedly.

Mhhh.

I definitely need to ask him if he’s courting me.

More guests come and go. Wilhelm introduces them and I do my best to memorize their names. It is easier with vampires. They have a stronger existence to me, as I can taste their essence through their disciplined auras. Their individuality is simply more marked in my mind.

Soon after, a man I hadn’t seen in thirty years makes his entrance. Lord Ceron is just as striking as I remember. He has dark, curly hair, a well-trimmed beard and the muscles of a prize-fighter. His eyes are cornflower blue and shining with intelligence, warning others that under the brawny appearance hides a keen intellect. I remember that in the fortress, he invested in me before I even became a proper fledgeling. His decision brought dividends, as I have since struck devastating blows against his rivals the Lancasters.

The handsome man smiles broadly before giving me a gracious bow.

“House Nirari, welcome.”

“None of that Lord Ceron, not between us. How have you been?”

“Wonderful. Ah, but I remember a fragile youngling in a baggy grey training garb bumbling about. How you’ve grown.”

“I knew it! I knew that attire wasn’t appropriate.”

“No,” Ceron replies with a laugh, “it really was. Your current dress just suits you so much better.”

The Cadiz lord is right. I am wearing the second of Goode’s creations. This one is an old-fashioned affair in shades of white and blue. It fits me like a glove and is just as mildly provocative as the other.

Ceron and I conduct small talk, and I gather that he would be interested in a formal alliance after I have acquired a territory. I subtly assure him that I would be delighted and he moves to the side to allow other people to greet me. Some of the visitors are mortals from loyal families, and I make an effort to make them comfortable. Wilhelm warned me that Devourers have a reputation, and more than a few are more apprehensive of me than of others. I once more find the notion ridiculous. It should not matter to the sheep if it is slain by a wolf or a lion, and no bloodline is immune to rogues in their ranks.

The next important guest is also a Cadiz.

“Lord Suarez, it has been so long. And Inez is with you, your Servant now I see. Congratulations to you both.”

The current ruler of Charleston greets me with a smile. The bruised slip of a girl I had saved decades ago is now a mature beauty with perfect countenance. She greets me warmly, and the pair soon join Ceron in an animated discussion.

I welcome almost fifty people in the space of an hour. Most move on quickly. Others have questions, including the one I am addressing now, a Hastings Master with grey hair and the look of a chief accountant.

“Do you know where your Master is?”

“He is no longer my Master.”

“But do you know where he is?”

“I do not.”

“Will you side with him when he returns? I have not moved here to suffer from the whims of a capricious madman and his ilk.”

My smile grows strained, and I pull him forward while adding in a low voice.

“My good sir, I understand your distress, but let me assure you that if you do not release my hand right now, my sire will be the least of your worries.”

The man drops my fingers as if they were on fire. He looks scandalized by my threatening tone and turns to Wilhelm, presumably seeking support.

“You are holding the line, sir,” the steward remarks with a perfect mask. The Master realizes the battle is lost and pulls back with a last huff. Showing his BACK. WEAKLING. PREY. POUNCE AND… and nothing. This is a party.

“Thank you, Wilhelm.”

“Think nothing of it, miss. He should be the one grateful to me for saving him from the consequences of his behavior.”

“I would not kill him simply for being rude.”

“Not just from you, but also from the Lords already present as a show of support. As for killing, let me just say that your control is excellent, young one, but I am an old hand at reading auras. This bloodlust. Intoxicating.”

Hah, I knew it. Under the veneer of rules and etiquettes, the beast lies. Perhaps I should invite Wilhem for a Hunt. Ah but no, it wouldn’t be proper. I need to invite Torran first.

I must ask Jimena the rules of vampire dating. If I invite a vampire for a private Hunt, is it a date? I have not reached that part of her book yet. I think it depends on the balance of power. When I brought Isaac on his first Hunt, it was definitely not a date.

Hmmm.

The next guests come quickly. Salim, Jimena and Nami arrive together with Aintza and a few of their mortals, soon followed by a sheepish Lord Jarek, supporting a tired woman under each of his massive arms. Lady Sephare of the Hastings joins late, apologizes for it and proceeds to fuss over my dress, which she compliments copiously. We are about to move on when an unexpected figure comes through the door.

The man is from a bloodline I have never encountered, a rarity now. He wears a fancy purple silk vest over a white shirt and tie that shows his broad physique. He has that impression I had from my father, of a bit of fat over a lot of muscle. His face is large and squarish with fat lips, a blond mustache and glacial blue eyes. He sees me and gives me a smile that does not reach his eyes.

I wait for a presentation to come but realize something is wrong. Wilhelm froze in place, and his face has gone from mild to stiff, his equivalent of screaming in anger. Pretending not to have noticed, the newcomer takes one step forward.

One.

Behind me, a familiar aura of cold night on a mountain flares, it seeps into the ground and though the land does not answer, there is a pulse far away to the East, as if something vast had answered the call. The aura is joined by the focused burst from two Cadiz lords, and a smattering of others. I feel eyes drilling into my back. The conversation in the room dies out in a matter of seconds when everyone realizes the apex predators among them have gone from quiescent to deadly.

The man wisely stops, places a hand against his heart and gives a short bow. I do not return the greeting. Instead, I turn to Wihelm and ask in a calm voice that every vampire hears.

“Is he on the guest list?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Pardon the intrusion,” the gentleman declares with a rolling accent, “I merely wanted to pay homage to the newly ascended House Nirari. My name is Sergei of the Kalinin, the new leader for the Knight squad.”

Relative silence falls over the room, with the mortal’s slightly panicked breaths and heartbeats the only source of sounds. I am not sure what Sergei’s game is. Perhaps he came to take my measure, or perhaps he was not aware of the support I had garnered. It matters little, for I know two things. First, his name is not Andrei so I will have to rename the A team, darn it. Second, he crashed my party and made no secret of it, disrespecting me and my guests in the process. There is a time for subtlety. This is not it.

“A pleasure. I hope you fare better than your predecessor and now if you’ll excuse us, this is a private event.”

Sergei looks around, probably realizing that cooks and maids are lined in front of the Watcher tent, with my blessing I might add. He takes a breath, possibly willing to continue our verbal joust, but a deceptively calm voice interrupts him, backed by an arctic aura. I cannot resist, I turn around to see Torran right behind me, fixing the intruder with a steely glare that carries the promise of violence as certainly as a naked blade to the throat.

“Do not make the lady repeat herself.”

That is all, just one sentence with a meaning as clear as crystal.

Leave, or die.

Either the Dvor lord is better at bluffing than Sinead himself, or he will, in fact, skewer the man’s heart and rip out his spine.

With one last defiant look, Sergei gives me a minute bow and retreats. The vampires in the room return to their conversations as if nothing had happened and the mortals let out a collective breath.

I wonder if he was here to gauge me, the one who caused his predecessor to fall from grace? I see no other explanation.

I turn to Wilhelm and a silent message of respect passes between us, then Torran comes to our side.

“That would be most of them Wilhelm, would it not?”

“Indeed.”

“What now?” I ask with trepidation. The sight of a potential new enemy rattles me more than I would like to admit. I don’t want to go through this again. I can’t think about going through this again. I am not ready.

“Normally you would mingle, however if it pleases you, I would enjoy a presentation of those masterpieces by the artist herself,” Torran suggests respectfully.

Sensing my hesitation, Wilhelm adds in a whisper:

“It is appropriate to show favor that way. You can always network afterward.”

I accept and take Torran’s offered arm. He lightly holds my hand and does his massage that helps me relax while we go to the portraits. Guests respectfully part to let us through everywhere we go.

Torran’s touch is soft and his scent teases my nostrils.

I walk my companion through the exhibit. I have a little story for each painting. I talk about the inspiration, I talk about the technique and I talk about my mood and what I enjoyed the most in the creation process. Torran chuckles at the tale of my father meeting me and asking to see my fangs when his portrait comes.

“I really enjoy the way you draw. Most painters will go for the exact rendition of a person’s appearance while you go for who they are. You captured your father’s pride, Jimena’s determination and Naminata’s playfulness just as clearly as their eyes and noses. I see people, not just their faces.”

“Thank you.”

Torran takes a deep breath, hesitant. This is so unlike the usually self-assured lord that my curiosity

“Would you consider painting me?”

“You want a portrait?”

“Yes. Vampire painters are a rarity. Many of us lost the creative edge that defined us as mortals. Those who remain often enjoy music due to the ease with which we move. Immortality is an obstacle, not an advantage, when it comes to visual arts.”

“I never thought about it that way,” I remark as we reach the first landscape. I notice in passing that Jarek has stepped outside and Ceron is at my back. I do not feel boxed in. The auras present are cold but peaceful, though given so many flavors it feels more like a truce than an alliance. I will be safe tonight.

We spend comparatively less time on the landscapes, simply because Torran does not have so many questions. When we reach the massive battle scene, we make a game of him spotting every little element I snuck in there. He manages to find them all with only a handful of hints. Eventually, we make it to the tent where mortals are still taking bets. They make way for us and genuflect as we go by.

The interior of the small tent is lit by a single light blue lantern. Two images of the Watcher stare into our soul, the effect significantly dulled compared to the real one outside, but present nonetheless. The left one depicts the vampire god in a background of stars, and the right one as a baleful moon overlooking a lake.

The left eye’s pupil narrows.

I blink and shake my head. Surely a hallucination. Or not. Who knows with that eccentric celestial entity? Meanwhile, Torran focuses on each frame, one after the other.

“Impressive. This is a magical item.”

“It is?”

“It does not have an aura in a traditional sense, not one most would pick up anyway, and yet the pull is undeniable. It could even be used as a defensive tool against intruders, and be incredibly effective too. Infiltration requires paying attention to details to spot traps. A spy’s sense of observation would be used against them.”

His fingers brush against my knuckle and he loses his intense glare.

“Forgive me Ariane. My desire for safety got the best of me. Two months away from my territory and I already behave like a cautious old man. This is an incredible piece of art and I treat it like a vulgar trap.”

“I do not mind. I will give you one of them, if you want.”

Torran smiles brightly, and the shadow in his eyes lightens.

“I now own two of your paintings, that gives me a monopoly.”

“Tut tut my dear, I already sent a set to King Loth himself. You are not even the majority shareholder.”

“Blast, I shall cross the ocean and duel him for it.”

“I would not,” I lean in and add with a devious tone, “those are paintings of his previous wife.”

“Even better.”

“Torran, you rake!”

We chuckle and exit the tent, then join the impromptu gathering at the center of the room. There, my guests welcome us. Both Ceron and Suarez congratulate me on a well deserved victory and request a portrait. Naminata then asks for a nude of herself to send to a suitor, and Jimena shily orders a scene with both Aintza and herself. Just like that, my career as official vampire portraitist is all but certain, and I could very well retire in a distant cottage to spend my days in work and isolation if I so desired. I have a pleasant time creating bonds of friendship with old acquaintances and newcomers alike, until, an hour later, I feel the need for fresh air. I draw Torran away from his conversations and drag him out through the french windows and out near the fountain.

We follow the path out then right into an open space by the road leading down. There, the gardener who created the intricate flower garden now at our back left the land more barren and open, so that walking there is like taking a stroll through the wilderness. I remain silent until we stop at a low wall marking the edge of the cliff. The bay and the river in the distance move with unstoppable slowness and for a moment there is no manor, no politics, just the flow of murky water under the endless sky and nestled in its midst, the alien being that allowed our existence, ever watching.

Just as before, its presence is calming and its subtle approval puts my mind at ease. The Watcher is not a judgemental god. It is neither jealous or demanding, merely curious, and observing us for some unknown purpose. Sometimes I wonder if Semiramis was right and if it is the embryo of a universe, destined to consume itself in a great explosion. What it does with our experience, our sufferings and achievements and more importantly, our inherent predatory nature, I know not. There is something I have come to believe, however. Perhaps when we die our essence is not lost to disperse in the air like our bodies. Perhaps we come back to it and bring with us what we learnt. I think I would like that. I would not go where Nashoba and Dalton are, but at least what I am would not be lost, when my time comes.

Sensing my contemplative mood, Torran remains silent. I appreciate it, and the efforts he made to accommodate my skittish nature. I think I am ready now to learn for sure.

“Torran, I have a question.”

“Do ask.”

“You are courting me, are you not?”

He chuckles, his amusement clear.

“Thank the Eye, my efforts have been noticed. Yes, Ariane, I am courting you. Why?”

“Because you are doing a fantastic job of it. I am just not quite sure what you find in me. I am not particularly graceful, nor the smartest or most competent woman around. By siding with me so clearly, you are making an enemy of the Lancasters, the Knights, and who knows how many others who take exception to the existence of Devourers. I want to know why.”

Torran lets go of my arm to face me properly. He still has this slight smile that turns his steely, almost cruel demeanor into a distinguished one instead.

“Very well, I will declare. There is something with you, Ariane, that I cannot resist. It is not your appearance, though you are beautiful. Not your intelligence, though you are brilliant, nor your achievements though they are many. It is the way you stood straight when facing your accusers at the trial. The way you walked out with your head held high. The way you blinked and relaxed when I tugged on your fingers and the smile you gave me when I showed you the garden. I felt you when you smiled at those flowers, when you listened to those arias at the opera. You were vibrant and alive with a passion that echoed in my soul. Every small gesture, every clever word made something blossom in a heart I thought cold and barren for all of eternity.

“Faster than I thought possible, I coveted you like a thirsty man covets fresh water but I was afraid. Me, the old monster, I was terrified. That you would leave. So, I approached you with care and all the patience I could muster because I wanted to drink in your presence and all the little things that make Ariane. I cannot express the felicity I felt when you loved the Elisir d’Amore or when you took my offered arm without worry. I had no right to feel something so powerful. And yet I did. When that Kalinin knight came to intimidate the guests, I was just about ready to tear him apart with my bare hands. The realization of how far I would go for you did not scare me, because deep inside I already knew I was caught.

“So yes, I want to look at you when you’re being you, I want to wake up by your side and I want us to run together, Hunt together and fight together, and if you will have me I will, no matter who is arrayed against us. I want you to be mine as I will be yours.”

Wow.

I can’t think of any clever reply. That was so… raw.

Then there is no more room for thought. Torran’s lips are soft, and cold, but I do not mind that. His arms circle me in an embrace that I do not fear, just as my own reach to his shoulders. He smells and tastes delicious and crisp. And strong. I melt into it and come to rest against his body as we explore each other. I relax completely and forget myself in this new experience, at peace. Torran’s kiss is daring and possessive. I let him take control and guide me through things until after a while, we pull away from each other.

I just smile like an idiot.

So does he.

“You are a very, very dangerous man, Torran of the Dvor.”

“Of course, that is why you like me.”

“Cheeky rogue. I must warn you though, I just gave you something quite precious. Do not betray my trust.”

“I will not.”

I rest my hand against his chest as he caresses my hair, then a sudden thought makes me pull back and narrow my eyes with suspicion.

“What?” he asks, suddenly worried.

“When we discussed me escorting you, you clearly said you were not after this kind of companionship!”

“First, you were referring to casual sex and that is not what I was after, second, you forget the ancestral truth, my star.”

“And what would that be?”

“All is fair in love and war.”

“Gah! I am betrayed. I demand compensation! Kiss me again.”

Torran is only too happy to comply and after a little while, we are distracted by ponderous steps coming to our direction. Lord Jarek comes into view, only to stop at an appropriate distance. I appreciate the warning, as he only made noises to warn us of his arrival well in advance.

“Lord Jarek?” I ask with a bit of concern.

“There is a message for the both of you at the reception desk. Also, one more thing,” he starts with his singularly low-pitched voice.

“Yes?” I ask the suddenly solemn strongman.

“Where I come from, no coming of age party is complete without a show of strength and a good fight. Here, have a show of strength,” he says. Then he walks up to the closest tree, an oak of respectable size, and grabs it with his two hands. He grunts with effort as the trunk is literally torn apart under his prodigious grip, then, with a last agonizing creak, the poor thing topples. Jarek is not done. He hoists the body like one would a javelin, aims, and tosses it into the bay.

I watch, mesmerized, as hundreds of pounds of lumber arc beautifully into the night like the bolt of an ancient siege weapon. It takes more than five seconds for the vampire-propelled tree to finally topple beneath the waves.

I close my mouth with a click.

“Now we wait for a good fight.”

“Ah?”

“Wilhelm is an Erenwald of great power. This natural garden, the flower patches and many of the greenhouses on the plain below are under his purview.”

“Ah.”

Just as I answer, a furious roar emerges from somewhere to my right.

“Who DARES!?”

Jarek rolls his shoulders and two massive gauntlets with vambraces made of the void-like substance of soul weapons appear on his oversized hands. An instant later, he’s gone and the first metallic clang of clashing weapons rings through the clearing. The fight has begun.

I lean against Torran as I try, and fail, to follow the fight. I already know this is not a struggle to the death and they take great pain to avoid being too destructive. I see it more as a match than anything too serious and manage not to become nervous. Wilhelm does seem hellbent on teaching the Natalis lord a lesson, however, and his face is a mask of focus and contained fury. He wields a twin set of dark axes with which he attacks relentlessly in breathless rushes and large, flowing whirlwinds. By comparison, Jarek is more defensive and fights like a boxer. He blocks, attacks and moves in surprising bursts of speed that I would never have expected from somebody so large. For a while, they test each other’s defense but neither one is willing to fully commit, resulting in a stalemate. Should Wilhelm land a blow, his vicious looking axes would do tremendous damage while anyone hit by Jarek’s fists would be mercilessly punted into the bay. They are obviously trying to avoid that fate.

After a few minutes, both combatants salute and the Natalis lord leaves for the manor while our poor steward stares, despondent, at the pit where his precious tree used to be. I decide to leave him for now and bid Torran follow me inside for that message. I have grown just a bit more sensitive over the past weeks thanks to Aisha’s game and something tells me I should not be late. At the front desk, I am given a nice envelope by a matronly dark-haired Servant. The contents do not surprise me in the slightest.

“Ms. Delaney,

I hope you receive this letter in time, for I was compelled to leave it at your friend’s hotel. Indeed, the fight over the scepter has come to a close and light has been shed on this darkest of conspiracies…”

Any more eye-rolling on my part and I shall soon see the back of my skull.

“If I may…” Torran says as he picks up the guilty sheet.

“Ahem.”

Declaiming like Cicero, Torran reads the letter with gusto while I snort and applaud appropriately. The frankly preposterous recollection of events Bingle saw fit to lay on paper becomes hilarious when recounted in the haughty and slightly sarcastic voice of the Dvor lord. I learn that he brought the two singers to his own secret abode to protect them from the goons sent to ransack their home. He managed to get the jump on them and learnt from a captive that they had been hired by the Sommerville consortium of merchants. After infiltrating their compound and the subsequent daring escape, he found out the location of a secret base and now requests our help in assaulting the location and hopefully recovering the stolen jewels. The tale ends on a moving plea to assist him in this endeavor.

Torran folds the message back while I lightly clap before this masterful performance.

“Where I am from, if a trained man asked a lady for assistance in battle, he would be shunned throughout the land,” my lover remarks with a hint of disapproval. I want to remind him that he officially did just that but consider that it was all a ruse. Instead and despite my annoyance, I come to the adventurer’s rescue.

“Since his foes work with vampires, I would be surprised if the compound were not protected by them or at least by some magical means. As before, he calls upon us to equalize the field without realizing it.”

“Will you go?”

“Yes. I dare not think what will happen if I do not answer the call. Besides… it will be fun.”

“Then do you mind if I accompany you?”

“Not at all, I am sure there will be labor for the both of us. Now, when did he say he would assault the compound?”

“Tuesday, an hour after midnight.”

We both pause.

“By the Watcher, it is midnight. We need to leave now!”

The carriage comes to an abrupt stop less than five minutes after leaving the compound. I finish fastening my heart protector, regretting that I cannot bring out my armor this time. Bingle still doesn’t know about vampires and I would prefer if he did not find out.

I open the slit leading to the driver seat.

“What now?” I ask with impatience.

“Milady, we are being robbed,” Urchin answers from the other side.

“Come on out with your hands in the air and nobody gets hurt!” a nervous voice screams in the night.

Torran stands up. His aura blankets the space so that even outside, horses neigh with worry.

“I will be right back, my star.”

“Hold on, I would like to find out if they were sent here and if yes, by whom.”

“Oh, very well then.”

He opens the door and takes one step outside. Around us, I count three mounted raiders to his side and one on mine slightly forward.

Their rides take a step back.

“You’re that man that’s been flashing the money around town! I knew it! Give us your coin and nobody gets hurt.”

“Amateurs.”

“Wha’?”

“Amateurs. You’re too close.”

Torran’s hand blurs, I hear a sound like air displaced by something massive and the very specific sound of sliced meat. The three mounts on the left twitch, their heads gone.

Cries of disbelief turn into screams of pain when the carcasses fall on the ground and on fragile legs. The man on the right swears in alarm, then realizes his gun is gone.

“Mine now,” Urchin says.

My new minion shoots.

He misses.

I do not. The horse falls dead, trapping his rider like the others.

“When this is over, remind me to bring you to a firing range. I will not tolerate poor shots among my ranks.”

“That pistol was faulty!”

“The only faulty thing here is your aim. Now quiet, we need to ask a few questions.”

I approach the nearest rider and notice that Torran has gathered their guns. I kneel by his side. The man is dirty and stinks quite a bit. A mask of filthy fabric wraps around his face and I spot the greasy ends of a beard peeking from underneath. His eyes are muddied by pain and confusion.

“Now whose brilliant idea was it to attack us?”

The man instinctively turns to his leader, a tall thug with a black beard and a large scar across his ugly face.

“We no longer need the others,” I note. An instant later, three men are silenced.

“Oh shit oh shit, who the fuck are you monsters?”

“You attacked us and you didn’t know?”

“What? No, please… We just wanted your money. We would not have killed you!”

“I care not. Tell me who suggested this raid?”

“Please, I don’t want to die!”

“Look at me. Good. Now, you want to live, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I have a bargain for you. If you tell me everything I want to know. I will let you go with a one-minute lead and when I come after you, I will not run.”

“Right, right. I was scouting that eatery where all the rich folks go for a grub, then I saw your John coming and figured he must be loaded. Shook down a waiter for a story and followed the runner here, figuring he would come out alone. We only meant to take the swag and scram, I swear.”

“That was your idea?”

“Yeah?”

I grab the lout’s face and turn it around. No trace of bite marks, nor does he smell of one of our own.

“Incredible, Torran. A genuine highway robbery!”

“Is it that rare?”

“Yes, especially so close to a city! Ah, but I digress. Torran dear, I propose that we let Urchin handle the clean up and continue by ourselves.”

“Of course, my star, tonight is your night.”

“Thank you. I appreciate your patience in dealing with these ruffians. I know that you indulge me, and have done so for the past few days.”

“Do not worry, you more than make up for it,” he answers with a smile. The rogue.

I turn to the terrified highwayman and lift the horse off his body.

“As promised. One-minute lead.”

He stares at me, frozen in disbelief. So I smile and make sure to show him all my fangs.

“Fifty-five seconds.”

Ah, now that is much better. I turn to my helpful aide.

“Little Urchin, can you please head back to the manor and have someone clean this mess.”

“Yes ma’am. Say, I did not kill that one there on the ground. Can I drink him?”

“Of course. Make sure everything is done before somebody notices. Now, Torran dear. How about a little Hunt before we go raiding?”

“I know exactly what you had in mind when you made that promise.”

“Did you, now?”

Heavy hooves trample the earth. A large warhorse gallops through the darkness, its obsidian coat nearly invisible to mortal eyes. It is not Metis.

“Krowar,” Torran whispers with pleasure. He climbs atop the nightmare as it stops by his side.

“Metis,” I echo an instant later when my proud ride joins us. I climb on her back. The two mounts greet each other while my friend checks a richly decorated pocket watch. After a while, he closes it and looks at me. The night is beautiful. The trees mask the city in the distance. The smells of blood and pine needles overwhelm all others and the forest is alive with predators and prey caught in their deadly dance. Somewhere in front of us, our quarry struggles forward, needled by dread. We will ride it down together and partake of his blood.

Torran leans forward and kisses me lightly. His eyes shine with a mischievous glint as he pulls back and he whispers, with his exotic lilt.

“First to the prey.”

He is gone in a great thunder of flowing dirt and crushed shrubbery.

“Eh? Go, Metis go! Torraaaan! Wait for meeeeee!”

75. Oh, the Binglery!

I lost the race.

But only because Torran cheated!

Then after a nice shared snack, we left to steal a few jewels. Bingle gave us general directions to a remote compound to the south of the city, not far from the manor. The private property sits at the edge of a fishing village, with only a muddy road as an entry point. The reek of decaying life and scummy waters slap me in the face long before the wooden palisade surrounding our destination comes into view. Bingle did not tell us exactly where he would meet us, but since his stupid power makes everything run smoothly, we easily find him by his scent and the noise of heartbeats. A mortal would never have erred for hours trying to regroup and that annoys me to no end. When I plan things, it must all be perfect or I end up with half of the odd squad stuck in a ditch and the other half on fire or eating their horses because they ran out of food. Bingle can just say let’s meet around here and everyone gathers without a hitch.

It’s not fair.

We sneak up from behind and I enjoy some vindication when I muffle the soprano’s startled yelp. There are three people hiding behind a bush when we arrive. Bingle, of course in all his darkly charismatic glory, but also the singer Sara whose jewel they recovered safely from a hiding place, and a third man I had not met before.

The newcomer is clearly not from around. He has bronze skin, and a soft face with melancholic traits and liquid brown eyes. The impression is tempered by a fierce moustache and an impressive stature. Ochre robes barely hide the man’s rolling muscles. He also wears a white turban with a golden feather pointing upward. I am left wondering if we are truly trying to sneak in, and if we do, whether or not these people have any notion of camouflage. By comparison, I am wearing a travelling dress of midnight blue with a hood while Torran wears a suit and coat of the darkest grey, with the only glint being that of the steel sword by his side. In typical vampire fashion, even his slumming attire is of exquisite make.

“Ah, Ariane and Torran, splendid timing as always” Bingle half-whispers and half-declaims.

“Please meet the esteemed warrior Sarvajna, sent by my employer and friend to assist me in the recovery of the jewels. He left London just after I did and arrived only yesterday.”

“Greetings Sahib, Sahiba, I am one of Princess Cheluvambe’s bodyguards, here to protect Bingle Sahib from his enemies,” the tall man declares.

We smile and shake hands and pretend that he is not here to keep an eye on things. Sarvajna shows just a hint of apprehension when he meets Torran’s eyes and radiates disapproval when he meets mine. He discreetly spares a glare at Sara and so I assume his displeasure is due to the relative parity of the group. Very few societies bring their women in battle, much less for night operations.

After the round of introductions is done, Bingle shares with us the nature of our task.

“This remote compound is the seat of power of Augustus Summerville himself. That unconscionable devil is ever ambitious. He is the one who sent the thieves after the other pieces of the Scepter and there is no doubt in my mind that he works hand in hand with the princess’ devious uncle. He will go to any length to see his grand adventure come to fruition, even if others must suffer for it.”

Pot, meet kettle.

“We must recover the jewels and abscond, promptly. My conversation with Summerville’s licentious son at that poker tournament earlier today led me to believe the pieces are held here, in the man’s office. He will have a safe which I will crack.”

“Where will we find this office?” Sara asks with a small voice.

“A man like him is easy to read. His den will be at the highest point, as from those lofty heights, he gazes upon his dominion as he works to further his nefarious schemes.”

We turn to the compound. Bingle’s hiding spot is slightly elevated, and this allows us to see a few roofs. The largest building is probably a warehouse. There are also two more including a two-storied office with quite a few windows. If Bingle did not miss his guess, this is where we will find the precious stones.

“Are you confident that you can open this safe?” the tall Indian man asks with a bit of worry.

“I am,” the adventurer proudly answers, “I even know exactly which model he purchased thanks to a most thorough inquiry.”

It appears that Bingle did his homework. I should not be too judgmental. His father was perhaps helped by the hand of fate, but it was his competence that carried the story forward, and so it is with junior. I must give the youth some credit.

“What force can we expect inside?” Torran asks.

“I expect no less than a dozen guards, and possibly more asleep. And that is the problem. The main entrance is closed for the night.”

I can spot from here the only road trailing through the marshy forest and to a set of double gates set on both sides by twin lookouts. Small movements show that the flimsy structures are garrisoned. Lanterns placed at regular intervals give the vigils a commanding view of their surroundings, enough to make a direct approach hazardous at best.

“We need to scale the walls,” Bingle continues, “and while I do have a rope,” he points at a large dark bag by his feet, “there are complications. Namely, they have patrols walking the perimeter. There will never be enough time for all of us to make the climb.”

“Why must we all go?” I ask with curiosity.

“A most astute question!” Bingle replies, beaming, as if my questioning of his intellect was a source of pride.

“I need milady Diaz here to verify the authenticity of the jewels themselves and alert me if I have been misled by decoys. She is the only one who saw them back in Europe.”

“My father is a jeweler,” the woman explains somewhat defensively.

Well, isn’t that convenient.

“Precisely. It would be riskier to carry out several infiltrations, not to mention that I will need someone to watch my back while I work on the safe. We need to bypass the patrol.”

“A distraction?”

“I would rather not. It could make them more alert and we would encounter a similar problem while going out. I suggest that we await the next change of the guard, then neutralize a patrol.”

How very bloodthirsty. I like it.

“The only problem I have is that they have dogs. Massive, ferocious beasts that would alert the group.”

“I believe I can do something about it,” I announce.

Torran appears surprised, though to his credit he does not question me in front of the others. I appreciate it, and let him know with an imperceptible nod.

“I have a way with dogs.”

My outrageous claim is welcomed with incredulity by both Sara and Sarvajna. Bingle, of course, does not doubt me.

“Excellent. Can I rely on you to attract the attention of the patrol and keep their hounds calm, meanwhile Sarvajna and myself will sneak up on them and give them a good wallop. Afterward, feed this to the beasts,” he says, as he passes me a somewhat sticky piece of flesh wrapped in paper, “it is meat laced with sedative. Anything that swallows it will promptly fall asleep.”

I wonder why we can’t just murder them all, dogs included, though I know better than to voice my concern. Just like anything involving that insufferable godling, we will produce a lot of effort for something that could be dealt with in two minutes straight if I could just go all out. Forget finding the combination of the safe, I would just massacre everyone and tear the blasted things from its wall and carry it to safety.

But alas.

Bingle.

We decide that I will be assisted by Torran ‘for safety’ and the next hour I spent considering contingencies and sharing information. I learn from Bingle that the compound has a pier, but that it is well-lit and guarded without fail. I am, for one, appreciative of the fact that we will not swim inside as I have witnessed first hand what the water around a populous city looks like back in Charleston and I am not eager to renew the experience. After a while, the two patrols on either side of the gate come in and new ones lazily take their place. I notice that the guards are foreigners wearing the same cloth as our brave bodyguard. We are in the right place.

“Those men are from Mahishuru, my home. Traitors, the lot of them!” the man himself grumbles into his moustache.

Bingle, de facto leader of the expedition, gestures us in and I silently follow Torran to the right palisade. We circle around slowly to give our mortal counterparts time enough to prepare.

“Should I ask about the dog?”

“I Devoured the essence of an Erenwald vampire, and they have some control over animals and plants. Dogs no longer fear me. I can calm one long enough for us to feed it the poisoned food.”

“Convenient! How about the mortals, would you like to Charm them? Or would you fancy an old-fashioned distraction?”

“What’s an old-fashioned distraction?” I ask with narrowed eyes.

“We lie through our teeth, of course,” Torran replies, with a devious glint in his eyes.

“In fact, let’s make a contest out of it, my star. Whoever tells the most shameless lie wins.”

“Deal,” I answer with a smile. Torran is such a dearie, to find sources of amusement while sneaking through the underbrush like vulgar cattle-thieves.

I just hope the guards speak English.

We settle to wait at the edge of the perimeter. Soon enough, Bingle Junior and Sarvajna are in position. I light the lantern and we step onto the road.

The patrol spots us walking in from seemingly nowhere and trots to us with a mix of fear and confusion on their gold-skinned face. I shove a tendril of essence into the growling beast before it can catch a good whiff of Torran and go mad. The creature blinks owlishly.

“What are you doing here? This is a private property!” the first guard declares in a surprisingly good English. He twirls his moustache with fury while his barrel-chested companion caresses a truncheon while wearily eyeing my lover.

“Private property? I bought these lands good sir, and here I take a midnight stroll only to find this hideous construct. Scandalous.”

“Absolutely,” I add not to be outdone, “besides who would build their warehouse on an Indian burial ground?”

At the mention of a cursed locale, the moustachioed man’s eyes bulge comically. He takes an involuntary step back though he does not relent.

“It does not matter. You can’t be here!”

“How dare you address me? I’ll have you know I was a friend of Krishnaraja Wodeyar the third, your previous ruler!” Torran claims, and for a moment the magic takes. Lit by the flame of the lantern, the vampire Lord’s stature and poise radiate power and barely controlled outrage. The hilt of the blade by his side reminds everyone that he is a warrior. He is domineering and mighty without using a smidgen of essence.

I like that a lot.

Also, he is not winning that contest.

“Absolutely, you worthless curs. Can’t you recognize who your illustrious guest is?” I declare with passion,

“You have the honor of talking to the Duke of New York!”

The men of the patrol freeze, Savrajna freezes, even Bingle freezes at the shamelessness of such a claim.

Torran crosses his arms, as regal as any emperor.

“Whatever you think you’re doing, you’d better think fast,” I add with a pointed look at our partners in crime.

Clonk!

Two clubs smack the backs of the guards’ heads and they collapse in a heap. I take out the meat and feed it to the still dizzy dog, who gulps the pieces down without complaint. I also find out that when Bingle said ‘sedative’, what he meant was ‘a hefty dose of sweet liquor’.

“The Duke of New York, hm? You win this round, my star.”

Damn right I do.

We drag the unconscious bodies under some trees and leave the dog panting happily there, his leash tied around a nearby pine. I am left wondering why Bingle would refuse to slay an animal but so liberally clobber the head of his fellow mortals. So many times, I’ve had victims wake up not quite themselves or not as sharp as they used to be. The body is a fragile thing. Oh well, it’s his operation. With the way reality bends around him, they will wake up with a light migraine and a newfound taste for scones and marmalade.

Bingle throws a hook over the palisade and we climb wooden logs without difficulty, save for Sara who has to be pulled up. The compound is just as we expected, a circular space of packed earth containing a large warehouse, a barrack, and a two-storied office. In the back, a pier leads to the bay’s murky waters. The inner court is much less lit than the exterior and there are no patrols.

We head to the office with light steps, then wait as Bingle picks the lock. Junior can open doors and safes, I realize. Naughty.

It takes less than half a minute for all of us to get in. After that, Bingle closes the door behind us and lights a candle, casting a fragile light on our surroundings. The room is actually a secondary storage space and its contents give me the first real bit of apprehension since the end of the hearing. The smell of black powder and the shape of some of the crates are a dead giveaway.

“What is this?” Sarvajna asks.

I lean next to a nearby barrel and pop the lid open with my claws, then turn around and pretend it was already unlocked. Torran rolls his eyes at the theatrics.

“Is this..?” Sara asks.

“Yes,” I reply with an ominous voice, “we are in an armory. There are enough weapons here to arm a hundred men.”

Svarajna swears in an unknown tongue while the soprano pales a bit. Bingle frowns but shakes his head.

“We knew about Summerville’s ambition. This changes nothing. Without the Tiger Scepter, his candidate has no legitimacy. We must find the jewels with all haste.”

We nod and follow the intrepid adventurer up the stairs to a locked door, which offers only a modicum of resistance to our hero’s nimble fingers. We all queue into Summerville’s unreasonably vast office and take in our surroundings.

I have seen some horrors in my Watcher-forsaken existence. I have witnessed Merghol mana-hounds feasting on the withered flesh of drained mages. I have gazed upon the corpses of starved children with bones cracked open, the marrow sucked by Wendigos. I have seen the world slashed open like a cheap envelope and still this shocks me to my very core. How can a man have such bad taste? How can the Christian God allow such horrors to be inflicted upon its children? From wall to wall, flashy colors, excessive decorations and gold paint clash with common sense and each other. Knick-knacks of horrible craftsmanship fight for space with empty bottles of very expensive wine and fake-jewel-encrusted cups. I learn that Summerville himself is a weaselly man of rotund proportion by the sheer amount of portraits and engravings of him plastered on the walls. There is even a large painting of him replacing Washington crossing the Delaware. In this ‘piece of art’, he is represented as being easily seven feet tall.

It’s a miracle that my eyes are not bleeding right now.

I turn to Torran to ask if he is seeing this. Alas, the poor darling is leaning against the walls, eyes closed, gently massaging his temples.

“Right,” Bingle says, reminding us of what is at stake, “let us find the safe.”

I find his sang-froid admirable. I already want to set the place on fire and forget about the jewels. They must be cursed after staying here for more than a night anyway, we might as well deny Summerville his assets and be done with it. Why can’t those adventures be simple Hunts where we chase some prey and eat a werewolf or two at the end? Those are nice, straightforward tasks with a meal included but no, we must absolutely investigate the den of the sin of Pride’s most tasteless avatar.

Bingle starts walking around, soon followed by Sara and then by Svarajna. It will be difficult to locate a small safe in this cluttered space.

Unless, of course, it is defended by magic.

A diffuse aura comes from behind a grandfather clock. I inspect the horrid thing and quickly notice a button, simply because the depression is covered in food grease and thus slightly less shiny than the rest of the contraption. I press it and with a clank, the upper part slides to the side to reveal a depression in the wall, and the safe therein.

“Well done, Mrs. Delaney, well done indeed,” Bingle whispers as he walks to me. I make a hand gesture to hold and search one of the pockets on my cloak. I expected to face a vampire, and to some extent, magic. I came prepared.

I retrieve a pinch of white powder from a metal canister and blow it upon the safe’s surface. In the darkness of the room, the powder spreads across a circular construct like morning frost over a spider’s web, leaving it glittering softly. The spectacle is as beautiful as it is worrying.

“Do you know what this is?” Bingle asks while his two companions cross themselves and set my teeth on edge.

I study the revealed construct. It is flimsy and there lies the problem. I could break through most spells worked upon a surface this small, and in this case it would be useless.

“This is an alarm, and before you ask, I do not have the means to disarm it. As soon as you start working on the safe, the net you see will snap and alert the person to whom it is attuned, most likely Summerville.”

In order to bypass these defenses, one would have to slowly pull on each strand until the construct is either displaced or ‘rolled in’ so as to prevent it from triggering. Unfortunately, it requires fine magical control, a skill I do not yet possess. Behind me, Torran does not react. He is unwilling or unable to assist. No matter the reason, I trust his judgement on this matter.

“Summerville is spending time with a lady of the night, in an establishment not far from here. This would leave us a quarter of an hour before the ruffian’s arrival. We could do it.”

“And possibly escape how?” I ask, more as a formality than out of real concern.

“Worry not milady, I have a secret trump card that will save the day.”

“Fair enough,” I reply, my doubts assuaged.

“We should use this opportunity to fortify this location, just in case,” Torran adds with a wink in my direction. I consider his words as the bodyguard voices his assent.

Fifteen minutes of preparation.

A hundred guns.

Enough gunpowder to blow Summerville’s hired help back to India by way of the moon.

Bingle, you are officially forgiven.

“A very astute remark, my love. Let’s get to it.”

Sara stays with the gentleman thief to hold his lantern, no innuendo intended, as the three of us make our way downstairs and I try not to giggle like a child on Christmas morning. I light a few lanterns and take stock of what we have while the two muscular beefcakes get to work boarding the windows. I elect to create a small diversion by stepping outside with a few barrels of powder, then quickly return and start loading one musket after another at the very edge of human speed. Sarvajna sometimes stops to watch with disbelief, before moving more empty crates to block the way in.

Soon enough, Torran volunteers to carry loaded firearms upstairs while the bodyguard and myself keep loading with determination. I slow down to be just slightly faster than him. I will not ridicule him, but I will not spare his feelings either.

“Bingle Sahib said your father was a great hunter, the greatest one who ever lived. Is that true?”

I consider his words. The story I made up for Cecil Rutherford Bingle was one of cursed totems and twisted wishes, with my ‘father’ dying from his passion, burnt to a crisp by the dawn’s sun as he was returning from a hunt. Regardless of those lies, Nirari is my father after a fashion and he is indeed the greatest hunter who ever lived.

“Yes, it is.”

“Are you a huntress as well, Lady Delaney?”

I look up from a powder-filled pan and meet the Mysore warrior’s eyes. There is no longer any sign of disapproval in the stoic man.

“Yes.”

“I thought so. The spirit of the goddess of war Durga is with you. I can feel the shakti, the energy when you move. Tonight, we will defeat our enemies together with your husband and return the Scepter to its rightful owner, the princess.”

I hear a snicker from the stairs at the mention of matrimony. Hold your horses Torran, I am not tamed just yet.

“We will, Sarvajna. Summerville will regret ever keeping those stolen artifacts.”

We continue loading the guns with renewed focus. Our group has more than sixty primed weapons at its disposal by the time Torran knocks on a wood beam and points upward. We gather the last of them and climb up to the second floor, where we find Bingle sitting at a table and working on a secondary lockbox. The safe lies gutted, and yet the jewels are still not ours. It appears that Summerville took additional precautions.

I believe it would be better to take the lockbox and run for it. The danger of being trapped is superior to that of having the jewels be taken to another, more secure place. I suppose it is not my call. The show must go on.

We turn to the compound’s entrance, where a fire snake of men bearing torches descends. A pair of sentinels jumps from the guard tower and hurries to the door.

“I need a few more minutes,” says Bingle, tense, “if only there was a way to slow them down.”

In answer, I open the window closest to the office’s door, grab a lantern and throw it down under the mortal’s petrified gaze. The glass smashes open and burning oil ignites the pile of powder I had left there. Fire spreads through the trail I left for it, arching its way to the barrels I hid besides the left tower. The guards let out dismayed cries when they spot the impending danger. They flee as fast as their legs can carry them to the cover of the nearby barracks.

The flames reach the barrels and seemingly peter out.

I duck. Sara looks turns to me and asks:

“Oh, they were extingui-“

Like thunder on a cloudless sky, the explosion takes everyone off-guard. Horses neigh and riders swear as flaming wreckage rains upon the marshland. A plume of smoke and embers soon hides the riders from view with the collapsed guard tower lying across the entrance.

“Not extinguished,” I reply as I remove my fingers from my ears.

“WHAT?”

Oh dear.

“Very impressive, Miss Delaney. I will require but a few minutes to implement my plan. Do tell, are some of the guards of the Indian persuasion?” Bingle says.

“Yes?”

“Splendid. Do kindly try not to kill them.”

“You’re asking me to miss?” I ask, outraged.

“Of course not milady, I only ask that you aim somewhere else.”

Well, he got me there.

“I will be downstairs, my star. You may shoot to your heart’s content,” Torran says on his way down. With him there, I can focus on blasting targets away without fear of being overrun. I would be grateful if I did not suspect that his sacrifice was motivated by his dislike of muskets. He’s a bit old-fashioned as vampires go, after all.

With the surrounding of the main gates at roasting temperature, the palisade is now working against Summerville’s troops. I hear a strident voice screaming orders to ‘get over the damn wall’. It appears that some of our foes brought ropes, as the first few lassoes fly over the edge of the logs. On the ground below us, the men of the garrison test the windows for a way in. I wish them the best of luck and line up a shot.

Above the palisade, a glorious red feather rises, soon followed by a shiny white turban, soon followed by a pair of inquisitive eyes. Mindful of Bingle’s orders, I shoot the observer’s hat off his head, provoking a yelp and a backward fall.

It’s not my fault if they break limbs, I really cannot be blamed for that.

For good measure, I shoot the rope tied around the palisade, causing someone else to fall. It does not take long for the would-be assailants to try their luck elsewhere. Honestly, I could have just waited and shot them as they came. Bingle’s rule is too restrictive, I sincerely hope there is a reason for that.

Then comes the hard part.

Our enemies find a section of the wall covered by the barrack and manage to go over it while behind cover, then, they join up with the rest of the guards to besiege us. Soldiers pick up axes and crowbars to force their way in while others shoot the windows to keep us busy. Thankfully the light does not reach up to us and the walls are thick, so we are relatively protected. Unfortunately, there is only so much I can do to deter the Indian soldiers without killing them. Even grazing blows do not faze the stalwart warriors as they peel windows open with grim determination. Local goons I saw at the theatre are mixed in the lots. Those, I kill without hesitation whenever I can. Unfortunately, there is only so much I can do while making sure I am not hit by stray bullets. It would be awkward to bear the mask of humanity for so long only for the others to see me close a hole in my skull.

It does not take long before the first guards pull stabbed hands from under broken shutters. Torran is buying us a few precious seconds in a game of delays. I resist the urge to pressure the adventurer as even Svarjana has given up on aiming and just fire blindly between two enemy volleys. Sara is in a corner, praying and most likely reconsidering her life choices.

I feel strangely excited. There is a stake now! Without much recourse, I simply keep firing until Torran walks up the stairs and slams the door closed behind him.

“Too many breaches,” he comments with a small smile. I nod and smash my musket on the fingers of a man who was trying to climb. He falls back with a resounding “whore!”. Very well mister. Next time, I shall just stab you.

I retreat to the center of the room. An attacker appears at the rear window and gets back down with a broken nose. Another takes his place while to the side, two more pop up. I bash a skull and grab a gaudy goblet which I use as an improvised projectile on another, forcing them back.

“I got it!” Bingle screams, and not a moment too soon. The bangs on the door cease and men stop climbing. Silence descends upon the base until a strident voice breaks it. It drips with contempt and lowly pretension.

“Surrender you fools, and I shall be merciful.”

I do not need deep insight into human nature to know that there will be no mercy. We violated this person’s, well, ‘sanctum’, and humiliated him. Such an act demands retribution.

Bingle lifts two jewels the size of quail eggs from the lockbox, soon adding a third one from his pocket. They shine like embers in my sight and in my aura. There is power here, not just symbolic but mystic as well. He turns to the shattered window and approaches it without a hint of fear. I step by his left with Torran in support, while Sarvajna takes the other. Sara is still hiding.

“Who dares soil the abode of Augustus Summerville?” the strident voice resumes. I look down to find our interlocutor and realize my previous misconception. I thought the painters had done Mr. Summerville a disservice by giving a rotund and snivelling frame. They were instead granting him a favor, but alas, there are some appearances for which art can do little.

“‘Tis I, Nathan Riley Bingle, you villainous coward, you bumbling mass of nefarious grease, you spineless bulb of quivering lard. ‘Tis I who shall be your doom!”

“Hah! You move that wicked tongue of yours in vain! From where I am standing, the doomed one is you!”

“Appearances can be deceiving, as you shall soon learn.”

Under the mesmerized gaze of half a hundred men, Bingle takes the pommel ending his silver cane. The globe retracts, then rotates under his hand, and splits open in half to reveal underneath the maw of a mighty beast.

“The Tiger Scepter!” a man down below screams, and the crowd erupts in agitated whispers in a tongue I do not understand. Undaunted, Bingle calmly places all the stones in indents made to this end. As the sapphire locks in place, a magical circuit is formed and pale light emanates from the artefact of power, pushing away the darkness and the harsh red glare of torches. One by one, the many Indian soldiers drop to their knees in amazement.

Bingle is breathtaking.

The dashing adventurer is no longer as rakish as before. His black hair shines under the pale glow, and his black eyes convey power and serenity I had never seen in a mortal. A sense of wonder erupts from my heart as I gaze upon what could have been, had this reality been slightly less rigid. All the sagas and stories that could have been written and all the heroes of the past are here now before me, trapped in the nets of causality and yet still shining upon the world. They carry with them tales as old as time whose mere mention robs even the most jaded men of their disbelief, if only for a moment. That glow radiating outward does not impose a will, instead it asks the question: What if?

What if there were true heroes, true tales, true reality-defying magic? What if there were more to life than boring physics and realistic odds?

What if we could be amazed once more?

Bingle makes me believe it could happen.

I gaze upon the face of the godling and take Torran’s hand in mine. Our eyes meet and I see with pleasure the weight of timelessness momentarily lifted from his shoulders. Whatever silliness we have been through, this made it all worthwhile. I will cherish the memories I made today until the moment I return to the ashes.

“Noooooooo! Kill him!” the hysterical trader bellows. One of his men hesitantly lifts a rifle.

A terrible roar of outrage erupts over the compound. Everywhere I look, Mysore exiles rise and overtake Summerville’s mooks like an angry wolf pack. The slippery scoundrel himself only finds salvation by using his considerable girth to plow a way to the gates. Unfortunately for him, he forgot about his main foe.

Bingle quickly attached his rope to the window frame and rappels down smoothly. He runs after his quarry and the soldiers part before him like the Red Sea before Moses. Sarvajna turns to us, stupefied.

“You do not understand. Everyone can hold the Scepter. Only those worthy can make it shine so!”

Hah, what a great twist.

On the ground, Bingle has caught up. Summerville casts a desperate glance behind him and drops on the ground to grab a musket, turning it on his pursuers.

“Back, back, you vile criminal. How dare you do this to me? Know your place!”

Behind Summerville, the second guard tower creaks ominously.

“Your dastardly plans are at an end, Summerville! Surrender now, and you may yet live.”

“Surrender? To the likes of you? Never! I will leave this place and rebuild my empire and then I shall come for you, you meddling troublemaker!”

“Your words are empty, you sweaty globe of suet. Justice from above will strike you down.”

“Hah, I’d like to see that!”

With a last crack, one of the supports of the second mirador snaps and the great structure collapses. I watch, mesmerized, as a large beam falls on Summerville’s disbelieving face. There is a vile crunching sound and the shifty man is no more.

“…then you should have been on the lookout,” Bingle deadpans.

By the Watcher.

The ironic end, the banter, the horrible pun and its delivery! They are so bad they are good. I turn to Torran with a bright smile though he remains unamused. With a frown, he leans in and whispers as the victors cheer and rejoice.

“This isn’t over.”

“Indeed not, the vampire did not show up. That is all for tonight, however. Let us return.”

76. Finale

I dodge low and sweep the blade with my spear. The foe is strong, diverting his strikes takes all my might.

Fighting during the day is wrong, I should HIDE AND REST, but being prepared pays off and I need to train now in case I get caught off-guard one day. My thoughts are sluggish and moving is difficult. Sometimes I need to stop and remind myself that I am fighting. Vampiric speed is all but impossible.

Thankfully, I am not entirely defenseless. My strength and agility are still my own, though it takes everything I have to keep that specific enemy at bay.

Torran lunges, feints and stabs again. I counter and dodge back at the same time, just the way Nami showed me. My lover is forced to abort his attack to deflect the strike aimed at his heart. The gesture is small and effortless. He lightly slaps the blow aside then his assault resumes. He is grim and relentless, a veritable storm of steel that follows me with no respite. By comparison, my style is much more chaotic. I am often low to the ground except for lunges, and change direction constantly. I keep the patterns as unpredictable as possible, capitalizing on every opening and opportunity I can spot. We are relentless perfection and savagery opposed, but the advantage is his. Despite my speed, I only managed to strike his flank once and paid for it by a slash to the face. By comparison, my training gear is already covered in scratches and tears. We face each other with steel blades so any wound closes promptly, but the sting to my pride does not heal so easily. He struck my heart at least five times.

Torran controls a sphere around him where his existence is tyranny and he attacks with a relentless will that grinds all opposition. Despite my best efforts, my concentration wanes and I am soon entirely on the backfoot. One of his slices catches me across the shoulder and sends me careening through the training room.

Night falls.

I feel alive. Energy courses through my veins as everything gets back into focus and my mind sharpens to a deadly point. Then something unusual happens.

I have practiced diligently with the cards Aisha gave me. Two times out of three now, I can predict the outcome and whenever I do, I feel a pull towards a direction that does not exist, not exactly inward but close. I feel it now. With perfect clarity, I can tell exactly where Torran’s blow will fall, even with my back to him.

At the last moment, I twist on myself. His blade rakes against my chest protector as I stand and swing at the same time. My blind talons find purchase in the flesh of his throat. YES, YOU ARE MINE NOW.

Something pointy presses into my chest. His sword.

I stop. Torran’s steel grey eyes capture me. They are filled with pride.

“Beautifully done, my star.”

“Not so bad yourself, Torran. You were right, this was a good idea.”

“Of course, I was!” he replies, feigning outrage. Behind us, two mortal attendants wait with equipment in the manor’s largest training room. One of them is a slightly older, burly man with a satisfied grin while the other is younger and obviously witnessing vampires fight for the first time. If he opens his mouth anymore, I will be able to shove a whole egg in its cavernous depths.

We are alone for now in that bare room of dark stone, though soon vampires and mortals alike will tread its vast expanse, using dummies and targets to hone their skills while the most adventurous will make their way to the circle we now stand on.

With nightfall comes something else. I feel, once again, a pull. There is something that I should be doing but I am not quite sure why, only that it is important.

“Shall we continue?”

“Hold on, dear, there is something.”

“What is it?”

“I am not sure. A hunch.”

Torran waits in silence as I close my eyes and focus. Alas, getting anything else is impossible. I am simply not good enough yet, and the meaning escapes me. All that I can perceive is a diffuse sense of forgetting something, or of having a destination in mind though I do not know which.

“I do not know.”

“Is it related to Bingle?”

“Likely, yes.”

“Then let us not stay here and find him instead.”

I frown in frustration. Did Nashoba not tell me that real life work would serve me better than blindly following hunches? And here I am, already forgetting.

After a quick passage through changing rooms designed to this effect, we leave the blades in the hands of the two attendants and depart the arena. The training room is situated underground and is well provisioned with all manner of weapons, including pistols. The duelling ground is covered in sands to absorb spilled blood, a necessary measure for us.

I follow Torran up a set of stairs dug into the very stone and through massive vault doors locked in case of emergencies. We are only in the first basement, and I am not sure exactly how deep into the earth’s crust the complex extends. I have little interest to find out, especially because the torture room is two levels below.

We quickly make our way to the front desk where we find Sophia, Constantine’s assistant. The unusual Rosenthal stands straight as a rod, with brown hair in a prim tail and her hand on a saber by her side.

“What can I do for you?”

“Are there any messages for either of us?”

“No. Expecting something in particular?”

“We are helping a godling. Someone touched by fate. He may have tried to contact us.”

The woman considers our problem for a moment.

“Could you describe him?”

“Dark hair, dark eyes, shaven, wears black-“

“And carries a cane?”

“Yes!”

“He is down the road at the first checkpoint. We blocked his access for we did not know him. I was about to have him brought in for interrogation. Would you like to see him?”

“Yes, have him brought up and wait in the lobby, I will be right back.”

I turn to leave while Torran finds a seat to wait. The night past, we helped Bingle take the Scepter. I would not be surprised if the vampire at the other end of the chessboard had played their turn. If it is the case, it ends tonight, and quite likely through a physical confrontation.

Time to try Loth’s armor.

I move to my bedroom, scaring Solveig on the way and throwing the special wardrobe open.

The battle dress awaits me in all its baleful glory. I undress until all that remains are my smallclothes and put it on. I fasten it piece by piece, feeling the protective garment fit snugly until I am clad in it as in a second skin.

Once this is done, I take a second to stretch and luxuriate in the feeling of the silk-like fabric against my skin. Each scale slides in position with uncanny precision, leaving me completely free to move. I then grab throwing knives, my silver dagger and the spear, finishing with the silver pistol I took from father Perry, the oldest piece in my collection. I tie my hair and grab my old mask from a container, the one I had worn at the masquerade, though I do not yet put it on.

I am ready.

A minute later, I reach the lobby once more and smile at the sight.

The room is packed with vampires here to see the godling. The lobby’s couches, normally mostly empty, are now filled with a variety of my kindred and their servants. Some pretend to read books while others confer, or plot, in low voices. An annoyed-looking older woman is knitting, her brow furrowed.

In the middle of it, Bingle sits sheepishly by Torran’s side. The adventurer has lost some of his flame. His clothes are in disarray and deep pockets have formed under his eyes. Even his back, normally ramrod straight, has a slight bend to it.

Something bad happened.

I sit by his side and skip the pleasantries.

“Talk to me.”

“I was a fool,” he exclaims bitterly. This is the first time I have seen him expressing negative emotions with such strength.

“Elaborate?”

He sighs. He gently massages his temples with shaky hands.

“We were betrayed. Unknown assailants found our hiding place and kidnapped Miguel, Sara’s cousin, while we were away. They killed Sarvajna. Stabbed him to death. While I was checking for traps, Sara found the ransom notice. She absconded with it and the Scepter, only leaving me with a hastily scribbled note and vague apologies. I know from her words that the exchange will be made at nightfall but she did not tell me where.”

The more I look, and the more I see the myth fraying at the edges. Stubble mars his pointy chin, his traits are drawn and his eyes bloodshot. The most fascinating element is that he is still himself, a godling. He only now represents another aspect of the adventurer, the jaded one, the one who drowns memories and lost friends with gin and carries a gun instead of a cane.

We are at a junction.

I am not obligated to do anything, I can feel it. The pull of fate disappeared at the very moment I sat at this table. I could just tell him to fight his own battles and drive the hero down a darker path, one of vengeance and knives in the night. Along this route, there would be more opportunities for me to use him to my own ends.

I won’t.

I have enough darkness around as it is. Soon, this period of respite will be over and I will return to my scheming, ruling, and the wholesale slaughter of mortals who overstep themselves. Bingle is the vaguely annoying yet cute cub that offers distractions regardless of one’s own plans.

Yes, Bingle is my puppy, I realize. I should not kick the puppy away.

Besides, we are playing a game, that other vampire and I. One they are winning. It is my turn to play and it would be a shame if I had gotten changed for nothing.

I emerge from my thoughts to see that the atmosphere around us has changed. The spectators of the scene stare not at the daring man but at me and my armor. The spear by my side shines with the flickering red of the hearth. The scent of Wilhelm’s flower arrangements clash with that of vampire and human sweat. They want to see what I will decide. Some look eager. They know that one does not dress as I do for a tea party.

I turn to Solveig who had followed me down and ask her to inquire after Salim. We will need his pet mage, Sorrel, to track down the unruly artist.

“Do you have the message she left you?”

“Yes,” he replies, taking a folded sheet from his breast pocket, “here.”

I pick it between two talons and unfold it. The writing is horrible, barely more than pinpricks. I also spot two wet marks, quite likely tears of regret that cannot end there unless shed on purpose. Sara’s tasteless antics will end up making our task easier.

It will work.

I turn to the Bingle and take his hand in mine. He shivers at their coldness, and only now does he notice how sharp my ‘nails’ are.

“You know that I am different, don’t you? You can feel it in your heart when our eyes meet, when you see me move.”

“I do. That curse, it-“

His Adam apple bobs as he swallows his saliva with more nervousness than he had ever displayed.

“-it changed you.”

“Correct. It changed me. It also showed me a world that was previously hidden. I can find the woman for you, but then you will know and that will make me vulnerable.”

“I can keep a secret.”

“Good. What you see tonight, you will not write down, and you will not report either. You will keep it secret. Will you do that?”

“Of course. I am grateful for your help, Miss Delaney. I would never betray your trust.”

I nod and fall silent. It doesn’t take long for Salim and Sorrel to show up. I suspect that they were already on their way to this impromptu gathering. I negotiate a tracking spell in Akkad with a smiling Salim, and the serious mage immediately gets to work. Tracking spells are simple constructs for those with proper training. We have our compass in only a few minutes.

“I hope it is not too late,” says Bingle. Normally it would be, but the enemy being a vampire, perhaps they have not had the time to reach the exchange point. Something tells me that the godling’s strange effect on reality would at least grant him a chance, though I am not so certain. Arriving just a tad late would be a good plot twist.

If we want to have a chance, we will need speed.

“Follow,” I say, and go to the counter where Wilhem is waiting. The blond man’s dark eyes fasten on my guest with a predatory intent. Bingle feels it and shivers.

“Wilhelm. Would you have a mount for my guest?”

“We do not lend Nightmares, even the half-blood ones, to mortals.”

“He is no mortal.”

Wilhelm turns his attention to me. His considerations are short. After a few seconds, he reluctantly nods.

“Very well. I do expect compensation. You will complete a task for me in return. Of little danger, and no more than a single night.”

“Agreed.”

“Go to the front of the manor, I will join you there.”

Join me?

Behind us, Torran walks up.

“Wilhelm will want to keep an eye on his mount, my star. Would you care for my company? It will make the journey faster.”

“Of course, dear, though I would prefer it if you left our foe to me.”

“It is your Hunt.”

“Clan Natalis offers assistance with your ride, House Nirari,” comes a low, rumbling voice from behind. Lord Jarek is here, dressed in custom-fitted hunting leathers. It looks good on him though I suspect there is enough material involved to build a tent.

“It has been too long and the occasion could not be better. Will you allow it?”

“I will,” I add without hesitation. If there were a price, he would have mentioned it, and I will not look a gift lord in the mouth.

We walk out.

The pull of fate is silent now. It has been replaced by another, a sort of momentum that carries me forward and gives more weight to my steps. I am not sure what is happening, all I know is that it will be special. I turn to Bingle. He needs to understand.

“What you will experience now is a rare privilege,” I inform him.

To ride by our side, vampires who have lived through hell and slaughtered legions. I know this to be true.

Bingle nods, his expression serious. The weight of his failure has been momentarily lifted from his shoulders by his burning curiosity. He is still an adventurer at heart, and nothing speaks of adventure quite like a hidden order of whatever he thinks we are. The unexpected excitement is making him positively giddy.

Our little procession stops at the edge of the inner court and Jarek steps forward.

“I claim the lead as eldest.”

In my mind, the possibility of denying him dies before it can truly be born. Jarek is the eldest, and strongest. He shall lead the ride to a satisfactory conclusion. It is as should be.

Above, the Watcher’s tendrils uncoil lazily. It likes it when I experience things, I can tell. The vague feeling of satisfaction is both alien and clear beyond any doubt.

The Natalis lord steps forward and whistles.

The ground rumbles with the weight of ungodly hooves. The largest horse I have ever seen comes forth from the darkness.

Massive. There are no other words for it.

I thought Metis large and she is, but she is also built for speed and power both. This newcomer is a charger, bred to carry armored knights to and through enemy lines. Its dark saddle is so high that I would never be able drag myself up to it without jumping. The beast waits placidly as Jarek hoists his gigantic frame onto it. The size of the pair plays with my sense of perspective, until the dense forest leading to the bay comes into focus and I am forced to accept reality. They really are that big. If Famine, War or Pestilence came to herald the coming of the apocalypse, they would look like that.

Excitement fills my heart. Krowar is next and Torran takes Jarek’s right, then Wilhelm comes and takes his left, pulling behind him a shorter Nightmare. I help Bingle up and climb on a visibly excited Metis by his side. We are right behind the Natalis lord on either side of him.

Jarek turns briefly to ascertain that we are all ready. To our right, the balconies are filled with mortals and vampires who observe us in silence. The scene is deathly quiet as they wait for us to start.

Jarek lifts a gauntlet covered hand to the heavens then forward. His unnatural destrier walks at a leisurely pace. We follow.

We are slow, so deceptively slow, but there is, again, this momentum carrying us forward with the energy of an avalanche. We cross the bend at the top of the plateau and descend down the road along the cliff at a trot. The guards have opened all the gates and cleared the way. We trot down, our coming announced by a rumble like an emergent quake.

We reach flat ground.

Jarek lifts the compass in his armored hand. The construct looks no bigger than a marble between his giant fingers. The needle pointing South-East shines a strange purple hue.

We accelerate. Everything up to now was but a preparation for the real event. Wind pushes strands of hair from my face as trees and road drift past, the group now moving at a furious gallop. We ride. We move into a forested path and soon, there is nothing but us and the way forward. The deafening sound of Nightmares trampling the ground expands and reverberates until we are no longer few, but an endless horde charging through an infinite forest to a battlefield at the end of time. Under the sky and its eldritch denizen, we ride, and we cannot be stopped. Nothing exists but the smooth movements of Metis, our destination in front and the other predators by my side, united in purpose.

I do not know how long it takes for us to come in view of the clearing, probably less than a quarter hour. It felt both like much more and much less.

Jarek holds a fist and we slow down.

It is over.

For a moment there, I was part of something great. With only four of us, I felt like Attilla’s adoptive daughter riding down Aetius’ legions. What could we achieve with twenty, one hundred? It will likely never happen. Vampires are too divided, too solitary. But perhaps, one day…

I shake my head to regain my senses. This is a thought for another time.

Climbing down from Metis takes only a moment, one the others use to leave on their own business. I am left with a dazed Bingle, my own death pony and the mystical equivalent of a hangover.

The adventurer is the first to recover and I realize that he is quite committed to his cause. I shake my head and follow his skulking form, realizing that if evil befalls the soprano, the opera season will be ruined. I need to focus on what is important.

The clearing around us overlooks the Dorchester flats, with Boston far to our left. It used to be lived in but now lies abandoned and desolate. A single large structure stands in the middle, surrounded by overgrown vegetation on all sides. Upon closer inspection, the building is less a house and more a hall of some sorts with a glass cupola at its top. There are no lights and besides footsteps in the tall grass, no signs that this place has seen human presence in years. The contrast between the decrepit shell and the bustling city in the background is mesmerizing.

Bingle does not care for this at all. While the experience of the ride distracted me, it made him more focused. He crosses the unkempt lawn in angry strides up to the door.

I catch up to him before he can rush in. He turns to me, his face showing will and just a hint of bloodlust.

Did I change the story, somehow?

“I will cover you in case something goes wrong,” I tell him.

He nods in silence. As an afterthought, I pick up my silver pistol and present it to him, handle first. He carries another cane tonight and I fear that this one might not suffice.

“Take it. You may be heavily outnumbered.”

I expected him to resist and I am surprised when he picks the weapon with a grip that shows training.

“My debt towards you only grows,” he notes with a frown, before sneaking in without a sound.

Time to see this story to its conclusion. I look up and easily jump to the second floor, then to the dilapidated roof. I make my way to the cupola and realize with pleasure that one of the glass panels has been broken. I lean in and look below.

The remnants of a library occupies the massive open space beneath, carrying the scent of mold and a familiar spice. The walls are covered with empty bookshelves, now only hosting a handful of rotten tomes. A smattering of candles brings light to the desolate place, though I doubt mortals can see more than a few feet away. In the center, three people occupy a space left clear by the removal of work desks. I recognize the soprano of course, currently trussed up like a turkey, but also her cousin Miguel who appears to be suspiciously devoid of bindings. He is talking to a man in an expensive jacket that has seen better days. They are speaking in Spanish, and though I do not understand the content, they are clearly disagreeing with each other.

I now understand why Bingle would mention betrayal. Those two are conspirators, not enemies.

I turn my attention to the new man. He holds in his hands the Tiger Scepter. The artefact is the only thing of beauty in this den of treachery and neglect. Curiously, I feel revulsion at the thought of taking it from him.

Intriguing.

I extend a tendril of essence down and to him, tasting his own. He is far and the exercise strains my control. The result is a vague sense of dampened aggression.

A Vassal.

It appears that the decisive round of our little game will be played by our main assets. I will bet on the godling over whoever this one serves any night of the week. After all...

Click

“Drop the staff, raise your hands in the air and step aside from the woman, slowly.”

My agent came prepared.

The unknown Vassal looks hesitantly to Miguel, then to the Scepter in his hands.

“I have not had to shoot anyone in two years sir, but do not think for a second that I would hesitate.”

His voice is cold and commanding. Desperation brought out the pragmatism in my companion. He would make a good Vassal himself...

No, Ariane, better not go there. I have enough trouble with mysterious and seemingly unstoppable entities as it is. No need to look for trouble.

The reality of their circumstances finally dawns on the pistolless pair. The Vassal delicately places the Tiger Scepter on the ground and stands back while giving his partner a knowing look. They are about as subtle as two gravid elephants in a China shop. Bingle does not acknowledge that he is aware of the cousin’s duplicity. He walks up towards the prostrate form of Sara now letting out muffled growls. Her treacherous cousin steps back and to the side.

“I always wondered how you knew Miss Diaz had the stone,” the adventurer says. His eyes are curiously on the ground by his side as he keeps his gun on the Vassal with a lazy aim.

I watch with rapt attention as Bingle lays his trap. It will be good, I am sure of it. Miguel takes a hidden stiletto from his sleeve and creeps forward while Sara moans impotently in her gag.

“Or how a warrior like Sarvajna could be caught off guard. Now I know. All the evidence...”

It happens fast. Miguel jumps and a glint of light reflects in the collapsed glass panel beneath me. I realize where the adventurer has been staring. He used the missing glass pane as a mirror.

Bingle rounds on Miguel. He holds the pistol in a hammer grip and slams it into the traitor’s hand. The other holds his cane below the pommel and presses a hidden button. A sharp blade snaps out of the implement’s end before seamlessly getting buried in the traitor’s tender abdomen.

“... points to you, Miguel.”

Ah, he could not resist, could he? I smile and since my time has come, I put on my mask and drop down through the shattered canopy, onto an empty bookshelf. I land in a crouch without disturbing its delicate balance, and not even the half-rotten wood groans under my light touch.

The Vassal was prepared and rushes forward. Only when Miguel’s blood dots the floor with crimson droplets does he realize his predicament. His hesitation costs him dearly. Bingle turns around and calmly aims.

He pulls the trigger.

A form moves through the room from a nearby hallway and interposes itself as the shot goes off.

I recognize her now! She was at the party with two Courtiers claiming to seek asylum. I remember little from her except that she is a Roland. Her face is strict and average with thick black hair, giving her the appearance of a governess, perhaps. She wears a black set of leather armor with plates around the heart and a metal choker. The bullet bites deep into her shoulder and I delight in the look of pain and surprise when she realizes that I only ever pack silver.

Her two Courtiers are close behind and spread on either side of her. Their armor is similar and they hold duelling swords which they aim at Bingle. The one on the left has the appearance of a veteran soldier and knows how to use his weapon, while the one on the right is more bookish and clearly isn’t enjoying himself.

“Let it go, child,” the woman says with a hint of wariness, “you should know when you are outclassed.

I believe this is my cue. I slowly clap while releasing my aura. It washes over the trio like a wave, forcing them to take a step back as I drop down. I slowly walk up to the small gathering, my smile hidden behind the mask. This is just so deliciously dramatic.

“I could not have put it better myself.”

“You…”

“Yes. Me. You should have expected it, facing against a godling.”

While we talk, Bingle doesn’t waste time standing around doing nothing. He unbinds a protesting Sara who pushes him away with tears in her eyes. He lets her go and grabs the Scepter at his feet.

“You have no right to oppose me. I am merely reclaiming what is rightfully ours. We are protected by our status as seekers and attacking us is a violation of the neutrality covenant.”

“Ah, yes, that specific law, the one that is aimed at protecting newcomers from retribution. Tell me, do you know the obligations that come with such status?” I ask innocently.

The woman’s expression turns hesitant. She thought she could lawyer me. Hilarious.

“I learned the Accords through and through because my survival depended on it. In order to benefit from immunity, you must forfeit all previous allegiances and arrangements, including current operations… Yes. That includes retrieving a scepter from the hands of a godling. Your status will be revoked as soon as Constantine learns of your machinations.”

“Then I am sorry but you leave me no choice. You must be silenced until we can depart. I regret that I cannot give you a fair fight,” she says, and draws.

“I feel the same way. After all, there are only three of you,” I reply mockingly even as her Vassal leaves.

She charges in with her two companions in support. I sweep at the approaching figure only for the left Courtier to dash forward after the retreating forms of my allies.

I smirk.

Using one of Nami’s tricks I step back and strike the approaching Master at the same time. I channel the Natalis essence and the strength of the blow catches her by surprise. She is pushed back. I reverse my grip and stab to my left without looking.

The Courtier falls, a bleeding wound where his heart used to be.

One down, two to go.

“By the Eye,” the woman says before moving again, this time more cautiously and we fight in earnest.

I have to admit, her confidence is well founded. I am faster and stronger but her technique is exquisite and my lack of experience fighting duels on open ground shows. She deflects my strikes with economical movements, waiting for an opening then counter attacks mercilessly. The Courtier by her side almost never attacks but his presence hovering by her side continues to pose a danger. Their style is the most defensive I have ever faced and I am starting to think there is some truth to them surviving the fall of their coven. I finally manage to overwhelm her after a flurry of blows that leave the air ringing with the sound of metal on metal. As she stumbles back, I throw two daggers with strength.

She falls to the side, dodging them. As expected. The satisfied grin on her face fades as soon as she hears the gurgling sound of her companion’s shred throat.

“I wasn’t aiming at you.”

“No! You, this isn’t over. You are but a child.”

The man falls incapacitated, the grievous wound too much for him. Only the Master is still capable of putting up a fight. Since it worked the first time, I launch another series of furious attacks, culminating in a sweep that knocks her blade from her fingers. Disappointing. I close in for the kill.

An immediate sense of danger and urgency makes me falter and I barely react to her next move. She extends her hand. An instant later, an oversized estoc manifests in it and punches clean through my mask, leaving a deep furrow in my cheek.

I fall back and resist the urge to touch the wound. Keeping hidden claws are we? Let’s see how well she uses them.

Now that her trap is sprung, she adapts her style to using her soul weapon. Her reach is longer and striking the blade feels like hitting the side of a mountain. I keep moving around her looking for openings but her defense is flawless and I want to avoid being hurt. Worse, my armor is now useless before this blade. Even the heart protector would only deflect a glancing blow.

So hard to crack. So annoying. I could escape her easily but this is not what I want. I want her to be broken and at my mercy. The small wounds I manage to land do not impede her and it would take only one lucky hit to take me down. We dance for a while and then I get an opportunity. I block an overhead sweep and with one last ominous crack, the steel shaft breaks in two pieces.

She roars in triumph. I let her blade slide along my shoulder plate as I crouch then push on, closing the distance. I stab at her with the half spear I now hold. She blocks it before I can bury its cruel edge into her chest. At the same time, I grab her other hand.

This is now a contest of strength and I will CRUSH HER. She claws pointlessly at the armor’s heavily enchanted arm brace while my own talons dig deep into her flesh until they shatter her wrist. She screams and drops her soul blade, then braces and tries to kick me in the face. Cute. Lambert did it better. I grab her foot and lift it higher, then sweep the other from under her. She falls. I fall on her.

RIP HER APART. She manages to cover her neck while I straddle her. I slash her arms, painting great lines of blood across the floor. Mine now.

“I surrender! Please...”

Surrender? I will EAT YOU.

“My star.”

A voice I was not expecting wakes me from my bloodlust. The familiar aura flares at my back, towards the entrance. Who does HE THINK HE IS? She’s my prey, I’m not sharing!

“What do you want?” I growl, and stop savaging my captive. The vanquished one under me stops moving as well. She shows her throat. Good.

“This is your first fight since you joined our society,” the intruder says.

“And?”

“The decision you take now will affect the relationship with your peers for years to come. It is customary to accept surrenders when offered unless the conflict is too great. It is also customary to spare our kin whenever feasible. One day, you may be glad that someone extends this courtesy to you.”

“Talk talk talk. You talk too much. I win. I feast. This is the way of things.”

“This is the darker path. I ask that you reconsider, my star, at least until the rage of battle abates.”

“And why would I do that?” I growl.

“Because...” Torran starts, then seems to reconsider. His mouth twists into an evil smile as he steps forward, exuding confidence.

“Because you are being a brat and I will discipline you if you don’t.”

“Discipline me? I’d like to see you try!”

“Then come,” he answers with a smile then opens his arms in welcome.

He dares. I’ll show him who is the queen, I bow before NO ONE!

I jump at him, spearhead held tight in my fist.

Torran smiles.

He manifests his soul weapon. It is a two-handed sword of ridiculous size, the most intricate and beautiful work I have ever seen bar none. It is even more majestic than Suarez’ broadsword.

Breathtaking.

He swipes, so fast that I can barely follow.

The spearhead soars into the air.

Oh.

A hand at the back of my head punches me into the ground. I yelp in pain, then in surprise when two talons grab my neck. I try to squirm out but the pressure only increases. I stop fighting.

Torran lifts me by the neck like a kitten until we face each other. With his other hand, he unfastens my mask which falls to the floor. The cold air washes over my face, stinging the wound on my cheek.

“Better?” He asks with a sly voice.

“Not... exactly,” I answer. I lick my lips. This is strange. I hate restraints with a passion and yet Torran’s hand on my neck does not fill me with fury and horror. I trust him implicitly, therefore I am not trapped. I am, however, dominated. The same instincts that pushed me to kill a moment ago now ask that I present my throat so that I do not die and since it’s Torran, and he is my partner, the sensation is not entirely unpleasant. He did, after all, just crush me. That makes him powerful on top of everything else. Hmm.

“Ariane?”

“I will consent to taking them prisoner. Your arguments have weight.”

We both chuckle, and he releases me. I drop down and lean slightly against his chest, breathing in the scent of him. He is solid under my fingers. His presence is grounding and even relaxing. We stay there for a moment while behind us, the woman helps her second Courtier up. The first one she will have to carry. A destroyed heart will not heal in a single night, unless one has access to extremely potent blood.

The woman’s Vassal returns and helps them and soon, we are ready to depart. We leave the building in a single group. Outside, I find Jarek on top of his monstrosity of a Nightmare patiently waiting for us. He lifts a brow when we exit the building with three vampires in tow, though he does not comment on it.

In laconic fashion, he informs us that Wilhelm escorted “your godling and that noisy girl” back to the city. The return trip is tamer than its predecessor, and while we ride in silence, I find myself thinking. More specifically, I think of him. Torran is by my side with his steely grey glare and impeccable poise. His ruddy face makes him look mature and weathered, the kind of man who has seen it all and remains unimpressed. He is a bit terrifying in a warlord kind of way, and he has the body and sword to back it up. Then, he turns to me and his entire demeanor changes. He goes from strict to roguish, and unbending to solid in an instant. His traits grow softer.

I want him. I want him enough that I no longer fear intimacy. I want to kiss him and feel him and all those other things I know of. Living in a brothel jaded me towards lovemaking, or so I thought. Overexposure made it a messy, fleshy affair that I had little interest in, something that others did. Now though, I realize that sex is what you make of it and I really, really want to make something great.

The last remnant of the conservative girl I was complains that we have only known the man for a bit under two weeks and that lying with him would make us a hussy. The more mature part of me says that we are technically a fifty years old spinster and that, really, fuck it. I have waited long enough. Carpe diem, or is it carpe noctem? No matter.

I want him.

I do.

“Say Torran, do you have any plan for the rest of the evening?” I ask in what I hope is an unaffected voice.

“No?” he replies with half-lidded eyes.

I’m not subtle, am I?

“Would you care to join me in my room? There is... something I would like to show you.”

Torran takes a very careful expression. I hope I was not too forward, and that he doesn’t think any less of me.

“Of course, Ariane. You can show me whatever you want.”

And I thought I was too direct. I frown, but in the end, decide not to take offence. Nobody will take this night from me, not even myself.

The door closes behind me. This is it.

I am nervous.

Torran walks up and hugs me from behind. I am not tactile, not since I was turned, yet this firm embrace soothes me. Torran is solid and dependable, and he has shown time and time again that he was there for me, even when I had lost myself. We have known each other for all of two weeks, I remember. Somehow it feels longer than that.

My lover remains silent. He must have an idea what goes through my mind right now. He knows that I am scared. What he may not know is that I am also eager. It happened during our very short fight, when he showed me the steel under that composure of his. It was not the violence itself but the control and power behind it that made me want him.

I turn in his embrace and reach up to kiss him. He is hungrier than before and a bit demanding. My nervousness disappears before his passion and I close my eyes to enjoy the moment. His hands caress my shoulders and my back and for a while, we just enjoy each other’s presence. Rather quickly, I feel something hard push against my belly.

Torran takes a half-step away. He knows what I felt. His face is unapologetic, waiting for my decision.

“Torran…”

“Be sure what you want Ariane, because I am done holding myself back.”

In answer, I place my hand on the flat expanse of his stomach and trail down until I reach the tip of his erect member. Torran groans and grabs me as I yelp in delight. There is much I want to see, and he is eager to show. For the rest of the night, I know only him.

I submerge in piping hot water and luxuriate in the amazing feeling of the warm water surrounding my body. Last night was so great. On one hand, I am horrified that it took me so long to experience lovemaking. On the other hand, it probably had to be Torran. That man is talented. Dangerously so.

A knock on my bedroom door forces me to lift my head off the bathwater.

“Yes?”

“Guests milady. Your friends Naminata and sister Jimena.”

“Those busybodies…” I grumble, then louder: “let them in, I will join them momentarily.”

I dry myself in a hurry and pick up a light pink dress which I put on. I leave my hair down and come out into the main room.

“Look at that slovenly girl, Jimena dear. One night of sin and she’s already given up on propriety,” a sly voice remarks.

“That’s rich coming from you, Nami. How is Jarek by the way?”

“Hanging around, I’m sure.”

I wince. I should not get Nami started on him or she’ll be debating about the perfect… scrotum. For a good ten minutes. Again.

“We heard that Torran spent the night. We are delighted for you, sister,” Jimena says.

“How do you know already?” I ask with horror.

“It takes a lot of effort to keep such things secret in this place. The staff also loves gossip, and as a newcomer yourself, you are a prime target. You must also take recent events into consideration.”

“You mean the trial?”

“The trial, the hearing, your lineage. There are also rumors of an arrangement with Constantine to take over a new region as the entire state of Illinois has been taken off the list of available lands.”

I did not know that.

“Your duel with Torran yesterday morning impressed a few people as well. There are few who can offer a challenge to a warrior like him. And you’re so young as well, my little lemon pie!” Nami explains.

“And now you went and nabbed one of this den’s most eligible bachelors.”

“I admit that he exceeds all my expectations,” I cannot help but remark. The other two smile at each other knowingly.

“Oh, it is not just that. You don’t know why he is here, do you?” Nami asks smugly.

“He mentioned his technical expertise was needed. He was quite vague.”

“Naturally so. He did not want the knowledge of who he really is to affect you. Many would chase him just for what he can do.”

“Whatever do you mean?” I ask with suspicion.

Naminata smiles knowingly and nods to herself.

“He is one of the world’s few soul smiths, my sweet.”

“What?!”

“He can help Masters bring soul weapons into being. That is why he is here.”

“I know what a soul smith is! Why are you telling me this only now?”

“He requested that we do not share this knowledge and we agreed.”

On one hand, I understand him. I too, would prefer if someone was attracted to who I am instead of what strategic value I have. On the other…

I frown.

“Have you two and my lover been plotting together all this time?”

“Of course, dear,” Nami declares as if it was obvious.

“From the very beginning,” Jimena adds, “he came to us for advice on how to best approach our favorite thorny rose.”

“Hey!”

“It is for your own good, my little strawberry,” Nami retorts, “how else could we get you out of your shell? You needed a very special blend of silk and steel to let yourself go and he was only too happy to provide it. We are delighted that it worked just as planned.”

I hold my head between my hands.

“Am I that easy to read?” I complain, dejected.

“You are not. In terms of emotions, however, you are surprisingly consistent, sister,” Jimena says with a gentle voice.

“‘Tis a good thing to be reliable in love and business, unpredictable in schemes and wars,” Nami adds. This sounds like good wisdom, especially coming from her.

“Don’t look at me like that, treacle cake, I am predictable in some ways.”

“You always go for the hunkiest beefcake?”

“That too,” she answers without a hint of embarrassment.

I shake my head. This is a surprise, and though I understand Torran’s choice, we must still have a talk.

“So Torran is here to create soul weapons. What about the other two lords who arrived with him? What are their plans?”

Nami and Jimena glance at each other. Jimena shrugs and Nami starts.

“We are not sure. The most likely event is an arrangement for both Hastings and Natalis clans to take over a domain, though this is mere speculation. Lady Sephare holds a lot of sway in the United Kingdom. She would have to sacrifice it all to come here herself and none of her protégées qualify either.”

“Indeed,” Jimena continues, “there could be other reasons such as a trade agreement or simply Constantine’s expertise. He is possibly the most prominent blood mage in existence, after all.”

I bet he isn’t.

“In any case, we will know soon enough. All three of them came to an agreement two days ago, an official declaration is sure to follow.”

“Speaking of time,” I interject, “you have stayed here for a long time, Jimena. Is your position with the Knights assured?”

“It is. I am afforded more flexibility than the squad; therefore, I can stay here until my next task comes up. Hopefully not too soon.”

“I will stay as well, honey,” Nami continues with a devious smile, “you always bring me the best and most interesting things.”

“... are you referring to the Merghol mana hounds?”

“Absolutely. The Book of Lives can be accessed via several physical tomes, one of which is in New Orleans under Kouakou’s care. I already shared that Hunt, including its last glorious moment. You’re famous!”

A dreadful foreboding fills my heart.

“We are talking about my incredible stunt right? The part where I threw a lit powder charge down the beast’s gullet?”

She just smiles.

“We imbue the recollection with a smidgen of essence. Your face just after the creature projectile-vomited on your back was so priceless...”

“Nami!”

“It was! And now the whole of clan Ekon is grateful for your contribution. I received several commendations for having saved your life back in New Orleans. Some call me the Devourer Wrangler.”

“Forget I asked...” I reply, appalled.

Jimena smiles knowingly and asks in turn.

“Speaking of embarrassment, how is Urchin doing? Remember that you can always cast him out if he fails your expectations.”

“He is doing adequately. I sent him to get a new wardrobe and I have taught him better posture, manner and, most importantly, proper Akkad. My hope is to have him promoted from street thug to fancy highwayman by the end of the year.”

“He does not know the tongue? You do not have to teach him yourself, you know? Constantine has several books available for self-studies.”

“That would help if he knew how to read.”

“You must be joking.”

“Alas, no. Why are you even surprised?”

“You are correct of course. I wonder who changed him and what pushed them to do so. There are rumors that Vanheim him or herself is to blame for these random occurrences.”

“You don’t say. Urchin would be a first generation vampire? Like me?”

“Hard to say. The Vanheim progenitor is barely more than a legend at this stage.”

“I see.”

At this moment, Solveig stands up to answer a knock on the door. She walks back to give me an envelope. It contains a message from Wilhelm requesting my presence, quite possibly to pay back the favor he did for me yesterday. I dislike having debts, and so I take my leave of the others and go see what the steward wants from me.

77. Wilhelm's Task

The moon is exceptional tonight. It hangs there in all its gibbous glory, beautiful and luminous but otherwise useless. The contrast with the Watcher is fascinating. The moon changes and moves across the sky but as far as I know, it remains at the same distance and is boringly inanimate. The Watcher exists at a level where distance and size lose their meanings. Under its eldritch influence, lines become curves and curves, points. It is also sapient, after a fashion, and alien beyond anything that exists on this plane. Right now, the strange celestial body is quiescent, but not bored. Never bored.

Hesitant footsteps tread the loam at my back. I recline on a park bench and breathe in the scents of late summer. The grass under my feet is brittle and some of the growth around the small clearing is already starting to wilt despite the gardener’s efforts. The heavy smell of vegetation is only offset by that of the sea, more pungent. A faint breeze brings me the scent of pines and human sweat.

The woman stops at the edge of the clearing and her breath hitches in her chest. The park is deserted at this hour, so we do not risk being disturbed. Yet that same emptiness fills her with apprehension. I am intrigued by the source of light she is using though. It shines an unnatural pale blue, probably some sorcery. The newcomer’s aura shimmers and buckles wildly, signs that she is a barely trained mage and a strong one at that.

“Come closer,” I say.

For one moment, I think she will try to run. In the end, she chooses to walk to my side, but not too close. I turn to inspect her.

She is young, in her early twenties with a candid air that life has not robbed her of yet. She wears a dark dress with a cloak that has seen better days and holds in her hand a crystalline sphere from which escapes the strange radiance. The item is magical, a weak artefact. It reminds me of fireflies or luminescent flora with its organic glow, shining over her traits.

I find myself thinking of Constantine. They have in common to be more striking than beautiful, and her brown eyes express frustration as a tendril of essence quests towards me.

Rude.

“I cannot feel you at all,” she remarks in a soft voice. In order to cut that part of our meeting short, I calmly release my aura though I keep it subdued.

The woman shivers when she tastes it.

“Hum, you are not a mage? But where are my manners, sorry. My name is Vera Wild. I thought I was to meet a man named Wilhelm?”

“Wilhelm of the Erenwald is busy and asked me to assist you tonight in his stead. You may call me Ariane.”

“Nice to meet you Ariane. So, if I may ask, what are you? No offense.”

Curious, are we?

“A vampire.”

It strikes a bell. She mutters and takes a small tome bound in leather from one of her pockets. It looks well-used, and she turns its pages with familiarity.

“Hold on,” she says, “I think gran wrote something about your kind. Ah yes. Here.”

She reads slowly and carefully under the pale light of her orb, like someone a bit unused to the exercise. I can hear her mutter the words.

“Vampires… If you meet one of the de-denizens of the night… who call them-themselves vampires, do as instro… instructed. First, use your most po- hmmm potent! Potent fire spell…”

Her eyes widen in surprise.

“Hmmm…” she mutters.

I wait.

“Hm!”

I still wait.

“Firebolt!”

A pathetic gout of flame emerges from the half-ruined wand she just pulled from her handbag. I call the barest thread of the Herald’s essence and slap the spell away. It sputters and dies at my feet as silence once more fills the clearing.

The pathetic ring of blackened herb captures her attention and, apparently, her wit. She opens and closes her mouth like a beached fish.

“Why don’t you finish reading that text of yours?” I suggest as I stand and move closer.

The skittish dolt hesitates once more, then curiosity triumphs over common sense. A tragically common occurrence for young mages.

“That way if they lie you can… scare! Scare the pretenders away, and if they tell the truth…”

She stops and suddenly appears dismayed. I hear a few swear words.

“… then hopefully you angered them enough to die with dignity.”

Vera looks like the victim of a prank and holds her notebook with barely contained anger. Her tiny fingers grip it as if she wanted to tear it apart.

“Ooooo gran!!” she moans comically.

Only after that does she realize her predicament.

“Eerrr, please don’t kill me? I was tricked!”

Laughable. I wish I could at least give her a good scare. Unfortunately, I gave Wilhelm my word and my hands are thus tied. I am to assist the hapless thing for the night even if I do not accept her as a Supplicant.

“Does that book of yours mention our propensity for mercy?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t finished it. I’m not the fastest reader, you see?”

“Indeed.”

“So you’re not going to kill me?” she asks with a quivering voice.

I sigh.

“No Vera, I will not kill you. Now, why don’t you be a good girl and tell me why you would call upon us.”

“Good girl? You’re not much older than I am!” she protests.

Ah, a true neophyte.

“You don’t know the first thing about vampires, do you? We do not age.”

“You mean you can live for a very long time?”

“I meant exactly what I said.”

“But then…”

“Yes,” I answer with a mysterious smile, “I am considerably older than I look.”

She gulps and I find the situation amusing. I am indeed considerably older than I look, just not inhumanly so. No need to tell her though. Let me bask in the glory of my mysterious and intimidating persona.

I notice that she’s a bit gullible.

“The way Gran wrote it, you are more dangerous than a werewolf, haha.”

I cannot help but give her a grin, the toothy kind. She recoils in horror. I know I should not waste my time bullying the meek but she’s just too amusing. Nami was right, gloating is our guilty pleasure.

“We consider werewolves as delicacies,” I announce truthfully.

“Wow! But… I don’t want Opa to get hurt, that was not our agreement!”

“Enough child, if I were here to kill I would have no need of you. Wilhelm mentioned an inheritance. What is this about?”

“Right… Right. I’d better tell you the story from the beginning. It’s about my Opa, Mr. Schmidt. Mom’s dad. She… well, she didn’t marry the right person. She married my da and they stayed together until he died. He… was Irish.”

Absolutely scandalous. Seeing my lack of reaction, Vera continues with more confidence.

“She went against the entire family’s wishes and she was cast out for it. Only Opa took care of us behind their back. It changed recently though. He found out about what I could do. Also that my Gran, that’s my dad’s mom, she had been teaching me witch things. He got mad. Real mad. He told me bad things like I was Satan’s whore and got my powers from, hm, sinning with demons. I don’t do that, I haven’t even seen a demon ever! I haven’t even done anything more than kissing!”

Kissing huh? You shameless harlot.

“Anyway, he said that he was going to leave all his money with somebody called Gabriel who would punish me for my wicked ways. Have you heard of him?”

Oh, Gabriel you pitiless monster. I know thee well.

“I assume you are referring to the Order of Gabriel, a group dedicated to the extermination of any and all supernatural beings?”

“Ah, probably. That’s bad, right?”

“It does sound inconvenient. What do you want, exactly?”

Vera takes a deep breath then her lips shiver while her eyes turn liquid.

“I just want my Opa back…” she says. Fat tears roll down her pretty cheeks. She’s making me Thirsty with her amusing weakness. She just smells too much like prey.

Alright, Ari calm down this is not the time.

“I can make him love you.”

“Not like that! I want him to believe me when I say it’s not my fault, that I didn’t do anything bad with any demon or anyone really. I am not trying to deceive the hearts of men or some such nonsense, I’m just trying to learn how not to set the curtains on fire every time I’m upset! Is it so hard to understand?”

She pouts.

“I think I could convince him if we can have an adult conversation,” I reply, “where is he right now?”

“At the factory. He owns a printing press, the biggest one in the city.”

“Will he not be home at this late hour?”

“Nah. He always stays late. Not to work, mind you, he’s just avoiding my grandmother.”

That will be convenient. Vera takes my silence for doubt.

“No really, she’s an old harpy. She turns the milk sour by standing next to it.”

“I see. Now, show me to the printing press you mentioned.”

Vera leads me to the park’s exit and then through half-deserted streets. The difference between us is flagrant. We look the same age but while I walk as if I owned the street, she scurries around like a mouse, casting fearful glances all around. Her bent back, nervous hands and rapid head gestures scream weakness and “please mug me” to everyone around. I can see at least four groups of men stare at us like a pack of wolves. They do not act on it, however, and we leave a residential district behind us without me getting free snacks. Slowly, the modest houses with thatched roofs give way to small businesses and the occasional warehouse, all closed now. The gas lamps cast long shadows on the pavement as we walk by. We do not tarry, and it is not long before our destination comes in view. Vera was starting to forget to be scared and asking questions about what werewolves taste like so it is a relief when our journey ends at the gates of Schmidt’s Reliable Printing.

I am surprised to see that not only is the place still open, there are people hard at work. They come and go, carrying bundles of leaflets and other supplies.

Schmidt Reliable Printing is clearly doing well. The facilities may be old, yet they are well-maintained as well as recently painted. I count two buildings. One is a very large warehouse with two doors wide enough to allow a carriage through. The other is a narrower two-story edifice of red bricks. The clang of machinery coming from it is almost deafening and it is surrounded on all sides by crates and barrels containing the Watcher knows what. Following Vera’s indications, I drag her towards it under the curious gaze of the workers. Once more, disguise is decisive in facilitating my access. A well-dressed woman who walks with confidence is an unusual sight in such places, enough to garner suspicion. The key is a haughty demeanor that marks me as a rich wife or daughter, possibly of a client. While my presence without a chaperone at this late hour is improper, addressing me is even more so for those beneath my station. It would bring little to stop us and could cost them dearly, therefore nobody dares to overstep their bounds, and so we get in unmolested. A male vampire would have to take a different approach.

Urchin could not get in the normal way, because he just breathes duplicity. The shady man could not walk three blocks without a police patrol asking him about his intentions. I will have to find a proper use for him.

Without stopping, I weave my way through the long lines of the presses while staying mostly out of sight. I could easily Charm everyone barring us but I keep Sinead’s words close to my heart. Power is a crutch. To depend on it too much is to invite disaster while to hone one’s skills is the way to greatness. Besides, I have pride. I will not let an inattentive mortal get the drop on me, even while I am dragging a skittish bundle of nerves behind me.

“We can’t be here like this! What if they tell Opa?!” said bundle hisses with panic.

“He will know we’re here soon enough. Now, shut up.”

We climb a set of stairs to a much quieter second floor. A corridor leads us past closed doors leading to offices and archives, up to the biggest office. A heavyset man with salt and pepper hair sits by the heavy oaken door, reading a book. He is tall and strong with the broken nose of prizefighters and the damaged knuckles that go with it. A worker outfit in grey and brown covers the body of a warrior gone slightly too fat. He has a bit of a belly, but also corded muscles covered with scars. He has not spotted us yet.

“That’s Charlie,” Vera whispers, “he is Opa’s strongman. He will definitely recognize me. Oh my God, what are we going to do?!”

This is as far as I can go on bluff alone, at least not without preparation. I keep moving forward without stopping. When we are close enough, the man lifts his eyes and frowns. I can see the onset of cataracts in them. He probably doesn’t see very well.

Our eyes meet and I instinctively send a tendril of essence, Charming him. Instead of resorting to brute force, I fan the flames of interest in his book and smother his curiosity towards us. His task is inherently boring while the book apparently isn’t. He dismisses us as belonging here and soon returns his full attention to it. We pass him by and I take a peek out of curiosity.

I cannot help but smile. The book cover is protected by an additional layer of paper bearing the image of a pugilist. The content is quite different. I read only a few sentences and realize that Charlie is fully absorbed in a tragic romance involving a woman and a man far beneath her social standing. His eyes widen as she laments their cruel fate.

You do you, Charlie.

Without knocking, I drag a stupefied Vera through the door and find myself in a large office.

The room is clean and smells faintly of cigars. The walls are covered in overflowing bookshelves containing rare tomes as well as ledgers. Two comfortable leather seats face a massive lacquered desk behind which an old man is writing by candlelight. His traits are emaciated, and sad jowls drop on either side of his face as if he had lost a lot of weight recently. His skin is yellow and dry, and his eyes are bloodshot. White chops hang sadly by his side and the bald pate on his head is covered in liver spots. He puts his plume down and massages his eyes with a gnarly hand before looking at the intruders. He frowns when he spots us, then his expression turns horrified when he lays his eyes on his granddaughter. His shrivelled face, already pallid, turns cadaverous.

Vera recoils as if physically hurt. He stands up slowly and painfully though his thin frame quakes and twin spots of red blossom on his cheeks. His gaze is fixed on my companion and conveys not just anger but also, longing.

“Vera! You… And who are you? Another devil-worshipper?!” he asks with a fragile voice.

I have learnt much in a short time, and I have a good idea on how to proceed now.

“I am not a witch, no. I am something else.”

“What do you mean?” he asks with suspicion, just as he slowly reaches for one of his drawers.

“You talked to the Gabrielite. Did they not explain who ruled the night?”

It takes him a second to understand the implication. When he does, he frantically opens said drawer and looks around. It takes him a few moments to find what he was looking for and when he does, he jumps backwards as he realizes that I am now sitting in front of him, lazily inspecting a talon. He did not see me move.

“Stay away! Stay back, you devil!” he whimpers. His face twists in pain and he reaches for his flank.

“Opa?” Vera asks, with tears in her eyes. She is shared between the desire to help him and the fear of his wrath.

Schmidt brandishes a cross and waves it around.

We fail to scream and evaporate.

I tug a bit on a finger and blink when it feels good. It appears that I am not entirely recovered.

Finally, the old man’s breath calms down and he swallows nervously.

“Why are you here?” he asks.

“Please, Mr. Schmidt. You know very well why I am here.”

“Are… are you the one who set her on the path to damnation?”

“Nonsense. Magic is an inborn trait. Wickedness has nothing to do with it.”

“But the Order said…”

“The Order lies when it suits their purpose. Your granddaughter is not lost. She was just born with an unusual disposition.”

“But the bible says I should not suffer a witch to live…”

“Also that he who is without sin should cast the first stone. Yes?”

It amuses me that I can quote the book if I am vague enough.

“But she has lain with…”

“No I have not!’ Vera pleads with powerful emotion, “Opa please, you know me. You have to believe me, I am still untouched. I would never do such a thing! Please, it’s still me…”

The old man is now equally distressed. His own eyes shine with unshed tears, but soon, he steels himself and turns back to me.

“I do not know what you thought you could achieve but it will not occur. You must both leave, before I have Charlie cast you out. Vera, I love you still, my little cat. I will not report you to the Order, yet I fear it is too late for you. Depart the city. Please.”

“I think not,” I reply, gathering his attention, “I am only getting started. To make my point, let us see what Charlie thinks about all of this.”

Even now, the cross’ aura pushes me back and grates against my essence. The warning it gives is no weaker than before. If anything, its power has grown like mine. The silent threat still carries the promise of oblivion and with it, a subtle taste of ash.

Charlie, however, is unprepared. I slowly lean forward and grab a small bell from the desk. A simple shake and the light chime summons heavy footsteps. The door opens and the burly bodyguard looms in, his eyes widening in surprise before growing dull under the full strength of my Charm. I showed the carrot in the person of Vera. Now comes the stick.

I am not sure Sinead would approve of that last sentence. Oh well.

“Charlie. Join us,” I order with a pleasant voice. My captive blinks owlishly and comes to sit in the empty chair by my side. I stand up and walk behind him before placing both hands on his shoulders.

Schmidt watches me with apprehension. His knobbled hands clutch the cross like a drowning man to a buoy.

“You are dying,” I announce without preamble.

“No!” Vera screams. She rushes to the old man and hugs him with the strength of despair, making him wince a bit. He looks brittle next to her. Fading. She could squish him if she held him too tight.

Eyes still fixed on me and Charlie, the old grandfather reflexively leans into the embrace of the one he trusts. They form a nice contrast and I commit this image to memory to paint it later.

“You are dying,” I continue, “and you want your inheritance to be put to good use. You were approached by a man who said the Order needed you and it took little convincing for you to appreciate the need to defend mankind. You were already witness to Vera’s strange abilities. Am I correct so far?”

“Y-yes. He said that the fight against the forces of darkness was raging.”

“Correct. We fight a war that cannot end. They are without number and we are without limits, and so generations after generations of fighters fall to this conflict. There is something you should be wondering, however. Something obvious.”

His mind is keen, still, and he immediately understands what I am getting at.

“Why do we not rise against you?”

“Correct. Why does the order maintain secrecy? Why does humanity not unite in a great war to purge us from this world. Can you guess?”

Silence.

“Your kind is not as pure and disinterested as you think. There are millions of magic wielders and many of them are born to mundane families. We vampires are few but we have influence over a great many things, and you would be surprised at the number of rulers tempted by the eternal life we offer. An open conflict would be apocalyptic and there is no guarantee the Order would end up on top. And so, we continue our secret war, age after age.”

I have their full attention now.

“There are unspoken rules, of course. One of them is that mortals who do not know of this conflict are mostly left alone. We do not lay cities to waste, slaughtering people in the alleys. If you join one side, however…”

I grip Charlie’s shoulder harder. He moans softly as my talons pierce his skin and draw blood. I relax before I tear into the muscle, though the damage is done. Both Vera and Schmidt stare mesmerize at the expanding red stains on the man’s shirt. The bodyguard is as glassy-eyed and unresponsive as before.

“… you forfeit your immunity,” I continue. “You think you are doing humanity a favor by leaving the fruits of your labor in the hands of its defenders? You are not. You merely lay the burden of combat on the shoulders of those you leave behind, like our brave Charlie here.”

I lift a talon and place it directly under the man’s right eye. The needle-sharp end digs into his skin. I drag it down, leaving behind a bloody furrow. I cast a light glance at Vera as well. She does not see it, but her grandfather does.

“They will be the ones who pay for your decision. I am sure that your friend in the Order will speak of sacrifice and safety in number. You already have an idea of how safe you are. As for the price to pay, ask yourself this: if a man dies without a choice because of your decision, is he your sacrifice or your victim? You already know the answer.”

Schmidt’s throat bobs as he swallows. His voice is calm now. He has gone beyond fear, to the cold place where one stares the reaper in the face.

“Is there a way for this meeting not to end in blood?”

“Yes.”

“What are your terms?”

“Desist. Enjoy your last weeks with your loving granddaughter, make peace with yourselves and others and leave your company to one you deem a worthy successor, I care not. This is not your war, old man, and it is not up to you to decide who will fight it. Do we have an understanding?”

“Yes. I believe we do. I give you my word that I will not support the Order in any way. Will you need guarantees?”

“Your word is enough. You know what will happen if you change your mind.”

“I see. Yes. One last question. If this magic doesn’t come from deals with the devil, then where does it come from?”

I have a theory, actually. Loth had scholarly books that spoke of noetic fields and soul and some such. I believe the answer to be significantly more prosaic.

“Nobody knows for sure, though I suspect that some ancestors had children with fantastic creatures.”

“Like gnomes and korrigans?”

“Hm, yes,” I answer, thinking about a very specific bright-haired and absolutely scandalous individual.

“That remains a hypothesis that I do not have a way to verify,” I continue.

“A scientific-minded monster,” Schmidt remarks ruefully, “that was all, thank you for your answer.”

“Then I’m off. Remember, we will be watching.”

“I already gave you my word,” the old man growls, idly caressing his granddaughter’s hair. They have things well in hand, and my work is done. Vera gives me one last grateful glance as I exit and release my hold on Charlie.

Funny how she doesn’t realize that I implied I would kill her. Oh well. Now the situation should be comfortably heading where we want it. I did not perceive any lie in the old man’s words, and if he changes his mind and goes back on his word as mortals are wont to do... well, I shall visit again.

78. The Secret Task

I take one last look at the note in my hand. It contains an invitation to visit the 26th Dorcer alley to meet an informant regarding mentors of the mystical arts. I had been looking forward to learning magic, so the letter was welcome. The problem now is quite obvious.

There is no 26th Dorcer alley.

The street is a dead end with a brick wall between a tailor shop and a writing supply store. Only the lack of ambushers convinces me that this was not a trap.

Or is it?

Two footsteps and two heartbeats come from my back. I turn around and stare at the newcomers as they make their way down the deserted path.

They do not exude danger at all. If anything, the taller one is apprehensive while the shorter one, still a head above me, struts around as if he owned the town.

The taller man is clearly the muscle here. He has the keen eyes and clean make of the mercenary rather than the common arm breaker. He checks corners and roofs with experience but no matter what, his attention invariably returns to me. When it does, he frowns and displays signs of incredulity.

Intriguing.

The second man is queer. There is something about him… I cannot quite put my finger on it…

He has a greying beard and the air of a perfect gentleman, with an impeccably ironed dark blue vest and slack that suit him perfectly. His appearance is unfamiliar. And yet, and yet…

The man stops a few paces away from me and extends his hands disarmingly. His smile is smug beyond reason. In fact, his behavior screams amused superiority and condescending confidence in a way that I have only ever seen…

Oh no. It cannot be. I extend a trembling claw at the man and hiss in anger.

“You… You! ARG.”

“Tut tut, poppet. Manners! You are embarrassing me in front of my friend.”

“Sinead! You dare! Do you know what this town is?”

“Vampire central? Bloodston?”

“It’s the last place you should be! I swear to the Watcher if you get caught stupidly I will drink you dry before I let the others have you.”

“Oh so sweet, my precious poppet, but fret not, I took all necessary precautions to mask any hint of my presence. And we’re leaving soon anyway!”

I frown with suspicion.

“We are?”

“Yes, on a glorious quest to save one of my kin. He is being transported as we speak across the ocean deep. We will have to engage into a tiny bit of piracy to rescue him. You will have to kill a vampire I’m afraid.”

“I am not sure this is a good idea. Not while I finally gained some legitimacy.”

“He is a distasteful man who enjoys torturing his prey before drinking.”

“Your point?”

“Ah, your heart truly is cold. He is also a Lancaster known for his tendency to go after his foe’s human entourage out of spite.”

On one hand, the risks.

On the other hand, the return of the Dread Pirate Ariane the Bloodthirsty, Queen of the Waves.

“Let me just make a few arrangements and summon some interesting help. We do not want to leave witnesses right?”

Sinead’s smile would make any mortal tremble.

Captain Smollett’s tale

It had been a bad year.

The night carried an unseasonably cold wind that chilled Captain Smollett to his very bones. It had been a bad year and it could still get much worse.

Frowning, the man knocked on the wood of the railing for good luck and kept an eye on the endless expanse of waves before him. A passing gust tried in vain to alter his unflappable countenance. Captain Smollett of the Blue Jay may have fallen on hard times, that was true, but he would never forfeit discipline nor manners. No sir! And not honor either.

As for tradition…

Some things had to be sacrificed.

It all started with the Compromise Tariff of 1833. Congress had passed a bill to reduce taxes on import to a more manageable level. Some businesses had flourished, mostly in the south. Some others, which heavily depended on protectionism to be viable, had collapsed. Such was the case for the Blue Jay’s main employer.

To make matters worse, one of his ship’s two masts had split right in the middle during a particularly vicious storm, forcing her into drydock so that she could be repaired.

Now his Blue Jay, his beautiful schooner, was at risk of being lost through bankruptcy.

It was all because of bad luck.

Desperation had led him to consider employment that he would have scoffed at a few months before. Now, even the notoriously underpaid sailors threatened to leave his ship. There had been no choice but to accept Simon Nead’s proposal. His letter of marque had been genuine, as far the captain could tell, but the very act of privateering was distasteful and the guests Nead had brought on board…

There were ten mercenaries trained to kill. Smollett knew that kind. They did not look at you so much as through you and it only meant one thing, that when lead would start to fly, they would lodge an inch of steel in your gut like some shove a loaf in the oven. Clinical. Uncaring. They patrolled around the ship in pairs like bloodhounds and never mixed with the rest of the crew.

Nead himself was entirely different.

The man cheated at cards, the Captain was certain. As sure as the sun rose in the East! And yet his men did not care because he did not cheat to win but to make things more interesting, more alive. Every night now, the men off watch would gather around the table on the lower deck and throw their fates and fortunes on the table, at the mercy of painted paper and bone cubes.

Spades and Hearts would mix with numbers in an unholy dance under the greedy eyes of breathless spectators. They would scream and moan and laugh until drunk with emotion. With feverish fingers and wild abandon, they would count coins and tokens and throw them with panache and far too little thought.

Princes and first sons of merchant houses could not match their flair and passion. Glittering casinos could not match the fire burning in their veins nor the madness in their eyes, while enthroned in the midst of those improvised bacchanals, Nead himself would govern like a sultan of old.

He would needle here and tease there. With one of his words, fortunes would change hands, then again in the other direction but no matter how much they lost, they could never stop. Every night the players were back and every night they would throw themselves at the game as if their life depended on it.

And then there was the woman.

A woman.

On his ship.

It was a non-negotiable clause of the contract bonding Smollett to the service of the enigmatic gentleman. The strange lady would be on board and that was it.

She was a quiet one, and that worried him greatly. She would only come out at night and walk the bridge under the fascinated eye of the sailors at work. She would wear a proper dress that left nothing uncovered and yet hinted at a great figure. The others looked at her with more adoration than lust. She was unattainable, as ethereal and distant as the North star to rustic seamen unused to the fairer sex, for the only gentler contact they had were their relatives and the shore harlots, ugly things who would spread their hairy legs for a quarter a pass. She might as well have belonged to another species.

Perhaps she did.

The others would only steal glances but he did not have to. She was beautiful, of course, with hair like ripe wheat and eyes the color of the sky at summer’s height. Her skin was fair and her manners graceful and yet there was something odd, something that grated him. It was her demeanor. His men saw her and thought she was an aristo, a blue blood or some such. Smollett knew it was a lie. He had attended wealthy parties where the richest scions of the land had gathered to intrigue. He had seen them, and they had not been her match. They had lacked the predatory grace, the unnerving movements and the perfect poise. She was something else.

The woman would walk on the bridge with an incongruous tricorn sat on her pretty head, singing a queer song. It stuck to his mind like shells to a keel. She sang it with a beautiful voice, and slightly off-key. The whole thing was eerie and captivating.

“Here twelve poor men remained on a sinking frigate.

So many lives were lost to a dreadful pirate

Neither tide nor the sky gave the crew no quarter

Off the coast of Cuba they would meet their maker

Oooo, off the coast of Cuba they would meet their maker”

As she sang, she would brush the railing and look out to the sea, where Smollett knew there was nothing, and follow some phantasm with a knowing smile. She was doing this right now.

As he watched, her hand stopped on something and flicked it away with such speed that for a moment, he believed he had hallucinated the gesture. Then she resumed her stroll, humming under her breath.

Smollett stepped forward as soon as she was away. On that piece of familiar railing used to be a stuck nail. The captain had damaged the sleeve of his favorite jacket on the protruding piece of metal, months before. It was gone now, as well as a long sliver of wood. Someone had dug a ghastly furrow through the salt-encrusted oak.

Smollett closed his eyes and prayed.

The ship had been moored for a day. Smollett had barely slept. In a dream, he had spied Nead overseeing a game of poker belowdecks. In front of the players, there had been no coins, nothing but tiny pearls emitting an incredible radiance. They were souls, he knew with certainty. The maddened sailors were betting their souls on the game, spitting and screaming and frantic as they played. Then Nead looked up and his eyes were no longer brown but a pale amber, and lo, on his head grew a great pair of horns.

He had woken up in a jolt, clammy with cold sweat. Breathless. No amount of prayer nor alcohol had allowed him to catch a wink after that.

Now the Blue Jay bobbed up and down at the whim of the waves, hidden behind a low island. Nead was no longer overseeing his games. He was waiting for passing boats and each time one would, he checked his compass and shook his head. Smollett had caught a glimpse of the strange contraption and one thing was sure, it did not point North.

Sorcery.

Smollett was sure of it now, there was vile wizardry at work. He was harboring devil worshippers! He would have liked to rally his crew and throw the disgusting heathens overboard, alas, most of them were already under the spell of Nead. Curse him! Curse that contract and curse the day he agreed to it. Rather sell the Blue Jay than work with the servants of the Enemy.

Too late now, far too late. Nead had his evil claws deep into the minds of the sailors. Smollett would have to finish his task and hope for salvation.

Then, there was the woman.

She was strolling alongside the railing, singing slightly off-key in that haunting voice of hers.

“The cap’n begged and prayed for someone to rescue

The brave crew and himself ‘fore the reefs claimed their due

Neither angels nor saints would answer his prayer

Off the coast of Cuba they would meet their maker

Ooooo, off the coast of Cuba they would meet their maker”

Their eyes met and Smollett realized she knew. About his belief. Her gaze pierced his mind and revealed the doubt and fear under, torching away the haze of alcohol and the numbness of habit to revive in his heart the freshest of terrors. She knew and did not care. Once more, her merciless stare aimed outward, to the ocean and beyond. She saw something.

Smollett could not help himself. He walked up and searched for the source of her amusement. What dark delight brought such a smile to her graceful face? There was nothing but the night.

“You feel it, don’t you? The world is holding its breath and those who pay attention have already noticed,” she said in a lovely voice. Her smile was sharp and dismissive. It angered him for some reason. The fury dug deep into his chest and lit waiting embers. They had no right to come here and steal his ship, his people, for their nefarious purposes!

“There is nothing there, nothing at all!” he yelled.

“Of course there is,” the woman replied with amusement, “do you wish to see?”

The captain froze. He wanted to say no. He knew he had to refuse, but his mouth was dry as the Sahara. It would not open to say the words and a sick curiosity needled him forward. He felt himself waver at the edge of that question like a skiff caught in a whirlpool. His sanity was sliding, slowly, but with a fateful certainty that gripped his heart and whispered sweet promises in his unwilling ears. He had to know. To find out the truth. It was the most natural thing. How could the truth be worse than whatever uncertainty and doubts were torturing his mind right now?

Smollett did not resist when the woman’s fingers gripped his shoulder. He shivered, surprised by her strength.

“Look,” she purred.

And a veil was lifted.

The sea was not empty, though he wished it were. His mouth opened though he could produce no sound. Terror. Mind-stealing, debilitating terror froze his very being. The sea was alive. It was teeming with unnatural life.

The edge of a fin, the hint of a webbed hand, the end of a scaly tails. Baleful yellow eyes reflecting the pallid light of the moon above. Sinuous movements of slimy skin and unnatural limbs left and right. Smollett wanted to scream but the Boschian vista had robbed him of his voice. Only a keening sound emerged from his choking throat, and tears of the starkest fear trailed down his cheeks.

“Welcome to your new world,” the siren’s voice by his side murmured.

The Devil had his quarry in sight.

Smollett brushed an idle hand on his filthy jacket. The reek of liquor was strong even in the open air as the Blue Jay sliced through the waves. His crew went through the motions like automatons. They licked their lips and smiled and exchanged gossip about the games, the previous ones and the others to come. They cared little about their surroundings, or they would have surrendered to madness as he had. Last night, his helmsman had met a cruel fate, thrown overboard and lost. He had been a resilient and pious man. Smollett found that he envied the departed.

Nead was at the prow, no longer holding a compass but a mirror instead. The strange artefact hurt the captain’s tender head when he stared too long. He knew what it did.

Under the Blue Jay, a perfect reflection of his beloved ship had appeared. Its light was supernaturally bright and yet its halo did not extend past the shimmering mirage. The sea around them was darker than a demon’s soul, so that Smollett could barely see the murk bubbling with the passage of the monstrous pack. It was as if all lights had been captured by some evil witchery. They were occulted by a veil of darkness.

The men aboard their prey were oblivious to their imminent demise. No cry of alarm had sounded yet even though they approached it at full speed.

The woman stood straight from leaning against the railing. She was dressed in an armor of obsidian beauty, bearing an alien sigil. Like this, she looked like a savage goddess from a heathen nation, whose warriors raided shores and left nothing behind but burned husks and beheaded monks on stained altars. A desperate laugh rose from his chest. She sang still.

“Then a voice offered him with a frightful whisper

The salvation he sought at this fateful hour

For a price, the voice said to the tempted skipper

Off the coast of Cuba you won’t meet your maker

Oooooo off the coast of Cuba you won’t meet your maker.”

They rammed the other ship.

A terrible groan of tortured wood exploded like thunder on a cloudless sky. All of the men on their victim’s deck were sent flying into the air. Some fell in the ocean. Others fell poorly, smacking into hard surfaces with ghastly crunches. Nead’s men released their holds on ropes and lifted their muskets at the door leading belowdecks while the witch jumped up and let out a terrible whistle.

Then she blurred.

Something so fast it was practically invisible wracked through the stunned crew, leaving behind only mangled corpses and severed limbs tumbling. A mist of red spread over the deck as the incomprehensible carnage continued. Soon, the horrid forms of the fishmen he had glimpsed climbed up from the abyss and joined the fray. The shriek of the dying and the roar of the coming abomination filled the air in a hellish cacophony. Then, the door opened and men trailed out led by a pale warrior decked in full plate armor.

It was at that moment Smollett knew he had gone mad.

The creature screamed in a lilting tongue he had never heard and great fangs emerged from his ruby lips. The challenge was answered in full by a terrible deflagration as Nead’s entire team fired upon the newcomer. Men died left and right, and the form blurred as well. The otherworldly scene devolved into a nightmare that even the most unhinged prophet could not have imagined. The fight reached a paroxysm of bloodlust and savagery until with a victorious roar, the witch severed the warrior’s hand. Her next strike skewered him through the chest and before Smollett could register this new development, she was on him, biting into his throat with delectation.

Around her, the abyssal horrors dismembered the last of the desperate defenders and the battle, if you could call it such, turned into a feast.

Smollett sobbed as he witnessed scenes of great gluttony. Entire cadavers would disappear down the monsters’ gullets in seconds and in the midst, the witch finished her business. The remains of her foe fell to dust until all that remained of him was a circle of black gore around her delicate lips, which she licked with gusto.

“Flawless ‘execution’, don’t you think?” Nead joked by the captain’s side, and the seaman laughed and laughed and laughed.

“Sixty men sailed to sea, only one did come back

On a ship of red hull and with sails of pure black

With the devil’s due paid he would drift forever

Off the coast of Cuba not to meet his maker

Oooooo off the coast of Cuba not to meet his maker.”

A huddled form sat singing in the center of a derelict room. The sickly man wrote frantically on a stained piece of paper under the light of a dying candle. Bottles of liquor and empty vials of opium littered the ground. He sang with a broken voice and ignored the spittle accumulating at the corner of his unshaved mouth. Finally, the man leaned back and sighed.

Tension left the nerve-wracked silhouette. His shoulders, previously taut like bowstrings, finally relaxed. His face went slack as he closed his eyes.

Peace, at last.

All was recounted. His duty was done. He could finally let go.

The man dried the paper with a pinch of sawdust, added the last page to a bundle which he carefully placed in an envelope. He inscribed an address and left next to it a small pile of money. Finally, he lifted a captain’s cap from his desk and threw it unceremoniously on the ground. He grabbed the pistol underneath with an air of angelic felicity, placed the barrel in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

In the next apartment, someone swore.

Time passed.

The door opened in silence. A tall man with amber eyes and hair like gold stepped in. He scrunched his nose with displeasure then walked to the desk, from whence he retrieved the sealed envelope.

He opened it with obvious excitement and quickly read through the manuscript. Each new discovery was met with appreciative ‘oh’ or disappointed ‘meh’. After an indeterminate amount of time, the man grabbed the fragile testimony and approached his unwitting host’s prostrate form.

“Not bad, not bad at all. Thank you, Mr. Smollett,” the intruder whispered in a sing-song language.

The papers were soon committed to the flame of the candle.

The bundle burnt brightly for a moment and the guest waited patiently, unmoving even as the fire licked his delicate fingers. When the work was consumed, he brushed his intact hands until nothing remained but a small pile of crushed ash.

After he was done, he left the door open and disappeared into the bowels of the city.

79. Reception

“I am glad that the candidate you are considering is a man. Quite tactful of you, dear,” I tell Torran.

“Hmm,” Torran replies, apparently lost in thought.

I tsk and roll into the bedsheets so that my butt is covered. Torran blinks owlishly.

“Hmm? You were saying?”

Torran expertly dodges the pillow I throw at his head and chuckles as he sits on the bed. His tone switches from playful to half-serious.

“Yes, I am considering a man, though I cannot claim credit in this instance. Dvor ranks are overwhelmingly composed of men. Perhaps three-quarters of us serve Mars and not Venus, though I feel the need to point out that it is not a question of competence, but of culture.

“You see, we come and recruit from traditional societies in which the roles of the sexes are clearly delineated. The ownership and defense of the land that qualifies us is usually under the purview of men, though there are exceptions. Adapting to Western European and now American society has been… a challenging experience.”

“Oh,” I reply crestfallen, “I knew I was being too forward.”

“Nothing of the sort,” Torran chuckles as he moves next to me and tucks an errant strand of hair behind my ear, ”if anything, inviting a man to one’s chambers is a common occurrence back home. I was referring to you charging into danger then unloading musket after musket into the ranks of screaming invaders while clad in a custom-made armor that would intimidate a Tatar raider. That sort of thing.”

“I see,” I reply somewhat relieved, “your women do not fight?”

“Not really, no,” he replies with increasing amusement.

“How do they hunt then?” I ask.

“Many demand offerings, the satisfaction of having one’s prey brought to you by underlings can be a pleasure in itself. For others, the thrill comes from outmanoeuvring rivals and foes. Social confrontations often end with the loser insensate on a couch. They will later wake up with a severe case of anaemia. The spirit of the Hunt is respected and the satisfaction it brings, genuine.“

“I understand,” I say with a nod, “I still prefer my method, however.”

“I can tell.”

I narrow my eyes at my lover who shrugs helplessly. Well, he is not wrong.

“I enjoy our conversation, my star, though I fear we must continue at the party. I cannot afford to be late.”

“Yes, especially as one of the honored guests.”

A man entering the ballroom would think themselves transported to a fairy tale or a nightmare. Protestantism has seeped deeply into the cracks of American society and with it, a certain sobriety and disdain of ostentation. Successful people should have no need of splendor, for they ought to find happiness in God and hard work. Extravagance is discouraged.

Vampires have no such qualms.

The manor’s right-wing is packed with groups of men and women dressed in exquisite dresses as stylish as they are precious. Cadiz in martial jackets mingle with Rolands in warm tones while on the side, a band of Ekon clad in garish colors joke and carouse to their heart’s content. There is enough wealth on display to fund a small expedition.

The crowd has been here long enough for an interesting phenomenon of social decantation to split it into three distinctive and immiscible layers.

At the forefront, Courtiers socialize with each other, their entourage and loyal mortal families, the susurrus of their conversation providing a pleasant background to a talented string quartet. In this environment, politeness is an absolute rule. Rivals greet each other with veiled threats and smiles that do not reach their eyes. They exchange barbs and clever repartees with casual grace in an endless contest of wit, yet if anyone feels angered, they do not show it. Even the auras are hermetic and subdued as those who cannot control themselves were left behind.

A second layer consists of Vassals, Servants and Masters in small clusters bound by interest. While the younglings joust, these men and women plot. A word or a few gestures exchanged behind a fan seal the deal on some obscure transactions, the nature of which I can only guess at.

Beyond them, the third and last layer is also the thinnest, being host to a handful of lords and ladies, as well as their closest advisors. At these rarefied heights, the conversations turn to the mundane, or gossips. Indeed, deals worth the illustrious guests’ time could only be conducted behind closed doors. Behind them, an elevated platform on which the musicians play takes the furthest part of the room from the entrance.

After that, the illusion begins. Since the mirrors at the end of the ballroom only show half of the revellers, the reflection does not match reality and space seems to go on forever. It is as if the manor outstripped even the palaces of Rome or London, becoming a castle of mythic proportions.

We first make our way layer by layer, coming across Cadiz and Roland who salute me rather coldly, Ekon who salutes me too warmly and even new Lancasters who I assumed would salute me not at all. Their polite greetings surprise me until I remember that with Moor an outcast and their territory in shambles, they have a vested interest in starting anew.

After what seems like forever, we end up next to Sephare and Jarek. If I had been alone, etiquette would have demanded that I stayed with my peers. As Torran’s companion, however, I am expected to remain by his side. I do not mind it this time, as I expect my peers would have subjected me to a proper interrogation. Masters already know what will be announced of course, yet none would waste an opportunity to extract a few useful tidbits from the mouth of one of the lovers of tonight’s main actors.

Lost to contemplation, I allow Torran to guide me through the crowd until a lull gives me the opportunity to assuage my curiosity.

“Are there any vampire musicians around?” I whisper in Torran’s ear. Despite the guests’ delicate hearing, it is customary to act human. Besides, picking a voice among so many can be taxing.

“There are, but they do not perform in such functions. No self-respecting Courtiers would agree to be just background entertainment.”

“I see,” I answer while I watch Jarek and Suarez apparently agreeing to a spar.

“The mood among the Lords and Ladies is lighter than anywhere else.”

“Naturally. At this age most enmities ended with one or both opponents dead. You will find that after a while, even bitter foes can become friends. Especially when few of either survived. It is, as they say, lonely at the top.

“Here, look at the partygoers. Do you see those clear lines between Courtiers and Masters, then Master and Lords? This celebration is a microcosm of our society, with the proportions respected. Observe how few of us are left who call no man their Master. Many who volunteer to join our ranks swallow the bait of eternal life but there are no guarantees. The average spawn has as much chance of seeing his fiftieth birthday as if they had stayed human. It takes quite a bit of skill and just a little luck to be counted amongst the long-lived.”

“Worthy allies, too.”

“Quite right. Ah, it appears that the time has come.”

And indeed, the musicians pack up and leave the floor to Constantine himself. The Progenitor, flanked by Melitone who saved me from the torturer, climbs the two steps to the platform and faces the crowd with dignity. Torran gives me a last nod before joining Sephare and Jarek at his side. Silence is quick to come.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, my lords and ladies, thank you for joining in tonight,” our host begins calmly and in English, “tonight, I am pleased to announce that three new clans shall join our honored community. Please give a warm welcome to the representatives of clan Natalis, Hastings, and Dvor.”

We applaud politely. In formal occasions, vampires are announced by order of seniority, gender has no impact. I was surprised to learn that this cute slip of a girl is older than Torran. She looks and acts so human that I let my guard down.

“In the years to come,” Constantine continues, “Lord Jarek will head South West to join the Texians in Mexico. The Dvor territory will depend on the leanings of Lord Torran’s candidate and its location will remain confidential for safety reasons. As for the Hastings, their domain shall cover the District of Columbia.”

I almost gasp in surprise and behind me, more than a few low whispers erupt across the room.

Washington?

Constantine is giving the Hastings free reign of the capital? The Congress? Is he insane?

No wonder the negotiations took so long. He must have demanded quite a few guarantees. The Lancasters may control humans better than most but Hastings act human. They can eat. They can even stand the light of the sun! To give them access to this place…

I barely listen as Constantine speaks of the Accords, our great community yada yada. The Hastings are taking over the government of the nation, continuing centuries of Mask traditions. Checks and balances mean nothing when one has a finger in every pie. This is a momentous development.

The worst thing is that there is little I can do to change anything.

I need to secure my own den.

I need Illinois. I must negotiate with Constantine with this in mind. I should have asked for it after the trial together with the Progenitor’s blood. Oh well.

Constantine promptly concludes his speech. Afterward, Jarek, ever laconic, talks about a haven for his kind and of strengthening the bonds that bring us together. Sephare’s speech centers on development and independence while Torran’s is based on the values and cultural roots we must develop. I notice that all three stress independence and the creation of a society separate from the old one, even Torran who will eventually return to his homeland. It could be Constantine’s influence, or it could be that they all see the need of preparing against Mask and Eneru’s inevitable power grab, Jarek and Sephare for their own interest and Torran for that of his spawn.

At the end of the speeches, the three of them walk down and mix with everyone to answer their many questions. I have no interest in joining their territories, nor to be so close to so many people. I, therefore, decided to head outside through the French doors and on the promenade surrounding the manor’s inner garden. The fountain gurgles happily and the humdrum of conversations is replaced by the sounds of the night.

I breathe in relief, though my respite is short-lived.

As soon as I exit, I detect a familiar aura to my right.

“Tired out by so many big words? The lords can be condescending. By the way, condescending means they look down on you.”

“Melusine, I’m surprised that you are not in there kissing bottoms with that silver tongue of yours. Are you not tired of being homeless?” I reply to the Lancaster by my side.

Melusine wears a conservative emerald dress that covers her body but leaves the neck free. Her red hair is pulled up in an elaborate hairdo, and a single teardrop ruby sits at the edge of her cleavage.

“That’s rich coming from someone who lives in a brothel.”

“Above a brothel. Every time I opened the door and took a deep breath it reminded me of you.”

“Strange appetites you have. Speaking of which, when will you take my blood? I grow tired of this sword of Damocles on my neck.”

I planned on taking it at the moment I called upon her for a task. However, I can tell that the idea of owing me such an intimate favor irritates her. If I were vindictive, I would leave her now, yet something stops me. Melusine was my first rival. I used to call her a trollop every day in my head just for the strength to keep going. It feels like ages ago. In a way, it was.

I have changed much since then and so did she. The loss of her Vassal has made her less petulant, sharper. I no longer feel like taking revenge and I do not wish to make one more enemy.

“Right now, if you wish.”

Melusine inhales and blinks. She clearly did not expect me to agree so readily. However, she does not let the opportunity go to waste.

“Over here,” she says, and I follow her to an alcove in the promenade. She sits first with dignity and I join her promptly. At first, she will not meet my gaze, then all of a sudden she frowns and glares at me.

“Don’t kill me.”

“I won’t,” I reply, offended. I do know why she is like this though. It takes efforts to surrender oneself so completely and to do so to a rival is a terrifying prospect.

“Let’s get this over with,” she declares, and bares her neck to me, eyes closed. I lean against her. She has a pleasant scent and her hair tickles my nose. Her skin is very pale, and no pulse moves her blood.

I lick once to numb the pain, making her sigh in the process then bite down.

She is powerful with a little bit of that color that I associate with mages. To my surprise, memories start to surge.

Surrounded. I need to hold on just a bit longer so that the others can escape. The Lancaster vampires caught us off guard but if the children can reach the main base, not all is lost. I just need to hold the shield. Just need to hold. One more minute. Ten more seconds. Just… hold it together Melusine, you can do it. You can d…

Master is dead. She was found guilty of supporting the Jacobites against clan lines and got executed as a result. They put all her spawn in cages and made us watch. It hurt so much. Now we are being shipped to the New World. Only Lambert is truly by my side. The rest are either broken like Caitlynn or just plain useless like that Francoise sow.

I planned to kill Arthur on our third night together. Then we talked for a while, then we made love. He knows what I am because I naively revealed it to him. He said he did not care and now I have a Vassal. I think I like it. He makes me feel things I had long forgotten and for the first time in what has been forever, I did not wait for dawn hating myself.

The world has turned upside down. That Devourer twit proved herself cunning and merciful. She spared me so that I can take revenge on my kin. Nothing makes sense anymore, not since he died.

I don’t know what to do. I only know that I can’t return to England. There is nothing left there for me. An exile from the land of exiles would just be a laughingstock, a living cautionary tale just good enough to be bent over for the amusement of mortals seeking a thrill. Never. I will stay here and rebuild myself a life. Then, I’m going after Moor, that rancid, treacherous cu…

I pull back.

I did not take much strength and still her memories almost overwhelmed me. Both Melusine and I shudder and we move away from each other. We stay there for a while, me processing what I saw and her possibly recovering from the ordeal.

After a while, I wordlessly offer her a tissue and she wipes the little dark blood there is. I look around awkwardly.

The garden is now home to a few groups of guests seeking privacy. Now that the main event is done, the celebration has spilled over into the surroundings and no doubt into the bed-chambers as well. What marks me the most is the absence of guards. They would be everywhere back in the Dream, always visible to remind both employees and customers that security is enforced, with or despite them.

“Doesn’t look secure…” I comment idly.

“It is,” Melusine replies without emotion, “This is one of the most secured locales in the entire continent.”

“How so?” I ask with curiosity.

Melusine narrows her eyes once more, so I just wait to see if she is inclined to answer. After a while, she shrugs, her green dress slightly shifting on her white shoulders.

“I do not need to explain how this place is secured at night. During the day, the different guests’ security forces will secure both the valley and the manor. There is only one, very narrow way up. Anyone trying to infiltrate our base would have to slip by two hundred well-trained soldiers, four hundred now if we count every clan’s entourage. Those trying to force their way through would have to assault this chokepoint against well-equipped, well-trained and entrenched enemies.

“It is also common knowledge that Constantine has left many unpleasant surprises in the surrounding forests and the manor cliffs. Should someone succeed anyway, they would need to pass the vault doors leading to vampires’ slumbering places. Constantine wakes up quite early so they would have to contend through this as well. Finally, vampires living in the manor proper are to be evacuated to a secondary shelter at the first sign of trouble. Anyone still here at nightfall would be dead meat.

“That is not the manor’s main defense, of course. Our first and most important tool is intelligence. There are always signs of a great force gathering: moving people, stored powder or bought weapons. That is why the assault on the fortress thirty years ago took us off guard. It required a great deal of preparation and an insider’s help. Still, it failed spectacularly.”

“You know a lot,” I exclaim with genuine surprise. Melusine gives me a dismissive glare.

“This is always the first thing you should check when moving to a new den.”

“I was… otherwise engaged,” I retort with a scowl.

Melusine closes her eyes and shivers, acknowledging my point. It appears that she too experienced the tender care of hostile hospitality.

“Fair enough. And now I will take my leave of you, Devourer. I hope your peasant palate enjoyed the refined taste of me, for you shall never enjoy its match again.”

“True, it had a unique blend of strawberry and entitlement,” I fire back.

Melusine hisses but it lacks bite. Our truce holds.

There it is, Master’s gift. It was delivered earlier today by an uneasy Salim who held it at arm’s length as if it were a snake waiting to bite. I can tell from the packaging that this is a book, which makes it the second precious tome I have received in a few days, which absolutely means that I am a cultural and sophisticated vampire and absolutely not the brute Melusine implies I am.

Nope.

I place the heavy bundle on my desk next to its companion.

Sinead gifted me with this, a sublimely designed, leather-bound affair dyed deep blue with its title printed boldly in golden letter, as a reward for our short escapade on the seas. I find some of his methods wasteful, but there is no denying the expertise with which he sealed the fate of so many in so short a time.

Likaean, a Primer.

Despite the laconic title, this really is a one-of-a-kind tome of untold value. Its monetary worth itself is likely more than the entire Dream, not that I ever intend to sell it. If knowledge of the book’s existence were to spread, it would cause no end of trouble for me.

Sivaya wrote this specifically for me. It is a complete guide to their language including pronunciation, grammar, vocabulary and even idioms. I do not plan on visiting their land ever, especially if Sinead is the norm, and yet beyond the purely cultural value, there is also another one that relates directly to spellcasting.

As Loth explained to me long ago, there are three elements to a spell: the symbols, the will and the fuel. In most cases, all three elements are required to bend reality to one’s will, though I am sure that the most powerful casters out there can do without the symbol part.

The caster’s essence provides the energy needed for the working, visible as aura. Essence stems from the soul and though its energies can temporarily be depleted, they always return, unless one is robbed of their own will. I have heard of external energy sources and Loth even experimented with an electrum-based receptacle at some point, however they are extremely inefficient and one needs essence to start the process anyway.

The will of the caster is the beginning and the end of any magical process. It guides the energies and transforms them to suit the purpose of their master. It is that will that alters the world and momentarily breaks the laws of physics, chemistry, and God. The more experienced the will, the more potent the spells cast and the more the mage can achieve before exhaustion inevitably takes hold. Unfortunately for us, our sad reality can only be pushed and bullied so far before she rolls back, smothering the offender beneath her ponderous yoke.

To move her thick molasses, symbols are a vital component of the spellcaster’s arsenal. It is also by far the most versatile. Spells themselves are mostly incomprehensible. We know fire. We also know through the work of Lavoisier and others of oxidation and a more scientific approach to it. Spellcasters still cannot quite tell how their magic transforms this fire from a natural phenomenon into an almost living entity that chases after its prey like a bloodhound. The causes and effects are more or less understood, but the why remains beyond a veil of strangeness that no experiment can pierce.

As such, symbols can bridge the gap between that alien phenomenon and our primitive minds. They act as a translator between the will and the form, or a bridge perhaps. In any case, symbols are incredible and many systems were developed over the years by the countless cabals, covens and cults gracing our history to assist casters in their projects.

Another element of symbols is one’s relationship to it. For a man who has spent his life amongst the arid dunes of the Sahara, Finnish runes of reindeers and Aurora Borealis would be of little use. His mind cannot link symbols and his own ideas, and so that alphabet would be a hindrance. No, one’s code needs to match one’s mindset to be of optimal use, therefore the choice of which system to use is determined by affinity. Of this system, the most basic element is the language.

In this regard, my sire favors his mother’s system and uses Akkad when he throws his terrible curses. I planned on doing the same since Akkad is our sacred tongue. Now, however, I have a whole new option.

I am not a Likaean by any means and yet I feel a deep connection to Sinead, their prince. Deception, ruthlessness and the lust for freedom are values that he defends and that I sympathize with. Likaean is a secret language and although its usage may spark some unfortunate bouts of curiosity, using it to cast spells is far from the smoking gun that the book would be. I am willing to take the risks, for secrecy and for one other reason.

Likaean is a magical tongue.

I mean it quite literally. I whispered “sharrar”, their word for darkness, and I felt shadows creeping at the edges of the room. The whispered consonants slithered in the corners like smoky imps and drank the light greedily, leaving the room dimmer. If this is how life works in the land of the Likaean, I almost wish I could travel to the court of Blue and feast my eyes on the incredible things I could see there. A talented gardener could simply sing flowers to life, or a warrior could scream his enemies into bloody pieces. Incredible.

I am giddy at the possibilities, especially now that I have more time to spend on personal projects.

My smile falters when I return my attention to the unopened package.

Nirari’s gift.

After a moment of hesitation, I tear off the paper and realize my mistake. I do not hold a book, but a book container. The metallic rectangle is engraved with runes of protection and containment. A circular lock was placed where a title would be, the key already engaged.

The key itself is no standard work. It is a circle of silver and onyx without embellishments.

Ominous, to say the least.

I rotate the mechanism and hear a click. The lock opens and a powerful aura submerges me.

Blood.

Power.

Death.

The aura is intoxicating and heady. TREASURE. Precious and poisoned.

Then, the moment passes and the aura diminishes until it is merely a trace, something that stays in the background.

From the unorthodox box, I retrieve a tome. The piece is unadorned and old beyond measure. The edge of the cover is slightly cracked and mysterious dark stains mar the otherwise yellow surface. I caress it. Smooth, like skin. Some sort of vellum?

Unbidden, memories surface of the vision I had back at the vampire fortress an eternity ago, when I drew Nirari’s essence and stabilized my existence. It was the first time I saw Semiramis and she was inscribing runes on human skin.

Ah.

I am now the proud owner of an entire manuscript written on the literal back of mortals. Tacky. At least it looks well preserved.

I open the first page to see only “Spellbook” written in Akkad by an elegant hand, and ignore the ominous feeling I have to leaf through its contents. The first part is tightly packed text while the rest is page after page of blood magic spells described in excruciating details. I am not familiar with the rune system he uses but I can tell at a glance that they are complex. Once more I am reminded of the past, specifically the spell my sire cast against the army that opposed his return and the pale imitation I used against Lambert while drunk with power.

This is an incredible gift, though I have little use for it right now. I can tell at a glance that the level of difficulty of the average spell is high. This is not a beginner’s book, and it will take me a while to reach the level where I can use any of the spells contained within.

I have so much to do.

Every night, I practice with Aisha’s card deck, with the only notable effect being that sometimes when I fight, I can tell what my sparring partner will do next. Every night, I also train and educate a grateful Urchin. Mock battles and fights with lords and masters are also common and allow me to experience a variety of styles and techniques, something that I have a great need for. Finally, I spend time with my friends, with Torran, shopping, at the opera, etc. The distractions are many and I am happy to indulge after being in hiding for so long. I simply haven’t had the time to invest into learning magic. The irony of an immortal out of time does not escape me.

That is fine. I have much to do, including drinking Constantine’s blood and securing a territory. After this is done, I will dedicate myself to magic. The mystical arts cannot be pursued lightly, after all.

I spend half an hour studying Likaean and writing observations in a brand-new notebook when a knock at the door distracts me.

“Yes, Solveig?”

“One of Lady Sephare’s maids is here, milady. Her mistress would like to invite you for tea.”

“Tea?”

“That is what she said.”

I wonder what she wants.

“We shall visit her momentarily.”

Solveig departs and I stand up. I am wearing one of my latest acquisitions, a comfortable yet elegant interior dress in light blue. It will suffice. I walk out and follow the maid to Sephare’s suite, which happens to be in the opposite wing. We enter a richly decorated reception room even more grand than mine in tones of white and pink. Lady Sephare herself sits at a table with a pair of plates, a teapot and cutlery. Pastries are piled on a strange contraption consisting of several plates set against a metal frame.

“Ariane! I am so delighted that you could make it on such a short notice. Come in, come in!”

Sephare is also blonde with blue eyes, yet we could hardly be any more different. Her colors are paler, for starters, so that meeting her gaze is like staring at the surface of a frozen lake. She is also a dainty, delicate thing while I am more, well, solid. She looks like a precious slip of a girl that belongs at court or in some seaside house dying of pneumonia, and her cheerful and seemingly awkward personality makes her appear more human. It is, of course, a ploy, and yet I find myself unconsciously lowering my guard. I have to remind myself not to give in too easily.

“Thank you for your invitation, Lady Sephare,” I reply as I sit. I notice that she placed a teacup in front of me.

“Would you care for a cup of my own special blend? It would make me so glad even if you only wet your lips.”

“I would be delighted.”

“Lovely! All those conferences are so boorish. Why can’t we all discuss around a good cup, I ask? Here, shall I be mother?”

Hm, what?

“I beg your pardon?” I ask, alarmed.

“Oh, silly me, you are not familiar with this idiom, haha. I meant to ask you if I should serve the tea.”

“Oh! Yes, please, if you wouldn’t mind.”

I was really worried here for a second, and how does serving tea have anything to do with a mom?! I am suffering from culture shock ten meters away from my own bed-chamber. What in the world?

Unaware of my inner turmoil, Sephare serves us both with painting-worthy elegance, each gesture as graceful as the next. Soon, the cup in front of me is piping hot with amber liquid and exudes a delicate fragrance.

I pick it up and pretend to sip it, letting a few droplets spread on my tongue. My sense of taste is completely muted for anything other than blood yet my nose still manages to pick up hints of black tea though slightly more gentle than what I am used to, rose, as well as something else I do not recognize.

It is pretty nice, I suppose. It smells more fragrant than what I have ever experienced, at least.

Sephare lets me appreciate her tea in silence while she helps herself to a slice of chocolate tart. Her tiny fork bites into the tender filling with surgical precision.

“Oh, look, it’s raining. I suppose we were lucky to have a clear sky for so long. Not that I mind it when it gets a bit dreary. Best time to stay home with a good book.”

We do a bit of small talk mostly focused on the weather. I let her take her time as I assume that she will eventually get to the point and I am soon proven correct.

“You must have guessed, by now, that I requested the pleasure of your company with an agenda. It has not escaped my notice that we are barely acquainted and yet I find myself compelled to call upon you in my hour of need.

“You see, I left England with too limited an entourage for the task I shall soon endeavour to complete. I, therefore, request your assistance in taking over Washington,” she announces calmly.

I hesitate, then decide that I have little to use in explaining my reservation.

“I am honored by your trust, and yet I find myself already bound to another task.”

“The safety of Lord Torran hmmm?” she asks with a knowing look and a sly smile. If I could, I would be blushing now.

“It so happens that Torran will travel to Carolina to assist with the making of a soul weapon quite soon. During that time, he will be protected by the Cadiz, an honored guest of Lord Suarez himself. I am sure I can borrow you for a couple of weeks. Oh, and I was led to understand that you have an ongoing deal with Constantine? Helping me would count towards completing the second task.”

I grit my teeth not to react to that. This would mean that as soon as the first task, Torran’s protection, is completed, I can taste the blood of a progenitor.

“There is something I would like to ask,” I say before I hesitate. Sephare lifts a delicate brow which I take as an invitation to go on.

“I would like your support when I claim a territory.”

Her delicate mouth forms a perfect ‘o’.

“Our land grab has whet your appetite, I see. I would be willing to support your claim under one condition.”

“Name it.”

“An alliance. I am an old hand at tasks that require a light touch, yet sometimes I find that a more… direct approach can bear fruits faster.”

“You want an attack dog.”

“Goodness me, no, nothing so crass! What I want is a friend, and what I need is someone with the disposition to act decisively when the occasion calls for it, and to exercise restraint otherwise. You are that person. Sit me on my throne and I shall get you yours. Do we have a deal?” she asks, and I feel myself weighted and judged by her penetrating gaze.

Caution, Ariane, caution.

“I agree in principle, though I must remind you that a clan already placed me under their dominion once and you know how this ended. I will be a valuable partner. I will not be a servant.”

“Quite so, my dear, quite so. I am sure we will accomplish great things together…”

I leave shortly after this with the uncomfortable feeling that I committed myself perhaps a bit too quickly. As they say, one door opens and ten others close, and yet I feel like by standing without making allies, I would not go anywhere. Someone as savvy as Lady Sephare is a good place to start.

On my way back to my room, I come across one of Lord Ceron’s retainers. He bows as I pass and whispers:

“Have a care not to be too hasty milady, perhaps consider why she left in the first place.”

I look back only to see him walking without pause. So, it has begun. Politics. And this time I will not be able to Charm my way to success.

80. Smoke and Mirrors

The next night, I find myself teaching Urchin the most basic form of elementary etiquette in the privacy of my study.

“No, it is not appropriate to compliment a lady on her bust. Or on her rear. If you must make a compliment, commend her for her poise, skills, presence...”

I swear this man could not be any slimier if he tried.

“But what if I, beg your pardon, want to get to know the lady intimately?”

Case in point.

“The only kind of lady willing to know you intimately would give you a discount if you would only shut up.”

Urchin winces, looking a bit crestfallen which in his case gives him the appearance of a drowned rat and about as much charm.

I remind myself of Sinead’s lesson. He used to say that there must always be a carrot no matter how thorny and nailed-covered the stick.

“Listen Urchin, I appreciate how… challenging your life has been up till now and how it might have not been conducive to learning social graces,” I continue.

“Say wha’?”

The Watcher grant me patience.

“You’re a low-born ruffian and it’s not your fault.”

This revelation is welcomed by a confused stare.

“Huh, thanks I guess?” my pupil answers.

“Which is not to say,” I continue with superhuman control, “that you must remain in this sorry state. If things go well, you will never age. You don’t want to remain a shifty, pathetic dreg of humankind for the rest of your existence, do you?”

“No!”

“Good.”

“I want to be rich! Aw!” he screams as I slap him across the face with my dictionary. Reminder to self: wipe it later.

I grab him by the collar and smash him against a bookshelf.

“Listen to me and listen well because I will not repeat myself. Your appearance, manners, and language are how you are judged by the people you come across, no matter who they are. Those reflect your nature and allow others to assess you before you exchange more than three sentences. It takes hours of interaction to reverse a first impression, and that is why we as vampires need to be at the very top.

“This is our ultimate weapon. Not our strength, speed or even our magic, but our ability to pass as rulers, to divide and conquer before the battle has even started. I have no need of a bottom-dwelling scum who can only snatch petty change out of pockets, do you hear me? You will learn and grow or you will fall.”

Urchin’s eyes, at first filled with terror, switch to contemplation. Gears rusted by idleness rotate in his cavernous head until he licks his lips, seemingly come to a conclusion.

“Appearance. Right, like a gang boss is not a leader because he’s the strongest but because he’s got the swagger.”

Finally, we are getting somewhere.

“Correct. He talks, moves, acts and thinks like a leader and so people follow him.”

Urchin looks far in the distance, then after a while, his attention focuses on me. I would be annoyed at his behavior, were it not for the belief that he is having a breakthrough.

“So…” he asks with hesitation, “do you think I can be a proper leader one day?”

Not a chance in hell.

“Yes, otherwise I wouldn’t be using my precious time training you.”

I think he can become quite useful when it comes to trickery and other unsavory tasks. I doubt that he will ever be a part of polite society. You can take the Urchin out of the street but not the street out of the Urchin.

My musings are interrupted by a knock on the study’s door. After a prompt, Solveig comes in from the main room bearing a message and an air of disapproval.

“The mage Sorrel has come, Milady; he says that there are two message requests for you.”

“Two?” I ask with some measure of surprise. Solveig only nods.

“I will see him shortly. Urchin, we must stop here for tonight. Please work on your Akkad and then meet me in the training room in one hour.”

“Of course, Mistress,” he replies somewhat smoothly. Then he stands up at the same time as I do and bows to me, then to Solveig.

“Then I shall take my leave, Mistress, Miss Solveig, I bid you goodnight.”

I smile in approval and Solveig curtsies reluctantly, an immense improvement from her previous reaction which was a mixture of morbid fascination and fear normally reserved for baboons wearing coveralls.

I follow him into the main room and sit to wait as Sorrel strides in.

“Good evening, Sorrel, please sit. What was that about two messages?”

I hope it is not Merritt with some dire news. I can taste the messenger mage’s stress on his perspiration and heartbeat.

“I bear two messages for you, milady,” the bearded man declares as his deep-set dark eyes search my face for some kind of reaction.

“Let’s hear them.”

“Right, I should probably start with the first request. Loth of Skorrag wishes for a conversation.”

Aha, I understand now what makes the well-dressed man shiver. Communication spells such as these become more intensive the farther the person is. Sorrel will probably leave this room drained of aura, and nursing a spectacular headache.

“You may start when ready,” I declare.

The man nods, girding his metaphorical loins, no doubt. He takes the now familiar crystal sphere from a small bag by his side and starts casting with slow and deliberate care. It takes only a few seconds for the summoning to connect.

Loth looks regal in a white ermine robe decorated with patterns of crimson and gold. A peculiar crown of bone sits on his noble brow and gives him an undeniable air of majesty. The impression is somewhat marred by the deep pockets under his reddish eyes and his vulnerable expression. In his hand, he holds a crystal snifter half-filled with amber liquid. He smiles sadly when he sees me but I can tell that it is a genuine one, filled with an intensity of raw emotion I had only seen once before, when I almost died back in the cave. He silently rotates his own orb and the image shifts, first showing walls of naked stone, not bricks mind you, actual smooth stone with very few decorations, then a massive bed next to which I find my gift.

I made it for him back in Marquette and it took me close to two hundred hours of effort to get it just right. The piece consists of four man-sized panels of canvas on wood linked together. On each of the four parts, I painted Agna, Loth’s first love, at differents periods of her life. The rendition had to be absolutely striking and I so thrashed perhaps seven or eight attempts that were not up to my exacting standards.

On the first panel, young Agna stands defiant with her hands on her wide hips, telling the world that it can shove it. Her beautiful brown hair flows wild and free and her face is both strong and very feminine. This was the first time they met.

The second Agna is the one he married, only slightly older with her hair held up in a complex hairdo. Blooming flowers cling to her braids and she stands shyly in a form-fitting white dress. Her smile is so bright and pure, I believe this is what the sun used to feel like before it became my bane.

The third Agna is by far the most daring. She is the one who had given him a few children, the one I had seen naked under him. She stands with her bare back turned to us, her toned shoulder and large buttocks displayed without shame. Her hair now falls freely in a typical post-coital chaos, dotted with silver which in no way detracts her mature beauty. She is slightly turned to the viewer, only enough for us to see a mischievous smile and one ample breast tipped by a slightly darker nipple. With Nami’s, those are the only two nudes I ever painted.

The last Agna is her oldest form. In this one she is elderly and still her smile is here, warm and so very pure. She stands with difficulty on a background of flowers, grass and crags. I can almost smell the mountain air but more importantly, I can see the immense sadness and love in her expression.

She died a few weeks after that.

Of the second and fourth Agna I had caught but glimpses and so they were the hardest to paint, but now that I see it again, I could not be prouder.

The image abruptly turns back to Loth, who starts with a hoarse voice.

“This... has to be the best gift I ever received in my entire damn life. Tyr, Ari, ye…”

Two fat droplets trail down from the edge of his eyes, he makes no effort to wipe them and when next speaks his voice breaks.

“I had forgotten what she looked like! I could not remember! Ye… I cannot express… cannot tell ye. I needed this so much. Thank ye, by Tyr.”

Something warm and unfamiliar fills my chest. I press a hand there, surprised that there is still something moving in those cold depths.

“Ari. Thanks… Just thanks. Know that I owe ya more than I can ever repay. I am so, so very glad that you picked up painting ye know that? Hah! I haven’t left my room in a day. Also had the best wank of my life!”

“Loth!”

“It’s true! That ass...” he reminisces with nostalgia, grabbing at the air with a beatific smile.

“Ahem.”

“Right, sorry. I’ll send ya a letter when I can think again. Just wanted ta express my gratitude in person.”

“I understand my friend. Please take care of yourself and do not succumb to melancholy again, yes?”

“Of course not. I needed a break anyway. Right, come and see me soon, I have so much to show you of the old country.”

I wave as the connection cuts and sit back in my comfortable chair.

This was too short. I would have preferred to talk for hours but alas, Sorrel was already blanching. Torran will inevitably return to Europe. When he does and after I have secured a domain, perhaps I should visit.

I let Sorrel recover for ten minutes. He gulps down some alchemical concoction and I am only too glad to wait in silence as I reminisce about the good times we had together with the Dvergur and Dalton. This period is lost but the memories are bright and I am glad that I got to experience them. Even if Dalton’s death was horrible, I have no regrets. It truly is better to have loved and lost than never have loved at all, for with time, most memories become treasures.

Not the torture thing though, that I would gladly forget.

In short order, Sorrel is ready again and starts a new incantation. This time it is significantly easier and the face I see is quite a surprise.

“Jonathan,” I greet him.

The man who blew up my shed in Marquette and followed it with a vertiginous climb of the ranks of the White Cabal has changed remarkably in the short time I have known him. He still has a short black beard and penetrating dark gaze, but where they made him appear distant and a bit feral, now they grant him the appearance of a veteran commander. He seems poised and stable, as dependable as he is deadly.

“Ariane. A pleasure to see you again.”

“Likewise. What do you want?” I ask not to be curt but because Sorral is already on the pale side.

“I wish to discuss an agreement that, I believe, will be to both our benefits. Can you meet me at our headquarters in New York? The sooner the better, as it is a time-sensitive request.”

I almost scoff at how ridiculous his request is.

“I do not run to you when called, Jonathan.”

“I know this well, but as I mentioned this is time-sensitive and I am confident that I can make it worth your time.”

“Do tell.”

“My contact with the House of the Rosenthal assured me that you had control over your House, if I remember the term correctly.”

“Yes. Your point?”

“As of last week I am the White Cabal’s Black Dog, our military commander. As such I am qualified to offer a formal alliance between your House and our organization.”

I question the value of such an alliance.

“Please bear in mind that the White Cabal represents a growing order of more than three thousand practitioners and with a trained combat corps of over two hundred men, half of those being war mages and led by me.”

Oof. When he puts it like that…

“It will not take long, I promise. I merely need you to assist me with our new generation’s final exam. You will not be in any danger whatsoever and your security will be guaranteed by oath, mine and that of the mages under my command.”

I am… intrigued? I also need to wrap this up before Sorrel upchucks on my tea table.

“I will see if my current obligations can be postponed. When you say assist with examinations, what do you have in mind?”

“I need you to scare them out of their mind.”

Oh, this is totally within my field of expertise.

“Very well, I will need direction.”

We wrap up our talk and soon I leave an exhausted communication mage on my couch. There are people I need to see.

“I believe it is a good idea, but you need your own guards,” Torran comments from his desk. I sit on one of the reception room’s couches and grab a pillow to have something between my hands.

“I don’t have men here. Do you think Constantine would rent me his mercenaries?”

“For a price, of course. Salim would be a better bet though, his security forces are not just good, they carry colors that no one, especially a public group like the Cabal, would want to offend.”

“Great idea, I will see how much he asks for a twenty men complement.”

“That would be acceptable.”

I wait in silence for Torran to finish his document. When he is done, I gather my courage to talk.

“I like what we have,” I start.

Sensing the mood, Torran turns and gives me his undivided attention. I like it when he stops everything to listen to me. I feel like the most important person in the world.

“But?” he replies.

“But nothing. I like what we have, full stop. I like you. I don’t want it to stop and yet it will, because I want to rule here and you will have to return to your own domain sooner or later.”

Torran holds his hands on his lap and considers for a moment. When he finally decides to talk, his voice is soft, softer than usual.

“I am your first.”

“Yes.”

“You still think of relationships in mortal terms. For them, there is always a next step. Marry, found a house, create a family, raise the children, grow old together. We are denied this. We are denied an end.”

I never considered it like that.

“When the partners are equal in our relationships, allowances must be made,” he continues, “We are designed to be territorial and individualistic and those of us who survive to masterhood elevate those traits to an art. It is natural that at some point, our paths will diverge.”

“What then?” I ask, “Do we just say goodbye and move on? That seems…”

“Too pragmatic?” he answers, as his lips curve upward ever so slightly. “Let me offer another perspective. We are lucky to have no end in sight. Perhaps in a hundred years we will still live and taste all those novelties you are so fond of. Who knows what wonders we will see, free of the ravages of time? The only thing that would prevent us from being together again is you, for I will brave oceans and armies for your favor, my… callipygian beauty.”

I consider this for a moment and realize that he is right and that I am too concerned about the ifs to enjoy the now. I also realize that I have no idea what callipygian means.

“This is all too depressing, and I no longer wish to consider this issue. Instead, I notice that you are not naked.”

“Indeed?” Torran replies with a sly look that shows where this is going.

“Why not?” I ask.

Torran and I leave Boston at the same time. He, to build a weapon and I, to build an alliance. It takes very little effort to convince Sephare to let me go since, as she said, it will take a few weeks to lay the groundwork of her conquest. She just sends me on my way with a smile and instructions to “have some fun, darling.”

I hire an escort from the Rosenthal, seething at the cost. I then remind myself that this is an investment and that they come with their own gear, supplies and training. They are also absolutely loyal which in itself is priceless.

The trip to New York only takes two days moving at great speed. As we travel, the weather takes a turn for the worse and soon the wheels of my carriage are covered in mud. The morose climate even manages to pierce through my guards’ professionalism, and I hear a few heartfelt complaints.

The only distraction occurs when I catch the scent of an interesting quarry, a werewolf on the loose. This one has turned feral and when I do find it, I can have a nice meal. Struck by inspiration, I bring back the corpse and have the slightly alarmed guards tie it up and place it on one of their wagons. Thankfully that werewolf had not fed yet so the body doesn’t stink and should not turn bad before I have put it to use.

“No, there are no others. Yes, I’m sure,” I tell the sergeant, a bald man with an impressive moustache by the name of Bannings.

Finally, we arrive at the meeting point, an inn on the outskirts of the city proper. I expected it to be a den of misfits where I would conduct a shady transaction while hidden under a cloak, my penetrating gaze the only thing visible past the helm of my hood. But alas, it appears that the fiction I brought with me to pass the time set the wrong expectations. The traveler’s rest is clean and well-lit. As soon as we get in, an old gentleman with the face of an experienced accountant stands up in a hurry and comes to greet me. His mage aura is obvious.

“Lady Ariane, it is you isn’t it? Mr. Hopkins described you perfectly.”

“How did he describe me exactly?” I ask with a neutral expression. To my delight, the man immediately squirms and I enjoy a hint of Schadenfreude at his unease.

“Hem, he, hm, he said that you would look like a young girl but come in like a war mage channeling a fireball.”

Ah.

He got me there.

“To be fair,” the man replies, correctly guessing at my state of mind, “you were the only blonde hair blue-eyed young woman to come in so late in the day.”

I am being comforted by a mage I just met and who is probably younger than me. Ah, well. This is not the bad part. Indeed, the real problem here is how easily Mr. Jonathan Hopkins read me. Am I becoming too predictable?

Am I getting old?

No no no it is fine. I just let my guard down because I was not trying to blend in. Yes. That is the real reason.

I follow the mage outside in silence. He misses a step when he takes in the veritable convoy I am leading as well as their very distinctive white uniforms. Nevertheless, he is quick to recover, and we follow him through small country roads to the edge of the lands of the White Cabal.

We pass by farmlands and animal pens between two stretches of forest. The farms here are not the sorry functional structures I am used to but comfortable homes in the German style, with wood beams visible on the walls and a sharply inclined roof. The land here is tamed and controlled, under the dominion of the same owners for over a century.

At the bend of a road I spot our destination: a long wooden palisade surrounding a tall gate. I can taste mighty enchantments from here. Once more, those are not temporary defenses, but static works embedded into the very earth. It would take more than my claws to tear those open. They are on the scale of what Loth would manage with resources and a bit of time.

The mage, whose name is Potts, turns his horse around and trots back to my carriage.

“We have arrived Milady, allow me to be the first to welcome you to Avalon.”

Pretentious name.

“I’ll get us through the gate. Mr. Hopkins requests that you do not show yourself as he would like to keep your presence a secret. We will go directly to his estate and he will explain everything. Would that be acceptable?” he asks with just a bit of worry.

I assent, and close the carriage’s curtains. The gate guards wave us in promptly, an indication that we are expected. Avalon itself is an intriguing mix between a town and a military installation. We pass by solid stone barracks, as well as offices and further in, warehouses. There are also inns and restaurants, more often made from wood. Some perpendicular streets are filled with shops ranging from a smithy to bookstores. At this late hour, the people are mostly gathered around a pair of taverns, though the streets themselves are not empty. Patrols walk the deserted squares and empty alleys. I estimate that at the very least two thousand souls live here full-time.

We do not stop and soon reach the outskirts. We ride past a firing range and kennels to more open lands. Spaced cottages fill the place now, each separated by thick lines of trees. We are still inside of the wooden wall which I can sometimes spot in the distance. In short order, we arrive at an unremarkable house where a familiar figure awaits us.

I climb down and greet the worried woman. I remember her from the battle. She was the healer who stood up to me and cried a lot, easily recognizable by her white hair and red eyes. Her name was Sola if I recall correctly. Now that her visage isn’t covered in snot, I can appreciate that she is beautiful in a fragile sort of way.

“Good evening! Oh, you are a bit early. Jon is still at a strategic meeting so we’ll have to wait a bit. He won’t be long.”

I follow her to the door of the cottage and stop at the threshold. Sola returns when she realizes I am not following and looks on with confusion before realizing the issue.

“I am so sorry. Please come in.”

I wordlessly follow her in a cozy, if cramped, entrance. An old maid with a disapproving frown glares silently.

“Hilda, please escort Lady Ariane to the study, would you?” Sola asks politely.

The maid takes in my countenance and the girl’s fearful tone. Her behavior shifts from suspicious to respectful in a heartbeat and I follow her up narrow stairs to a small room on the second floor. There, the homey aspect of the rest of the house is discarded in favor of an almost militaristic installation. Bookshelves filled with well-ordered reports and manuals line the wall, with a single desk set against a large window. Its surface is spotless with the exception of a pile of documents set in a case labelled “to-do.” The only concession to comfort is a set of three chairs centered around a coffee table, currently empty.

“The young mistress will be with you shortly milady, would you like something to drink in the meanwhile?”

“No thank you,” I reply.

The maid departs and I am left alone, so I decide to peruse Jonathan’s collection. Most of the books are treatises of various topics ranging from military to ethics, administration and economy. On a corner, I find a stocky dictionary and decide to check what “callipygian” means. I quickly find the right definition.

Callipygian: having well-shaped buttocks.

Well-played, Torran, well-played indeed.

Soon, Sola knocks and enters the room, searching for me with fearful eyes. Her aura spreads from lack of control, further betraying her nervousness. The scent of wood and old books is washed away by a more neutral one. Now, it just smells clean and crisp. She had already demonstrated that ability back in the cellar where I met her. Most peculiar power.

I could certainly use someone with her ability in Marquette. Ah, to have a room that smells clean. The dream.

“Oh, hm, you are here,” she mumbles with a small voice, “ah, where are my manners. Would you, huh, would you like some tea?”

Her face scrounges with the perfect expression of someone who just realized she placed her foot in her mouth. I simply cannot let this opportunity pass.

“No thank you, I prefer my drinks with a little more… body,” I reply, then show her a smile with a hint of fangs. She swallows nervously. Her fluttering heartbeat and the perfume of fear make her truly appetizing.

That was a nice one. I shall have to tell Nami when we meet again.

“R-right. Jon should be on his way back now. I’ll send him up. Hm. Bye!”

And then she runs away. Jon, huh? I cannot help but notice that it looks like she lives there and I saw a ring on her finger. He is a fast one.

It takes less than ten minutes for the man himself to stop in front of the door. I hear the imperceptible noise of a mechanism and turn to see that a previously hidden spying eye allows him to see in. I wave, and he enters.

“Forgive me. One can never be too cautious.”

To be fair, he is the right amount of cautious. I am the one taking inane risks coming here.

“I do not mind. So, you wanted to talk.”

“Right, talking. Talking, talking, talking.”

The curious man moves to the table and joins me in one of the chairs. He places a mug on the table from whence emerges wafts of tea. He takes a sip before continuing.

“I have done more talking in the past three months than in the past five years combined.”

“The cost of responsibility.”

“Indeed. I have to explain not just the thing but the why of the thing and the how of the thing and I need to acknowledge and thank and compliment and argue. Why can’t everyone think with their head and focus on the goal? Why all the pointless bullshit?”

Ah, that type. Jonathan sees politics and social niceties as a waste of time, a specificity of people whose intelligence far outstrips their social graces. Politics is an inevitability. He will get used to it, eventually. See it as yet another tool in his arsenal.

“Apologies. You did not come here to hear me complain. Let’s talk about the plan.”

“Before that, I have questions,” I interrupt.

He gestures for me to go on while sipping from his mug.

“You were promoted very recently, yes?”

“Correct.”

“And this is a city, probably with some sort of council that can remove you from your post at any given moment. Are you not taking a risk, asking me here?”

“On the contrary. I will be honest, I believe your presence will solidify my position and bring me, and us, multiple benefits.”

“Does it now?”

“Yes. I shall explain, since I am the one who asked you here. First, the current generation of war mages is graduating from our courses and there is a major problem. You see, they are exceptional. So good, in fact, that the old timers have already started to call them the golden generation. At least eight of them have the potential to become archmages. They know it, and it makes them cocky. Careless. As things are going now, half will die in their first few missions.”

“I see, and you need me to calm them down.”

“More specifically I need you to terrify the ever-loving shit out of them.”

“Language,” I protest.

“I mean it,” he continues, “they need to face you to understand that they remain humans in a world of old monsters.”

I mull this over. The way I see it, I am training mages to face vampires. I share my sentiment with Jonathan who only scoffs.

“Please, no amount of training can make us match your speed. Besides, I am serious about that alliance. Allow me to continue.

“The second benefit is political. Half of the council opposed my ascension to the title of Black Dog after Coolridge resigned even though he designated me as a successor.”

“They question your former affiliation?”

“Not even that, I am just an outsider to them. The old guard is loath to share their power with newcomers. Fortunately, the selection of a new Dog is mostly made by fighters since the Cabal’s creation. Your support will greatly increase my prestige and demonstrate my abilities as a diplomat, a skill that I have not demonstrated yet. My opponents have criticized me for that. At length.”

“Which brings me back to my previous question. Won’t they see me as a monster? It is, after all, what I am.”

“You underestimate the mystique around your kind. You are less seen as something to be fought and more as an inevitability. You, especially, led us through a blockade that would have been the death of us all. My men witnessed your savagery and spread tales of your actions upon their return. Trust me, your presence here will give me a cachet that will solidify my position beyond the council’s ability to damage.”

“What about my well-being? There are probably more than a thousand mages here, and I have twenty guards. A well-coordinated assault could cause my death.”

“In conflicts, mages don’t count. War mages do, and they are all under my command. With that said I took the liberty of having a secret shelter dug a hundred yards from here, its entrance camouflaged by powerful enchantments. You can slumber there.”

“I do not like this, but I will agree if that alliance of yours proves interesting enough.”

“Ah, yes, thank you for the reminder. This is not the third advantage your presence brings me. That one… I would rather tell you after the test since I am not sure it will turn out to be correct. There was something else I wanted to address.”

Jonathan places his cup on the table and leans forward. Our eyes meet, and I notice that he wears a pendant that protects him against my Charm. Like most of those, I could bypass it with time and effort. I will not, because we are negotiating as equals.

“Do you know what New York’s most important feature is?” he continues.

I gesture for him to go on.

“New York is the entry point for most European immigration right now. The reason why the White Cabal has grown so much recently is that we have heavily recruited from the newcomers. This has upset the balance of power within our organization, but it also represents a unique opportunity for us to turn into something new.”

“A national-level mage group.”

“Precisely,” Jonathan continues, “the largest alliance in the world. Power-wise we are far from it, but number-wise we are getting close.

“I have studied the power structure of spellcasters extensively in the past few months. In Europe, the battle mages are mighty and dangerous. They wield spells refined over centuries yet also jealously guarded. The clans, cabals, whatever they call themselves heavily compete for resources and knowledge.

“This secretive and adversarial state of mind made the winners strong, but it also contributed to a fragmented landscape with small entities constantly bickering with each other. We aim to change that here. Sola and I, as well as senior members of the council, are forcing the creation of a vast depository of knowledge that any member of the Cabal could access if they have proved themselves dependable. This is the first step towards normalized, large-scale training.”

“And the creation of a modern society of mages. The vampires may object to the creation of such a powerful organization.”

“You would not be the only ones. Spellcasters with a darker agenda, the Gabrielites and God knows who else will oppose us. That is why I am pushing for an alliance with you.”

“Jonathan, I eat people.”

“You are honorable and can be counted on. We are not here to save the world, we are here to save ourselves.”

“Some members of your organization must want to purge the world of our presence.”

“Yes, and half of their fighting men died in Louisiana last month. We are at a crossroad, and with your help, I will steer the Cabal towards cooperation. The first step of our alliance will be to send a contingent of our more frontier-minded people to Marquette, where they will settle and create a branch of the Cabal. That way, we can start transferring population outside of the compound before it gets saturated and we occupy the place.”

“You are worried that other groups may take over?”

“Not take over Marquette obviously, but yes, we need branches around to prevent others from moving in. Nature, after all, abhors a vacuum.”

“Very well, but I have terms.”

Jonathan picks up his mug and leans back, indicating that I should start.

“You get a territory where you may do whatever you want. You may not expand out of it before consulting with me and you may not enter the area around my nest without permission. You will support my men and me in any operations against my enemies, including other mages seeking my destruction. You will not prevent me from hunting. In return, I will also defend you and leave you to do your own thing on your end.”

“That sounds reasonable,” Jonathan replies, “we’ll write it all down and take an oath. I still need to convince the council and I propose that we try tomorrow after the exam. Would that be agreeable?”

“Yes. Now, let’s talk about the exam. I have prepared a few things…”

Jonathan listens to my plan and for the first time since we met, his grin is wide and genuine.

81. The Test

Today is a mighty important day! It’s the day we finally get to call ourselves full-fledged mages and wear the white uniform with the golden tassels, even us girls! Well, if we pass the final exam, of course. I am not too worried, though. Reggie said it would be a piece of cake, and besides, we passed every other exam with flying colors. What I really want is to beat Cornelius and wipe that self-assured grin off his stupid mug.

The teams have gathered at the academy. The familiar complex of solid wooden logs with the practice field feels different at night. More like a field camp than a school. The instructors have lit braziers and they all wear a serious expression and their battle gear. This is all quite intimidating! Even instructor Lydia looks fierce with her pistol and gauntlet. I think they just want us to be in the mood and it’s working. I haven’t felt this stressed since the entrance examinations.

As soon as everyone is here, Professor Tilley has us group up by teams, in ranks of two with the leader up front. Reggie is our captain. With his square jaw and dreamy green eyes, he is quite the dashing figure! He looks forward with aplomb and I find comfort in his confident stance and wide shoulders. That Cornelius wastrel sneers at us, but our dauntless leader would not even acknowledge his presence! That will show him.

After Reginald, there is Carmela, looking as fierce and aloof as usual. True to her nickname of “the Amazon,” she stands tall and uncaring, looking nifty with her saber. Our shield-master Cedric is his usual bubbling self. He can barely stop moving, and I can see the restraint he must exert not to start one of his usual jokes. Oh, what a cad! I hope his good mood carries us through this ordeal as well. Then, there is Will, as silent and brooding as usual. I’m sure his keen intellect is already picking up clues and tips to help us get ahead. And then there’s me. I may not look like much, but my firebolts are second to none! I worked hard for this, and even Professor Tilley commended me for their power and accuracy. Take that Cornelius! Where are your tradition and lineage now huh? You can shove your “mongrel” remarks up your—

Before my thought can finish, a man exits the command room and walks to the center of the line of teachers. It’s the Black Dog himself! My God, he is so young! I knew this, of course, but to see it with my own eyes!

I met old Coolridge when he oversaw the entrance ceremony last October and, well, he looked like that kind of general from the stories who cares for his men. This Hopkins person is different. He wears the black uniform Coolridge had disdained and it suits him like a glove. And he seems… I don’t know, dangerous? His dark eyes pass over us and I shiver a bit. He reminds me of Will when he had us skirt the rules to win the previous game. Like he would go to any length to achieve victory. I’m not sure I like it, but if that kind of man can protect others from what befell my family then I won’t complain.

After he is done with his inspection, the Black Dog addresses us. His voice is curt and clear, silencing our whispers in an instant.

“Welcome, students, to this year’s practical exam. Tonight, you will take part in a mock mission that will push your training and adaptability to their very limits. I expect each and every one of you to act like the war mages you have trained to become. Good luck and do us proud. That is all.”

With those few words, he steps back and Tilley takes the ground. That’s it? That’s the inspirational speech a general delivers? I cannot say that I’m impressed…

But then there is no more time for diversion. Tilley is explaining the details of the mission.

“Your task tonight is as follows: you will go with your team to an outpost built deep within the Spiderwood forest. There, you will meet up with the patrol leader who will give you further instructions. We will send you out one team at a time. Team Zephyr starts immediately, the rest of you head inside the canteen to wait your turn.”

We walk back inside the complex through a wide door and sit at our usual tables in the building’s long refectory. Every team plans and discusses in low voices and we are no exception.

“What do you think?” I ask no one in particular.

“Orientation, followed by a patrol and a fight,” Carmela starts in her smooth alto, “the Spiderwood is dense enough that they can set up an ambush. Test our awareness.”

“So kind of you to untangle that web,” Cedric deadpans, forcing all of us to groan. Yet when we resume our conversation, the mood is slightly lighter. This is Cedric’s gift. He can always bring levity at our darkest time, like that time he comforted me during Christmas. I do not know if the others have noticed how much of a difference it makes, but I have.

“I agree with Carmela,” Reginald continues calmly, “I think we can use lanterns until the camp then switch to spells during the patrol. That way, we conserve our aura and reduce our exposure right as the enemy attacks. What do you think, Will?”

Silence.

“Will?”

“Yes, I heard you. I think it’s fine.”

We all turn to the broody boy. He is resting his chin on his hands, fingers interlaced together. He usually does that when he is formulating one of his dastardly plans.

“What’s the matter, my friend?” Cedric asks.

“Nothing yet… just… something Hopkins said.”

“What, that speech?” Reggie scoffs, “that was miserable. Perhaps Cornelius was right, and this man doesn’t have the shoulders to lead. A true general should make one’s blood boil with only a few words!” he declares with passion.

Reggie is so heroic! He is all fire and fury and I am so proud. With him as a leader, we are the best team around and fear nothing and no one!

“Hmm,” Will answers noncommittally as his dark eyes bore into Reggie’s righteous expression, “perhaps. In any case, we should do as you say until we receive further orders.”

We continue to converse as two more teams are led away. Soon, only Cornelius’s team, as well as Phenix team, Pearl team and ours, are left. I feel more and more anxious for some reason and soon realize the cause. The instructors are coming and going wearing peculiar expressions. Their faces are too… blank. Should they be this nervous? I mean, we are the ones taking the exam, right?

Soon, it is our turn and Tilley leads us away to the armory where we retrieve our gear, as well as lanterns, a map, and other sundries.

“Is something the matter, sir?” asks Will who picked on the professor’s apparent nervousness.

“Nothing you need to concern yourselves with,” the older man retorts curtly, “just focus on the mission, that is all you need to do.”

We follow him to a smaller gate out of the enclave and directly into the Spider Wood. The line of tall trees looks much more ominous under the night light, their branches now the gnarled hands of some petrified witches.

“Your mission starts now. Good luck,” Tilley says, then hurries back as if there was an emergency.

“That’s queer,” Cedric observes with furrowed brows. We do not reply, and soon all turn to face the expanse of dark woods before us.

Spider Wood may have a sinister name, but in truth it’s just a large patch of wood left completely untamed at the edge of Avalon. It remains untouched, mostly for training purposes and also as a buffer against the mundane world. We have crossed it a few times for orientation practice as well as games and mock battles. The “capture the flag” operations are particularly fun because the wood is so dense. There are many hiding spots and secret paths and Will is devious beyond measure, giving our squad the edge every time.

We are on familiar grounds.

“Night-patrol formation. Let’s do this, people,” Reggie announces in his serious voice. We light some lanterns and walk into the dense shrubs, searching for a path. Cedric opens the way as usual. Not only does he have keen senses, he also wears an enchanted piece of cavalry breastplate and a heavy helmet. Reggie and Carmela follow and provide illumination. Then, there is me, who can throw the best bolts as well as a decent shield. Finally, Will closes the march in the black ensemble he chose. He also carries a small crossbow and though both he and Reggie know how to use pistols, we do not have any at the moment. We walk slowly through the dense vegetation in a single file and I am grateful that the clothes we wear are thick enough to protect my legs from both brambles and insects.

It does not take long for the lights of the town to disappear and the forest to close in around us. The world is reduced to bulbous tree trunks strangled by ivy, branches and roots that grab at our feet and above our head, an impenetrable canopy. The two bobbing lights from the lanterns become our talismans to ward off the darkness. All I can hear are our heavy breaths, the snaps of broken twigs and the creaks of live wood. After a while, a curious sensation of timelessness grips my heart and I start to wonder if perhaps we are lost, if the trail no longer exists and we crossed some fae arch to disappear in this green hell for all of eternity.

Fortunately, we find the beaten path before this curious idea grows into more than a fantasy.

“That’s the Wilson trail,” Reginald comments, “we can follow it to the flag clearing, then the camp is just around a bend, according to the map.”

We turn right and walk for another fifteen minutes. It feels good to see the stars again. Eventually, the path widens into a glade with a massive willow tree at its center. That’s where we won our first capture the flag battle against that pompous dolt Cornelius and his cronies! I remember the area well, except that under the light of the moon it feels much less friendly.

Also…

“Was this always here?”

“Jesus Christ.”

“What?”

We gather in front of the huge trunk, struck by disbelief. Its previously pristine bark is now shredded, lacerated by a double set of claws. The marks are so deep that I could easily hide two knuckles in the furrows.

“It’s like a beast marked its territory or something,” Cedric exclaims.

“What kind of beast?! There isn’t anything in the Spiderwood that can leave such marks,” Carmela objects, her hand on the hilt of her saber.

“A black bear?” Reginald suggests, hesitant.

Will approaches and silently places his hand against the maimed bark. Even spaced at their widest, there is no way for his fingers to touch the outermost ditches.

“My God…” I helplessly remark. A black bear? More like a grizzly!

“Do you recognize the markings?” Reginald asks our resident know-it-all.

“Maybe,” Will answer cautiously, “it’s just that… No. No, it can’t be.”

“Well, out with it, man,” Cedric urges.

“Werewolf.”

We all freeze in shock and horror.

“The final exam can’t be a werewolf, right?” Cedric asks with fear.

“Impossible! Don’t be ridiculous, man,” Reginald chides him, “they would never allow fresh recruits against such a monster and particularly not in a wooded area. No, I think it’s unexpected.”

“What should we do then? We can’t exactly go toe to toe against a werewolf!”

“I agree that it would be suicide, but right now we need to link up with the patrol at the outpost. It would still be safer than heading back.”

We all agree, and I remember the classes we had on werewolves. They are cursed humans who turn into giant lupine hybrids under the influence of the full moon or, sometimes, voluntarily. In wolf form, they are vicious creatures that kill for sport. They are incredibly fast, monstrously strong, and their claws can carve steel as if it were wax. They are even more dangerous in forests and the deadliest ones temper their savagery with humanlike cunning. Only experienced groups track them down and still incur the occasional casualties. I remember that Carmela’s elder sister was killed in such a hunt, poor thing.

If this is truly a werewolf, we must act with all haste. We are vulnerable!

“Let’s go quickly,” Will urges us.

We follow the trail out of the clearing and the forest swallows us once more. Everyone has their weapons out and I call upon my magic. I feel my aura suffuse my body and I guide it to the gauntlet where it lays, quiescent and ready. The energy glows softly in my mind like a reliable and constant companion. I have but to use the right symbol and say the word, and by my will manifest a spear of fire that can go through a man without slowing down.

Not that I ever did such a thing!

We are tense, checking every angle but never stopping along the way. Visibility is reduced when the road turns around a bend. We instinctively accelerate as the fires of the outpost come into view.

Something is wrong.

“Stay in formation,” Reginald urges us as we move closer.

There are no sentries and as we get close enough, I notice a discarded helmet on the ground. Some lanterns around the perimeter are still shining.

We enter the outpost still in a circle with me at the center. It is closer to a treehouse than to a real installation. Just a few benches around a fire, three tents and a rope leading up to an observation post.

Reginald gestures us in. There are no bodies but it smells like blood… and soon we find the source: a trail of red leading further into the woods as if something heavy had been dragged.

“God no…” Carmela whispers softly, her voice quavering.

“There is only one track, and the rest of the camp left in a hurry,” Cedric observes, “think they went after the beast?”

“To rescue their comrade, undoubtedly!” Reggie proclaims.

I look at the blood on the ground. All that red… No, I have not seen the body so I must not give in to despair. Still…

“We must go after them. They might need our help!” our fearless leader proclaims, and I feel courage fill my heart. Yes, we are to be war mages! We need to act like proper heroes!

All of us nod, our faces grim yet determined. All of us except Will. We all turn to him, surprised.

“Will?” Reggie frowns, his chiseled jaw locked by anger.

“I think we should head back to town and call for reinforcements.”

“What? And leave the others alone?” Reggie explodes.

“Calm down, Reggie, please,” Cedric says with a grim expression. As for Carmela, she is staring around frantically, trying to cover all angles.

I don’t know what to say. This is the first time I saw Will argue for a full retreat.

“We are not equipped to face a werewolf. Only Carmela has a silver blade and my silver-tipped quarrels are too small, not to mention that I have only the three. If we fall back now, we can have this place crawling with veteran fighters in half an hour.”

“These men don’t have half an hour!”

“You don’t know that, and you should consider that we could be more hindrance than actual help.”

“I never took you for a coward!” Reginald bellows, red with fury.

William, the ever-placid William, takes a deep breath in as his face contorts with unbridled anger. Then, just as I believe the two will come to blows, he settles down and his visage grows as cold and aloof as usual. I don’t like it when he does this, bury it all inside, but now is not the moment to fight. We must follow Reggie’s lead!

“Very well, I suppose you will have to learn by yourself. Lead the way, oh fearless leader,” the dark man answers, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

I can tell that Reggie has been needled beyond reason but his anger is misplaced.

“Reggie, if we want to help them, we must leave now,” I declare.

“Right, form up,” he says, with a last venomous look at our friend. Reginald takes the lead with his gauntlet prepped and dagger raised. Cedric follows and then Carmela too, after a delay. She seems despondent. I don’t like it. Oooh, I don’t like any of this. Why is the team arguing now? And is Carmela fine? No one said anything to her.

“Carmie?” I ask in a soft voice, but she doesn’t respond. Her eyes are still looking around, haunted, and her back is bent forward.

I’m not so sure that this is a good idea. We are in way over our head. What Will said is true… No, I must not doubt Reggie, not now. He is a true gentleman and one day he will become Black Dog, I am sure of it.

“I will take point. Cedric and Carmela, be prepared to cover me. Mina, keep that spell ready and Will, give us night vision.”

Night vision is one of those weird spells that Will picked up at the library that no one else wanted. Thieves’ magic, Cornelius would say. It has proven useful on more than one occasion though.

“Pierce the veil,” Will whispers, and I can feel my view grow clearer and the world comes into focus. We leave the lanterns behind and trot forward.

A blind man could follow the trail. Besides the blood, there are also the many footsteps of pursuers. We follow the chaos for a few minutes before seeing our first signs of combat. In another clearing, this one caused by a fallen tree, we find broken weapons and spell impacts but mercifully no other bodies.

“We can’t be too far, keep going,” Reggie urges us. I am getting really worried about Carmela but there is little I can do right now.

We burst into yet another clearing, this one unfamiliar, and stop in our tracks. Surprise robs me of my speech.

I expected a battlefield, I expected dead people and to some extent, I expected howls but certainly not this.

The small valley has an incline with us at its bottom. Above us, a massive stone rises up from the grass. Below it sit three mages, clearly still alive and bound by chains, and on top of the stone itself, the displayed corpse of the werewolf.

I had never seen one before but there is no mistaking it. The body is humanoid, to some extent, though the head is as lupine as can be with a jaw filled with serrated teeth shining gloomily under the moonlight. Sharp, long claws hang from its long fingers. They are big enough to circle my waist with room to spare!

And someone killed it?

And took the mages prisoner?

How can this be?

Paralyzed by fear and indecision, we helplessly witness the spectacle before us. Reggie is the first to speak, and his sentence summarizes our minds well.

“What in the name of God is going on?”

Immediately, we get our answer.

It starts with an aura, not the rich and shimmering one we all share but a cold and unyielding wave of power unlike anything I have ever felt before. It crashes against the squad and pulls us under, subjugating our spirits beneath its frigid claws. I gasp and hold my chest. Carmela’s blade slides from her helpless fingers. We all moan and fight the onset of despair, for something is coming.

Heavy hooves stomp on the ground with deliberate slowness and I turn my head to the right to see a figure that my worst nightmares could not have conjured. A gigantic warhorse walks in our direction. Powerful muscles roll lazily under a coat as dark as soot. Eyes of flaming red regard us with disdain from up high, and even I can tell the incredible power waiting to be unleashed. This is the king of war horses, and if the apocalypse comes and the pale knight rides, it will do so on the back of such a creature.

Sitting comfortably on the infernal beast is a young woman.

She is beautiful, with delicate golden hair around an elegant face. Her blue eyes inspect us impassibly and the normalcy stops there, for below her neck she is clad in a midnight suit of armor that an emperor would envy. An intricate lattice of plates clings to her lithe form and on her chest, she bears an unknown coat of arms as strange as it is threatening. She also holds in her hand a cruel hunting spear coated with blood.

The aura comes from her. It rolls from her silhouette in waves like a winter storm, flaying us with its sheer intensity. It freezes me to my soul.

“More snacks!” she mocks in a haughty voice, “Such an auspicious night. You all just come running, do you not?”

I turn to Reggie, too out of sort to even start to think.

“Who are you and what have you done? This is White Cabal territory!” he boldly claims.

“I say this is my territory since I hunt in it,” she replies, uncaring, “and I hope that you will offer more of a challenge than your predecessors.”

“Release our friends immediately!” Reggie orders with a squeaky voice that I can barely recognize. I turn around and see that Carmie is ignoring us, still staring at the wolf’s corpse while Will’s expression is a frozen mask. The only other person to react is Cedric.

“Reggie… My God Reggie…”

“What?”

“I-I think… she’s a vampire!”

We turn to the woman, even Carmela, and watch in disbelief as she slowly, slowly grins, revealing pointed fangs. As she does it, a passing cloud shifts and moonlight bathes her alabaster skin in a ghostly light. My fear turns to panic.

“Hold fast,” Reggie trumpets, “hold fast and we have nothing to fear! We are the shield of Avalon!”

The woman chuckles and slides off her mount with preternatural grace. She steps forward while twirling her spear in the air then stops fifteen paces away from us.

“You have nothing to fear? Let me put this to the test.”

Then she disappears. One instant she’s away, in a relaxed stance and the next she is by our side, holding Carmela by the neck.

“Shit!” Cedric swears.

“Let her go, you monster, guiding blade!” Reggie screams and he throws his dagger. The projectile flies into the air! Unfortunately, the devious vampire moves and the projectile rakes Carmela’s flank! She screams in pain causing all of us to stop. The vampire lifts fingers now coated in blood and licks them languidly.

“Not the sharpest knife in the drawer, are you?” she asks Reginald with palpable contempt.

None of us dare move. None of us act as the vile monster bares our sobbing friend’s neck and bites it. We are still paralyzed a few seconds later when her groans are silenced and the creature drops her unmoving form.

“Noooooooooo!” I scream, “no! Carmela!”

“You beast!” Reggie roars.

She won’t get away with it! I’ll send her to the abyss!

“Firebolt!”

Hundreds of hours of practice have made my spells true. The beautiful and familiar crimson streak dashes across the valley.

The woman lifts a hand which now shines blue. With contemptuous ease, she slaps my spell away!

“Is that all?” she asks with a bored voice.

“Firebolt!” I yell once more, soon followed by the others. We send hexes and curses after the demon but she either deflects or dodges them all. She does not even move from her place! Is she mocking us?

“Do not relent!” Reggie bellows, and we keep firing. Three by three, we send ineffectual projectiles after her. I have never felt so powerless, even when my family was killed. I fight back the fear and the grief, not just for Carmela but also for the rest of us.

We are going to die here.

And then something else happens. I now realize that we have indeed attacked by three, which means… that William disappeared! I now see a blur moving closer to the vampire, step by step. I must distract her!

“Light!” I scream, and a blue ray extends from my gauntlet to the creature’s head. She closes her eyes. Yes! This is our chance!

Will jumps at her back with one of his silver-tipped bolts used as an improvised stiletto. Hope surges in my heart.

Then the monster turns and catches William mid-lunge.

“A commendable effort, you even masked the noise.”

She dodges one last spell and bites down, staring Reggie in the eye. She’s making sure we see William perish! No, I will not allow that!

Reggie charges forward, and I follow him bravely! We must not give up!

Then something queer happens.

I am sent in the air.

I push myself from the ground and spit grime and leaves. Gah! What happened? Cedric, Reggie and I are in a heap on the ground? How?

No…

It’s the vampire. She’s toying with us.

It’s… over, it really is.

We are doomed.

Carmela and Will, my friends…

I can’t believe it. This has to be an illusion, a nightmare! We were just going to become war mages! How can it all turn out like this?!

“Disappointing. Pathetic. Are you really combat mages?”

“We will… not falter!” Reggie spits, his spirit unbroken.

The vampire’s cold blue eyes turn to him with slow purpose and I feel an intense weight settling on my shoulder like a mighty yoke. Reggie flinches.

“You must be the leader of this sorry lot.”

“I am Reginald Lewis…”

“I care not,” the vampire interrupts and Reggie’s voice dies in his throat. I feel something like a presence in my mind, a pervasive poison that fills me with dread but try as I might, I cannot shake it off. She’s doing something to me!

“You are a poor excuse of a man to send this ragtag joke of a troop against me.”

She blurs again and when I see her, she is holding Cedric by the neck, her other hand digging into his armor as if it were paper.

Cedric, kind-hearted Cedric, squirms and screams in her hold.

When will the nightmare end? I let my tears fall freely from my cheeks. What can I do? What can I do? She’s just too fast, too strong! Nothing we’ve done even bothered her!

“There,” she continues casually as if she were entertaining guests, “do tell him about honor and glory. Go on.”

She squeezes and Cedric yells in pain.

“Your pointless sacrifice honors the Cabal! Your fighting spirit will live on in the afterlife!” she declares in a fake voice, a mockery of Reggie’s previous statements.

“Go on, leader,” she urges Reggie. Her fangs are bared in a nightmarish smile, sly and filled with disdain. Oh yes, so filled with disdain.

“Tell him you’ll win.”

We never stood a chance.

Reggie’s face is a mask of pain and powerlessness. He, too, is crying. Then to my surprise, he swallows his sobs and turns to me.

“Mina…”

I am so scared.

“… run.”

Huh?

“Now! Run!”

I obey.

I leave all my friends behind in this place of death, their corpses strewn across the grass. I run and I do not look back, and the worst thing is that I already know it will be for nothing.

She’s just too fast. I won’t make it back to the camp, much less back to town.

It’s over.

It’s all over.

As I run with all the desperation, I suddenly remember something. A voice I heard only an hour ago. It feels like an eternity now.

“Act like the war mage you have trained to become,” the Black Dog had said.

That’s right. I am a war mage. If I must die, let my sacrifice be of use.

I will warn the others!

I shift right on the path, to a slightly more open area where the sky was opened by the fall of a large aspen. I channel all my power, all my will into one last spell.

“I wonder what you hope to achieve…” an amused voice comments behind me. I turn around and see her only a few steps away from me. She stands there like a lady at court, talking about the weather. The contrast between her polite observation and the slaughter behind chills me to the bone.

The gauntlet thrums with power and my hand is uncomfortably warm. This is it.

I raise the gauntlet and the woman lifts an aristocratic brow, only to display genuine surprise when I point fully upward.

“Firebolt!” I yell, and the spell takes off, its shiny radiance a reverse meteor that breaches the canopy and climbs to the sky.

The spell explodes. The loud detonation sends leaves fleeting in the air, while the light shines like a small sun.

“A beacon?” the vampire asks.

I turn to her, facing my death. I do not lower my eyes nor bend my back. I am a war mage and will die like one.

“Now, all of Avalon will come for you,” I declare, and close my eyes.

I pray one last time, thinking about my friends and the regrets I have. I wish I could have lived longer, and yet I find that if I had to do it again, I would. Carmela’s aloof grace and down-to-earth behavior, Reggie’s spirit, William’s guile and Cedric’s humor. Yes, I was blessed to end in such a company.

Nothing happens.

Is she toying with me?

“Melthanein, not bad, cub. Perhaps enough for a passing grade.”

I open my eyes with surprise. The vampire is still here, tapping her index against her chin. Her eyes shift from the sky to me. They are no longer full of scorn.

“This exam is over. Follow.”

What?

What?!

I sputter. What? Huh? This was… not real? No? This was all an exam? No, impossible. The bodies, the blood. No? Maybe? Is this a farce? Am I dead or hallucinating the entire scene? This is… too much. I burst into tears.

“If this is… some sort of cruel game!”

“It is not. Your friends are waiting. Come, I don’t have all night.”

I stand there, wracked by emotions. The vampire turns and I meet her gaze. This time, it carries no judgement.

“Your courage was commendable. Do use it a bit longer, there are still three more groups to assess.”

I stare in disbelief, then wipe my tears. Three groups, she said. That means she was part of the planning, probably. Also, there would be more bodies if she had found the other groups first… and she has little reasons to keep me alive.

The walk back to the clearing is an ordeal. My nerves are a frayed bundle of raw panic but I want to see them, I want to know.

And finally, I do. The mages covered in chains are standing around the lying forms of Carmela, Cedric and Reggie and I now realize that the steel links do not cover their hands. William stands by the side with his arms crossed.

I run to him and hug him, but I only allow myself to cry for a few seconds. I want to see to the others.

Then I realize something is weird.

I pull back, eyes narrowed, and the previous fear makes a return.

“Did you know this was a test?”

He hesitates, but eventually relents.

“Yes.”

“And you did not tell us? Why?”

His dark eyes inspect me, considering.

“There are some lessons that can only be learned the hard way. Reggie… is a good man, but he needed that.”

“That? This… nightmare? We needed to go through that?”

He nods.

I want to slap him.

“Why?” I demand, angry beyond measure.

“There will be time for talks later,” the vampire declares, and we turn. Carmela is on her feet, blinking owlishly. I jump to hug her as she takes in her surroundings.

“Huh, so this is how it is…” she says.

I fiercely hug her and feel better when she pats my back. I know she dislikes physical contact, I just couldn’t help it.

“Is that a real werewolf?” She asks with a hoarse voice. I pull back just as the vampire woman answers with the affirmative.

“Did you kill it yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Can I take a closer look?”

“Yes, but hurry. You five must be on your way.”

Carmela moves to the stone but I interrupt her.

“Carmela, your flank!”

“What about it?”

I look for her wound but find none. I turn to the blonde vampire with a struck expression.

“I stabbed my own palm to get some blood. You should have noticed that it was too dark to be hers.”

I hadn’t.

“You panicked and your addled brain filled the gaps,” she continues, as Cedric now wakes up with a jolt.

“What?” he asks. Then he sees us all standing around, and slaps his forehead.

“Oh, the exam, dammit! I guess we failed, huh.”

The exam.

I don’t know what to think.

Cedric flinches when he realizes that the vampire is still here, but he soon tries to gather his courage and even starts a conversation!

“Hah, you’re amazing. An illusionist? I never saw you around here, are you a new archmage?”

The men look at him with utter disappointment mixed with disbelief. The vampire just ignores him. It takes him but a few moments to realize his mistake and he pales once more.

Reggie is last to wake. When his eyes open, he also quickly understands that this was all a test. Our leader alternates between outrage and despair. Eventually, he turns to the head war mage, a dour man I sometimes saw at the practice field.

“What—”

“Shut up. Stand up and prepare to follow us back to the town.”

“I have a right to—“

“Two hours of detention.”

Reggie clamps his jaws but he doesn’t press the issue and he is right. I, too, can tell from the mage’s stony expression that he will not hesitate to have us peel potatoes until the winter solstice, should we dare to mouth off.

The vampire woman closes with Carmela and whispers something in her ear. My friend turns away from the monstrous corpse still laid atop the monolith and joins us, her face contemplative. As she passes me by, she squeezes my hand and I feel better.

The walk of shame back to the town is the worst of my life. At some point, Cedric starts to whisper only to be told to shut it by the mage trio. They have left their chains behind, which were put on by another team. It looks like everyone will get to experience facing off against a monster of legend.

We drag ourselves not to the barracks but to the administrative headquarters of the White Cabal military. There, we are made to sit on uncomfortable chairs with no water and forced to stay silent while the dour mage leaves, probably to report. Ten minutes later, we are summoned to the office of the Black Dog himself.

We line in front of him as he leans back in his leather chair, hands crossed over his lap. He glares at us from across a spotless desk, managing to look down upon us despite being the only one seated.

Eventually, he starts in a tone rife with disappointment.

“Do I need to spell out your result?”

“Sir, I must protest!” Reggie starts immediately.

“You must?” the Dog interrupts him, “do you object to my methods? Perhaps you find me unfair? Perhaps you find my standards too high?”

Reggie reddens with shame.

“Which specific aspect of this task did you find to be too hard?”

“The vampire?!”

“Indeed? Did I ask you to kill a vampire?”

“But…”

“Did I?” Black Dog Hopkins demands, raising his voice for the first time.

Silence.

“Answer me, Reginald Lewis, did I give you the impossible task to kill a vampire at any time of the briefing?”

Silence.

“So far, two teams have passed this test and will receive the title of war mage.”

“Impossible!” Reginald sputters.

The Black Dog smashes his fist on his desk and we all jump in surprise. His next words drip with contempt.

“You have all been judged according to the exact same standards. Team Phenix and Flame successfully pulled back and reported the presence of a werewolf, as well as the disappearance of the patrol.”

“What? But, this is cowardice?” Reggie exclaims.

“Mr Lewis, what was the consequence of your so-called bravery this night? No need to answer, I will spell it for you. You and your entire team were killed to the last man, only managing to give some semblance of warning to our town because of the presence of mind of Mina Kinkaid. Did I summarize your achievements to your satisfaction?”

Silence. Reggie looks… defeated. Humiliated. I have never seen him so desperate. He who would always keep calm under any circumstances is now on the verge of tears. I want to comfort him against that miserable Black Dog and yet I do not because deep inside, I am troubled.

Yes, we acted foolishly. William was right when he suggested a retreat. What looked like cowardice was in fact…

Common sense.

“The White Cabal military is a professional outfit dedicated to the defense of our kind against the horrors of this world and those who would seek to enslave or exterminate us. I will not accept glory hounds and sanctimonious imbeciles in the ranks of my beloved army, for failure is not an option. That is why, Mr Lewis, we do not charge in against a superior opponent with no plan. That is why, Mr Lewis, we prioritize the survival of our team through common sense and basic logic. And finally, that is why, when lectured by a superior officer, we do not question and object but stay quiet and listen. Do you understand?”

“…Yes sir.”

“Mr. Hope, Lady Ariane informs me that you saw through the whole thing. I am tired of wasting my breath on a bunch of incompetent morons. You will explain the situation.”

William licks his lips and turns to us. He is a bit hesitant at first, yet soon his words flow with the same precision and clarity as when he explains his plan.

“The first hint happened during the speech. I can tell that you did not pay attention so I will remind you.”

“Act like the war mages you have trained to become…” I whisper, my eyes widening.

“Precisely,” Will says with approval, “this was a strange thing to say. I expected him to speak about valor, intelligence or some such but the specific wording and brevity of the message struck me as odd. Then there were the marks on the tree. They were a little too obvious and also lacked some other elements of territorial marks.”

“Huh?” Cedric asks.

“Urine and fecal matter,” William adds helpfully.

“Oh.”

“In any case, the camp was also a setup. The trail was too clean. Normally, you would have a large splatter at the site of the attack and more chaos where the victim would try to get free. I was pretty sure that this was all a trick by that time and that’s why I suggested that we fall back.”

Behind Will, the Black Dog allows himself a small nod, the only sign of appreciation he has shown so far.

“Why not tell us?” Cedric asks, stupefied. Reggie remains silent but he, too, looks curious.

“That would have defeated the purpose of the exercise. We were meant to realize that we were outclassed and retreat, which I tried to explain. Instead, you called me a coward.”

William’s voice is not judgmental. If anything, he looks sad. Reginald purses his lips and averts his gaze.

“I became sure when we spotted the vampire. Lady Ariane, apparently. Do you remember the details of the disaster at New-Orleans?”

We remember of course, they only escaped thanks to the help of… oh.

“Is she the one?”

“The very same,” the Black Dog interjects.

“Right, I asked around out of curiosity and the survivors described her as a young-looking woman with blonde hair and blue eyes. That’s why I was certain. When she pretended to bite me, she did not force me to lose consciousness so I faked stupor while she took care of you. She tasked me and the instructors with making sure you were all comfortable before going after Mina.”

A series of “oohs” and “aahs” flow through the room.

“Good enough, now, attention!” the Black Dog says.

We instinctively snap into salute. The Black Dog stands up and comes to stand before Reginald. He is quite tall, I notice.

“Reginald Lewis, your performance was dismal. You allowed your lust for glory to get to your head, leading to the death of your entire squad as well as a failure to inform command of your situation. You did not order the creation of a defensive perimeter to delay the vampire, instead attacking her recklessly. You disregarded the advice of your subordinate and insulted him in front of his peers. You fail. You are hereby relieved of your position as squad leader until you pass the seminary on squad management to the satisfaction of your instructors.”

He walks to Cedric.

“Cedric Birmingham, you remained quiet when your fellow member objected to Mr Lewis’ inane plan, you remained quiet after witnessing signs of a dangerous enemy, you failed to acknowledge your squad member’s intense emotional distress…”

Cedric turns to Carmela, face stricken by surprise then by guilt.

“… and you omitted to establish a defensive shield to delay a superior opponent. You fail. You will attend intensive training for three months, following which you will be allowed to take the exam again.”

He turns to Carmela.

“Carmela von Leeb. You should have known better.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You fail. You will follow the same program as Mr Birmingham here, as well as compulsory counseling.”

“…Yes, sir.”

She lowers her head.

“Mina Kinkaid.”

I want to close my eyes but I do not. I keep my spine straight and look forward.

“Not once did you question your leader’s poor decision, nor did you act on the distress of your comrade in arms. You followed blindly. You fail.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Compassion and intelligence mean nothing if you do not use them. I expected more from you.”

“Yes, sir, sorry, sir.”

“You will attend the same training as the two others.”

He stops before the last member of our group.

“William Hope. You displayed wisdom by objecting to the plan and loyalty by still sticking with your friends. Lady Ariane says that your obfuscation spell is, and I quote, amusing though he should also work on his smell. You pass. You have two choices. You can remain with your friends as they attend the supplementary training, or…”

“Supplementary training, sir.”

“I expected no less.”

He walks back behind his seat and picks the next paper off the bundle in front of him.

“You have your orders. Now, get out of my office.”

We leave.

What a night.

82. Pact.

It has been one hour since the end of the exam. Hopkins mentioned a complication and an opportunity and I decided to stick with him and see how things develop. Right now, I am not too worried as I patiently wait inside the White Cabal Council building, their seat of political power.

I have to give it to the Cabal, they have a vision. The council building is a large, two-storied square edifice with plenty of windows and a cupola beneath which an amphitheatre serves as the hub of their decision-makers. Both the architecture and the furniture are austere and painted all white, with minimum embellishments. It gives the place an air of dignity that helps visitors forget that this alliance is young and still fragile.

A few pieces of art tastefully placed attract the eye, and I am pleased to see that they chose quality over quantity. The paintings are all neoclassical, static and disciplined. I can appreciate their work though I prefer the passion and colors of the romantic movements. It illustrates the creativity and fire I admire in mortals that much more.

Also, some neoclassical artists have probably never seen a bare bosom in their life. Seriously, how can they so easily ignore the effects of gravity? Ah, I should not complain. Not that there are any exposed female nipples in the antechamber of this majestic institution anyway.

As I muse and inspect a faithful reproduction of “Oath of the Horatii” by David, which shows the three Roman brothers as they prepare to fight to the death for their city, a commotion comes from the corridor leading to the exit.

The alley I find myself in circles the large chamber at the center of the building. Stairs lead up to a mezzanine and some offices, while large windows give me a commanding view of the city outside.

As for why I am not worried, the reasons are two-fold. First, the only force that would pose a mortal danger to me is firmly on Hopkins’ side and therefore, on mine. Secondly, I am well-protected by twenty Rosenthal mercenaries in their emblematic grey uniforms.

That is why, when a large group approaches, I do not react, I do not stand up. I do not even avert my eyes from the masterpiece of civic duty and brotherly love before me.

Bannings, their grizzled leader, approaches the newcomers.

“Halt,” he commands as his men close rank with their hands on their pistols, “may I ask your business here?”

“I have no need to justify my presence at the heart of my own government!” exclaims the leader of the troop of mages who just appeared. I can tell from their aura that those men know how to fight though they do not carry the uniform of the Cabal soldiers. There are a dozen of them, some young, some old, all nervous.

“If it’s your government you want to see, the door is behind you to your right.”

“I’m not here for the door, I’m here to take the vampire into custody in the name of the Council!” the man declares with far more confidence than he should. I can taste his fear under the cover of a bravado fueled more by pride than common sense.

I do not react, nor do I need to. I was right to bring an escort, and Hopkins, always two steps ahead of his opposition, was right to give me some company.

“Who is this I hear making such bold statements? Is that you, Garrick?” asks a calm voice. An old man with a flowing white beard and kind chocolate eyes gently pushes Bannings aside to stand between the two groups.

“In the name of the Council? There was no such order, as we both know.”

“Councilman Frost?! Stand aside, this is no business of yours.”

“Of course it is, young Garrick, of course it is, since you just claimed a legitimacy you have no right to. Tell me, is this a coup? Are you rebelling against us and all of Avalon? Trying to seize power?”

“What? No! We only wish to preserve the—”

“Then why do you lie so shamelessly, young Garrick? Why do you usurp the Council’s authority? Under whose orders are you really here?” he asks, and the younger man clicks his mouth shut. I can appreciate that Councilman Frost is smooth, much smoother than the other man who looks more like a follower and lacks the older gentleman’s political acumen.

“Let me explain something to you, young Garrick, because though you may be a brilliant lad, you do not have the years of experience that I have.

“Imagine that you don’t want two people to be married. The easiest way to do that is to have their families fight, yes? So you send a member of your family to attack a member of their family, there is a fight and the marriage is cancelled. Now, the important part to remember here is that you do not need to win the fight. You only need the fight to happen.”

Garrick frowns, unsure as to where the old man is going while his followers shuffle nervously.

“You, Garrick, have not been sent to subjugate the vampire but to create an incident, and I can prove it.”

“…I sincerely doubt it.”

“O ye of little faith, tell me, you know that the vampire you were sent to disturb is the one who saved our men during the disaster, yes?”

At that, low whispers spread through the ranks.

“So? Vampires have no allies but themselves. Do not be naive.”

“Oh no, you do not understand. I am more concerned about the means than the cause. Why, I remember little Sola telling me how the vampire ripped apart the warded steel door of the cellar they were hiding in with her bare hands. Oh, and that lad Emmett said she moved so fast you could only follow her from the flying pieces of men she left behind, that her claws were shredding through their armors like a hot knife through cheese. I think the survivors have started to call her the Red Maiden on account of the rivers of blood she shed that night.”

Some of the mages behind Garrick are starting to reconsider their night out.

“And your plan, my dear, was to show up here with your merry band and… what exactly? Do enlighten me.”

“The… the might of our magic…”

“Did I mention that she slapped away or dodged every spell thrown at her tonight? Yes. Slapped. Not shielded against or dispelled. Slapped.”

Silence.

“Our greatest strength is not the magic we wield but our adaptability, training and coordination. We are not as savage as werewolves, nor as fast as vampires. We cannot match the raw power of blood mages and other warlocks, yet we still endure. By being prepared, smart and using the tools we have to their best effect. The first and best tool you have is your brain.”

Silence.

“A brain that sits on top of your stupid shoulders, sadly unused. You absolute tool. Get the fuck out, Garrick, and don’t ever let me catch you again acting like a complete dolt, or God help me I’ll remind you little shits why they called me Frostbite. Aye?”

Lots of smacking around, tonight.

Garrick looks at the old man in front of him, whose aura has started to condense threateningly, and the trained soldiers by his side. There are also noises of boots hitting the ground in cadence outside. He assesses his chances and for once, caution prevails. He turns tail and scampers with his cronies in tow.

The old man comes back to sit by my side with a heavy sigh. I address him.

“Very convincing, Mr Frost.”

“Thank you, miss. If we old farts can’t protect the new generations from their own stupidity, then the world is doomed.”

I do not think I was included in the “old fart” comment. Probably.

“Nevertheless, I hope we get called in soon. My presence here obviously exacerbates tensions,” I reply.

“Not to worry, Hopkins usually does things fast. Ah, here they are.”

The door to our side opens and the humdrum of whispers suddenly invades the corridor. The entire room is warded against sound and possibly other means of spying, therefore it was until now impossible to eavesdrop on the tumultuous debate going on inside. Now that the wards are disabled, a delicate hearing is no longer required to follow the proceedings. In fact, even Frost winces.

“You are fools to let this creature into our sanctum!”

We step in. The Council room is a small amphitheater made not out of benches, but out of massive wooden thrones each bearing a different symbol. The first half-circle consists of only seven seats while behind, two more rows of smaller chairs make up the rest of the assembly. A single person sits facing the rest behind a bare pulpit. He wears a ceremonial robe in white that fails to mask his gut, as well as a mighty scowl above an impressive pair of chops. As we get in, he smashes an abused gavel on the depressed wood in front of him. If this session is the norm, I give the pulpit another three months tops before it collapses under the man’s relentless assault.

“Order! Order! Councilor Pruitt, you do not have the floor.”

He then turns the incandescent focus of his gaze to me, then reaches inside his garment to reveal a lozenge pendant shimmering with colors. I cannot read the artefact’s aura since the room is saturated with auras, but I can guess.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please reveal and verify your protective amulets, thank you.”

All present follow suit, including two guards by the door who eye me warily. Frost also reveals a defensive charm. I find it revealing that his own looks like a cross between a diamond and an icicle.

The seated mages move to their neighbors, checking for defects. When they are certain that their minds are adequately shielded, they turn to the gavel man and nod. I do not try to taste the talismans nor probe their defenses, even though I am curious. It would not be worth it, and I may even get caught. Indeed, one of the main chairs, an old woman as wrinkled as a raisin, inspects me with a curious monocle.

I perceive a tendril of essence sneaking towards me.

Caution is one thing, disrespect, another. I block the probe and give the old woman a meaningful glance. Her brows rise in surprise, then she gives me an appreciative nod.

I return my attention to the man at the center, who Hopkins explained to be the President. His role is to oversee the Council and make sure everything goes according to the rules. To do so, he must forfeit any other position for life to limit the risks of partisan behavior. Similarly, he does not have voting powers. Only the seven members of the Council representing the administration, army, education, treasury, research, intelligence and diplomacy can decide the course of the White Cabal, their uneven number helping to prevent deadlocks.

“Good,” the man continues, “now I believe Councilman Frost has a proposal to bring forward?”

I am left standing while the old man ambles to his own chair. He sits back heavily and answers.

“I do. The Chair of Diplomacy would like to bring forward a proposal of formal alliance between the Cabal and the vampire House Nirari, represented here by Ariane of the Nirari.”

“What?!” the irate man from earlier erupts from the side, “Frostie, have you lost your goddamn mind? Hopkins let that thing move freely around our children! She must be purged, both of them must be purged!”

The objector is a well-dressed mage with a hook nose and an elaborate dress. He is loaded with powerful artefacts, more so than any mage I have met before. I remember that the President called him Pruitt.

“Watch your tongue. I am done with your talks of tradition and values, they have proven their worth tonight.”

“What?” the man screams, “I demand an explanation for those words, Frost.”

“Easy enough. I supervised tonight’s exam at the request of Councilor Hopkins and I was shocked when your son ran away and left my granddaughter to die.”

“You old imbecile, this is a trick to move you to betray us and what we stand for!”

“I saw it happen with my own eyes. Your precious Cornelius turned tail and bailed out, leaving others to cover his retreat. If that is the lineage and greatness you claim, I’d rather have little Margie marry a donkey!”

Interestingly, Frost’s aura starts to bleed out in the air and the temperature drops. I remember that Sola’s aura removes corruption. His looks a bit more aggressive.

“Order, order!” the President repeats with a tired voice, a sign that he has said these words far too many times.

After pounding his poor pulpit like a battering ram on a fortress gate, and threatening to have Pruitt forcefully removed, he finally restores a semblance of calm. Hopkins uses this opportunity to expose his project. The terrible performance of Cornelius Pruitt gave us an opportunity to push an agreement between my House and the whole of the White Cabal rather than just the military. Instead of a garrison, I could have an enclave with families, a library, workshops, everything. The people who would move in would certainly be the more agreeable members of their organization, further bolstering our cooperation.

This is the third advantage, the one Jonathan had hinted at during our conversation earlier. It was heavily dependent on Cornelius Pruitt’s poor performance, a hazardous prospect in my opinion. I was proven wrong and Jonathan’s uncanny ability to predict human behavior once again surprises me.

He would really make a good vampire. Not that he would ever accept.

As for me, as long as I remain in control of Marquette I will have the means to guarantee the alliance. There is a possibility that my plan to take over Illinois with Lady Sephare’s support does not pan out, but even if this is the case, I am still City Master. It would take a war to dislodge me and Constantine would not allow it.

After Jonathan is done talking, the President turns to me. I am now the focus of at least seven archmages, their guards, and their subordinates currently sitting in the amphitheater’s higher tiers. This is almost flattering.

Silence descends upon the assembly. I still haven’t moved nor talked. Simply, I do not have the floor, and as their guest I am bound to follow their rules.

As a courtesy.

If one of them starts flinging spells all deals are off.

Nothing untowards happens. The President simply swallows nervously before addressing me. The entire room holds their breath.

“Ariane of the Nirari, do you approve of Councilor Hopkins’ proposal?”

“I do,” I reply, and the people present shift in their seats. Hopkins warned me of the rarity of such a situation. For most of them, this is the first time seeing a vampire with their own eyes, not to mention conversing with one.

“You will truly defend us if we are attacked?” the woman with the monocle asks with disbelief. Gah, she doesn’t have the floor! Why are they all breaking their own rules so easily?

“Alliances between mages and vampires are nothing new,” I remind them, “an agreement was reached between several clans and cabals to take down the Lancaster progenitor, for example. Although those were temporary, nothing prevents us from forging a more permanent pact.”

The mages mull it over for a moment, then the monocle woman raises her hand. The President gives her the floor so that probably means we can have a conversation.

“What’s your interest in all of this?”

“Besides additional fighters in case of conflict, I could trade resources with you such as knowledge, training, enchantments…”

“Can’t you have your own enslaved mages for that?”

I tsk at the insinuation. As if I needed them enslaved.

“I don’t keep people as cattle unless they show hostility.”

“So, any mage can just show up on your territory and live there?”

“You come to my lands, I will give you a chance to negotiate an agreement to stay if that is what you wish.”

“The vampires have been only too happy to leave us alone,” she continues, “why change anything now?”

I think of Sephare and Washington.

“You are mistaken. You are left alone because nobody has deemed it worthwhile to expand into your territory. Yet.”

Whispers erupt around me.

“Lords do not operate on the same time frame as you do. Just because there have been no conflicts does not mean that there will not be any in the future.”

The next question takes me off-guard.

“Would you fight by our side against other vampires?”

A very good question, and also an easy one.

“If we enter an alliance, I will let it be known that you are under my protection. Any vampire who attacks you will know that it is a declaration of war upon me. Remember that our agreement is defensive in nature; if you attack a clan you are on your own.”

A few of the councilmen nod in understanding. In the end, a table is brought and a contract drawn.

The Cabal is allowed an enclave in Marquette in the nicer part of town. Within their controlled area they can do as they please so long as it does not endanger me. I place a limit to their number and to the business interests they can develop and acquire outside of the enclave itself. They are not allowed to interfere with my activities, even if I slay humans, a condition that I thought they would object to more vehemently.

We add a few more terms including the possibility to trade for services and an exit clause to allow for a peaceful end to the pact, just in case. I read the contract with attention once it is done, and find no obvious loopholes, so I sign it and its copies, before leaving the room.

The councilors were wary at first, but after I failed to sprout horns and wings, the whole negotiation became a tedious affair. As I exit, I consider a significant problem I had been ignoring for the past month.

I have no plan.

Rather, I have plenty of plans but no vision, no clear destination in place. Tactics I know, strategy, on the other hand…

I don’t think I have had any strategy since gaining House status.

Such a thing is as dangerous as it is stupid and quite unlike me. Even signing two agreements in such a short time was hastily made and not particularly smart. I reacted. There is even a small chance that I bound myself to a cause I may later regret.

I climb in the carriage that will lead me to my retreat for tonight. I accepted Jonathan’s hospitality, and will therefore slumber in a safe room under his house. If he did not have the soldiery under his control, I would never have taken such a risk, even with Loth’s impregnable sarcophagus to protect me.

I relax in the seat and continue with my introspection.

What is my long-term goal?

To kill my sire and his mother before either one of them becomes unstoppable. Or at least disable them permanently.

How do I manage this?

By accruing power, disabling Malakim, and forging alliances with people and organizations. I don't even know if it will suffice. That step is simply the necessary condition to even find a way to deal with them. From then on, there are several ways for me to progress.

One, on the diplomatic front, I should find a way to secure an alliance with the Cadiz and Constantine himself. I also need to secure the state of Illinois, if possible. Finally, I need to make sure the pact with the White Cabal goes well. This is the priority. The ultimate goal would be to become queen of the Americas.

On the power front, I need to keep practicing what I already have until the state situation is resolved, then I need to study magic. Once I have solid foundations, I will keep training and find new and interesting people to consume.

Beyond that, I have several opportunities to explore though they will have to wait.

I nod to myself. I had the right to take some well-deserved rest after what I endured. Now, it is time to be a little more proactive.

Jonathan joins me an hour later and we sit in his cramped yet comfortable living room, him nursing a cup of tea. I notice the small telltale signs that the man is exhausted and respect the fact that he hides it remarkably well.

“What did you think about the new recruits?” he asks.

“Not much. Some had potential, some less. They are still horribly green.”

He nods.

“You are correct, of course. I hope tonight’s ordeal will be a wake-up call for some of them.”

“Like that particularly arrogant team?”

“Yes, them. I will be running them ragged for the next three months.”

“Surely you are exaggerating,” I lightly object, “they showed maturity for such young people. Isn’t three months too much?”

Jonathan lifts one imperious brow.

“Do you know, Ariane, that Cedric made some considerable effort to gather information about you after your encounter?”

“Oh? He is preparing for a rematch?”

“Indeed not. He was trying to find out if you had a boyfriend.”

I ponder this revelation for a moment.

“You know what, you are right, beat some sense into them.”

Sitting before my desk back at the Manor three days later, I consider the fact that I have made a mistake. Specifically, Urchin claimed he could now write, and though I somehow doubt he could master both orthography and calligraphy in so short a time, I gave him the benefit of the doubt.

Never again.

“Urchin…” I start, holding his “report” of what happened in my absence.

“Yes, Milady.”

“During my second life, I have suffered countless indignities”

“Milady?”

“I have been shot, stabbed, eviscerated, burnt and partially exploded.”

“Yes, Milady.”

“I had silver nails driven into my gums and my fingers repeatedly severed with what amounted to a silver-coated gardening tool.”

“Yes, Milady.”

“I was driven half-mad by Thirst, enslaved, caged and humiliated.”

“Yes, Milady.”

“And despite all of that, reading that report of yours is still one of the most grating, disturbing experiences I have ever had to face.”

“I am sorry, Milady.”

“It is a nonsensical amalgam of barely readable and horribly misspelled sentences that could not be called English by the most generous of teachers working in an asylum for the criminally insane.”

“Yes, Milady.”

“If I were to read this anathema to grammar aloud, I shall surely conjure up a demon, which would then wail in despair at the treatment and promptly beg to be sent back to hell.”

“I apologize, Milady.”

“Henceforth, you shall read what you wrote aloud before delivering it to me, and if you cannot make sense of it yourself, you shall write it again.”

“I understand Milady.”

“Or I will go over every mistake and use your own intestines as script to illustrate my points.”

“Very well, Milady.”

“You may go, the timing is ill-chosen for your Akkad lesson.”

“Very well, Milady, goodbye.”

I watch the man’s retreating back. I remember that I should not be too harsh in my treatment of my own subordinates, however after what that little scoundrel did to the written art I could simply not stand by and allow this ignominy to go unpunished.

We ride through the woods in silence.

Torran did not ask questions when I dragged him from his paperwork, nor did he question me when I told him I needed his help. Instead, he just followed with grim determination. Truly, he is as intense a supporter as he is a lover. I can only be thankful that he is so firm and solid in his character, and that his spirits are always up. That kind of thing.

Truly this relationship has been more fulfilling than I had ever hoped.

Metis and I emerge from the dense thicket first, soon followed by Krowar and my lover. A small pier stands before us, upon which a canoe waits where I left it. The lights of Boston shine from somewhere on the left while on our right, the ocean beckons.

I dismount and rush to the small ship, but Torran intercepts me and sits first.

“I will row,” he declares, and I let him. We push away from the rickety wood and make for the sea. I direct Torran to a cove and endure the scrutiny of his steely glare.

“If you are in trouble my love, tell me now. Two heads are better than one.”

“It is nothing bad, I just really need your presence for this,” I reply.

“I am intrigued. Ah, is this it?” he asks as we come in view of a one-mast skiff moored not far in the distance. I nod and we approach then board it.

I rented this small ship for two days and had one of Wilhelm’s men sail it here under the cover of secrecy.

So far so good.

I climb first and find the packed clothes next to the tiller, just as I instructed.

“Here, put this on please. I will be right back,” I tell Torran. He is looking more bothered by the minute and yet he still does as I request. I climb down a hatch to the single deck and check around. Behind a row of crates, there is a very comfortable mattress as well as my own disguise.

I don it and climb back upstairs.

Torran looks just as amazing as I expected in a light blue officer uniform that fits him perfectly. He is currently inspecting the sea, leaning sensually against the railing. The sensual part might be just in my head.

“Captaaiiin...” I whisper suggestively.

Torran turns and his eyes widen as he takes in my appearance.

The scandalous pants, the outrageous open vest that leaves little to the imagination.

The tricorn.

His mouth forms a perfect o as I place my fists on my waist and push my modest bosom forward, clearly showing that I am not wearing anything underneath. We will be separated for a while to pursue our own projects. I want to make sure he remembers me, and doesn’t get any ideas.

Then something happens that I was not expecting. He throws his head back and chuckles. The chuckle turns into a cackle then a full belly laugh that shakes his entire frame. He is still laughing when I push him down.

Torran takes a slightly embarrassed expression as I draw him. He is completely naked and stands proudly, looking into the horizon. I, on the contrary, am not naked.

I am wearing the tricorn.

My hand flows on the paper, drawing lines while I commit the colors to memory. I am distracted by a splash behind me just as Torran looks on with alarm. I turn to see a fishwoman staring at us. She smells of magic.

“Not this kind of night. Shoo!” I declare.

She does not react. Her eyes are fixed on Torran.

“No ogling,” I warn.

She does not reply. A dark tongue slides from her lipless mouth, tasting the air. She then turns to me.

“Nirari. Strong,” she observes with a raspy voice.

Then she’s off.

The carriage stops at the bottom of the manor’s ascent next to a small gathering of buildings meant to house less prestigious human visitors. The door opens and I smile as my minions walk out with tired expressions.

Sephare requested that I take over a district for her. It will require a solid dose of diplomacy and finesse. For the rest, I will have them.

The first to step down is one of the Creek brothers, who took the name Crews. Crews wears Western frontier clothes mostly made of leather as well as a war axe which is currently tucked away in his luggage. He greets me with a silent nod and lines up to wait for the others, his one surviving eye coldly inspecting his surroundings.

Crews is a man of few words, even before losing an eye to the Merghol hounds. It is now hidden behind an eyepatch that does little to mask the impressive claw scar on his cheek.

The second man to climb down is David King whom I bought in Kentucky, after his father asked this of me as a dying wish. The free man now sports a cowboy hat and a most impressive bushy beard. Oh yes, he will do nicely. He tips his hat and goes by Crews’ side.

I eagerly await the next two. First comes John with a beatific look on his horrifying mug. By the Watcher, but did I miss the big oaf. He drags his wife behind him, whom I meet for the first time.

Six feet three, brown hair, blue eyes.

The build and face of a veteran British grenadier.

Oh my.

I feel so very sorry for their children. If one person’s appearance could be improved by being smacked in the face with a brick, it will be what comes out of that... woman’s nethers. Watcher, why did I even think about that? Arg. Some things should never be.

Unaware of my growing horror, John jumps forth to introduce me to his slightly bashful absolute mudspout of a woman. I smile at the pair and wish them my best wishes for their matrimony, exerting once more all of my self-control and vampiric poise to chase the image of these two together from my vulnerable psyche.

John is completely oblivious to my discomfort. He just bounces around with beatific happiness while his snaggletooth trog of a wife looks on with a mix of apprehension and distrust I associate with women fearing a rival. I would like to comfort her and assure her that she has nothing to fear, the two of them being in a category of their own. Possibly a species? I refrain. It would be in poor taste to do so and although I mock the woman’s appearance in my mind, I have no reason to offend her in reality.

And so, I smile and play the good host. John and his wife shall have a separate house for the duration of their stay while the two others have single rooms in the barracks. Solveig already arranged everything at my bequest.

As I am about to turn around, I am surprised to see both Lady Sephare and Lord Jarek ride down the slope on nightmares. Jarek’s humongous mount makes every mortal take a step back.

“My dear Ariane,” the Hastings woman starts with a honeyed voice, “those are your dear associates who will accompany us, yes? What a, hmmm, colourful lot.”

Her face betrays nothing and her tone is just as pleasant as before.

Still...

Have I just been firmly rebuked? I have no idea.

“They have proven themselves on numerous occasions and will be the more conspicuous members of my retinue,” I reply somewhat defensively.

“Lovely, well, I am sure that you have a lot of catching up to do. Ta ta,” the Lady smoothly replies, before leaving. I am still not quite sure whether or not she’s mad.

Instead of following her, Jarek climbs down from his monstrous charger and silently steps to John. He’s completely ignoring me.

I realize with surprise that they are about the same size, which places both in the category of height of people who always bend a bit before entering any buildings.

They face off in perfect silence.

Then, with slow purpose, Jarek grunts and takes a strongman posture, contracting arms and chest to display his impressive muscles.

John is different. He is not as lean and corded as the ancient vampire. His body is broader but also just a bit softer. He looks a bit less like a trained knight and more like someone who could break a bear’s spine with his bare hands then carry the carcass over his shoulder to the nearest town.

John turns to me.

I don’t know what to do so I just sign “go ahead”, which means that he will do as he pleases.

My loyal defender huffs and puffs and places his fist over his head, his shirt protesting the abuse. Three buttons are on the very edge of popping, held together by faith and stubbornness.

The two hold the pause for a few seconds.

Then they both deflate at the same time.

They shake hands.

Jarek climbs back on his horse and leaves without a word. He still hasn’t acknowledged any of us. I am at a loss. Is this a mortal thing? I turn to John’s wife who looks just as helpless as I do. Or at least I’m pretty sure she does. Hard to tell for sure.

I take a few seconds to recover, then direct everyone to where they belong. Enough silliness.

We have a city to take.

83. Divide and Conquer

The planning phase of the conquest takes me by surprise. I expected many things from Lady Sephare: a cold and reptilian intellect, an impressive network of informants, a secret army… something! I also expected her to give me a precise plan that I would have to follow since she is the leader in this operation.

I was terribly wrong.

I do not know if the difference stems from culture or her personality, however what is certain is that Sephare’s approach to strategizing is unlike anything I have ever experienced before. And yet, I cannot deny its efficacy.

First, she invites me for tea, again, and spends an entire hour questioning me about my takeover of Marquette. How did I proceed? Who did I recruit? What structure did I use? How did I handle the problems I faced? The questions are many and apparently important, since she asks me to elaborate on several occasions, never interrupting me.

The next set of questions are even more curious. What opportunities did I miss? What do I regret? I do not understand why she asks these questions yet I answer, with the belief that she has more experience and a vested interest in her own success.

Her inquiries are never personal enough to grate on me, and I have the distinct feeling that she is doing more than just preparing for the next task. She is assessing me as an ally, or even a rival which we will inevitably become if everything goes well.

I have much to learn.

Eventually, we move to another table containing a map of the district, and it is then that I realize the full extent of Lady Sephare’s preparations.

Washington is not as big a city, as I expected from the Capital. It is, in fact, two counties bound together artificially and placed under the direct control of the federal government. The location itself is the result of a compromise. Before the decision, it was mostly marshland.

I am terribly embarrassed that a foreigner would teach me that.

In any case, two counties make up Sephare’s potential territory. To the east of the Potomac River, a federal city harbors the capitol and all the other important landmarks. To the west lies the city of Alexandria, an important slave trade location currently in decline, partly due to fear that the federal government will outlaw slavery within its own district. This is where Lady Sephare wants me to focus my efforts since I have “just the right set of skills”.

“Alexandria must become my primary source of income and recruits. There are three gangs and two mage groups I would like you to take over,” she says.

“Subjugate or neutralize?” I ask.

“Goodness me, my dear, you do not mince your words! To answer your question, nobody wants to rule over a graveyard, do they? Whenever possible, I would like you to convince their leader to meet me for negotiations. All in good faith, I assure you. Of course, I expect that some of them may prove unreasonable. Do your best!”

Force them to negotiate or perish, make examples. Got it.

“I want you to attend the meeting with their leaders, dear. I am confident that I can teach you a thing or two, not that you need much!”

“Of course, it would be my pleasure.”

“Lovely! Oh, I am so chuffed. I did not expect that we could start so early!”

And there lies her genius. She is alone, therefore she does not have the numbers to rule over an entire county, yet. By deliberately choosing a smaller city with a disproportionate political influence, she has made the best use of her means.

This begs the question, why is she alone? Someone of her power should have a cadre of Masters and Courtiers surrounding her at all times. Perhaps she is the first wave, or an experiment, or perhaps It is something more sinister.

Once more, I made an alliance with someone I did not fully understand and while it saved me before, it might just cost me in the future.

In truth, I have rushed into the game with clumsy enthusiasm only to realize that I was surrounded by bear traps. Only my friends and Torran’s interest have protected me from the consequences of my recklessness so far. This needs to change. Lady Sephare is the one I should emulate. She reveals little, learns much and weighs her decisions. Yes, I am convinced that she knows how to play.

I still want to know why she is here, alone.

I think about it as the meeting ends and she politely shoos me on my way. Back to my room, I pack my belongings and before I prepare for dawn, I do something I should have done before, ask Salim for a file on Sephare herself.

Alexandria, District of Columbia, November 1833.

John, Urchin and I are the last to arrive by carriage at the safe house Sephare has prepared for us. Alexandria is bordered in the east by the Potomac River, and the scent of muddy water battles that of misery to assault my senses.

We are located at the southern end of town, and even from here I can see that the city was made by design rather than nature. Straight avenues split it in squarish blocks of perfect geometry, affording me and everyone else a commanding view of the land. As I step down, I spot a woman picking her nose five blocks away.

The contrast between the regular lines and the outward signs of poverty defies logic. How can something planned so thoroughly also be so poor? Derelict warehouses and decrepit buildings outnumber affluent stores by a factor of five. The people in the street are clad in drab clothes, huddling in large groups and moving around with tense shoulders and shifty eyes. Here and there, manacled slaves shuffle forth under the vigilant eyes of their captors.

Slave trade is the lifeblood of the city. Under the purview of the Franklin and Armfield Company which has the dubious honor of being the largest slave trading business in the United States, thousands of slaves are gathered each year to be sent to their Mississippi, Natchez and even New Orleans branches. The rest of the city is in economic decline and it shows.

I can feel it.

In the air floats a general miasma, a scent of anguish and rage, at lost opportunities and robbed freedom. It lacks the beautiful clarity of true anger I sometimes admire in my enemies. Instead, it worms its way in the heart like an insidious infection to sour everything and everyone it can affect.

I close my eyes and listen. A few houses away, a man is beating a screaming child. Each meaty impact comes to interrupt an incoherent litany of supplications.

It reminds me of Marquette, before I brought order to the chaos.

Sometimes, I wonder if the mortals can truly be left to rule themselves. So many of them lack vision and long-term planning. So many struggle for power only to grab onto it with tooth and nail until one of their victims finally manages to take them down, screaming into the abyss.

I shake my head. This is not the time to complain. With John, Urchin, and our luggage in tow, I climb up a set of stone stairs to what will be our temporary residence.

The house is a three-story building surrounded by a garden protected from inquisitive eyes by a row of tall aspens. The wooden walls are painted the ubiquitous white, and the interior is soberly furnished and decorated. In other words, this building is completely unremarkable, which is exactly what we need.

We let ourselves in. John will live here with both King and Crews until we can secure safer accommodations for them while Urchin and I will stay here during the whole operation. I let John explore while I climb down to the basement and my shared den. There, behind a fake wall, lies a secured and heavily enchanted gate. The workings themselves must have cost more than the entire edifice. Satisfied, I climb back up just as the two remaining members of the team join us. I drag everyone to the living room and they settle around the central table, upon which a map of the town was placed.

“I will now start the general briefing for this operation. As you all know, our goal here is to take over Alexandria from within, and that means going after every interest group that can stop us and bringing them to heel.”

I place a few pins on the map as I continue my explanation.

“Fortunately, we will not have to take over major companies and the government as Lady Sephare intends to do it herself progressively over the next few months. As for our immediate targets, there are five: three gangs and two magic societies.”

King raises his hand while idly passing a hand in his bushy beard. In order to fit in, he switched from a leather outfit to a more polished suit that marks him as a house slave. With his solid frame and placid face, he looks tame enough not to attract too much attention and intimidating enough that the local thugs will leave him alone.

“Yes?” I offer.

“How come there are so many? There are less than five thousand people living here.”

“Good question,” I reply, “I suspect that the proximity of the capital caused the magic population to increase. As for the gangs, they are caused by a conjunction of poverty, human traffic, and the presence of docks. I do not believe that we will face anything unexpected. Keep your eyes open, in any case.”

“Of course.”

“Now for the plan, our best bet is to go after the different groups one by one, starting with the bottom of the social ladder. That means the gangs.”

I point to the more affluent part of town.

“Over here are the Federals. They are almost legal, and they offer private security for visitors and businessmen alike. They operate a few loan sharks around town and control this area so I included them but I do not expect too much trouble. I will visit them tomorrow evening and talk to their director. The next two are more concerning.”

I point at the docks.

“The riverside is under the domain of the Potomac Mudmen. They focus on smuggling and protection rackets, mostly, with some illegal fights on the side. They recruit from German and French immigrants and are relative newcomers around here.”

I then point at the slave pens.

“Those are the Pomm Street Ratcatchers. They are the most numerous group here, and the oldest gang around. They have the habit of starting fires in houses of people they don’t like and since they control the fire brigade, extinguish it just a bit too late. Their other major source of income besides protection rackets is kidnappings. They have agents go over the North and find interesting black freemen, who they proceed to kidnap and sell here. The slaves are carried south, most of the time before they can be rescued.”

I stop for a moment as King’s massive hands clutch the table until the wood groans.

“Sorry,” he whispers, his eyes still shining with barely repressed hatred.

“As such,” I continue, “they have the most money and power. Lady Sephare and I agree that three gangs is two too many. The Federals’ illegal activities will be suspended and one of the remaining groups destroyed. After consideration, we have decided to ally with the Mudmen and destroy the Ratcatchers.”

King visibly relaxes, while Urchin raises a hand.

“Yes?”

“I’ll take smugglers over kidnappers any day of the week, that said, why not take over the biggest group?”

I nod to show my support. I encourage inquisitive minds, especially when they are employed in my service.

“We would prefer to keep this town’s social structure mostly intact and cannot do so if the local hierarchy crumbles. The head of the Ratcatchers is a man who goes by Jed the Paunch. He has ruled the streets with an iron fist for the last ten years with the benediction of the local judge, with powerful lieutenants removed as soon as they became a threat. I estimate that, should I dominate him, he will lose the edge that allowed him to stay in power so far and fall within a week. His personality is simply too paranoid and aggressive to come to an amenable agreement without stripping him of his abilities, I’m afraid. At the same time, there is no heir apparent to replace him should he fall. Any partial removal will lead to a struggle for dominance, so it makes much more sense to destroy the entire leadership in one blow and absorb the rank and file into a pre-existing organization.”

I pause, considering whether I should share the rest of my thoughts. In the end, I decide to do it.

“He’s also a despicable prick and I want him dead.”

For some reason, all the others nod in understanding.

“Right. I will start working on the gang issue after I wake up. Tomorrow, I want King to find us a warehouse on neutral ground. Present yourself as my butler. Feel free to grease some palms.”

“Will do.”

“Crews, you stand out too much so I need you to stay hidden until we reveal ourselves.”

The Creek warrior nods silently, a finger trailing the massive scar on his face. He is still wearing his hunter leathers and I see no reason for him to change. Unlike King, he will never fit in here.

“Good. You should rest tonight. Urchin and I will scout the town. Dismissed.”

The tables at the King’s Inn are spaced enough to grant their occupants some semblance of privacy. The white cloths and silver cutlery give it a luminous sheen, almost enough for everyone to forget the rampant poverty outside. The majordomo leads me forward with a light frown, hinting at the intense disapproval he feels. Mr. Cole is, after all, a married man.

The unofficial leader of the “Federals” gang is an old man with the weathered face of a career soldier. He sits ramrod straight in his chair, holding a book and sipping a tankard of ale. He lifts an imperious brow when I sit at his table without permission.

The majordomo hesitates behind me, then decides to beat a hasty retreat.

Tonight, I am wearing another elegant dress in pale blue unassuming yet of good enough make that those who see me would recognize affluence. Cole inspects me, then dismisses me almost immediately.

“Whatever you’re selling, lady, I’m not interested.”

Indeed, his sin is not lust.

“I have a letter for you from the Premier Atlantic Bank. I suggest you read it. Now.”

Cole frowns at my tone, but the mere mention of his main creditor brings fear where there was annoyance. Now, he stares at the piece of paper as if it were a bear trap.

“It would be in your best interest not to try my employer’s patience, Mr. Cole.”

The veteran businessman knows where this is going, I can tell. He may gamble with his money, and the bank’s money, but not with his life. With shaking hands, he opens the missive and reads it with slow purpose.

The message is short and unambiguous. We bought all of his debts and can freely repossess his home, his office and most of his assets.

“What do you want,” he asks in a low voice. His composure does him credit, though I can taste his terror and his stress on his perspiration and in the beating of his heart. The tip of my tongue slides over a fang. Patience. I am no glutton and there will be ample opportunities… later.

“You are to cease all activities outside of your security business, including those pertaining to Wolfe and Jefferson streets. They will be taken over by my employer.”

He probably has other activities besides those two loan sharks, but we have not found them yet. He does not need to know that.

Anger manages to push his fear away.

“How do you expect me to repay you if you take away my income?” he hisses. An old round lady two tables away turns in our direction with the raptor-like focus of the consummate gossip. I lower my voice and lean forward.

“You will receive a two months moratorium on the interest payments if the transition occurs without a hitch. We would hold you personally responsible if something… untoward, were to happen. I highly suggest you oversee the proceedings yourself.”

“Who the hell are you people?”

“That is not your concern. Good night, Mr. Cole, we will meet again.”

I stand up and leave the noticeably paler man behind me. The Federals were by far the easiest target. Now, I can begin in earnest.

The carriage deposits me in front of the office of the respectable Mr. Jones, harbormaster. I knock on the door of the large building and am quickly let in by an annoyed man with a pencil-thin moustache.

“What business do you have here?” he asks with as much disdain as he can gather.

I ponder having John, who’s right behind me, teach him some manners. Unfortunately, we are still in enemy territory and I need to keep a somewhat low profile for as long as I can.

Frustrating.

“Mr. Jones is expecting me.”

“Is he now?”

“Yes,” I add, with just a hint of pressure, “he is.”

The infuriating doorman takes in my appearance and finally recognizes the marks of understated wealth.

“Apologies, please come in.”

We follow him inside and up a set of stairs to a cluttered office where the dockmaster awaits us. John takes position by the door, the easy smile on my host’s face disappearing immediately.

“Are you… Miss Lethe?” the old man asks, while nervously cleaning a monocle on an ink-stained waistcoat.

“I am. I require an introduction.”

“An introduction?”

“With your friends on Union Street. By the docks,” I continue.

At the mention of his… less savory acquaintances, Mr. Jones pales. He licks his lips as his eyes search for the exit, finding John in the way.

“I am not sure what you mean…”

“My employer is moving assets and we require additional security,” I soberly explain.

Jones may look like a pleasant grandfather, but he has used the Mudmen on more than one occasion to quell unrest born from the low wages he pays his employees. As far as we can tell, he is one of their primary sources of income.

“Just business then?” the dockmaster asks, not believing his luck.

I smile congenially. Indeed. Just business. For now.

“Well… I suppose there is no harm,” he continues with clear relief. He still casts a dubious look at John. No one in their right mind would look at him and think “peaceful financial transaction”.

“Let us go, then.”

We walk along the river. At this time of the night, the silence is only broken by the sobs and prayers of living cargo, their stench and misery permeating the shore. One establishment is still open.

The Mud Shack is a two-story building nestled between two warehouses. It is surprisingly large and well-lit, standing proudly as a beacon to drunkenness in the otherwise sleepy street. Men with keen eyes gather in packs, holding tankards and each other while singing rowdy songs. Their workman attire is so similar that they might as well be wearing a uniform.

“John, stay there,” I order my bodyguard after assessing the crowd. Jones looks back but does not comment and we soon reach the edge of the halo of light surrounding the Mudmen’s retreat.

Immediately, five different men gaze at us. When they recognize my companion, they lower their guard, though their eyes still follow me as I make my way to the door.

We come in and I see that I was right to leave John outside.

The Mud Shack’s main floor is covered with round tables around which a good forty people have gathered. Not all of them are gang members, there are also dockers and day laborers. They are clearly happy to be there.

The only members of the fairer sex are three serving girls and a barwoman.

Not all gangs are averse to women in their ranks. The Ratcatchers employ grifters, con artists and pickpockets while they also have their own ladies of the night. In that case, women usually form a different subgroup within the organization with their own leaders and structure.

The alternative is to leave the women home and consider them as civilians. This is the way the Mudmen went. If my intuition is correct, I will be received with less suspicion but it will also be significantly harder for me to be taken seriously.

Taking John inside would have been perceived as a challenge.

The hollow-eyed barwoman inspects me with palpable hatred. Perhaps it is my new dress, or the fact that I have all my teeth and do not smell like a barrack? Who knows? In any case, she quickly weighs my presence against the fact that I am led here by Jones and does what every good subordinate does: she lets her superiors decide.

With a quick gesture, she directs us to a backroom.

I manage to make it through the crowded room without errant hands trying their luck. At least they are well-behaved.

Without a word, we make it to the backroom where six pairs of eyes watch us in silence.

Four belong to poker players armed to the teeth. Guards. Inconsequential.

The last two are the power here, the decision-makers. I can tell from their fearlessness, their pride, the way they look down upon us despite our superior social status. They make me want to kill them here and now, watch the horror and the pain in their eyes as I slaughter every last one of them and claim the place as my own. The drive to kill surges in my heart, only to be extinguished just as quickly.

I am patient. They will bow, in the end. This is just a small part of the true game.

“Jones? Who is this?”

“Ah, my dear Ritter, this is Miss Lethe from Boston. She asked me to introduce the two of you.”

I take in the leader of the Mudmen. Ritter is a man of medium height in his early forties. He has the body of a worker gone to fat, with a potbelly and solid arms. His hair sprouts from his scalp in undisciplined clumps but his moustache is perfectly groomed, and his light blue eyes show cunning and impatience in equal measures.

His companion is much younger, with shoulder-length sandy hair and clear brown eyes. He wears the same attire as the rest of the gang with some extra attention to his appearance, like a colored scarf and a necklace. Just enough to be noticed. I decide that he is probably a protégé.

“Hear that lads? We’re famous,” Ritter says with a gravelly voice. His stooges chuckle obligingly.

I have two ways to do this. I could play the temptress, mixing elegance with just a bit of flirtation. This would position me as a ‘traditional’ woman and guarantee a polite distance. It could, however, backfire when they realize they will be working for Lady Sephare.

The second way is to come out as an off-man. It would deprive me of my civilian status, in exchange for a more equal relationship.

I will go with that.

I step forward, overtaking Jones. Immediately, the smiles turn to cold masks.

“My employer believes we have a common problem.”

“Who is that employer and what problem would that be?”

“We will remain anonymous.”

“I don’t think you will,” the man says as he stands up.

Jones retreats to the side while the guards form a half-circle at my back. Ritter closes the distance between us with his pretty boy by his side. He invades my personal space. His breath reeks of cigar.

“Now…” he begins, then stops when he feels the cold business end of a concealed pistol pointing at his unmentionables.

TOO CLOSE. SLAUGHTER THE SHEEP.

No.

Our eyes meet. I do not try to Charm him as there is no need.

Then, slowly, Ritter smiles.

“You’ve got stones, woman, I’ll give you that.”

With a handwave, he sends his men to sit back down and takes a respectful step back. He walks back to his desk and pours himself a glass of liquor.

“I’ll hear you out, but watch your words.”

“We want the Ratcatchers gone.”

That got their attention. I hear gasps and accelerating heartbeats all around as they realize the enormity of what I just said. To me the Ratcatchers are just one hurdle on the path but to them, it has been the dominating force in Alexandria for years. Always, they have had to live with that shadow.

“If it were so easy, we would have done it already, woman. You want to bring in an army?”

“I only need access to their leaders including Jed the Paunch. We will take care of the rest.”

Wallace scoffs, his disdain clear. He does not think much of outsiders, an arrogance born from half a decade of unchallenged power. He is wrong.

It is a mistake to believe that a stable situation will remain so in the future. A crown can be lost in a day.

I hope that Jed has formed a similar bias…

Eventually, greed and hope overtake the man’s caution. I can tell that he does not truly believe I will be successful. It is chaos that sways him, and hope that I will upset the Ractcatchers enough to damage their position in the city.

“In three days, there will be a Death Dance. It’s an underground tournament that occurs every year with a good amount of money to be won. All of the Ratcatchers leaders will show up with their champions. Not that it matters. The Crusher is undefeated.”

“A contest of pugilists?”

“Bare-knuckled, vicious fighting. Crusher’s been earning his nickname for a while now. Only the desperate and the insane join the fight now. Fresh faces looking to make a name, debtors, slaves looking for freedom, take your pick. It’s still bloody fun. Just, people bet on how long the guys will last.”

“Do they accept new entries?”

“Yeah, you can join the tournament, but didn’t you hear a word I say? Whoever you throw in there’s either defeated by a contestant or killed by that monster.”

I cannot help the slow, slow smile creeping on me. All of the Ratcatcher leadership under a single roof? A distraction? This is just perfect.

“Do not concern yourself, Herr Ritter. I have just the man.”

84. Bloody Games

I miss the opera.

The entertainment is better, and the spectators at least make a token attempt at maintaining personal hygiene.

The Ratcatchers’ Death Dance venue is a repurposed warehouse with a circle of sand in its midst overlooked by rickety ‘lodges’. I am in such a lodge now, with Urchin by my side. All of the remaining ones are occupied by the Ratcatcher leadership. On occasion, Jed the Paunch will ‘invite’ one of his subordinates for a private talk that will leave the poor bugger pale and sweaty.

I can track the small signs of concern on his rotund face. Even from here, I see the grease-stained shirt straining to hold his expanding gut. He does not even have a neck. Instead, his repulsive face is ringed by a circle of worm-like flesh covered with coarse hair. I bet I could run a lantern for weeks on the fat of his body. I would not, of course. The stench…

His concern is well-deserved. John has gone through the brackets like a stiletto through the skin, taking everyone by storm. None so far managed to stem the placid violence of the man they have come to call Jolly John.

My faithful servant is far from invincible. He lacks the adaptability and quick-thinking that defines true genius.

He does have his strong points.

I remember Ritter, the Mudmen boss, telling me that he was too soft. The gang leader took a look at my aide and dismissed him as powerful but otherwise harmless. Not a true warrior. He is somewhat correct: John will not fight as a first reaction. He is pure and innocent, unwilling to hurt those around him.

Unless, of course, I give him the order.

The beauty of perfect control is that John fights with no hesitation and no remorse. If I order a man killed, that man must die. It is right, because Ariane ordered it, and so it shall be.

And killed he has.

When I picked him up in Marquette, John was skeletal. It took me a full year to have him recover enough to work. Since then, he has been my bouncer, bodyguard and on occasion, knee-breaker. The truth is, John is both very well trained and experienced. His perfect memory extends to patterns and techniques, and though he does not always understand which one to use, he is quick to remember even the most complex of instructions. The result is an incomprehensible warrior with savagery but no ego, technique but no imagination, and caution without fear.

I considered using Urchin in his stead, unfortunately, it would not do. Urchin is still too raw to win without moving at an unnatural speed and he is also quite short. In the minds of people, pugilists must be big and brawny. If he wins too often and too strangely, it will not only attract undue attention. He will also be accused of cheating. Image is everything in entertainment.

As a result, I have relied on John. Tonight, we have gathered for the final match.

Around the arena, men and women sit on chairs, crates and anything else they could get their hands on. Alcohol and conversations flow free in a strident cacophony. Scantily-clad girls cling to the arm of the more well-off gang goons while others, the grifters and con artists, gather in mocking groups who tease passing men and sometimes even relieve them of their purses. Some attendants drink, some scream, and a few have even set up an improvised ring where the hot-blooded may get a sample of the spectacle to come. The smell of sweat both fresh and old mixes with that of old wood and spilt beer to form the classic mix I expect from frontier watering holes. The main difference is the energy.

The taint of despair permeating the city here turns into frenetic and deleterious energy. Hearts pump fresh blood to minds already intoxicated by the promise of violence and blood to be shed. I see it in their frantic eyes, the way they lick their lips and the manner in which they track movement at the periphery of their vision, hunting, searching, waiting for the coming of the gladiators. For those who will kill and die to enter the fray.

Ave Caesar, morituri te salutant. Hail Caesar, those who will die greet you, captives used to say. But alas, the coliseum here is a decrepit dump and the imperator was replaced by a bulging sphere of suet, a disgusting mass that not even the most corrupt of emperors would have devolved into.

Sometimes, life is a tragedy. Sometimes, a farce, and here the first act.

A man appears from the changing rooms as if by magic, wearing an impeccable black suit over a white shirt. He holds a top hat in his gloved hands, which he waves about to attract the crowd’s attention. Progressively, the humdrum of conversation dies down until his stentor’s voice prevails over the remaining din.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, fine people of Alexandria, good evening! The moment you have been waiting for has finally come! Tonight, two men will give it their all in a contest of brawn and will. Tonight, two men will enter the arena for your greatest pleasure and tonight, only one will come out!”

The audience screams with bloodlust. This is what they are here for.

“Please enjoy this show brought to you by your host, Jedediah Collins!”

The toad-like creature slightly bends forward while the crowd applauds, momentarily sobered. For one moment, I wonder if he will collapse under his own weight. Fortunately for him, gravity proves itself unequal to the task of felling him. It appears that I have to provide a helping hand.

“And now, for our first contestant! He has taken the tournament by storm, defeating one opponent after another. The Frontier Felon, the Simple Savage, the man from the West who goes after the best! He has shown that he’s not a man to be trifled with, and his fists could chip rock! Ladies and Gentlemen…I give to youuuuuu JOHN DOE!”

The audience yells and jeers, the support from outsiders and equal-opportunity enthusiasts barely enough to cover the booing fury of the most fervent Ratcatchers. John follows a pretty girl inside while from the changing room, I catch a glimpse of King giving me the “all-normal” sign.

So, Jed did not try to hedge his bets. Color me surprised. He must have complete faith in his champion.

John looks impressive in a thin white shirt that shows exactly how impossibly massive he is. His ugly face is calm, showing no emotion at all. He searches me and finds me above him in the lodges. Our eyes meet and I nod to him. John has his instructions and he will follow them to the best of his abilities, this I can count on.

I saw the Crusher fight. I give my servant an even chance to win.

Of course, the plan does not rely on his victory and should he be too much at risk, I would intervene. I will not lose John over some silly influence game. What matters is the diversion the fight provides.

The Ratcatchers are on their home ground and the Crusher is a kind of legend himself. They want to see him win. They like to see him win. The bloodier, the better. The sheer emotional investment will keep their attention below, while Urchin and I can do what we came to do.

“But in the challenger’s path lies a man we know and love. A man we fear! A man who eats steel and spits out nails for breakfast! A man who has ruled this arena undefeated for the past fiiiiive years! Can you bring him? Can you call his naaaaame?”

The crowd, only too eager to obey, summons their champion with that very peculiar mob voice born of a hundred throats.

“Cru-sher! Cru-sher”

And the man obliges.

Jumping out from behind the curtain leading to the changing room, the Ratcatcher champion, Jed’s bodyguard and lunatic extraordinaire, struts forward. He practically jumps on his feet. Now I realize why Jed did not take the chance to poison or incapacitate John.

He believes he has no need.

I have seen intoxicated men in my life, including those who become irrationally aggressive under the influence of alcohol, and the Crusher is at the deep end. Whatever Jed fed his attack dog is an order of magnitude more malicious. The Crusher’s scarred face shines with nervous perspiration. The dark orbs of his eyes shift, bloodshot and manic, then dart over the room before landing on John with monomaniacal intensity. He licks his flush lips with a bloated tongue. I can see veins pulsing under his shaved scalp.

This man is insane. If he was not before, he is now.

USELESS. BROKEN TOOL.

The madman steps into the sand ring to everyone’s great enjoyment. He grunts and hollers, and the crowd echoes him in great waves of screams. Like a broken chorus.

Oh, do I miss the opera.

Finally, the room settles enough for the announcer to order everyone out of the fighting grounds. Employees darken lanterns until only the ring itself is fully visible to mortal eyes. John stands placidly at one end, as calm and gathered as if he were at dinner. Facing him, the Crusher paces on his side like a caged beast. Spittle foams at the corner of his mouth as he growls and mutters imprecations.

“Let the fight… begiiiiiiin!”

I clutch the railing before me, feeling a change in the atmosphere. It tastes like inevitability.

The Crusher jumps forward, only to stop a few feet away from John who is already prepared to receive him. My servant stands low with a fist forward, offering as little a target as possible. Even then, he looms over his opponent. As for the Crusher, his guard is more fluid as he jumps from side to side. His muscles are lean and corded and he looks like one solid mass of spite.

“You dumb fuck! Dumb fuck!” he screams. Then, with great speed, he feints left and low, hits right and upwards.

“The Crusher likes to fake an attack from a side, then attack from the other side. Like this.”

“Yes, miz Ari.”

I have watched the Crusher’s previous matches. The man has predictable patterns for those who know how to look. It would not matter to most, as the man can win most matches through speed, strength and unbridled violence alone. It matters to John, and so I trained him for hours in preparation for the confrontation by imitating his foe’s most common moves until he could defend against them.

The feint does not work, though the strike was still too fast for my servant to dodge completely. The uppercut slides along ribs while the Crusher pulls back and manages to deflect the counter-attack from smashing his face to just impacting his shoulder.

The crowd roars. They have a match, and we have our distraction.

I signal Urchin who opens the door leading to the platform outside and the stairs leading below. A man in a stained waiter uniform turns his head when he notices us. Urchin bids him come closer with a gesture.

The man blinks and his eyes turn glazed. He closes the distance while I put on my mask, in case I get spotted. Urchin seizes the waiter by the throat and kills him, gesturing with his left hand to take the man’s falling platter before it can hit the ground with a clang. Then, we are off. I turn left while he turns right. As the crowd roars, I open the door to the next lodge to the surprise of one of Jed’s lieutenants and his bodyguard, slicing their throat under the cover of bloodthirsty screams. In the ring, John and the Crusher probe each other’s defenses with quick jabs and the occasional low kick. I look at the dead man at my feet. Harry the Minge, according to Urchin’s intelligence gathering. He was responsible for the Ratcatchers’ staff from task distribution to recruitment.

Next lodge, Velvet, the gang’s resident Madam. On the opposite side of the circle, Urchin steals a gun before it can be fired and practically decapitates Elbow Jim, the ‘head’ of their protection racket. Our eyes meet briefly. He is doing well.

Below, the exchange between combatants is getting fierce.

“He will try to grab you. When he does, he will look like this. And move like this. Grab his neck if you can, keep your arms free and turn around. Urchin, give me a hand.”

“Yes, miz Ari.”

The Crusher throws a right hook then dives, taking one of John’s legs. John immediately encircles the other man’s neck and leans forward, using his free leg to maintain his balance. He moves backwards and to the side when his foe presses on and otherwise punches him in the ribs. After a few seconds the Crusher gives up. He pushes John back with a parting left jab that hits my servant in the temple. John retaliates by digging his left foot in the sand and throwing a devastating right kick that catches the madman in the thigh and sends him reeling. John shakes his head and starts moving again.

“I’m going to kill you, dumb fuck! I’ll kill you slow and everyone will love it!”

The crowd is on fire.

In the lodges, Fast Jack and Crude Kurt die a silent death.

In the ring, the fight gains in intensity as both opponents get used to each other and start taking risks. Most blows are dodged, deflected or blocked but still they fight with bare knuckles and the sounds of impact is loud enough for even mortals to perceive over the whispers and jeers. John is still fine, but he is just one simple man while Jed’s drug-fed hound looks too excited to feel anything. He even laughs after some of the strikes.

“Fight defensively. You don’t have to win, alright? You just need not to lose. Be safe.”

“Yes, miz Ari. I will be careful”

“You stupid, dumb fuck! You can’t do shit! You’re just a fucking dumbass!”

Both combatants are bloody. John is slowed, and I see some anguish on his normally unflappable face. He is in PAIN. MY SERVANT.

No, I must trust him. Mortals should never be underestimated and this applies to the ones I picked myself. Pride is ever our greatest weakness, and to think only I can be depended upon is a clear sign of it.

Let them make mistakes and suffer. It is also how I grew.

Instead of acting. I move to the last lodge.

Below, the fight is taking a turn for the worse. The Crusher is still not feeling pain. His attacks are relentless and drive John into a corner. My servant buckles. His breath is panicked, pained, and too fast.

I need to hurry.

I enter the last lodge on my side, just as Urchin disappears to complete his last objective. Jed is bent forward, staring at the show before him while munching on a chicken leg. Half-cleaned poultry bones litter the ground at his plump feet.

Two bodyguards turn when I come in. I kill them with a dagger through the brain and hold their bodies as they fall.

“Yea, kill him!” Jed blurts. A piece of chicken skin glides through the air, leaving behind a trail of spittle.

Need to act fast. I step forward, then stop.

Beneath us, the Crusher had been increasingly red tonight, now though, I notice that he is a strange shade of purple. Could it be…

The Ratcacher champion stops.

He raises a hand to his heart, frowns.

John stops hyperventilating. He takes one last seismic breath and lowers his turtle stance.

“Miz Ari?”

“Yes, John?”

“Do you want me to win?”

“If possible, yes John. I very much want you to win.”

“Alright, miz Ari.”

John bellows

The yell pierces through the screams, the laughs and the encouragements. It pierces through the smacked furniture and applauses. It pierces through the very night as John moves. His fists blur as he abandons any pretense at defense or even at breathing.

Then, John goes to town.

The Crusher attempts to protect himself, in vain. John is a hurricane of knuckles and imbecilic rage, as relentless and unimaginative as an avalanche. Punch punch punch punch kick punch. He does not relent, not even to breathe, and the flurry of blows eventually pierces through his foe’s guard, first with glancing blows, and then more consistently. The champion stumbles to the side, offering his back to John who smashes the exposed neck with a two-handed hammer blow. The Crusher is not even screaming anymore.

John circles the man’s neck with his massive arm and turns around, lifting the bruiser as if he were a bag of grain, then he places the man’s neck on his own shoulder, his own two hands under the jaw and pulls.

The snapping sound resonates like thunder.

Wow.

The Crusher’s corpse falls to the ground, the head at an impossible angle.

Hmm.

I do not know what to say!

Silence, sudden, deadly silence spreads over the room.

It is… over? I was not expecting this at all.

You did it, you magnificent bastard. You won.

John, bloody and hurt, covered in shades of expanding red and blue, John the underdog, but John victorious, turns to the crowd and lifts his humongous hands up.

“Who’s the dumbass now, huh? Huh?”

Cries of outrage now sound across the room. Jed somehow manages to jump to his feet, thus violating several rules of physics and inertia. He points a wavering finger at the man below him, who robbed him of his prizefighter. His shrill voice cuts through the chaos

“Seize him! He… AAAAAA!”

Many heads turn to us at the interrupted speech, their eyes going wide as saucers as they register that the gang boss is bent forward over the railing by a woman in a mask holding a pistol. Screams of fear and surprise now overcome those of anger. The mob shifts and roils, looking around at the noticeably empty lodges.

I like that moment.

The reveal.

The moment they realize their castle of cards is folding after almost ten years of stability. All it took for us was to open the door and the winds of change sent the whole edifice crumbling. They realize their strength was merely an unchallenged weakness.

And the thing the survivors of the purge to come will remember is that one white mask, basked in the light of dimmed lanterns above the bleeding corpse of their deposed tyrant.

I pull the trigger.

The detonation is deafening. A woman faints as pieces of brain splatter in and around her cleavage.

That will not wash off.

Some rush to the exit, some try to climb up, some go for the stairs. John is long gone, using the confusion to slip away with the help of King and Crews. I shoot my other pistol at a man grabbing a rifle for good measure and throw a lantern into the small bar on the side, then calmly leave the lodge.

Watcher, It feels amazing to let go a little after all those days spent skulking around.

I take a deep breath, regret it instantly, and join Urchin near the stairs. He holds under his claws a dazed accountant desperately trying to keep his monocle from hitting the ground.

“Is that him?”

“Yes, Milady.”

“Good. Let us be off.”

We find a window and jump down next to utter chaos. Outside of the warehouse, a large group of Mudmen carrying truncheons were waiting for the signal to engage the fleeing Ratcatchers who are, quite ironically, caught like rats in the ensuing ambush. The combatants are now engaged in a desperate melee, with my allies acting like you would expect from someone with a blunt weapon, a target, and five years of pent up frustration. I quickly close the distance where my men are standing, next to a miserable John.

“How are you, dear?”

“It hurts, miz Ari.”

“Let’s have a look,” I announce as I grab a first aid kit from a nearby barrel. We are at the back of the Mudmen lines and already a few concussed idiots are dragging themselves away.

“Miss? Could we go?”

I turn my attention to Crews who unexpectedly talked first. I arch a brow in wonder.

“You mean…”

He silently points at the ongoing brawl.

“Fair enough, be sure to return before dawn yes? And don’t kill any allies.”

“Thanks.”

And off he goes. Next is King who raises a surprisingly delicate hand.

“You too?”

“Do you have any ideas how many times those assholes called me a n—”

“Oh, very well, off you go then. Same instructions.”

King sprints away, gaining speed before jumping feet first into a Ratcatcher’s face.

“Milady,” Urchin asks in turn.

“Seriously?”

“I’m a bit thirsty as well.”

“Just go, I’ll keep an eye on our… guest,” I add, as I look at Urchin’s captive currently hugging the floor and whimpering.

My minion goes off to join his comrades in arms while I tend to John’s many cuts and bruises. Nothing broken, apparently, but he should still rest for at least a week.

“I won,” the large man observes.

“That you did, John, it was an impressive fight.”

“It was hard,” he continues in a soft voice, then after a while, “he was smaller but it was still so hard.”

I continue cleaning and bandaging.

“I thought I was the strongest besides you. Now there are other strong people, like Urchin. Or that man with the grey hair. And that very tall man at the castle. There are many people and they are all very strong. Stronger than me.”

I had not realized he was suffering from his circumstances until now.

“What can I do? I am not special anymore. I am just dumb now.”

“You do not need to be the smartest or strongest to be by my side. Besides, the Crusher cheated,” I interrupt him, trying to assuage his fears.

“Is it the kind of cheat that makes him lose the match if people know?”

With the announcer in Jed’s pocket? On their home ground? Not a chance. John reads my silence with surprising accuracy.

“Then it does not matter that he cheats.”

“John, you can’t be the best at everything. I am not the best at everything. We can only improve ourselves and rely on each other, yes?”

“I want to be the best,” he replies softly, looking into the distance.

In a way, I understand him. It feels good to be respected for your expertise, even if others share it. I am not sure what to say. For the first time since I picked him up more than a decade ago, I have not managed to convince him.

John spends the rest of the night in silence.

The man Urchin scouted then captured was in charge of the Ratcatchers’ purse. With his… enthusiastic contribution, we manage to recruit, eliminate or exile all of the remaining gang members as well as seize their assets in less than a week. The violence and suddenness of the assault gives them no time to recover and regroup. Soon enough, the Mudmen are left in charge of Alexandria’s network of criminal activity. On a whim, I decide to allow Crews and King to handle the returning flesh traders coming here from the North to sell their kidnapped victims. They worked well and I find the reward appropriate.

The warehouse we purchased at the Western edge of town soon becomes loaded with war prizes, legal documents and other confiscated goods. I spend a large amount of time suppressing reactions to our little takeover by convincing officials and journalists that they should focus on something else, for their health. This leaves me little opportunity to handle the rest and I end up accepting more than fifteen new recruits who prefer to join me instead of the Mudmen. I end up using them for patrols and intelligence.

As for our allies, Ritter is fully occupied with glutting himself on the spoils of his erstwhile rival. The few times we meet, I obtain a new reaction I had expected.

Fear.

The tales of the masked woman fly around town from gossips to taverns. Most cannot attach a face to those rumors. He can, and he does not seem to be enjoying the experience. I understand him easily. I have already replaced one boss, why not another?

As a result, he was more than eager to meet my ‘employer’, if only to avoid being next in line in the reshaping of Alexandria’s underground power structure.

That does not stop me from planting a few suggestions through Charm and bite among his most valuable subordinates, of course. I would be an idiot to trust him and his willingness to cooperate. Soon, we have a perfect map of the Mudmen and their assets, just in case we end up requiring a more… aggressive approach to their management.

Once I decide that the situation is well-enough in hand, I approach Urchin as he polishes his shoes near our de facto armory. He has taken my remarks to heart and gives more attention to his appearance now. The result is, well, better. I need to work on his poise more in the future. He does not walk, he lurks.

“Urchin.”

“Milady?”

“It has been a month since you became my follower, and you have now completed your first full operation in a satisfactory manner. I am pleased with your service.”

For some reason, the poor Vanheim Courtier looks on in alarm. I can only presume that no one ever paid him any compliment without following it with a particularly horrifying betrayal.

“Th-thank you?”

“As such, I want to bestow upon you this gift I made,” I add, and offer him a small box. It contains a curved dagger made of a steel and silver alloy I made myself at the manor, with inlays enchanted at great cost by one of Wilhelm’s retainers. The result is both elegant and deadly, allowing the wielder to stab and slice to his heart’s content.

The poor lad opens the box with reverent eyes, even waits for my approval to pick the weapon. He caresses its surface with his marginally less grubby hands and wonders at its exquisite make. I am quite proud of the result myself.

“No one has ever offered me anything. It’s… beautiful.”

“I am delighted to hear it. This blade will serve you well in the struggles to come.”

“We are doing well so far, are we not?” he mentions while looking at the plunder we gathered.

“Indeed. Sadly, this was the easiest target by far. We had good intelligence, the element of surprise and two vampires while they had no forewarning, no faith, and no magic. There was no real way for us to fail at this stage barring glaring incompetence. Those mages we must convince will certainly oppose us at first. You will have to be ready.”

Against all expectations, Urchin jumps to his feet and stands tall and proud. In his case, it means he reaches just slightly below my nose.

“It is an honor to fight by your side, Milady. You can count on me! I shall be a tremendous watermelon!”

He then proceeds to bow with great energy, his beret falling from his scalp on the muddy ground.

We are not quite there yet.

Our next target designates itself when one of our newest recruits comes rushing the very same night.

“Boss lady, you said to tell you if there’s anything weird going on, right?”

“What have you found?”

“Well you know that bookshop you asked me to look at, there are at least twenty people that went in, right?”

“Yes, and?”

“It’s been three days and not a single one has come out.”

Problematic.

85. The Library of Alexandria

At the northern end of town, hidden between a cattle feed shop and a small glassmaker, stands the Alexandria Shop of Books Rare and Precious for the Discerning Gentleman. I immediately notice two major issues.

The first, neither Urchin nor I are gentlemen.

Second, there is absolutely no way that twenty people would fit in there unless the building also sports an extensive underground network, a stupid idea this close to the Potomac.

Hypothetically, if a mage wanted to slay a vampire, an effective way would be to attract them into a closed environment then detonate it. It is how I would do it. At the same time, I was not baited nor do I have any reason to go there myself.

“Urchin, we will go down and ask some questions. If I tell you to start running, you do.”

“I understand, milady.”

I gather my dress and we drop down from a nearby roof, then cross the deserted street to the entrance of the store. The curtains are fully drawn and the door, locked tight. I easily perceive enchantments of warning and reinforcement engraved into the solid frame. Those are permanent works and not the shoddy labor of a caster who expects to up and leave at the first opportunity.

The perspective of some elaborate trap grows more unlikely by the minute. Only the most fanatical madmen would draw their enemies in the heart of their domain and destroy it around them. Satisfied, I do the most logical thing.

I bang on the door.

Urchin looks at me, askance, and I feel the need to explain.

“Lady Sephare bid us bring the mages to the negotiation table. There is no need for us to antagonize them if they bend willingly.”

“Are those men likely to accept her dominion?”

“Some will not, but some may, and it is them that will be of use in the coming years,” I reply as I keep smashing the wooden frame.

“I see,” Urchin replies thoughtfully.

A moment later, the curtains part and reveal a panicked young man hastily fixing a monocle on one of his pale blue eyes, growing it to comical proportions. He bites an already bloodied lip and comes to a decision, opening the door between us.

“We-we’re closed!”

“I am not here for the books,” I reply with a glacial tone.

I expected many reactions, and yet I still find myself surprised at the sheer, pure expression of orgasmic relief on the meek man’s face.

“Oh thank God, you are here to help? Right? Did someone get my message?”

A message?

Well, no reason to waste this opportunity. I give him my most genial smile and answer:

“Why yes, I am certainly here to help. Why don’t you let us in and tell us everything we need to know.”

“Of course, of course. Sorry.”

We follow the man, apparently a clerk if his sweaty clothes are any indication, to a short counter surrounded everywhere by bookshelves filled to the brim by tomes of all ages and sizes. The air smells stale, the stench of the man’s ripe sweat overloading the delicate scent of ageing paper. Powerful waves of magic surge from a massive cabinet placed against a wall on the right, the apparently unused space an anomaly in the otherwise cluttered store.

The clerk sits down heavily into a battered chair, sending a loaded pistol clattering on the ground. I note with interest that the seat is facing the aforementioned cabinet.

“Oh, where are my manners? My name is Eric Booth. And, er, who might you be?”

“My name is Ariane and this is my assistant, Urchin,” I reply with a light smile. I do not use Charm, as I do not think it necessary. This man is desperate. He wants us to be his saviors and his addled brain will naturally omit all the little details that should arouse his suspicion.

“No last name?”

“You should know better than to ask,” I chastise him with amusement, “All you need to know is that we are only called when the situation is urgent. Speaking of which…”

“Yes, yes, my apologies. It’s just… I was getting desperate. It has already been a day, you see.”

“Why not start from the beginning?”

“Right! Right, so, the head librarian gathered everyone for his experiment, right? That was three days ago. I don’t know much about what they were doing, only that it related to aligned spheres and some such, all hush hush spell thingies, right?”

Oh no, please no.

“So, I was there last night minding my own business when I heard a terrible sound, like breaking metal. It was coming from the portal! I was close at that time so I jumped up and went to open it.”

The first thing to do when magic acts erratically is to take cover and find protective equipment. This man is an absolute moron.

“So, I open it without worry and I hear the most horrendous screams! As if, er…”

“People were eaten alive?” I suggest helpfully.

“I guess? Hold on, you don’t think…?” the clerk replies fearfully.

“Please go on.”

Noticeably paler, the clerk continues with his recollection.

“I was looking down the stairs and then the lights started to flicker. Then after a while, I heard a noise, like something really heavy walking forward. I panicked and I closed the door and I’ve been waiting here ever since. I managed to get a kid to send a message to magister Schultz. He must have received it since you’re here.”

Urchin hides his mouth behind a sleeve and whispers in a voice that only I pick up.

“There is a Schultz who died yesterday. He is the talk of the city, on account of dying after the consumption of an excessive amount of aphrodisiacs. It could be the same person.”

I would not be surprised.

“I did not know what to do so I just took a pistol and waited in front of the door. I only left to go to the lavatories, make food, make tea and find the 1628 version of Don Quixote that had gone missing.”

The world is doomed.

“Thank God you’re here now!”

“Indeed,” I reply drily, “I would like to have a look at the library now.”

“But… you are not exactly armed?”

I take a long silver dagger from a sheath at my back and wave it under the clerk’s nose. Tonight, I am not wearing my armor but a light grey travelling dress plus hood, currently lowered. Urchin wears a black ensemble under his unfortunate beret.

The clerk swallows nervously before looking at my companion currently spinning my gift in the air. He then materializes two throwing knives from a side pocket and starts juggling.

“Right away then.”

While the man fumbles with a keychain, I open the cabinet out of curiosity.

Three empty ink pots and a crude drawing.

The Clerk rushes by me, closes the door, locks and unlocks it. Along the frame, metal decorations in curls and spikes glow gold before fading away. The magic pulses once, then fades back to normal.

Eric Booth pulls the door open, steps back and gestures wildly.

“Welcome, miss, to the Library of Alexandria.”

I walk forth, speechless. My hand caresses a marble wall engraved with images of scrolls and books. Monumental stairs descend onto a platform below, lit by shining blue orbs fixed on the walls by sconces of polished bronze. Their shimmering glow reflects in the odd square of golden sheaf discreetly integrated into nearby carvings.

With every step, the light shifts to focus on another detail, another scene. Here, the titan Prometheus grants fire to mankind, before being punished by an outraged Zeus. There, a Renaissance scholar dissects a man’s body before an assembly of his peers. Astronomers work side by side with dragons, mathematicians with sphinxes in an impossible festival of colors.

Runes in all shapes and sizes flash before my eyes, harmless yet distracting by their sheer number.

Still amazed, I finally attain the landing to find myself in a circular room. Filled bookshelves cover the walls. Two alcove doors lead left and right while right in front of us, glassless windows with a stone railing show similar openings in the distance as if we were part of a building around a circular inner court of massive proportion. I do not see the floor from where I stand.

This place…

IS AWESOME.

By the Watcher, I wish Torran were here to see this! Is this library as large as it looks? A hidden depository of magical knowledge exists here, below my feet! How I wish to explore it, plumb its occulted depths in the search of rare tomes and fantastic knowledge. I could spend years here, caressing those august spines and searching through ink of red and gold for that one pearl of wisdom, that one exquisite manuscript!

Excited, I pick a book at random, marvelling at the quality of the preserved leather cover. I turn it around to read the title.

“De Contemptis of Luve and Evill Wemen, cum commento.

Scottish Poetry as compiled by George Bannatyne, a merchant of Edinburgh.”

Hmm.

Well.

I mean.

It would be unfair of me to expect all of them to be life-changing masterpieces.

Aww, this just ruined the mood. Bah, never mind, I am here to purge and subjugate. I shall not let such trifling matters affect me. Really.

On a side note, I see no trace of eldritch invaders from another dimension just quite yet. There is however, a strange beastly musk in the air as well as the stench of stale blood and wastes, the source of which I promptly find. To the side of the room’s only desk, I find a ghastly pile of purple leavings.

“What is that?” Urchin the city boy asks with a mix of disgust and fascination.

“A massive pile of excrement,” I suggest helpfully.

He stares at me, askance, before coming to a revelation.

“Oh, I know this one! You just used a metaphor, right?”

“I’m afraid not.”

My fellow vampire appears troubled by the droppings. I suppose that both the size and the unusual color are a cause for worry. Ah, and speaking of the devil.

“Mr Booth, go back up the stairs please. Urchin, come here,” I order. The Vanheim vampire looks at me uncomprehending.

“Take out your dagger.”

He materializes it mechanically.

“If I do not miss my guess… Ah, indeed not,” I announce casually as heavy footsteps sound from a side corridor. Soon after, a head made of a large open maw surrounded by questing tendrils emerges from the door, sniffing the air with the power of a forge’s bellow.

“What the hell is that?” Urchin hisses, panicked.

“Tut tut, language,” I chastise him, “that is a Merghol mana hound and you’re going to kill it.”

Silence reigns as the creature steps in and turns towards us.

“I am?” Urchin squeaks.

In answer, I boot the vile creature back from whence it came as it jumps at us and then gently push Urchin forward.

“It shall be your first time facing an inhuman opponent. Enjoy the practice, and do your best!”

Thankfully the creature does not call for its brethren as it throws itself on Urchin with abandon. This specific hound looks like one of the middle-sized ones we faced near Marquette, with several physical differences that could be due to any number of factors. This creature’s skin is purple, it is shorter and stockier than the others and possibly stronger, though it lacks grace. I encourage Urchin as he does his best to fend the creature off.

“To the left. No, the other left.”

“Focus, Urchin, you’re faster than it.”

“Do not concern yourself with that knife, you can just fetch it back with your power.”

“Good one.”

“Stab under the maw to free yourself now!”

“That is fine Urchin, you don’t even need all those fingers. They will regrow!”

And finally, because I am losing patience and the smell of Eric Booth’s empty bowels are trying my patience.

“By the Watcher Urchin, are you a sheep or a vampire? It is Prey, pathetic and filthy. KILL IT. KILL IT NOW.”

With one last scream of rage and desperation, my subordinate jumps on the creature’s back and stabs its spine, flanks and neck repeatedly until the thing stops moving. Behind him, a rumble announces the arrival of some more of the pack. I suppose we were a bit noisy.

“I will be right back,” I declare.

I enter the corridor and find three hounds and, on the ground, an old splash of blood with bits of mangled fabric. I stab the first hound in the heart as it passes by, cleave through the second one’s neck and break the spine of the third just for variety’s sake. In this narrow corridor, they had to come after me one by one, making them easy targets.

I clean purple blood from my long dagger on a nearby tapestry depicting a man conversing with a devil, then return to my allies.

Urchin is on the ground, looking a bit blankly at the alien corpse before him. Booth is slowly stepping away from us and towards the entrance.

“That should be all for now. Urchin, stand up.”

The man obeys.

“And you Booth, come back here,” I order without even a bit of compulsion. The man is a wimp and a glorified doormat, used to taking orders without question.

“Give me the key,” I order, and extend a hand in which he places the golden and intricate object.

“What sort of mages are you?” He asks with a trembling voice.

“The sort that can defeat those creatures,” I reply.

He just accepts the explanation without complaint.

I do not understand why a secretive organization would not use their best agents to guard the gates. This level of oversight is beyond ridiculous, a sign of unwarranted confidence and a complete lack of common sense.

Now that I think about it, those morons apparently opened a portal and got eaten as a result so I should not expect too much.

All that knowledge and no brains.

Disappointing.

“Now, I need to check something. Wait here.”

I approach the window to the inner court and look out and down. Right above me, a ceiling imitating a night sky blocks the way up, indicating that we are on the topmost level of the library. Below, the structure continues over seven floors before ending on a large circular plaza of white and black tiles, over fifty paces across. In its center, an elevated platform of rose stone serves as a ritual locus. It also serves, for now, as a portal between dimensions.

A large crack in the very air tears the veil between realities in a show so strange that my mind revolts at the sight, my eyes slipping away from the rift. The edges of the opening glide senselessly inside of the circle, painting the room in ever-changing shapes of magenta. As I watch, another hound crashes in, then shakes its maw and bickers with one of its siblings already pacing the hall.

Creatures such as this one patrol the ground, sniffing at demolished furniture, pools of blood, and each other. Their grunts and huffs offer a disturbing counterpoint to the portal’s steady hum. Of the mages, very little remains, most of it smeared on the ground.

The runes of the portal flare wildly one after the other without apparent rule. Every five seconds or so, the rift rotates abruptly.

This spell is far from being stable and there is also a good chance that the Merghol hounds disrupt it by their very presence. They do feel queer, the aura around them empty and deleterious. If they truly are magical scramblers, I can already see a few problems looming.

Loth was unusually thorough when teaching me the art of magic despite my own inability to cast. He started out of affection, but the real cause of his seriousness is the perfectionism with which he approaches every aspect of his craft. Barring demanding circumstances, Loth will not start any work that isn’t worth being done perfectly.

One of the first lessons he taught me was the importance of safety. He would drill it into my mind until it became second nature. I still carry in my mind the lessons he shared.

“If it’s unstable, it’s gonny explode, and it’s gonny explode in yer face,” he would say.

And other pearls of wisdom.

“If it can splash on yer fingers it can splash in yer eyes, on yer feet, and on the neighbor’s dog.”

“Measure twice cast once.”

And finally, my favorite.

“It’s only when I’m elbow deep in quicksilver that my arse starts to itch.”

That last one I was thankfully spared due to my immortal nature. One must note that Loth had a vertical pole covered in dense boar hair specifically installed to remedy the situation. It pays to be prepared.

In any case, if he were here he would have some choice words about the situation. An experimental spell is fizzling quickly. An experimental spell that played with the very fabric of the world in a field of magic I am unfamiliar with for the simple reason that it did not exist two years ago.

I cannot even begin to consider what the worst case scenario is. We are in uncharted disaster territory.

The real question here is, do I cut and run? I could leave Alexandria to its fate. It would be the most reasonable action, at least in the short term. However, I dismiss this thought as soon as it comes to my mind, and I know why.

It is not duty, though duty plays a part.

To flee now is to give up on not just the task I was granted, but also on my alliance with Sephare and, possibly, even Constantine. Who would respect a vampire who had a chance to stop the cataclysm and turned tail instead? I would not. In managing our territories, we are expected to solve supernatural threats if only because we do not tolerate competition.

It is not greed either, though greed plays a part. I found a treasure trove and I resent the very thought of leaving it for alien beasts to despoil. Already, the signs of their presence in those halls of gold and marble fill my heart with cold anger. We stand in a hallowed place, a temple to knowledge and humanism. I will not part with it so easily, and yet, it is still not the true reason.

The real cause is, of course, pride.

Our greatest sin.

The ever-present cause for our demise.

I have been thinking about it.

I believe that in order to become a Lord, the Watcher’s influence is required. The mark of a Lord is the Magna Arqa, their strange power. When Lord Suarez demonstrated it against the Knight Squad, his eyes briefly flashed with the color of the vampire star.

I know that I am relying on a vague impression or rather a hunch when making this assumption. It matters not. Hunches are born from instinct and experience, neither of which have failed me when it came to understanding my own nature. That influence will not be bestowed upon the meek, the useless and the stupid.

Pride is simply at the heart of what we are. To deny it is to deny our nature. I cannot flee as surely as a fish cannot breathe air.

“Booth,” I ask, “where would the notes on this spell be kept?”

“The—the mage quarters on the fourth floor, I believe. All their laboratories are there.”

“Excellent. I will need those to close the portal safely. For now, we must prepare.”

“Milady?” Urchin asks with doubt in his eyes.

“We came equipped for a diplomatic mission. This is now an extermination mission, and I need my gear for that. We will return to base and fetch our weapons.”

Pride must be tempered with caution.

“You mean, a search and rescue mission, right?” our guide asks worriedly.

“Yes yes, Mr. Booth. A search and rescue mission,” I reply with rolling eyes. Perhaps I should have just bitten that idiot.

According to our guide, the Library consists of seven main floors and an archive under the central plaza, which contains advanced magical knowledge and tomes of forbidden lore. In other words, the good stuff. The Fourth floor is dedicated to offices, quarters and laboratories. Enough for twenty people to conduct their research comfortably. All of the rift’s preparatory work should be there.

Booth was quite helpful in describing the architecture of the library. I ended up biting him because I cannot take the risk that he would grow a spine as Urchin and I conduct our search. It would not do to solve the issue, only to return and find out he somehow sealed us in.

“Milady, I am scared.”

“Then don’t look down,” I reply drily. The stairs up and down are situated at either end of the circle and we would be guaranteed to get in combat with packs of the beast. Fighting now would be counterproductive. We need to close the portal first, then mop up.

And so, we climb down the face of the inner court, using our claws to prevent an untimely fall onto the plaza. Also onto said plaza’s fauna and strange magical phenomenon. Even now, the chaotic light coming from below casts strange shadows on the walls’ white stone.

Urchin slips. I dig one claw in the carved figure of a well-endowed nymph and grab my accomplice by the collar as he gasps. On the other side of the wall, a few huffs signify the presence of a hound. The creature is unimaginative, however, and after a few disappointed grunts, we hear it paddle away.

I shove Urchin against a column which he clings to like an oyster to a hull, then resume my descent. A few seconds of muttered curses after, Urchin follows suit.

Our climb ends without further incidents at the edge of the fourth floor. Looking over the railing, I immediately notice differences.

While other floors are densely packed labyrinths of bookshelves around small study rooms, this one is almost entirely open. The gap in front of us opens into a vast study room dotted with support pillars and luxurious desks, all of which stand abandoned. A few doors on the opposite walls probably lead to the offices Booth described.

Contrary to my expectations, the center path to the laboratories is currently sealed by stacked bookshelves and other various pieces of furniture. A quartet of hounds patrol the open space, occasionally prodding at the improvised barrier.

I know what that means.

Survivors.

“Urchin, take the beast on the right,” I order.

“The one currently licking its—”

“Yes,” I answer tiredly, “that one. On my mark. Ready? Go!”

I charge and impale the first hound in the heart before it can even detect my presence. In one movement, I dig out the spear and plant a dagger in its companion’s head, then complete the twirl with a thrust forward that ends with Sivaya’s spearhead in the last creature’s skull.

I turn around and watch Urchin as he climbs on his hound’s back, using his gift to stab the creature repeatedly without having to extricate his blades. The hound gasps in agony, its shrieks dying in what passes as its throat under the unimaginable pain. In only a few seconds, Urchin has dispatched his target which is, I will admit, a marked improvement.

My minion stands up and turns to me, proud of his victory. He takes in the surgically dispatched targets and my waiting form, deflating a bit in the process.

“You did well,” I reassure him, “much better than last time.”

Carrot and stick, Ariane, carrot and stick.

“Thank you Milady. Should I clear the irrigation system?” he offers, pointing at the barricade.

“Yes, we will clear the corridor together,” I correct him, stressing his mistake.

“Oh, corridor.”

“Do not worry about it.”

“Thank you, you are most grapefruit.”

I sigh and we get to work. Our task is made more complicated by the need to stay relatively silent. We are forced to cooperate and create a small pile to the side. Fortunately, we receive unexpected help when someone else starts clearing the blockade from the other side. After one last bookshelf tucked away, I come face to face with an astounded wizard.

He is rather short, with frizzy dark hair and curious brown eyes of noticeably different colors. His face is handsome, with a scar on his right cheek that grants him a rugged look. His aura is peculiar, as if it had depth.

“You are not from the Society,” he observes. Too late, I feel a small spell bouncing against my essence, tasting it. The mage reacts immediately by taking a nervous step back.

He pales.

“Indeed not,” I reply with a fanged smile.

The mage stumbles away and crosses himself. I do not feel the same threat as usual. Rather than pushing me away, he is simply accepting his fate.

I use the opportunity to inspect him. He wears a beige suit and white shirt set I would expect from a well-to-do gentleman, though currently wrinkled and smelling a bit ripe. His right hand is clad in the most intricate gauntlet I have ever seen. While many mages will restrain themselves to a few combinations of runes for a good balance between power and versatility, the man facing me has clearly gone for specialization. He wields a tool, not a weapon.

“So, er, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” he asks, a bit flustered.

So very courteous.

“My name is Ariane, this is Urchin,” I offer.

“Oh, where are my manners? Ricardo Solo, at your service,” he answers with a short bow. The familiarity of those words help him settle.

“Charmed. Where were we? Ah yes. We were on our way to visit your most honorary Society as we meant to… get acquainted with Alexandria’s respectable citizenry.”

“As is our wont,” Urchin contributes.

“When,” I continue with a reproachful look, “we came across a tear in the very universe and a cataclysm of biblical proportion in the making.”

“Not to mention those weird dogs,” Urchin continues, on a roll.

“We would be really interested in a way to close the rift lest it swallows us all and casts our wretched coils into the great beyond.”

“Preferably before the sun rises,” Urchin finishes, to my dismay.

Solo’s wary expression turns hopeful, which I always find curious in people I have half a mind to eat.

“Oh, then our interests coincide! I, too, would prefer not to be disintegrated into my component atoms. Should we work together?”

“That would be brilliant.”

“Then follow me, fellow, er, non-hostile sapient beings,” he declares with just a bit of hesitation, before heading back to one of the doors in the hallways beyond.

As we step forth, Urchin leans towards me.

“Milady, I believe this man is a bit out there, if you catch my meaning.”

“Thank you for your valuable input, Urchin,” I retort.

We follow the weird survivor to a side room clearly set to be a laboratory. Working stations line the walls, covered in protective white ceramic. The stone floor is corroded or oddly colored in some places, while to the side, our guest has set up an improvised camp. Several experiments are in progress, one involving temperature variation to condense the collected water which then drips into a beaker. Ricardo passes by and casually gulps its contents before moving on.

We follow him to the largest table, set in the middle of the room. On it, a plan of the central ritual has been laid out with colored notes and pins stuck in strategic places. The complexity is breathtaking, and the difference to Semiramis’ work is that this time, it is simple enough that I manage to grasp some of the underlying concepts. The ritual uses two batteries, one instruction set, a stabilizing array on a loop and coordinates based on resonance codes.

“Where did you get this?” I ask while pointing at that last component. The glyph used is unknown to me while the rest of the runes are typical Western Standard.

“Oh, a practitioner as well? You must be well-educated to understand the spell that quickly,” Ricardo answers. When I do not volunteer more information, he averts his eyes.

“To answer your question, there has always been a, er, background mana signature in the air. Recently, that background became much more stable though we are not sure how and why.”

Because an old monster decided to play god.

“There are several sequences of mana waves in the air, which we can capture on an electrum sheet using an appropriate apparatus.”

Pretentious. Silver ought to work just as well.

“A mage from Switzerland correctly identified that the waves were not one, but instead a multitude of sequences of various lengths. I surmised that the main sequence identified our own world due to its intensity and perfect stability while others are echoes of distant worlds.

“Those worlds move relative to ours and so their sequence is not perfectly stable, but thanks to a mathematical model, I was able to predict a time when a sequence would match a specific set of coordinates. Now, you have realized that the door to the bookstore manipulates space, correct?”

“Indeed.”

“I made it ten years ago. The framework is mostly the same, the main difference being said coordinates.”

“Impressive,” I note with grudging respect. The design is simple, clean and elegant. I remember that powerful casters age more slowly as they grow in power. For most, the slowing down occurs in their later years, meaning that most archmage gatherings look like geriatric wards. The fact that Ricardo does not look one year above thirty is a testament to his skill and power.

“We now face a complication. The portal was fed energy for two days, and should naturally close within the next eight hours.”

“Let me guess, we do not have eight hours?”

“Well, the coordinates are slowly changing as the connected world moves away from ours. It will place an ever-growing strain on the portal. There are also unexplained disruptions.”

“Probably those creatures.”

“Hmm, yes, likely. Whatever the cause is, the spell will go critical in less than three hours.”

“Meaning?”

“Remember when I talked about disintegration?”

We both fall silent.

“I assume you have a failsafe?” I ask after a while with just a little bit of apprehension.

“I do. Please look at this section.”

I follow his direction and find a sub-system of runes attached to the two batteries. It is part of the spell, and at the same time, it will not activate unless triggered separately. The glyphs for a sort of vent that should syphon out energy in record time.

“This looks promising.”

“It will close the rift almost instantly.”

“I feel a ‘but’ coming.”

Ricardo looks aggravated.

“Obviously, I could not let anyone shut down my experiment with ease after all the work I put into it. In order to activate the failsafe, I must input a glyph code in a very specific order.”

“Let me get this straight. Your fail-safe, which you placed on an experimental work of great might with the potential to explode in your face and lay waste to the entire region, can only be used by you and takes seconds to activate.”

“A full minute.”

“By the Watcher!”

“How could I know that things could go so bad?!”

“Yes, how could the disaster occur with such competent people at the helm? I am positively flummoxed,” I reply with an acerbic tone.

Ricardo crosses his arm on his chest and lifts his chin, a gesture that would be considerably more intimidating if he were not so short.

“So the rumors are true, vampires are creatures of sarcasm, eh?”

I take a step forward and invade his personal space.

“You should simmer down before I remind you of what else we are famous for.”

In this specific context, extreme violence. Ricardo understands my meaning clearly and raises both hands in a placating gesture.

“My apologies. You are correct, of course, there were… oversights. Including on my part.”

I step back, signaling an end to the hostilities.

“If I understand correctly, we need to get you to that part of the glyph and give you one minute of calm, is that correct?” I ask the mage.

“Yes, preferably before long.”

“Before we plan for that, I have another question.”

“Yes?”

“How come you are the only survivor?” I ask lightly.

Mr. Solo frowns as he realizes that I boxed him against the table. My relative closeness makes him uncomfortable.

“I… did not participate in the casting,” he admits, “The design is mine but I wanted to wait another cycle to double-check my calculations. Hazel, er, that would be our previous leader, he wanted us to be the first to reach a new world. I have been corresponding with other researchers around the continent. We were at the vanguard of research, but Hazel wanted the prestige associated with a first successful rift.”

“So he cast it himself?”

“Him and our other senior members. They took some precautions, of course, they even kept everyone around with battle spells ready. I had taken refuge in an isolation pod in a nearby laboratory just in case. When nothing exploded, I came out to the railing to watch the completed ritual. When I approached, I heard screams, then I saw the moving blasphemy my creation had vomited into this world.”

He shakes his head and grows visibly nervous. He grasps his hands tightly as if to exorcise the memories from his mind.

“The screams, my god. Our spells did nothing against the creature. They only seemed to energize it. Then another came, probably attracted by the smell of blood, then another. There was nothing I could do. I retreated here and prepared a desperate plan to close that portal before it swallows us all.”

Ricardo shudders and averts his eyes, now brimming with unshed tears. I feared that he may be dangerously cold, and I was mistaken. He merely postponed his grief and his horror.

There is no deception in him, I am sure of it.

“Could there be any other survivors?”

He considers the question for a moment.

“I find it extremely unlikely but yes, someone may have locked themselves in one of the reading rooms on the first floor. They are specifically designed for isolation and privacy.”

“Why?” I ask excitedly, “are those where the books of hidden lore are stored?”

“Not… exactly.”

I look on with confusion.

“Well, the first floor contains a very expansive collection…” Ricardo continues sheepishly

“Of what?” I ask with impatience.

“Pornography and Erotica.”

Just. I. What? I cannot. Seriously?!

“You have to understand…” he continues, while behind us Urchin sniggers. I throw both arms up in exasperation. I cannot stand this stupid place anymore. Those people…

“We are mostly celibate…”

“Have you considered getting in touch with the exclusively female society of witches living in the same Watcher-accursed city?”

“There have been a few tentative openings, of course. Unfortunately, they didn’t pan out. A question of ego, on both sides I’m afraid.”

“You don’t say. You treated them like conceited tarts and they thought you were a bunch of pompous dolts, am I correct?”

“More or less, yes.”

“Well, you were both right. Now, and before any more disappointing revelations, I would like us to focus on the task at hand. We have a cataclysm to stop.”

“Yes, my apologies. My primary concern is the ritual. Fortunately, the matter is simple, really. I need free access to the glyphs while remaining free of the attention of those wretched creatures. There has to be a dozen now, at least.”

“A little more than that, I’m afraid.”

“But surely… You are here…”

“We did not slaughter our way down, we bypassed them by climbing down the inner court’s walls.”

“So, they are unstoppable…” Ricardo whispers with dread.

“We still killed eight on our way here,” I retort somewhat defensively. Nothing is unstoppable for me. Well, no, many things are unstoppable. Just not these mutts. Pah.

“Oh good,” the man continues, “then perhaps… Yes. If we could lure the beasts away from the central position…”

“Then you could get down the same way as us, and close the portal as the hounds are otherwise occupied,” I finish for him.

“Precisely. As for the lure, a powerful spell coupled with some noise should be enough to draw them to the upper floors.”

“But we can’t cast spells,” interjects Urchin, who had been quiet until now. I silence him with a glare. We never admit a weakness before a stranger, though in this case, his mistake is minor. I would have had to admit it at some point.

“You are not a mage?” Ricardo ask me, stupefied, “but—”

“I am trained in magical theory. I haven’t found the time to practice yet.”

“How can you not find the time to study the Art of all arts!?” Ricardo demands, scandalized.

I grab him by the collar and pull him in until our noses almost touch.

“Because I keep being distracted from this noble goal by imbeciles with much more skill than common sense.”

He averts his eyes.

“Point taken,” he croaks, and I release him.

“I cannot believe you have never cast,” he mutters as he fixes his tie. Clearly, the revelation has rattled him. Typical of one whose existence does not depend on his ability to make himself too bothersome to kill.

“Technically I have. Before you ask, I would not be able to reproduce the specific circumstances that allowed me to do it.”

“That changes everything! If you can cast, you can cast. I can help you.”

“Hold on, are you saying that you can teach me how to do magic in less than an hour?”

“No, not as such, no,” Solo mutters as he opens a cabinet under one of the tables and rummages through its contents.

“Aha!” he exclaims.

The proud mage turns around and both Urchin and I watch the massive gauntlet in his hands.

“This is a focused gauntlet. It offers a considerable power boost, but you can only use it to cast one spell. We use it when we need to do some heavy lifting and neither flexibility nor subtlety are required.”

“It sounds right up your alley, Milady,” Urchin whispers before recoiling when I fix him with a murderous glare.

“With this,” Solo continues, “you shall have no difficulty casting a basic spell. Did you have something in mind?”

I consider it. Yes. As a matter of fact, I did.

“Must I engrave the central plate here with the appropriate rune?”

“That is correct. Do so, then follow my directions and you will find yourself casting in no time.”

I have a feeling it cannot be this easy. Ricardo rightfully takes my silence for doubt.

“We are brute-forcing the spell. It will work, I am sure of it. I got a measure of your aura earlier and, well, you have a lot of power to play with. You will definitely succeed.”

“Hmm. If you say so,” I concede.

The seventh floor, near the entrance.

Everything is ready. I left my pistols with Urchin, whose task it will be to protect Ricardo from stragglers. They are noisy but powerful weapons. By the time he uses them, I should have the full attention of the packs. In the meanwhile, he has knives.

The pair is hanging from a delivery basket on the fourth floor, ready for the signal.

My spell.

The very first one I will cast voluntarily and without Likaean essence flooding my veins. I look at the unwieldy gauntlet around my left hand. It fits snuggly. I believe that one day, I will have my own, crafted for my own needs and according to my preferences. For now, I will make do.

I use a claw to slice my thumb and christen the rune on the back of my hand with a bloody imprint. I extend a tendril of essence through it and into the gauntlet, feeling a queer sense of feedback. The reaction is both filling a container and lighting a fire.

After only a moment, something clicks and yet I still feed more power into the conduit until it grows uncomfortably cramped.

I have the symbols; I have the power. The last ingredient is the will.

I call the concept into my mind.

The interior of the sarcophagus as I wake up. The shadow of a building in the dark of the night. Storm clouds passing over the moon. It shelters me, protects me, assists me. It is my element, a tool and a weapon. A familiar absence.

Sinead used to say that under its dominion fall both the caress of the lover and the stiletto to end a life, and he was right. It conceals the whisperers and the moaners, those who succumb to pleasure and to death.

Science says it is the absence of light. That it is empty. Foolishness, for it harbors the fear of men in its vast, incomprehensible depths.

Let it come now.

Let darkness be.

“Nu Sharran.”

I open my eyes to… nothing. The orbs are muted, the candles extinguished. Black clouds, tarry yet immaterial roll away from me, taking with it an amount of energy so large it makes me gasps. The spell is born. It slithers between chair legs and through the interstitial space in the shattered bookshelves. It crawls under blood-drenched banners and over the cooling corpses of the slaughtered hounds.

Darkness, pure and simple.

I see nothing, yet I know where things are. The awareness comes to me for the cloud is from me, and through me. It is me.

And below, the creatures bay. They can finally taste the scent of the prey that had eluded their efforts so far. A stampede makes the ground tremble, starting from below.

Suddenly, an intuition comes over me. The same way I sometimes know from where an attack will come, I feel something. My death.

I am going to die?

No, I could die. I need to…

I cling to the impression, focusing on it as it drifts from my grasp like sand. I need… I need…

Movement.

Yes, of course. My usual strategy will not work against those creatures. I need to keep moving, always. Vampire strength will not save my life here. Vampire speed will.

I approach the railing and pass my head through the cloud of unnatural darkness to stare below and check my allies’ progress.

Oh.

Oh no.

Some hounds on the ground have not moved yet. They just paddle on the white and black tiles sniffing as they go. But of course! My spell is darkness. It must be stealthier than the classic firebolt, and they have not felt me! How did I not think of it?

No…

What should I do? I need to attract their attention. Quickly Ariane, do something!

Sounds?

Well, I could just do that.

I step over the railing.

I stand straight, feet apart and hands on my waist.

“Preeeeeeeeeeeendi!”

The hounds stop and raise their alien maws as my voice resonates, clear and, of course, horribly off-tune. On the fourth floor, the two men stare with sheer horror as I inflict the most disgraceful, the most shamelessly vile treatment possible on Adina’s sublime aria. Somewhere in Italy, Donizetti’s poor ears ought to be bleeding.

“Prendi, per me sei liiiiibero

Resta nel suol natiiiiiiiio.”

I slaughter the song and the remaining hounds rush up the stairs with the wrath of ten thousand sopranos. The men wince and with one last look of pained incredulity, make their way down with the delivery basket.

I just cast my first spell and instead of riding the wave of my pride, I am forced to commit musical murder in the name of survival. Truly, this world is cruel beyond compare.

No time to cry, the first beasts are already coming. The time has come for me to fulfil my purpose, the reason why our bloodline exists in the first place.

The fracas of heavy bodies galloping on solid stone grows like the sound of a rolling drum. It echoes across the void of the inner court and down the maze of shelves on all sides. I take my spear and point it forward.

“You are not welcome here.”

I thrust through the first hound’s skull, catch the one jumping over the corpse of its companion in the heart and sweep a third against the wall, then I fall back as three more take their place.

“We have claimed this land.”

With precise thrusts, I dispatch more hounds. A strike must kill with impunity or I do not take it. I run, I flee, it does not matter. Tonight, I am not the pouncing predator but a lone wolf harrying a stag. I cannot slay it in one go, and that is fine. Bit by bit, nibble by nibble, I will take their numbers down until the end. I just need to survive and not be swarmed. One mistake is all it would take.

Thrust and sweep, kill two as they hamper each other trying to pass a small alcove. Always, I stay aware of my surroundings. I jump backwards over fallen bookshelves and slide below the largest desks while my pursuers ram themselves into every obstacle. I remain untouched, as swift and elusive as the wind.

DANCE WITH ME MONGRELS.

Yes, no matter how long I live I cannot give this up, the ecstasy of deadly combat. The waltz on the edge of a blade! Another fall as I dodge left, then retreat right, always keeping to the outside circle of the library. If I enter those labyrinthic inner rooms, I shall surely die.

I go on, thrust, kick and dodge, until the inevitable happens. I hear growls at my back.

I cast the spell while close to a first stairwell, and now I have completed a half-circle and reached the second. Without hesitation, I grab a desk and send it smashing into the lead hounds and turn around. I lower the spear and charge like a jousting knight, Stabbing into the first hound in front of me and pushing it into the next. I move left, along the railing, and use a palm to push a third hound away. A lucky swipe catches me in the calf, making me stumble.

Not good.

I use the other leg to propel me forward as I turn to check the damage. I find very little of it. A trickle of blood and a gash in the intricate network of mail. I test my weight gingerly and find my mobility unimpeded, the wound already healing.

Thank you, Loth.

I rush to the stairs, slaying two more creatures on the way and jump down as hounds arrive from everywhere. I hear a gunshot coming from below and hope that Urchin did not miss this time. I did train him, after all.

At the next landing, I move again, the horde still on my trail. I am faster, but killing slows me down and kill I must, if only to avoid being overwhelmed.

Dodge, thrust, sprint, push. My universe is reduced to these actions. There is nothing but the dance.

Then it happens. A lucky maw grabs my arm. I punch the creature, jump up and dig my claws into the plaster of the ceiling, pushing away.

Close call.

Far beneath my feet, the portal dies with a whine and a fizzle. I stumble at the wave.

The dimensional spell’s energy bleeds out into the world.

The purple beasts shiver, energized.

Ah, by the Watcher.

Faster now, faster, cannot afford to be boxed in. Just punch and sweep, no time to kill.

Faster.

And then, I feel a pull. The same intuition I practiced with cards, the very instincts that kept me alive so many times tell me that this is it, this is the moment.

I listen.

All the creatures must be here now, on this floor. Their insane baying drill into my ears. So loud. They are packed three-thick in the narrow corridors.

Perfect.

With a roar, I push forward and into a study, take a sharp turn and, with all my might, jump over the railings. The creatures scramble after me, many falling to their death. The head pursuers are pushed into the abyss by the ravening mass of their kin.

I fly through the air in a beautiful arc, turn on myself and pull the satchel charge from my back. In one graceful movement, I trigger it by pulling on a rope and send the fuming package back where I came from.

The dark leather bag disappears in the mass of bodies glutting against the gap.

I remember to protect my ears.

The charge explodes in a cataclysmic blow. The shockwave travels through the densely packed flesh with the ghastly sound of crushed meat and shattered bones. The explosion sends pieces of masonry flying in the central court, opening a hole six yards across. And from this gaping wound in the pallid flesh of the building, a cascade of purple ichor flows freely. The remnants of the creatures, torn apart by the detonation, leak the viscous fluid as if the marble was but a shell to some unnatural, titanic life. Monstrous slabs of bruised meat soon follow and with it, a few hounds saved by the unwilling sacrifice of their brethren.

“Oof!”

A half-pillar smacks into my back, sending me reeling. Momentum carries me on the opposite balcony, around the third floor. I smash into the carving of the gargoyle arms-first and manage to stop my fall.

On the ritual ground, Urchin and Ricardo step back as a handful of surviving beasts rise, shaking their heads. I let go and land on the closest one, spear first.

I slam my weapon into the ground with a loud crack, turn around and dispatch the survivors as they struggle to climb to their paws.

The others stare at me, open-mouthed.

It is done.

It worked.

I can mop up the stragglers later. I have succeeded. All our objectives are fulfilled, and we are still alive. We won, and yet, I cannot help but feel a little bit of sadness.

Urchin steps forward, as proud as can be. He grabs a dazed Ricardo by the shoulder. His stretched arm encompasses the unholy mass of alien flesh before him, the flaming pieces of masonry and other burning debris, the dark snow of burnt paper falling over us like some hellish weather in the apocalyptic vista of death and destruction this place has become.

“We did it, people! We saved the library!”

Idiot.

I slowly massage the bridge of my nose and ask the one question burning on my lips.

“Urchin, are those my precious pistols I see discarded on the filthy ground?”

“Errr.”

86. Et tu, Brute?

The woman jumps in fright when I accost her. It is late, and dark, and she is not a denizen of the night like I am. When she sees I am a woman too, her shoulders relax, the fear receding from her wary figure.

She turns in my direction and I see that under the heavy green hood, she wears an evening dress of decent make, a shawl and a bag containing at the very least one magical item. Probably her focus. She is young, not a day over eighteen, I’d wager, and beautiful in a guileless and delicate sort of way.

A pretty little sheep walking out, trying to grow. So easy to smother, so much life to draw.

I will not.

Instead, I take the demeanor of a bashful girl. I lower my head, avert my eyes slightly and force a tremble into my voice.

“Sorry miss. Are you, perchance, going to Carol Fletcher’s reception too?”

At those words the young lady relaxes fully. She takes on a more protective air and does her best to exude self-confidence. With her shoulders squared and back straightened, she addresses me with a voice full of authority.

“That I am. I do not recognize you, are you new?”

“Yes, I arrived in town recently. I came to introduce myself, but I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere,” I add to reinforce my image as an airhead. Only an imbecile would take a wrong turn in a city that consists of squares.

It is enough for the girl to take my arm and guide me forward. I sign for Urchin and John to follow me and be ready. As for Crews and King, they are already hidden next to our destination. Their ethnicity makes them too easy to notice.

She introduces herself as Camille, and I as Ariane. She asks me what I think of Alexandria. My opinion is that it contains far too many gang members, slavers, and chronic masturbators with far too much pride and not enough common sense to fill a tumbler, though arguably that last problem just solved itself.

Instead of sharing this pearl of wisdom, I comment on the weather just like Sephare would. After a few more reassurances from Camille’s part that everything would go smoothly, we arrive.

My companion takes a turn from the wide main street to pass through a gate to an inner courtyard. The path turns to white gravel while on either side of us, a small garden of roses and other fragrant essence charge the winter air with their heady perfume in a display of magical skill. I enjoy the feeling of pebbles crushing beneath my feet since, this time, I should not be too silent.

The large oaken door is reinforced with alarm and resistance runes of a peculiar make. The enchantment is made from wood and freshly cut flowers. Although it will fade fast, it is no less potent for it.

I stop at the threshold and gaze up at the young lady already up two stairs.

“Can I really just come in?” I ask politely.

“Yes, of course. All are welcome in our community.”

I honestly doubt that. Nevertheless, the invitation is enough and as I go by, the enchantments remain inert.

I was invited, after all.

Camille precedes me in an intimate antechamber where she hangs her hood. A set of stairs goes up by my left and a few closed doors lead to other parts of the house.

On the white walls, paintings of severe women alternate with tapestries and landscapes. If it were not for the homey cluttering, the decorations would be impressive. With the presence of personal effects, the house feels like a middle ground between a home and a public office.

Without hesitation, the girl leads me through a set of double doors to a ‘grand salon’ from whence I hear laughter and the murmurs of conversation.

I am amazed at the size of the private receiving room. I did not expect so large a space inside of the city, and I find it obvious at first glance that great care has been given to its design. The ground is polished wood, the walls are painted white and blue with small windows. Instead, most of the natural light comes from a vast glass awning taking a good half of the roof and turning it into a solarium. Instead of flowers, however, Fletcher cultivates social connections.

Clusters of witches converse casually in high-pitched voices, their colorful auras fluttering around them. A long banquet table occupies a side of the room, on which many dishes and desserts have been cut and prepared for the revellers. Brass cups and pitchers abound to allow them to wet their whistles for another round of gossip. If the variety of wares displayed is any indication, half of the food was brought here by guests.

On the other side, a lone piano sits forlorn, for now, moved to make room for a large magical circle drawn in chalk, the work of several hours, at least.

Camille waits for me to take in the sights with a knowing smile. She points at a trio at the far end of the room consisting of an old crone and a portly woman with a kind smile listening to a girl with black hair speaking with great animation. I focus and pick up a few words. It appears that she is wary of, and I quote, ‘strange happenings in our fair city’.

Ah, to be this naïve. ‘Strange happenings’ does not even begin to cover it. Thankfully, my mood recovered after the library debacle thanks to several factors. First, I poached Ricardo who is on his way to Boston with the library’s most useful tomes and his own dimensional research. Second, I had Urchin clean my pistols until they shone. Third, and the most important aspect, I do not have to take care of the library’s cleanup. Not my job. Dear Lady Sephare will just have to find a way to dispose of several metric tons of rotting purple meat on her own.

“Those are Carol, Grace and Moon Flower,” she explains, “you should go introduce yourself after they’re done talking.”

“Moon Flower?” I ask.

“She insists we call her that and not her birth name,” Camille answers, embarrassed.

“It’s Nastasia by the way. But you didn’t hear it from me.”

Oh, juicy. Not three minutes in the room and I already know a pointless secret.

“She is the Black Dog. That means she is in charge of protecting us. Go to her if you have any security concerns.”

“Oh, I will.”

“She can be a bit… abrasive. Don’t let that deter you. She cares about us, even if her crusade against the social order can be a bit tiresome, at times.”

An idealist. That could be dangerous.

“That is all,” Camille finishes and I notice that she is eyeing a group, probably her friends. “Oh, Lucy is making eyes at me. Find me after you’re done, and we will make the rounds together.”

“Thank you Camille, I appreciate it,” I tell her as a form of polite dismissal. A smile and wave and she is gone.

I turn and delicately hold the shoulders of a woman before she can bump into me, then grab the plate she just dropped in surprise before it can land on the floor.

“Oh, I’m so sorry! God, I’m such a clod!”

“Think nothing of it,” I reassure her. This witch is dressed in an old-fashioned dress that has seen too many uses. She attempted to apply rouge with limited success and her frizzy brown hair is held in a messy bun. The overall impression is that of a complete birdbrain. Her aura is particularly vivid, however, glowing around her in ever-moving abstract shapes.

“Thank you, dearie. I would not have forgiven myself if I had dropped my carrot cake. Would you like a slice?” she generously offers.

“I’m afraid I must decline. I am on a liquid diet,” I share with amusement. The lady blinks owlishly and her face falls off a bit.

“It smells delicious though, is that cinnamon?”

“Shhhhh!” she half-screams, “it’s my secret ingredient!”

“My lips are sealed,” I answer with amusement, “here, let me help you.”

I forcibly pull the plate from her nervous hands and deposit it on the table. As I do so, I notice that a few of the groups take a step away as we pass by. My companion is shunned by the group, despite her obvious power. An interesting development.

This Society gathers women from all backgrounds and I would naturally expect them to develop a pecking order. I did not imagine that it would mirror the social order to such a frightful extent, with the richest members clearly at an advantage here. I am almost disappointed. What is the difference between them and a butterfly appreciation group? Does competence not matter for something?

“My name is Ariane by the way.”

“Oh, yes, manners. Sorry. I’m Violet.”

“No need to apologize. Say, your aura is rather impressive. May I ask what your specialty is?”

The change of demeanor of my interlocutor is truly mesmerizing. She straightens and her chocolate eyes, which until then had flitted across the room, suddenly gain a penetrating intensity.

“The art of oneiromancy deals with dreams and their applications. The dreamscape’s malleability offers many opportunities ranging from training to long-range communication,” she proudly declares.

Then the moment is passed and she deflates.

“Not that our sisters show much interest in it. Our society focuses on plant-based magic. Little effort is made exploring other techniques.”

“And such a shame it is. I knew a man who could invite me to his dreams from a state away. The things he showed me…” I reminisce as I think of Nashoba. He gave me back the sun, if only for a moment.

Violet blushes a delicate shade of pink.

“Not that kind of experience!” I chastise her, and she turns even redder.

“Sorry!”

I chuckle, and notice that the leadership trio finally noticed my presence. Nastasia, I mean Moon Flower, looks my way with a frown.

“Ah, it appears I am being summoned. Remember that if your skills are not appreciated here, there are others who would give you the attention and respect you justly deserve.”

Leaving Violet behind with a shocked expression, I make my way across the floor. I suppose I let the vampire bleed out a bit there, at the end. I could not resist such a perfect poaching opportunity.

The Black Dog walks forward to meet me first, blocking my way to the two others.

“Who are you? You shouldn’t be here; this is a private party,” she spits out. She is one of the few who wears a real gauntlet and with a gesture, she sends a pulse of energy which I recognize as a detection spell. I close my aura completely, only allowing her a glimpse of the chill inside of me.

“You are not even one of us,” she scoffs.

My, an elitist.

“Indeed not,” I reply neutrally, “I am merely a messenger, come here to convey my lady’s greetings.”

“You have some gall,” she exclaims.

“And what message would that be?” the older woman asks while the portly witch wrings her hands in distress.

By that time, the underlying tension of our exchange has been perceived by the well-attuned assembly and they gather around us in a loose semi-circle.

“My lady has claimed the District of Columbia for herself. She wants us to be good neighbors and cordially invites you and your representatives for an evening together, to… discuss the modalities of our cohabitation.”

“Should we care?” Nastasia interrupts, her voice filled with arrogance.

In answer, I give a light smile and move behind her, placing a hand on her shoulder and whispering in her ear.

“You really…” I start, and move again to return to my starting position as she turns with a gasp.

“…really should,” I finish, and release my aura.

A frigid wave washes over the assembly with the power of a blizzard, pushing on the lights of their lives like under a thick blanket of snow. They yelp and recoil and huddle against each other in groups. Even their precious protector takes a step back.

Silence descends upon the room as I stretch my arms and walk around with deliberate slowness. I do not even have to raise my voice.

“For years you have huddled in your little corner of the world, blind to the great happenings outside. Now, your lands are claimed by the Lady Sephare of the Hastings. Under her benevolent supervision, resources and knowledge will flood into the city for those who deserve them. The protection she will grant you will shield the society from the depredations of predators, both mundane and otherwise. You have but to work with her.”

I stop and turn to face the leading trio, all of them having recovered. They are simply waiting for me to finish out of politeness.

“The winds of change have come to Alexandria and it is time for you to choose. Will you embrace this change and the numerous opportunities it affords, or will you close your eyes and be swept away? You will have to decide for yourselves,” I finish, my goal completed.

Nastasia is the first to recover. She finally came to fateful realization.

“You are a vampire.”

“We. We are vampires.”

Whispers erupt all around us, curiosity just as prevalent as fear. Those witches stayed isolated for far too long, content to exchange balm recipes and snob each other, it seems. Many of them do not even know of my kind, their most dangerous predators.

There should be a slang for magical bumpkins.

I await the trio’s reaction and I am not disappointed. While the crone is contemplative and the portly woman busy comforting her peers, the Black Dog acts first. She takes a step forward and invades my personal space once again. I already know that this one will not learn, will not bend. She will have to be removed.

But not tonight, for I came as a guest and a messenger. I will never break those rules.

“I know a thing or two about you monsters. I know you drink blood and enslave humans, so you will forgive me if I call your negotiation for what it is, terms of subjugation! But you made a mistake in thinking that we would be easily cowed. This city has been a beacon of freedom since its very creation!”

I scoff at that. Beacon of freedom? A slaver town?

“You are the last,” I reply.

Nastasia’s answer dies on her lips. I can tell when the pieces of the puzzle click in her mind and she finally figures out how much we already achieved. She does not show fear, however, but overwhelming anger. She bares her teeth in a rictus of rage.

“This isn’t over, creature. I know of your kind’s weaknesses. I do not know who invited you here but this is my home and you are no longer welcome. Leave.”

The declaration smashes into me like a train.

HAVE TO GET OUT.

I move. Outside the reception room and through the warded gate which closes behind me.

I land lightly on my feet in the garden.

Oof. That was… unpleasant. This is the first time someone rescinds their invitation while I am still in their home, and I did not expect it to be so effective. I felt like I was pushed by a mighty hand. The urge to leave was just as imperative as that to stay away from someone wielding a cross.

Urchin had been waiting nearby, he rushes to my side when he notices me.

“Is something the matter?”

“Someone just slammed the supernatural door in my face, otherwise I am fine,” I reply.

He scrunches his weasel face in confusion at my apparent lack of concern.

“Is that not bad, milady?”

“It was the most likely outcome. Besides, I achieved my purpose tonight.”

“You did?”

I look at my minion and consider an impromptu lesson. Why not? He is showing some significant progress and some outward signs of respect and loyalty. I might as well keep trying to lift him.

“Do you know what we really came here for?” I ask, as we make our way across the empty street and jump on the roof. Jumping is better than dropping because I do not have to place my hands on my thighs to avoid indecency.

“I assume that you are not referring to Lady Sephare’s invitation to the city leaders?” Urchin remarks.

“The invitation is only a pretext. What we are doing here is conquest, plain and simple. We are taking complete control over Alexandria, one group at a time, until Lady Sephare remains as the undisputed ruler. And what is the tool we use?”

“A blend of extreme psychological and physical violence?”

“No,” I reply with amusement, “though you are close. It is fear. Fear is the tool we use.”

I smooth my dress, wipe a few tiles with a handkerchief and sit down. Below us, Crews and King wait by a carriage and I give them the signal to hold.

Once I am settled, I turn to Urchin who had patiently been waiting.

“Independent people wish to remain free by nature. This drive is a deeply embedded desire, an instinct, and that impulse is particularly strong on this land where being free is a matter of fact. The only way to override this desire for liberty so that men bend is to slowly subvert it.”

“But… you just spoke of fear?” Urchin interrupts with a frown. I am pleased that he has been paying attention.

“If Lady Sephare is the de facto ruler of the land, its inhabitants will eventually come to accept it as a ‘the way things are’. The benefits of order and development she brings will slowly sway even the most stubborn dissenters. Eventually, she will be perceived as a benevolent ruler, akin to a mild government. Some of her current detractors may even turn into fervent supporters. Unfortunately, and as I mentioned, this will take time.”

Urchin sits by my side, pondering on my speech. Some lessons have stuck. Already, his posture and fashion sense have evolved from lowly lout to merely disreputable under my teachings. Perhaps the one who sired him did see something in him beyond mere entertainment.

“The only way to beat an instinct in a mob is to oppose it with another instinct. Fear will beat the lust for freedom and the resistance to change. It will keep the different factions in line until the new status quo is mostly accepted. I used fear of bankruptcy against the Federals and the fear of death against both the Mudmen and the Ratcatchers. The Mudmen leader, Wallace, agreed to meet Lady Sephare because we easily slaughtered his old rival, not because we granted him more power. Remember this quote by Caesar: it is better to be first of a village than second in Rome. Many of those you will interact with will sacrifice some power to gain autonomy.”

“Like you, milady?”

“Yes. Like me. As for the mages,” I continue, “the situation is different. I cannot simply murder talented spell-casters willy-nilly, or at least I would prefer to save it as a last resort. In their case, knowing our nature is already a strong fear motivator. We merely have to reveal ourselves to our foes for them to realize the danger they are in.”

Urchin muses on that last sentence, staring at the now locked entrance to the witch redoubt.

“They will still fight you if their latest reaction is any indication,” he observes.

“Some of them will oppose us, yes. That is why I announced myself to the entire assembly instead of just their leaders. That way, the rank and file will pressure the leadership for a solution, and I expect many will favor a peaceful arrangement. They are not warriors, and they have much to lose in an open conflict.”

“So we wait until they come to a consensus?”

“Of course not. I did not bring the carriage for a midnight stroll. We will wait until the party finishes and abduct a pair who we will then bring to our warehouse. Let us see how long they last when we start kidnapping their members one by one.”

Afternoon, the day after...

The shutters are closed, and the house is secured and still, I can feel it outside. The unforgiving rays beat on the masonry and smother the tiles on the roof in their baleful embrace, even now at the end of fall.

It crushes me.

The sun.

My powers are mostly dormant and according to John, I look deathly sick. I feel sluggish and nervous. Oppressed. Threatened. All by this most natural of phenomena. And the most curious thing is that it does not care.

No matter how terrified I am by a tiny dot of pale white light leaking between two planks, there is no intent behind it, no ill will. The terror I feel is not reciprocated, not even by disdain.

To take my mind off things, I organize paperwork. The absorption of the Ratcatchers by the Mudmen is proceeding on schedule, however the fallout from the death of all the mages needs to be carefully managed lest groups like the Gabrielites catch wind of it. I do not need the complications.

Defusing this issue only requires a few paws greased, a price I am willing to pay. I must still monitor the situation carefully.

I am reading a report from one of our newest recruits when it happens. The downstairs door bangs open with a noise like thunder, and a rush of feet come in, soon followed by multiple gunshots. The loud detonations ring loudly in our enclosed space.

I stand up.

What?

How?

No time to think, I grab my pair of pistols and run to the stairs leading from the second floor to the first. Then, I stop at the landing when I see it. Sunlight, like a wall of fire, blocks my way down. The intruders left the door open! And here comes the first one, whom I recognize. He is one of the Mudmen’s main enforcers, from Wallace’s personal guard.

I shoot him in the face. His body falls back. Another face replaces him. This is Jack, Wallace’s protege, the dandy young man I met in the old gang member’s office. He gives me an apologetic smile and ducks. I aim down and realize that I left the powder and bullets in my office.

Should I go get it, or just hold the line? Soon the decision is made for me.

A furious aura emerges from below and the smug face of Nastasia appears, shield brandished before her. She smiles and moves up, Mudmen foot soldiers packed tight behind her.

Ah, a rebellion. How quaint.

Nastasia’s smile crumbles when I grab a cabinet and push it down. The heavy piece of furniture slides down the wooden stairs.

“Move!” she yells, and a second later I hear a crash and a scream of pain. Male, unfortunately.

I use the diversion to run to the office and grab my gear. I do not have the time to change into something more protected, unfortunately. I rush back and reload my pistol with frustratingly slow speed. A quick look down lets me see two Mudmen with muskets. I duck as they fire and shoot down one. The other leaves, screaming.

“She’s here! Do it!”

Do what? I move back and—

White.

Void.

P

A

I

N

Pain.

Unspeakable.

Overwhelming.

Agony.

I scream, the sound like three voices together, too high-pitched to come from a human throat.

I burn.

There is movement, there is sound, something grabs me under my arms and lifts me up. It blocks the light.

Blessed darkness. The rays of light encircle the man’s shape like a deadly halo. He carries me. Up up up we go.

Pain.

Pain still.

It pushes every sensation away, smothers every thought. The tiny orb of my consciousness is pressed on all sides by the red tide of that pain.

Then, coolness. Liquid surrounds my body. The pain becomes less. It fades until I am an island in a sea of magma, not a rock inside of it. I can think.

No longer on fire.

Count to ten.

Count to twenty.

Get the pain under control.

Need to move.

With my right hand, I push, find a wall of ceramic. Lifts. Find the edge. I am in a tub filled with water. Of course.

I push myself up, pain flaring on my left side. I am in the bathroom. King is here, his long black beard plastered against his chest by wetness. I must have moved water around.

The entire left side of my face, my arm and part of my chest and back are burnt. I use my right eye, the only one that still works, to take stock. Red bloody meat with black-charred edges barely covered by strands of mangled fabric. It looks just as painful as it is. Were it not for the Ekon essence, I would be nothing but a screaming mess right now. Even then, the pain is paralyzing.

“John?” I half-choke, then hiss as the agony from my left cheek robs me of my words.

“Holding them back.”

“Crews?”

“Dead, I think. He was on the first floor.”

I refrain from swearing. That was so sudden. It is…

It is my fault.

But no, no time for recriminations. We need to get out. I push myself and yelp in pain, falling back into the tube.

Too much.

“I… I need a moment.”

“We do not have a moment,” King replies, his voice noticeably strained. He… oh no.

I look up and only now realize that he is bleeding. The stench of fire had overwhelmed my sense of smell.

“No,” I whisper, “get me a bandage, I shall…”

“Stop,” he interrupts. He grabs my right hand. His face is grayish, his eyes clouded.

“This is not the kind of wound us normal folks can come back from.”

His beard is not wet with water, but with blood. His chest…

“I am sorry,” I say. What else is there? I cannot save him. He took the bullet carrying me away. He saved me.

I find that I am genuinely sorry.

“I am not,” he replies with a pain smile, “live by the sword and all that. Now, come on.”

He lifts me up until I stand inside of the tub, with the intact part of my dress completely soaked.

“Your wounds are not closing. You need blood, might as well be mine before it all ends up on the ground.”

I say nothing as he drags me closer, against his muscular chest. At the last moment, he looks down at me and our eyes meet.

“We are even now,” he declares.

I nod.

“Farewell, David.”

He pulls me in so that I rest against him and bite down, drinking deep. We slowly fall to the ground until I am on top of him. When I pull back, he is dead.

Power rushes into me from blood freely given by a brother in arms. His sacrifice gives me a sorely needed infusion of vitality and when I stand up, some of the wounds no longer look so frightful.

I am still a maimed mess. I slowly drag myself to the door and go through. As I do, an impact rattles the shutters which resist.

Ah, they must have punched through the second-floor windows and shutter with bullets to let sunlight in. It really took just a trickle to hurt me so…

Fortunately, the third floor contains the passage to the vault where Urchin and I retire. All the exits are padded with metal and even the roof is reinforced.

I find John on the landing with his giant crossbow. He winces when he sees me and quickly returns his attention to the stairs. Below us, the Mudmen slowly creep across the ground, searching. They are in no rush, as it will take at least another hour before the sun sets.

I limp to my only remaining servant. I have recruited a few new helpers over the past few days, only the Watcher knows how many still live.

Finally, the intruders make their way to the edge of the stairs. I hear several female voices arguing over who goes first. After a while, a woman named Gloria wins the honor of being the first to assault our position by virtue of having the strongest shield. A few moments later, our enemies yell and charge. The first to appear is a beautiful young woman with curly blonde hair. She raises her gauntlet and the air shimmers with her power.

John pulls the trigger.

His heavy silver bolt pierces the shield as if it were made of paper and propels the woman back. Her incantation dies on her lips as the projectile pins her against the floor. The war cries die as abruptly as they started. Two voices scream in distress.

Gloria feebly tries to grab the bolt. She moans and coughs blood. Tears fall from her eyes in long trails that end in the expanding pool of red beneath her prone form. She extends a hand to her friends who dare not enter the field of vision of John, who already reloaded.

It takes a solid twenty seconds for the woman to finally choke to death. Eventually, her pallid form’s struggles weaken then seize. The voices below cry, argue and yell for a while in a debate that I fail to follow.

The pain continues. I normally heal quickly but between the source of the wound and the hour, I suspect it will be some time until I am whole again. In the meanwhile, every step is a nightmare. My focus slips inevitably until I manage to shake myself awake once more.

It appears the deliberations are at an end. Nastasia uses a spell to levitate her friend’s body upward, then to the side to recover it. Her voice surges then, spiteful and confident.

“Stay there then, you monster!”

As one, her group leaves. I hear the clatter of their footsteps going down. John and I stay unmoving for a while. Time is on our side.

Or is it?

I finally realize why they were willing to go. If they cannot kill us the old-fashioned way, they are more than willing to resort to drastic measures.

The house is on fire.

The perfect crime. The Mudmen control the firefighters, who will come too late to save the house. Tragic. Fortunately, I am not completely out of options yet.

“John, listen carefully,” I start. The big man turns his ugly mug to me and I can see that the deaths of his friends affect him greatly, yet as always, he remains unflappable in this time of crisis. His attention turns entirely on me, ready to get his orders.

“Go down to my office, find the key in my desk’s left drawer, take it, open the right drawer, take its contents then put everything into my bag next to the stairs leading to the ground floor. Then run back up and open that window,” I say, as a point to the one closest to the neighbor’s house.

“Climb up and jump on the neighbor’s roof, the one with slightly redder tiles.”

“I remember.”

“Hide next to the chimney. Do not look down, do not search for me. Wait for nightfall then look towards the garden. Wait for my signal.”

“I understand.”

“Good. Now, go.”

John takes off with a speed few would expect from a man of his size. I open the passage to the vault as the first wafts of smoke permeate the air, closing and locking it behind me.

The descent along the stone shaft is a long one, alone, in an isolation that even the inferno outside cannot breach.

Mistakes, mistakes, mistakes, always more mistakes on my part. King is dead. Crews is dead. The Mudmen turned against me. All because of my strategy.

And if I had taken more time, the gangs would have thrown the city into an all-out war.

And if I had not warned the witch of my existence, instead taking them out one by one, I would have forfeited any chance at diplomacy as requested by Lady Sephare.

I did not expect the two groups to work together, considering one is a traditionalist Christian group and the other is made of witches.

It will always be like that, will it not? I will always miss key information, underestimate one foe and overestimate the other. Mortals will always surprise me with their ability to twist their words and beliefs to suit their ends. I will always be the straightforward girl, better at planning a project than at manipulating nations from the shadows. Not like Lady Sephare.

Am I too stupid to rule over a state?

No, that is not the right question. The right question is, can I afford not to? And the answer is no.

I reach the end of the shaft and drop down into the small room in which my sarcophagus lies. Urchin still slumbers away in his own coffin-like shelter, oblivious to the recent tragedy.

I stare at my gear, set against the wall, and realize that I will never manage to put on the armor. I would need to peel off the dress first.

I look at my arm. Some of the skin has started to regrow, the rest of the flesh is still raw muscle tissue covered in pinkish fluids and black blood. I feel a strange separation between my cold mind, and the pain, horror and disgust of the more human part of me. Is this really what I am made of? All that meat?

I shake my head to clear my thoughts. Too much has happened, and the pain has not receded. I find it hard to think.

I sit heavily against the wall.

I just need a bit of time…

Ever so slowly, the wounds close and I can finally open my left eye. My mouth is sticky with King’s blood. I must have made a mess.

Time passes.

Night falls.

As darkness blankets the world, I can feel myself again. Vigor returns to my limbs and sharpness to my spirit forcing me to acknowledge, understand and plan. In front of me, Urchin’s casket opens. He freezes when he notices me.

“Milady?”

“There is no time, Urchin, we have a dance to finish.”

I unlock the trap door and push a lever. Through a clever use of pulleys and the power of vampiric strength, several hundred pounds of steel shift up and to the side. I pop my head through the opening to find quite the reception.

“You were right, sister, the rat had a way out,” a cold voice sounds to my left.

“Come on out, vampire,” the voice of Nastasia replies from the front. I pull myself out and slowly crawl out. The wounds are mostly closed and still I can tell from the assembly’s visceral disgust that they are quite ghastly. Nastasia’s mouth turns down into a sneer as she takes in my poor appearance, including my blood-covered face.

I stand in the middle of a circle, with a witch at each of the cardinal points. The spell is a simple shield aimed inward that allows their own casts to travel through, giving them an undeniable advantage. Behind them, a dozen Mudmen gang members spread in a half -circle, holding weapons and crosses. At their head, I find Wallace and his protégé Jack, armed to the teeth.

“Well, not so haughty, are you, vampire? I bet you did not expect that.”

“That certainly came as a surprise,” I admit. Speaking remains uncomfortable, though nowhere close to the torture that it used to be. I turn my gaze to Wallace. The grizzled gang leader’s gaze is filled with disgust and hatred.

“I assume he found me?”

Nastasia smiles smugly, a hand on her hip. Is she gloating? Yes, she is.

“I was right to seek the help of Alexandria’s underbelly to track down your location. Imagine my surprise when not only did they know you, but they were also quite happy to lend a hand.”

“I knew it. I knew you were a monster,” Wallace spits.

“Oh please,” I retort, “you are only too happy to conduct a little coup now that we placed the gangs at your knees.”

“I can help the Lord and help myself, it’s the American way,” he replies with a shrug.

Nastasia interrupts us, apparently out of patience.

“Enough of this. You made a mistake coming here but I will be magnanimous. If you tell me where Lady Sephare’s resting place is and swear an oath to leave the country, we will let you go.”

“Moon Flower?” one of the other women, a slender brunette with eyes reddened by grief asks.

“I am sorry, Mary. We must place the interests of the community before our desire for vengeance. Finding her Master is more important than killing her. Gloria would understand, I am sure.”

The other witch seems troubled but, in the end, she relents.

“Is that it?” I ask.

Nastasia frowns.

“What do you mean?” she replies cautiously.

“You killed at least two of my men, and who knows how many of my newest recruits. Are you not going to demand that I forfeit vengeance? Do you think so little of me?”

“What do creatures like you care about—”

“I do. I do care,” I interrupt her, and start pacing the ground. The blood of David King sings in my essence, filling me with a sort of energy that I had not felt from a mundane mortal before. Most of my skin has regrown. Some of the Mudmen’s eyes widen in surprise and a few even take some steps back, clutching their crosses with panicked fingers when they realize how quickly I recovered. Quite a few do not react at all, as expected, and I force myself not to smile.

“David King and Timothy Crews. I bought David from a slave owner in Kentucky two years ago at the request of his late father who also died fighting by my side. He was proud of his beard. He was a devoted friend to other members of his squad. His favorite food was baby back ribs. Timothy Crews, a loner of the Creek nation. Competent hunter and tobacco lover. His brother still works for me.”

Nastasia narrows her eyes. I can tell that I am making her uncomfortable by humanizing her victims. She probably never killed before.

“You truly do not understand us. We care about mortals, friends and foes, and we know that they can still surprise us. That is why we take precautions to account for our own mistakes, such as making sure an organization stays loyal. Isn’t that right, Jack?”

Ah, the beautiful moment when the bear trap closes on the unexpected leg, snapping it between its steel jaws. I am so wary of underestimating the mages that I sometimes forget that the sin of pride is not just ours to commit.

Time slows to a trickle as I make a hand gesture and turn to my cattle. I bit quite a few people over the previous days as an insurance, and many of them are here tonight.

Jack smoothly lifts his pistol and pulls the trigger on the brunette witch, killing her instantly. In the same motion, he unsheathes a knife and buries it deep in the chest of the gang leader by his side. The look of utter betrayal on Wallace’s face as he falls is absolutely priceless.

Then John obeys my signal and a monstrous bolt goes through the witch to my left, the one who had called me a rat. She falls without a scream.

All hell breaks loose.

With only two witches maintaining it, the spell wavers and breaks. A solid half of the late Wallace’s personal guard turns on the other with single-minded mania. With surprise on their side, they cut down their foes with ease.

I turn and kill the witch at my back by burying my hand in her heart. Pointless, yet cathartic. I recognize my guide Camille’s surprised face just as her blood splatters on the ground, then I shrug and return my attention to Nastasia just as she lifts an arm to cast. She, too, displays great anguish, to my delight.

She looks quite shocked when she realizes her gauntlet is gone.

“Mine now,” Urchin's voice whispers by her side. I was not sure if he could pull it off, now I know.

“Make sure none have escaped, then you may feed,” I order him. He rushes after the fleeing form of the last surviving Mudmen not under my command.

As for Nastasia, she falls on her knees, toppled more by utter shock than by despair. I walk to her and bend a bit, so that our heads are quite close.

“Relying on compromised assets was your first mistake. The second was to face me after dark,” I continue as I pull the gauntlet I previously used in the library, now part of my arsenal.

“I had this and an enchanted dagger to go through that amateurish shield of yours and I did not even have to use it.”

“Wait, please, I get it. You win. I surrender.”

“And the third mistake,” I interrupt, “was to expect mercy from a vampire.”

I drink her dry, with the house still burning behind me.

It does not taste like victory, not even like vengeance. I prepared a contingency plan in case I was betrayed and activated it. The precautions I took granted me victory tonight.

I am sure that Lady Sephare would not have had to face a rebellion. We are only here tonight because I lack finesse and subtlety.

I am still a bumbling child to the Lords and Ladies.

With this sad realization, my mind busies itself with the incredible task of managing the consequences of this incident. I will have to calm down officials, grease palms, relocate, reorganize the gang leadership and, more importantly, recover and give the last rites to the remains of my allies.

When I am done feeding, I drop Nastasia’s lifeless corpse and gather the remains of the four other witches in a pile. I do not stop as Jack comes to my side with the other controlled Mudmen by his side.

“Did I do well, Mistress?”

I face him. His loyalty to Wallace was strong enough that even now, within my thrall, the grief he feels still wars with his unnatural loyalty.

“Of course, you did well. He betrayed me tonight, who knows when he would betray others?” I lie.

Serenity returns to him, and with it, inaction. Such is the price of creating cattle. It is fortunate that Wallace did not rely on him being too independent yet.

As for me, I have a delivery to make.

Nastasia’s home. I open a panel through the sunroof and drop the lifeless corpses on the ground one by one. There are plenty of servants here so they should be found promptly. I am taking a risk by making the threat so obvious but to be honest, I am tired of this entire farce. Let Lady Sephare play with her city. I am done with it.

As I head back, I contemplate how close I came to death earlier this afternoon. It reminds me of my own fragility.

I believe that my demise is inevitable.

I am no immortal monster like my sire, who was unbeatable long before Darius turned his gaze on Greece’s city states. Today’s world is chock-full of powers vying for dominance or extermination. Many heroes and fighters have already tried to slay me before I even ruled over more than a toothpick.

They have failed. So far.

Time has lost its grasp on me and they will never stop coming. It can only end one way. At some point, my luck will run out, my intuition will fail me, and someone will finally succeed. I will turn to ashes.

Hopefully, not too soon. Carol Fletcher got my message and I have no doubt that she will cooperate. It will soon be time for me to meet Lady Sephare.

87. State of Affairs

Washington, two nights later.

The venue Lady Sephare chose for her meeting is the top floor of an elegant gentleman’s club she recently took over. The guests are led up through the deserted building by a butler exuding disapproval at the uncouth louts defiling his august halls with their unwashed bodies, grimy clothes, and rancid breaths. The gaping wastrels are then invited to sit at a long table in a large reception room upon which refreshments have already been served. When we come in, some of the rowdier ones are quaffing shooters of twenty-years-old Bourbon without ceremony like the absolute degenerates they are.

Besides myself, Sephare brought a protection detail of men in top hats and dark suits, all of whom are wielding canes. Separate, they could be any upper-class gentlemen out for a stroll. Together, they look exactly like what they are: high-end enforcers. They silently take position at every corner of the room, in front of both entrances and along the open windows.

As for the woman herself, she looks positively enchanting in a diaphanous green dress that reveals the curve of her alabaster shoulders.

Our host walks forward and claps twice. Immediately, the room falls silent. When the new Lady of Washington speaks, she does so in a smooth and melodious voice that lulls me, rolls me into its rhythm until listening to her words becomes the most natural thing to do.

“Good evening gentlemen, welcome to my humble establishment! My name is Sephare Hastings and I cannot express how delighted I am to see you all here gathered tonight—”

“A shrew? The new boss is a shrew?” one of the leaders erupts. He bares his teeth, two of them black, and stands up with fury.

Oh dear.

What Sephare does next is an exercise in control. She lifts the hem of her dress and runs behind the man with a speed that is just at the limit of what humans should be able to do. Too surprised by the suddenness of her reaction, the would-be rebel only manages to turn his head slightly before the diminutive blonde woman grabs it and smashes it down on his chair’s frame. Once, twice, thrice she strikes, and with the last impact, a dreadful snap resonates throughout the hall as the man’s neck bones shatter.

Sephare drops the dying man who collapses face first on the table. Once more, she displayed just the amount of strength that a human could reasonably wield, but twice the savagery.

The lady calmly removes her white gloves which she hands to one of her bodyguards while another fetches replacements from an inner pocket. She studiously puts them on in the ensuing quiet, the pathetic rattles of the paralyzed criminal the only perceivable noise.

It takes him a good twenty seconds to choke to death. His mouth opens and closes like that of a beached fish while his bulging eyes search the room for a salvation that none can grant.

Two of the guards grab the man under the shoulders as he takes his dying breath. Good idea, less of a mess.

Sephare makes sure the gloves fit before resuming her speech in the exact same pleasant tone.

“Please, kindly do not speak out of turn. Now, where was I? Oh yes! I am so glad you all decided to join us tonight! I have grand projects for your fair city, and I am sure that by working together, we will achieve all our dreams! Isn’t that exciting?”

The hardened felons mumble and bob their heads in respectful assent. Nothing like breaking spines like twigs to make a memorable first impression, it seems.

“Over the next week, I will be meeting each one of you in private to better understand your position and your strengths, and see which responsibility you can be granted. We have a lot of work to do and many rewards to reap, so let us all do our best together, yes?”

The barely veiled threat coupled with the promise of power and money smooth the mood of the visitors, which turns contemplative. How can they refuse when they have been presented with the alternative?

In short order, the meeting is adjourned, and I follow her to her office without a word. She closes the door behind us as I take in her workspace.

Sephare chose a corner office with a view on the Capitol building’s cupola half-hidden behind tall trees. A large desk of dark wood has been placed below the window offering said view for additional symbolism. As expected of Sephare, a corner of the office is dedicated to tea and its consumption. What does surprise me is the windowless wall currently covered with maps teeming with pins and colored notes.

I mechanically aim for the tea table but Sephare stops me with a gesture.

“Hold on, Ariane. Before we sit down, I wanted to ask you something.”

“Yes?”

“How many bloodlines have you consumed so far?”

The non sequitur catches me off-guard. I count in my head. I have the Lancaster essence several times over, the Cadiz essence from Jimena, the Natalis essence from that rogue thirty years ago. Nami shared the Ekon resilience with me. Oh, obviously I have the Devourer essence. Who else? I have the Amaretta from Aisha, Erenwald from Ogotai and Vanheim from Urchin. That one is still inactive for now. I am still missing six.

“Eight.”

“Am I correct in assuming that you do not have Hastings essence?”

“You are. Wait, are you implying what I think you are?”

She nods. When she next speaks, the coldness in her voice would chill mortal listeners. To me, it only means that she is dropping the mask.

“You have proven your worth as an ally beyond my expectations by completing your tasks so thoroughly,” she begins. I wince in reaction.

“Oh, do not be so harsh on yourself. The librarians could not be saved, and the gangs would not have bent without bloodshed. It only took you less than three weeks to complete the conquest and bring me its remaining leaders. Do you know that the witches practically begged me to protect them from you?”

She smiles at the memory, her thin fangs displayed in a show of greed and gluttony. Then, her expression returns to seriousness.

“I was sorry to hear about your losses. Feel free to replenish the ranks of your servants from the local population. As long as you do not go overboard, I will not begrudge you your share of the spoils. Now concerning the matter at hand, you have proven yourself to be everything I hoped for. That is why I shall offer you my blood.”

I stare, askance. My surprise is simply too much.

“I am of course grateful,” I reply, “but I have to ask. Why?”

“Why would I help you gain power? Do you know what will happen to this land soon?”

“Err. I have not considered the fate of the nation. I was busy staying alive.”

Sephare grins, as if I had told a joke.

“Fair enough. In the short term, this territory will be partitioned into areas of influences belonging to their respective Houses, independent from the clan or not. The Cadiz already control much of the south east from Charleston to New-Orleans, Florida and beyond. The Roland are more concentrated in the north east, and the Lancaster are struggling to get back into the game. Jarek is headed to Mexico. Even your precious Torran is working on creating a Dvor enclave. Everybody is scrambling for land right now.”

“Including you?”

“Indeed. In this race, we newcomers are at a significant disadvantage. That is why we should stick together. As promised, I will help you claim Illinois, and then we may start solidifying our respective positions for the next great game. Can you guess what it will be?”

I already considered it many times.

“The old continent vampires will try to gain control.”

Sephare smiles like a proud parent.

“Precisely. So far, the presence of Constantine has been an effective deterrent against any… heavy-handed attempt at conquest. In time, it will not suffice. Do you know that even with our coming, there are less than twenty lords here?”

“It matters?”

“It does indeed. When it comes to true war, not those regulated skirmishes, but true vampire war, only Lords matter. Anything below is but fodder. It might be hard to understand for someone who has never seen a war Lord fight…”

“I understand.”

“You do?” she asks.

“Yes, I saw Lord Suarez take out a knight squad. He… dismembered them.”

“Then you understand. Mortal conflicts are resolved through several factors such as numbers, quality, strategy and determination. For us, battle-trained Lords and Ladies are the deciding factor, and we have precious few of them. We need another deterrent.”

“You mean me?”

“Yes, I mean you. It took you a mere three decades to become a Master and you are still sane. This speaks of a natural ability to grow as well as the means and willingness to Devour your foes. If you are a Lady by the time they are ready to come, they shall have to think twice before committing to the task.”

I hesitate at that.

“I am not some invincible champion, you know?” I object, but Sephare just shakes her head.

“I have seen you spar with Torran.”

“Ah?”

“Your speed and strength are already above the average Master and you are still so young. And your style! Marvelous.”

“I was told that it was rough.”

“Yes, as expected from someone with only a few decades of experience. Do you know why Torran did not try to change it then? Why he merely helped you hone it through rigorous combat.”

“My style is good?” I ask, surprised.

“Of course. Your movements are the closest I have seen to that of a rogue in my entire existence.”

I gape at that revelation. A rogue? I fight like a rogue? This does not make sense.

“You are much more precise, cunning and unpredictable than a real rogue of course. In truth, it might become your greatest asset yet.”

“How so?”

Sephare pauses to gather her thoughts and resumes her pacing.

“Many of our kind’s fiercest warriors were combatants in their mortal lives. They learned how to fight and move using their bodies to the best of their abilities and this experience, those habits, are conserved during the change. Most train with sword, or spear, or mace, under the strict tutelage of the best master at arms they can find. It is a mistake.”

I think I am beginning to follow.

“You learnt to fight after you became a vampire, therefore you fought with your new body using new instincts. There are no unfortunate habits or reflexes for you to forget.”

“I must protest. Surely, a sword master at the top of their art would be more dangerous.”

“Not so, for only when nature and style are one can a vampire achieve true fighting mastery. Some of the knight masters at arms have succeeded. For now, your own controlled chaos is already a terrible weapon against one used to traditional fighting styles. You have but to continue on your path, see what works for you. All existing schools were started by one person.”

“I do not believe I am that kind of genius.”

“Not at wielding weapons, perhaps, but at being a vampire.”

I do not reply to that. She is not the first to credit me with such a strange achievement.

“So, Ariane, I will help you, and when the time comes, perhaps we will keep our kingdoms and then, who knows?” she asks with a mischievous smile. She then pulls her sleeve up and extends her arm.

Her aura is concealed, the natural state of those of us with great control. Despite her best efforts, I can still feel her underlying tension. The act of offering blood is one of exposed vulnerability. It goes against our very instincts. I step forward and take the arm without ceremony. I know the experience is uncomfortable for her, and hurry a bit out of politeness.

I lick once to prevent pain and bite down.

Sunlight hits my hood from the side. It feels like standing next to an open oven. Even turning my head is an impossible task. She says it will become easier, in time. She says my sense of taste will return. She says many things and I do not like it.

I was playing, testing my limits on those supposedly honorable bachelors and faithful husbands. It was good fun seeing them reveal their true colors and base instincts but I did not mean to attract her attention.

I love her, of course. She is so great! But I do feel like I was robbed of my decision.

I manage to deflect the tip of the man’s sword before he buries it into my chest. I manage a riposte but the enemy Master slaps it away with frustrating ease. He pushes me back until my back hits the table. I roll over it and send a silver plate flying at the man’s head. The attack buys me a few instants. It is enough to sprint past him and throw another plate. As I go through the door, I collapse a cupboard towards my pursuer. He kicks it, but the heavy piece of furniture is blocked by the narrow frame. I turn around.

The man stops.

“Well done. You are getting better at this. We will start working on manipulation next session. We move to the kitchen.”

The Rosenthal battle master is here to teach us how to survive and escape. Our relative weakness would make us easy prey to other vampires in a straight fight, and that is why I vow never to be caught in one.

One more afternoon, one more night. One more ball and one more game to stuff my sire’s portfolio with one more asset, one more unneeded favor. The bitch could already topple a government with some efforts, what else does she need? At this point, she is just playing because she cannot stop. One more party, one more knife in the dark. I need out. I need to get away from her pervading influence or I will go mad. I am too well-known though, with too many grudges against me. I need a fresh start.

I pull back and lick the wound clean, then lead the exhausted Sephare to her chair before sitting opposite her. I close my eyes and within moments, I am inside of my mind palace.

In the stone square where the statues of my conquest are gathered, her form kneels.

I return to the real world to find a visibly excited Sephare pouring me black tea. She is still weakened, and yet her enthusiasm is catching.

“You can use our powers my dear, can you not?”

I feel a new instinctive way to appear more mortal, move more humanly and even bring a pink sheen to my cheeks by expanding a bit of power, an ability I can surely develop with a bit of practice. There is something else as well, though as expected, her main ability eludes me.

“Yes, although not at the same level as you. I will never be able to walk under the sun for example.”

“Indeed? A pity. Nevertheless, please try the tea now!”

I pick up the steaming cup and dip my lips in the infusion. The warm liquid rolls on my tongue, the taste light and pleasant.

Taste.

I can taste it. I can swallow.

I allow myself to smile as I put the cup down.

“Good.”

“Good? Hm. We all have one dish that we relish above all others. Would you care for some cake?”

My mind rebels at the very thought of anything solid.

“I fear I am still limited to liquids,” I inform my host. Her smile does not lose any of its strength.

“Oh, I am sure we will easily find—”

I interrupt her by raising my hand.

I sniff the air like a bloodhound. There, this smell. The strong and unmistakable perfume of roasted beans, a powerful accent and a deep fragrance.

Amazing.

“Is this coffee I smell?” I ask with unbridled excitement.

The deep, heart-wrenching sigh of abject betrayal that lifts my companion’s dainty chest speaks of a disappointment beyond words.

It takes only a week for me to wrap up everything and then return to Boston with John and a few promising administrators.

As for the others recent hires, it turns out that Jack, Wallace’s protégé and my agent, has managed to save their lives when the Mudmen and witches took over the warehouse to rescue the hostage. Most of them decide to stay in their home city under the employ of Sephare. The few who do not are given the funds and means to reach Marquette.

As soon as I arrive, I leave John in the arms of his worried ‘tender half’ Gladys and have King and Crews’ personal effects sent back home. David King had no family left, unfortunately.

Solveig ends up in my service once again and I find myself in the same room as before, now sadly empty. It will take Torran another week to finish his work and return, Nami traveled away to catch a giant squid, and Jimena is off on some confidential knight business which leaves me without company. As a result, I make some efforts to get acquainted with the manor’s population.

Melitone, Constantine’s Servant happens to be around and I take the time to thank her for her assistance. The bubbly woman dismisses my thanks immediately and embarks on a rant against the Speaker during which I learn that they are twins and that she does not hold him in high regard. I end up spending a few afternoons with her as we are both painters. Melitone is strange. She moves almost too well for a mortal.

With Wilhelm of the Erenwald, the steward, I learn how to take better care of Metis. Although he is busy as the butler and master of ceremony, he still takes the time to visit the stables at least once per night and I manage to learn quite a few tricks from him.

For example, Nightmares love having their teeth brushed, something that Metis now demands during every visit. I also learn that Nightmare teeth brushing is a spectator sport and that participants are encouraged to have a way to regrow fingers.

The other thing I learn is the Nightmare’s fondness for having sweet grass dipped in their drinking water. My big pony will gaze at the infusing liquid with unwavering fascination, sometimes using her nose to stir the concoction.

It then occurs to me that Nightmares are deceptively malicious tea drinkers with a monotonous, meat-heavy diet. Therefore, Nightmares are English. The revelation helps me understand and tolerate Metis’ snorting antics with renewed patience.

Wilhelm also helps me repair the blue ethereal shawl Nami had gifted me. It had suffered from the fire and had been reduced to a single strip. With his help, I restore the ghostly living fabric to its former glory.

Besides Wilhelm, I also get to know a few visitors from various clans, including Roland exiles who are the first members of their clan not to attempt to kill or capture me. I also spend some time with Constantine’s secretary and assistant, a mousy woman who happens to be a Rosenthal renegade.

They are apparently extremely rare.

The woman, whose name is Sophia, carries a blade everywhere. It is her refusal to forfeit violence and bend to the clan’s rigid laws and hierarchy that prompted her self-exile. She is only too eager to ‘test my mettle’; unfortunately, the fight is extremely one-sided.

She relies on her memory and mind to analyze patterns and compare them to the styles she already studied in order to gain an edge. Apparently, my own style is far too chaotic and unpredictable for her to succeed. Add to that my superior reach and even without using much of my speed and strength, she still doesn’t stand a chance. We practice for a few hours, mostly for her benefit, though I manage to become familiar with different schools of fighting which she imitates with mechanical precision.

When I mention developing her own style, she agrees with me in principle, but observes that she has difficulties doing so as she simply lacks the mental flexibility.

I find that I enjoy myself more than I expected.

During that week, I also receive a few messages. Ricardo successfully arrives in Marquette with my newly looted tomes. He and Merritt finally broker an uneasy peace after bickering over laboratory equipment. My financial assistance in creating two separate labs proved vital.

I also learn from my witchy deputy that the White Cabal moved in successfully, and that they have so far respected their arrangement to the letter. They were quite surprised to find a completely independent practitioner on my land. In a worryingly short amount of time, my poor friend received one duel and three marriage invitations, all of which she answered with extreme prejudice.

I stock up on coffee beans, to Solveig’s complete disbelief.

Finally, I pay Urchin. So far, all I had given him was pocket money on top of a blood supply. I did pillage a few resources from Alexandria and decide to give the Vanheim Courtier a bonus, as a gesture of kindness. To my surprise, he decides to spend most of it on clothes.

I direct my minion to Wilhelm and possibly the help of the tailor Gunther Goode who had so masterfully renewed my wardrobe. Only a true expert could salvage the situation anyway. To my delight, the work is accepted, and Urchin soon parades the manor in a well-cut grey suit that fits him like a glove.

The Vanheim reject is almost respectable now that he no longer wears rags. And because he substituted his beret with a nice bowler hat. And since he takes regular baths. And combs his hair. Also, he walks, instead of skulking. And his back is straight which means he does not look like he is constantly plotting some unsavory plan that involves sneaking into women changing rooms. The improvement to his diction helps as well. He even stopped leering.

Well.

All in all, I would say that I did good work. He is almost no longer a rescue.

With everything going reasonably well, for once, I hire the help of Salim and officially submit my claim to the state of Illinois.

There are no specific rules concerning this sort of claim. Constantine remained purposely vague when listing the requirements in his laws. In order to be eligible, one must demonstrate sufficient martial power and have the means to control their territory. The rest is up to the Speaker, who is free to accept or not depending on if he believes the candidate has contributed or will be contributing to the community.

I wiped out a Gabrielite base and an actual horde of Wendigos. That has to count for something.

On the second day of December and three days before Torran is set to return, I am finally summoned to the Progenitor’s office.

Winter has come to Boston. A heavy cover of snow blankets the entire bay, including the manor. The air grows crisp and pleasant and the nights long and productive. I sometimes ride through the pristine cover of white powder shining like crushed diamond when I successfully coax Metis out.

Tonight is different. I knock on the door leading to the Speaker’s antechamber and Sophia ushers me in without fuss.

“He is expecting you,” she says quietly.

I must admit that for all his flaws, Constantine does not keep people waiting.

“House Nirari. Come in,” he mutters as he finishes reading a report. Once I am sat, Constantine tucks the piece of paper away and removes a file from one of his many drawers. He opens it with slow and precise movements to remove my petition. I realize that the other documents contained look like the intelligence report he put away. He has been keeping an eye on me.

Constantine gazes at me from above his hawkish nose, assessing. I wait. The memories associated with this place surge and for a moment, I am tempted to pull on my fingers and check they are fine. Sometimes, it is hard to believe that I was tortured not two months ago. It feels like an eternity. I suppose that I should be grateful.

“I have no objection with your claim,” he says softly. “You have the means to control your state. You have, without a doubt, the martial might. You have proven yourself reliable and helpful on several occasions, including when you rid us of pests. You even have an unusual network of allies and acquaintances, as the trial proved.”

“I sense a but,” I reply with annoyance.

The Speaker nods.

“You have taken no steps to control the Great Lakes region, the location with the most potential, and this gave others an opportunity to make a conflicting claim. I was about to notify you of this fact to give you an opportunity to compete when you submitted your own petition, which is fortunate. Now, I find myself in the unenviable position of having to decide between two Houses.”

“What?” I sputter with uncontrolled outrage, “who would dare?!”

Constantine raises a tired hand to stop my furious tirade before it can even begin.

“Since a land can only have one king, I will figure out a way to select the most deserving party through a contest. You will be notified when the matter is decided. As to your question, the competing house is House Cadiz.”

Shock. Horror. Betrayal.

Constantine smirks bitterly. His parting remark stings more than I anticipated.

“You have had your first taste of true vampire politics. Welcome to my world, Ariane.”

“Lord Ceron will see you now,” the voluptuous Courtier announces with no trace of condescension. She leads me to an intimate office in warm tones and closes the door behind me. Lord Ceron stands up and bows while I respectfully curtsey.

It helps that I took the time to calm down. Incidentally, a pair of training dummies from the manor’s armory were mercilessly savaged by some barbarian with an axe. If anyone asks, I was otherwise engaged at that time. Somewhere else.

It hurts that the Lord did not change at all since the time he and I allied back at the fortress. It is with his assistance that Jimena extracted me from the clutches of the Lancaster.

He was well rewarded for his efforts with comprehensive details on Lancaster economic assets, a condition of his assistance. In retrospect, I was incredibly naïve to think of us as allies.

Lord Ceron looks as good as the first time I saw him. He still has the same deep blue eyes and curly dark hair around a handsome face, and this time I can tell that his imposing muscle mass marks him as a brawler more than a fencer. Or at least he was before he was changed.

“Good evening Lord Ceron, I hope you are well.”

“And you too, Ariane. Please, take a seat.”

I do so, hold my hands before me and start immediately.

“Is there any way you could withdraw your claim on Illinois?”

A pause. Lord Ceron considers me with widened eyes and chuckles, the old vampire equivalent of a full belly laugh.

“Ah, little one, your honesty is refreshing. I thank you for that. As for your question, I shall answer it with candor. You and I are after the same thing, therefore, we will compete for it. One of us will get it and the other will not. Such is our way.”

“There must be a reason why you would be after this land in particular,” I reply.

“Yes, the land itself. My faction within the local Cadiz clan is looking to expand, nothing less, nothing more.”

“I see,” I note without much surprise. An agreement at that point was a long shot to begin with. I can tell that Lord Ceron is considering a reply, and so remain quiet until he decides on what to say. I do not have to wait long.

“Since we have been on good terms for so long, I feel the need to speak plainly. May I?” he politely requests.

“You may.”

“The Cadiz branch I lead does not do this to spite you personally, we are merely rushing to consolidate assets while the current race is still at its beginning. To be direct, we are wary of Lady Sephare, your ally, and thus moving against your interests proved logical from our perspective. You may see her as only one amongst many, as do most of you who were born on this land, and you would be sorely mistaken.”

Ceron relaxes in his chair as his eyes grow distant.

“I opposed her quite a few times when she was fighting on the side of Mask. Do you know what differentiates one of us from a true villain?”

I do not react, indicating that he should continue.

“Villains have no bottom line. It might sound like a trite remark, but rest assured that it captures the essence of the problem. We are monsters. We kidnap, torture, and assassinate without batting an eye for that is our nature, and despite all of this, we still have a code, limits to how far we will go and who we will target. Sephare does not share such qualms. Do you know why she truly left the old world behind?”

I did request a briefing on her from the Rosenthal, and I also caught a glimpse of her memories when she shared her essence with me.

“She needed a fresh start. Her political situation was growing untenable.”

“Correct, yet incomplete. The reason why she ended up in dire straits is not through outside machinations but as a direct result of her own actions. She was marginalized within her own faction for attempting to assassinate Progenitor Hastings’ husband. Out of spite, I may add.”

I stare at Lord Ceron, waiting to see if this is some sort of joke.

“There is no definite proof, of course, or she would have been flayed one layer at a time, leaving her head and heart intact until the very last moment. She was still strongly suspected, so much that Hastings herself had no choice but to make her a pariah. She provoked her exile through her own hand, or at the very least, as a consequence of her reputation. And still, you elected to throw your lot with her, despite our warnings.”

Ceron smiles magnanimously.

“Your regrettable decision is not something I wish to hold against you in the long run. We may appear at odds right now, however this sad state of affair between us does not preclude a future agreement. We are not so heartless as to deny you your city. An arrangement could be made.”

For an instant, I am almost tempted to seek an agreement. It does not last.

Devourers do not give up before the game has even started. Lord Ceron should have known, just as he should not underestimate the resources I can pull to get what I want.

“We merely find ourselves at opposite sides of the chessboard,” he continues, “as always, this is not personal.”

“It is always personal for the one being attacked,” I retort, “You speak of her deviousness and lack of limit as if you were incapable of it yourselves? I cannot help but note that you did not attempt any sort of communication on the issue. Instead, you opened the hostilities without giving me the basic courtesy of an ultimatum. Now you stand here with a smile as if your maneuver constituted some sort of harmless prank. It does not.”

I click my talons on my chair and force myself to stop lest I start raising my voice. I must not display any anger. This is a game, only a game, whose rules have stayed unchanging for centuries.

In the end, Lord Ceron is correct. There is nothing personal about his clan’s scheme because there is nothing personal between us. We are neither friends nor even allies, and that makes us fair game for each other. We will now compete, with the loser graciously bowing out with their body and followers intact.

I will play that game.

I may not be the most intelligent and calculating vampire around, but I have a few strengths and one of them is that I know when to rely on the assistance of a skilled ally. By provoking me, the Cadiz have unleashed the very evil they had sought to contain. They think Sephare too devious? Not only will I call for her, I will also ask the support of the most devious and manipulative entity this side of reality.

I am going to bring Sinead into this battle.

Then, they will know devious.

“Good luck,” I tell him as I leave. It will not suffice.

87.5 Unhinged

Laurel's Tale

December 13th, an unnamed hamlet in Illinois.

Laurel was the last to come in. He slammed the door behind him to keep the cold at bay and sighed with relief. Warm, at last.

The common room was mostly deserted at that time. The road to Chicago was closed at this time of the year, which was why they had decided to use this establishment as a rally point for Brotherhood activity. The refuge was an absolute necessity now that winter was in full swing.

It was a stupid mission to start with. They were tasked with finding traces of suspicious activity in the vicinity. At least there would be none of the more dangerous species about. There were no records of butchered livestock, and what would the evil bloodsuckers do in such a shithole?

Laurel striped off his heavy coat and dropped it on the hanger. His two companions were already sitting at their usual table and rubbing their hands to bring some life back into them.

There was Sal, pale and gaunt and judgemental, and Karl who was the human equivalent of a cock rash. In addition to them, the room contained two other patrons.

The first one he recognized. It was Joe, a squirrely boy from Bale’s team. The lad barely had any hair on his chin and wanted to play the slayer. Hah, what a joke. The poor sod was reclining in his chair with a complicated expression, somewhere between fear and anger.

The second man was also in the Order’s uniform. It was not quite his size and yet he was wearing it with predatory grace. He was lounging in his own chair with perfect confidence and for a moment, Laurel felt a pang of jealousy. He murmured a quick prayer to keep the temptation at bay. Envy was a cardinal sin, after all. He should just thank the Lord that this silver-haired gentleman was on his side.

“By God, Joe you little shit, what are you doing here by yourself?” Karl roared while scratching the stubble on his carmine cheeks. His porcine eyes focused on the boy like two gun muzzles.

“You shall not use the Lord’s name in vain,” Sal interjected in his low drone. As usual, Karl just dismissed him with one wave of his hairy paw.

“Yea yea, shove it Mr. Rent-a-Bishop. So Joe, where are the others?”

The young man mumbled something. Too low for the trio to understand but apparently loud enough for the grey-eyed man to smirk minutely.

“What’s that?” Karl spat.

“I said, they left me behind. Said I was a burden. They left me to die so I don’t care about them!” his victim half-yelled and half-whined. Joe’s eyes were shiny with unshed tears of outrage.

As usual, neither Karl nor Sal cared a wit about the boy. Karl opened his mouth to start his usual badgering while Sal just sat there looking constipated, his thin mouth puckered in an eternal grimace of disapproval. It reminded Laurel of a cat’s asshole.

“Enough of this,” he said, exasperated. Before Karl could redirect his ill temper on him, Laurel turned to the newcomer.

“And who might you be, brother? I haven’t seen you before.”

“I am with Hodges’ team. The rest of us will arrive tomorrow,” the man replied genially.

“Reinforcements? About damn time you pussies showed up,” Karl grunted. Laurel frowned. He could not quite place the unknown man’s accent, and Karl was starting to get on his nerves.

The new guy must have thought so too because he leaned forward and smiled dangerously. Laurel half-expected him to demand satisfaction, but it turned out he was wrong.

“You must be cold. How about a drink?”

He then knocked on his table and called the barmaid with obvious pleasure.

“Barmaid! Barmaaaiiiiiiid!” he said.

She soon appeared, putting on her apron and staring down at the one who had called her with annoyance.

“Barmaid. Kindly give these gentlemen a beer. My treat!” he declared generously.

“I’ll put it on your tab,” the woman retorted before moving behind the counter.

“Are you new?” Laurel asked the girl with curiosity.

“Never mind that Laurel, you cockless twit, I’ll take her over old Greta any day of the week. Hey, beautiful!”

Laurel was tempted to slam the vile man’s face into the table but quickly implored the Lord to deliver him from the sin of wrath. The prayer only kind of worked.

“Greta is upstairs resting. She has had a long day, and I would appreciate it if you could keep your voices down,” the woman retorted.

“Fuck that, we men need to unwind. Now get us that beer, I need to drown my molars.”

With one last disapproving glance, the woman gritted her teeth and went for the pewter mugs. Laurel understood that lecherous prick Karl to an extent. The woman had golden hair like wheat under the sun, and sky-blue eyes. She was also beautiful. Her skin was rather pale with a delicate pink sheen over her cheeks.

As she expertly drew beer from a barrel, he could not help but look down. She was moving with confident gestures that he found attractive. He looked down still and stopped himself before succumbing to the sin of lusty thoughts.

The woman walked to them with the three mugs easily balanced in a single hand. She stopped at the edge of the table and frowned at Karl, who had licked his lips and was leering at her with naked sleaze. Without a word, the woman turned left and deposited the three mugs between Sal and Laurel himself, thus avoiding the risk of an errant hand.

“Avoiding me, lass?” the disgusting man asked with a touch of anger.

“I have good instincts,” she retorted.

“Karl, stop it,” Laurel ordered. He could tell that his repulsive teammate wanted to escalate but the horrid man restrained himself. Even he knew that they were sent here in this desolate place because they had fallen out of favor and could not afford any more offenses under their names.

In the end, the man relented.

“Bah, at least the beer is decent here,” he growled.

Karl then proceeded to slurp the liquid.

“This is a waste of time…” Laurel muttered, his patience and determination fraying under the combined effort of the remoteness, the weather and his insufferable allies.

“There has not been anything of note around here since the Red Maiden,” he continued with feelings.

“The Red Maiden?” a foreign voice asked from the other table. It was the grey gentleman, currently holding his mug in front of his lips.

Laurel groaned as Karl banged his drink on the table, sending foamy liquid across the polished wood.

“Hah! You don’t know about the Red Maiden! I’ll tell you all you need to know, stranger. Your pal Karl knows a lot, he does! I got it all from one of them archivist eggheads who gathered it from interrogation reports and spying! Lend me your ears, because it’s a tale like no other!”

Behind the bar, the waitress started to scrub glasses with furious energy. She was clearly annoyed, and Laurel could see why. It only took people thirty seconds to guess that any story garnering Karl’s interest would be vulgar.

“It all started in New-Orleans, the land of savages, whores, negroes and degenerates. The Red Maiden was made at Mardi Gras’ greatest orgy from the slut who had won the best ass contest.”

The barmaid sighed heavily, but she let the men continue. Laurel considered for one moment that he had joined the Order to protect mankind for the depredations of unnatural creatures and that he had trained hard to learn how to face them.

He had not expected that asking too many questions would land him there at the edge of civilization, forced to slog his way through the snow by day and listen to bawdy stories by night, paired up with a fanatical idiot who could only speak in Bible quotes and the sleaziest asshole this side of the Mississippi. Perhaps a career change was called for. He could respect his oath even if he operated independently.

Next to him, Karl was still recounting his gross story with gusto to the polite interest of the grey brother.

“Even the city’s debaucheries could not satisfy her! She would tour the brothels and take part in bloody games to quench her unholy drives. Her appetite for the pleasures of the flesh was never satisfied! She would lust after genitals the size of bulls and balls the size of ostrich eggs!” Karl added while extending his arm to demonstrate exactly how large the unlikely pieces of anatomy were.

“She would drain the seed of hundreds of men with her mouth to steal their strength, and drink it as well as their soul, which was sucked through the urethra! And that is why she was also called the Devourer.”

Laurel jumped in his seat at the unexpected sound of tortured metal. When he turned however, he could only see the barmaid still cleaning a mug with a terribly focused expression. He shrugged, imagining that she would find the story vexing and attempt to ignore it.

The grey brother, however, seemed to be having fun. His expression was split along the lines of disbelief and amusement.

“Is that so?” the man lightly commented.

“Right! But the story doesn’t end here! She left the city in her eternal quest for ever girthier manhoods and finally found a mountain man somewhere in Georgia. A spirit of stone and depravity.”

Laurel noted in passing that the waitress was more affected than he thought. She was slowly thumping her head against the wooden bar while muttering imprecations.

“Perhaps you should stop your story there Karl, your tale serves no purpose but to cause distress and horror.”

“But we’re reaching the best part!” his companion exclaimed with spittle flying in the air, “How they labored together to create the ultimate sex automaton, a creature with endless stamina and an artificial Johnson that could be inflated in the middle of the action! They named it, the Key of Beriah!”

A sound like an explosion.

Laurel searched the room to find the waitress’ fist buried through a table. Her beautiful visage was twisted with fury, most of it directed at the grey knight who had lifted his hands in helpless surrender.

“You think this is funny?! Sennak! An Suqqam Hayatu!”

Laurel’s heart skipped a beat just as cold sweat erupted all over him. A shiver of dread crawled up his back as terror, sheer terror, paralyzed his mind.

The appearance. The strange words. This strength. Her suddenly paler skin.

It could not be!

The grey gentleman replied in the same tongue with a tone that suggested an answer along the lines of “not my problem”. An instant later, the woman shook her fists with anger and started a low hiss. To Laurel’s savvy eyes, she looked like a woman two seconds away from tossing cutlery with malicious intent.

“Those slanderous… scandalous lies! Perfidy!” she sputtered with outrage, “I would never!”

Horrified silence covered the inn until an elegant voice interrupted it.

“Are you quite sure you never lusted after large genitals?” the man in grey observed while inspecting his nails, which were black and quite sharp. Then he turned to the woman with the deadliest shit-eating grin Laurel had ever seen. The suicidal moron added in a mocking falsetto voice:

“Is that your main gun captain, or are you just happy to see me?”

Laurel upended his table and jumped to the side just as a stream of incoherent curses, in French of all things, turned into a scream of feral rage.

“Goujat! Malotru! Sombre cretin!”

An instant later, a piece of the bar with the deformed nails still attached crashed against the wall, missing the other man only because he had dodged it with supernatural speed.

Not one, but two vampires.

Unthinkable.

Laurel instantly knew that they were still alive because the vampires were bickering. He climbed to his knees and grabbed the pallid Karl, dragging him behind himself.

“We have to get out!” he screamed. Thankfully, they had the entrance wall to their direct back and the door was only a few feet away. They could do it.

Sal did not listen. The religious retard stood up with an expression of triumph, brandishing his cross before him.

“In the name of the Fa—”

An instant later, the man’s brains splattered against the stone behind them as the two survivors were showered with pieces of ceramic shrapnel. Laurel thought in passing that he had never seen a man killed with a thrown plate before.

Laurel crawled to the door while on the other side of the upended table, a cataclysmic conflict was taking place with the fracas of broken furniture and the errant piece of gliding masonry.

They finally reached the door.

Laurel reached up for the knob, pausing only when a massive cleaver embedded itself only a hair away from his fingers. With his heart thundering in his ear, he finally managed to open the door and pass through. He turned around just to see a delicate hand ending in savage talons close around the neck of his companion before the man disappeared back into the room.

Laurel turned and ran.

He sprinted with all his strength, needled by despair. There was a derelict house in front of him across the town square. The stables were just behind. Five seconds. Four seconds. Three seconds. Almost there.

Two seconds.

One second.

Behind him, the door of the inn crashed open as he was crossing the threshold of the ruin.

A primal instinct made him turn.

The woman was here with her arm up, claws extended.

Laurel fell backwards with a scream, pointlessly covering his face.

There was no pain.

Hesitantly, Laurel removed his arm and took in his surroundings. He was inside the destroyed home. A quarter of the roof had collapsed, and it smelled of soot and unwashed bodies despite the open air. There was an extinguished fire by his left and a veritable rat nest of chest-high planks, tarps and clutter to his right piled against the wall.

In front of him and on the other side of the threshold, the Red Maiden was staring in disbelief as she attempted in vain to enter the collapsed edifice.

“But… how!?” she exclaimed.

And suddenly, the rat nest exploded outward. In an instant, Laurel realized his mistake. The pile of debris was actually a makeshift cabin! A light shone from beyond the tarps and he could even spot covers on the others side.

A ghastly apparition suddenly stood before him. It was a man with a long beard that must have been white at some point of the distant past, possibly before it was used as a napkin, handkerchief, and other things he did not dare contemplate. His bald head was oily and grimy and two insane eyes above a large nose were fixed on Laurel with an expression of sheer malevolence. From the waist up, the man was covered in more layers of cloth that he thought could be possible, giving him an air of impossible obesity.

From the waist down, the creature was completely naked. Two hirsute spindly legs emerged from the mess of shirts, and between them freely dangled the man’s shriveled genitals. They quivered feebly in the glacial air as he jumped up and down, spitting and vociferating.

“Get off my lawn!”

The stench emanating from the poor sod was nauseating and Laurel covered his nose. He must have intruded in the home of the hamlet’s reject.

Then the reality of his situation came back to his battered mind and he fearfully returned his attention to the Maiden, only to find the vampire unmoving. She was cradling her elbow in one hand, the other hand massaging the bridge of her nose. Her eyes were closed.

They stayed like this for a good ten seconds with the local idiot still jumping around. Eventually, she threw both hands in the air.

“That’s it. I am done. I. Am. Done. Done!”

Then she turned around and walked to the middle of the square, picked up the destroyed door, replaced it on its hinges and slammed it closed behind her.

Laurel could not believe his luck and did not expect for it to last. He ran to the stable and took his horse, riding East until a pallid dawn cast its cold glow on the snowy land.

And that is the closest a Gabrielite ever came to the Red Maiden without dying.

88. The Gathering Tide

Constantine’s office is as spacious and ordered as before, but now it feels crowded. To my right stands a tall man with dark curly hair and the beard and mustache of a Spanish Conquistador, which, arguably, he might be.

He is also my rival for the ownership of the State of Illinois.

Behind his desk, Constantine gauges the both of us as we sit at attention, studiously ignoring each other.

“I have a task for you,” he finally says.

“I have received concerning reports of unusual werewolf activity around the Grand Lakes region, particularly in Detroit, Michigan, and the city of York in Canada. Those cities are currently occupied by small covens of the Roland, and their House has requested my assistance in this matter. House Nirari will go to Detroit and House Cadiz to York, where you will collaborate with the local clans to elucidate then resolve the issues. You will be accompanied by people I fully trust: Melitone and Ignace.”

I hiss and stop, as Constantine immediately raised a hand to preclude any protest I may have.

“I am not completely insensitive, Ariane. Melitone will go with you. Is that agreeable?”

“Yes,” I reply without hesitation. I should not have lashed out at the mention of my torturer and yet, I have.

My fingers itch.

I ignore them.

“Continuing. The dominion over Illinois will be granted to those who have made the most significant contribution to our cause. I will not share the exact method by which I will judge you. Know that elements such as the numbers of foe killed as well as allied lives and assets kept out of harm will be taken into consideration, and so will more unquantifiable contributions such as bringing a long-term end to the matter.”

Constantine leans forward, his lean fingers intertwined on top of his desk.

“You must take this task with utmost seriousness. For the first time in history, werewolves have been spotted in groups larger than three and displayed obvious signs of organization. I cannot overstate how unprecedented this is. So far, they have been nothing but pests or loners. If they form a faction, the political balance in our lands will be changed forever. I am counting on you to get to the bottom of the matter.”

“Of course, sir,” my neighbor replies.

“Right,” I add, already considering the implications.

A year ago or so, I rescued a werewolf from the Order prison where Sivaya and Nami were also held captive. Alistair was his name, and he was originally from the city of York. He had mentioned that communities had formed in the Canadian wilderness.

He had also mentioned a group called Black Peak that was trying to gain dominance. At that time, I had dismissed the whole affair as having nothing to do with me, and I had not helped him. Well, the joke is on me now. This mass movement is most certainly related to that whole business. Either those groups Constantine mentioned are refugees or, more worrying, the Black Peak wolves are trying to expand.

I really hope this is the former.

I could, of course, share my observations with Constantine and my rival, but I really do not see the point. Vampires only rarely interact with werewolves besides by hunting them down, though individuals are sometimes used as freelance agents. If I treat them as an organized faction from the beginning, it might give me the edge I need to win this contest.

“There are additional terms by which you will have to abide,” Constantine continues with a pointed look. I am sure he anticipates some level of treachery. The poor sod. He has no idea what I am about to unleash, witness or not. Melitone cannot be everywhere at once.

“First, Lazaro, you may only employ the vampires and mortals you have registered in your request to take over the state.”

That means that he can only rely on his subordinates, not his entire clan. Good news.

“As for you Ariane, you may not call upon Torran nor Sephare to act directly,” he declares, then as an afterthought: “and please keep the artillery, explosions and flaming pigs to a minimum.”

I sputter in outrage! Calumnies! Shameless defamation! It seldom ever happens!

“Lazaro, you may leave. Ariane, please stay, we have another matter to discuss.”

My rival bows then to my surprise, turns to me.

“I am sorry that we would meet this way Lady Ariane. It is an honor to face you in this contest, and I wish you good fortune.”

He grabs his fancy hat and departs the room.

How dare he be polite and respectful while I plan to do unspeakably devious things to him and his party! This proper behavior will not save him from my wrath. His clan should have thought twice before annoying me.

We wait until the door closes behind us. Then we wait some more.

And some more.

I am tempted to draw on the Hastings essence. Besides turning coffee into an elixir of the gods, it allows me to act more human. That means shifting in the seat, scratching my arm and other mannerisms that vampires apparently find endlessly annoying coming from another vampire, according to Torran. Fortunately, Constantine speaks before I must resort to psychological warfare.

“Torran cannot stay under your protection in the current circumstances. I cannot allow him to accompany you on the frontlines nor can he complete his next contract just yet. As such, I am compelled to end your current, ah, protection detail.”

I instinctively grip the edge of my seat. If he dares…

“Since it is my decision to forbid Torran from helping you, I consider your task complete. As for your reward… you have completed both tasks I required of you and as promised, you may draw from my essence.”

Constantine shows the most minute signs of distress. A mortal would have missed it.

“Now will do, I suppose. Come,” he announces as he stands up.

Despite my best effort, I must have shown a sign of excitement because my host looks a bit aggravated. Progenitor blood! A rare treat indeed. It will lack vitality, but this power...

I join him behind his desk, a symbolic allowance on his part. He extends one bare wrist which I take delicately, then his other hand whips out and grabs my head with lightning speed.

I freeze. From where I stand, I see the edges of a mage gauntlet of incredible power. The contained aura of the artefact thrums with a threatening rhythm like war drums in the distance. It tastes of blood, iron and the tide.

I feel no aggression from Constantine and so I stay still. Even my instincts are silent as power emanates in waves from the Progenitor’s form.

He is considerably faster than me.

He is also known as a blood magic genius, showing incredible innovation, a rarity among our kind.

I am convinced that he will not kill me if I do not give him cause and so I keep my peace.

“I place myself in a vulnerable position. Even if you were to swear an oath not to harm me now, the backlash of breaking that oath could possibly justify my death. When you taste my essence, the temptation will be here to consume more of it than you should. That is why when I say stop, you will stop, or you will regret it. Briefly. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

I nod.

“Good, you may begin.”

I lick the skin over the vein, eliciting a sigh. I can feel the power crawling languishly under the pale skin. Despite my best efforts, I find myself anticipating the moment with great pleasure.

I bite down.

High tide. I must hurry or I will be too late. I cannot believe that the village could do that. They are stupid! Our village was not cursed. All the towns around us have bad harvests due to the poor weather, and the raiders were not due to bad luck, but because that alderman gixajo skimped on hiring some guards. I rush to the shore, hoping I am not too late. Behind me I hear the cries of pursuers. They know that I will act. They will not catch up.

The beach, and the rocky formation at its edge. The bar of sand has been reduced to a thin line by the conquering waves. Too late. The entrance is already submerged.

I am too late.

“Hello, young man.”

I turn to see a woman covered in a cloak looking down with a smile. Despite the urgency, and despite the late hour, all thoughts abandon me. I can but stare.

She is incredibly gorgeous, the most breathtaking beauty I have ever seen. She could walk right into Madrid and the king would throw himself at her feet, begging her to be his wife. The pope would embrace damnation for a night with her.

Even with most of her form hidden, I can see hints of unmarred golden skin, a dark eye like a summer night and lips as red as blood. The cloak shifts, and I see the beginning of her cleavage, the barest hint of a curve. It would be enough for some to sell their souls.

The goddess chuckles warmly as she sees me gape like an idiot. The sound is soft and intimate, not mocking. I feel privileged that she would share it with me.

“A bit late are we? Only a champion could brave the waves and the rocks now. Only a champion could save his precious sister. Do you want to be this champion?”

“Yes…”

She smiles again, and removes from the recess of her garb a phial of exquisite make. I am a clock worker. I know the work of a master when I see one. Golden filigree encircles the body and stopper to form some alien characters I do not recognize. Beyond the crystalline barrier, I see droplets of a carmine liquid.

“What is this?” I ask.

“Fate,” the woman replies. I feel measured by her gaze, judged and weighted by a cold intellect without match in any place where I have plied my trade.

“Drink it, and become the one who can save your sister. Or do not and return to obscurity.”

I have no need to hesitate. I remove the stopper and imbibe the contents.

This is not a liquid.

It looks like it, behaves like it, but what slides down my throat is living fire. A power without match. No language of mankind can give justice to the intensity of it, the purity. It feels so dangerous and intimate at the same time. It moves through me.

I drop the phial and fall to my knee, mouth agape and breath stolen as the decoction ravages my insides. It is pain, pleasure, hot and cold. And vibration like the purr of a cat if the cat were the size of the moon. All of it at once.

The sensation grows too intense for me to stay conscious.

In a way, I die.

And I am reborn.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, it is done. Whatever the potion did is completed, and I am in full control of myself once again.

I feel so strong, so incredibly powerful. I can see her perfectly now, I can hear and smell everything.

A manic energy moves my limbs as four strange new things protrude against my gums. My nails have fallen off, to be replaced by small talons like obsidian. I take a few seconds to remove the blood and discarded keratin from my shoes.

“I will go now,” I declare with finality. I have already wasted too much time.

“Do as you please, young one. We will not meet again. Fare thee well.”

She is gone and so I am. My steps lead me to the beach, then to the rocky amalgam extending into the sea. There, our ancestors imprisoned sacrifices by placing them in a cave that could only be accessed at low tide. Other gaps allow the air to come in, but they are too small to pass through. They are barely enough for the voice inside to moan and beg, an unwilling bride for the god of the sea.

The villagers sent my sister to die for them and I know why. She was always too headstrong, my Melitone. Just as smart as me who apprenticed with the clockmaker, but born a woman and unwilling to bend to tradition.

I feel a deep anger boil and fester inside my now silent heart as I slip into the sea, as I swim through the furious waters as if they were but a mild bath in some bourgeois’ tub. I am fast and strong, so strong. I do not even need to struggle for breath.

The interior of the cave is dark but I can see.

“Sister.”

“Ganiz, is that you? Is this a dream?” a trembling voice answers.

I grab her cold hand and place it on my face. Her fingers trace the familiar form.

“I came here to rescue you.”

“Then you are a fool. The current will be too strong now.”

“It is not. There is a way. We will bind our fates.”

I slash my wrist and push it against her bluish lips. She is shivering now. Weakened. Her frantic eyes search the darkness for me.

“Drink and you will become strong.”

I do not know how I know this, only that my confidence is absolute.

She trusts me, she drinks just as I bite her. I could have done something differently so that she could become like me, but the change is all-encompassing, and it will have a price. That way she is bound as… as a Servant. Not an equal, but a partner. She will be stronger though, stronger than all other Servants. She will share some of my power, because she is my sister, my only family, and I want her to be able to protect herself from now on.

It is easy to leave, it is easy to climb out of the sea and shake the sand from our clothes. Our steps are assured and although I remain stronger, she is more dangerous than any soldier I have ever seen.

“What now?” she asks, her voice calm and confidant. She was always good at moving on.

Me, not so much.

“Now?” I reply with a cruel smile, “Now we return to the village.”

I pull back.

I have seen enough; I have taken enough. The essence is mine now. I finally understand the secret power Ganiz, no, Constantine, has chosen for himself. Just as my own sire was driven by conquest, Constantine crossed the boundary out of brotherly love. The touch of his line will make the Servant better, more powerful. Inhuman. Not as strong as a vampire but sharing none of our weaknesses, they will be a force to reckon with. Not to mention that we still cannot touch them. The taboo is still here.

I find his sacrifice touching.

I need to remember that Melitone will display superhuman abilities, especially now that she has had a century to train. It also implies that should she fall, the murderer will have to face a vengeance like no others.

“That was… interesting,” Constantine idly comments to mask his temporary weakness.

I care not.

Again, so much power. I can feel it roll and merge into me. Its touch is gentler than Sinead and Sivaya’s essence, a pond to their torrent, but no less powerful for it. I stretch in delight under the soothing effect, marveling at its strength.

My essence follows the line of my body, while my aura is more diffuse and more flexible. I can feel it growing denser and darker. It feels good.

I flex my claws. Now would be a good time for a Hunt, but alas, necessity makes law.

I note in passing that I am not drunk, just like the night I tasted my sire’s essence all those years ago. Perhaps it is due to the low vitality? Curious.

Constantine studies me for a while, and I allow him some time to recuperate. He has not dismissed me yet therefore it would be rude to leave.

“What is the core of the Nirari’s essence? Consumption?”

“No,” I reply, “conquest.”

“But you have not defeated me.”

I eye him with undisguised amusement.

“Victory and conquest are not the same thing. An offer of blood is a clear sign of submission, is it not? To expose yourself so thoroughly to my mercy.”

“I…” Constantine replies, frowning, “I think you may leave now. Our deal is done, and you have much to do,” he retorts with a bit of anger.

I laugh as I leave.

“No need to be so sore, Speaker. I have almost forgiven you for what you have done to me.”

“Just leave. Melitone will join you in Marquette.”

I chuckle and close the door behind me.

I already knew I would need resources to complete my mission. The first step is thus to return to Marquette and gather those resources. Constantine correctly anticipated this move and I can rely on Melitone joining me shortly.

As expected, I cannot count on Torran. Not that I planned on asking him for help. Torran is my senior in every regard, to rely on him is to send a signal that I am dependent on him. That will not do.

Thankfully, I have much to work with.

As I step outside of the manor and onto the inner garden, I am joined by the first additional member of our expedition.

When I saved Melusine, I demanded of her a one-time assistance in battle, a favor I am calling upon now. As she turns and narrows her eyes, I will admit that she looks rather good in a brown traveling dress and deep green cloak that compliment her pale skin and carmine curls.

“I am here, as promised,” she declares as we make our way along the fountain and onto the gravel road leading down. I nod and we both whistle at the same time.

Metis trots out of her stable with a prancing gait that shows everyone that she is the best Nightmare around and she knows it. She stops a few paces in front of us and snorts disdainfully, like the big good warhorse she is.

By comparison, Melusine’s Nightmare is thinner, less muscular though arguably more graceful. She seems to glide on the earth with thin hooves while Metis’ trample the ground with the sound of thunder heralding the coming of the Huns. What is this delicate flower of the night? This is not a Nightmare. A Nightmare exists to run down werewolves and smash into human lines like the wrath of the Watcher itself.

Both Melusine and I finish our inspection of each other’s horse and scoff at the same time. I turn to her with fangs bared.

“Just so that we are clear, my pony is better than your pony.”

“In your dreams, peasant! Zana is a prime example of the perfect Nightmare, a shadow weaving through the trees without a sound! Any mortal catching a glimpse of her will question their sanity before this dark mirage!”

“Dark mirage my posterior! Is this the one you will ride into battle charging down a pack of wendigos? The only thing you will slay is a romantic poet and only if the tuberculosis does not get him first. You could not tell a proper Nightmare if it kicked you in the face you flat-assed milksop!”

Melusine gasps in outrage and displays her fangs in return.

“And you would not know good taste if it was shoved up your muddy butt, you bumbling meathead!”

“Ladies, please,” a warm and slightly accented voice says from behind. I turn around to see my darling here and smile helplessly. He looks dashing in traveling leather, with that sardonic smirk that lifts one corner of his mouth more than the other. Without another word, he passes us by and calls for Krowar. The larger war horse trots forth with elegance and dignity. Torran climbs on it and rides first.

Melusine and I exchange a glance.

“At least you have good taste in men,” she reluctantly admits.

“I wish I could return the compliment, Melusine, I really do.”

Then after a pause, because I am not completely insensitive, and she did lose her Vassal and lover not too long ago.

“With one notable exception,” I concede. It is not every day that you will find a man who will hide your insensate form with his own dying body to save your life.

We both fall silent as melancholy overcomes my companion. I grab her by the arm and pull her forward. Nothing like a good ride to clear one’s head, after all.

We gallop and soon catch up with Torran as he rides down the path along the cliff leading down from the manor. The humans guards, always vigilant, let us pass without a word after a cursory inspection by the light of their torches.

When we reach him, my lover slows down and pulls alongside me.

“Your essence is denser,” he declares while inspecting me.

“You can tell?”

“Yes. Soon, it will be enough to forge a soul weapon.”

“What are soul weapons anyway?” I ask with curiosity. We never actually discussed it, simply because I preferred his tales of home, games and politics and I wanted to make it clear that I was interested in him as an individual, not because of his role as a smith. This time is different. Torran initiated the conversation himself.

“Soul weapons are crystalized essence, molded into an offensive form. They are the highest form of weaponry in this plane of existence and are unchanging and indestructible so long as the vampire lives. Soul weapons are killing drive made manifest.”

“Can an armor be a soul weapon?”

“No. First, the artefact itself is a proactive item while most armors are reactive. Lord Jarek’s gauntlets are not protection, for example, but extensions of his fists.”

“Could a gun be a soul weapon?” I ask with excitement.

Torran considers the question seriously.

“Perhaps. There are a few ranged soul weapons already.”

“Really?”

“Indeed. Your sibling Svyatoslav, for example. He uses a bow of tremendous size. Ammunition would be a concern though, and it would not fit you.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, surprised. I do enjoy my guns.

“As I mentioned, soul weapons are an expression of one’s violence. Yours is… up close and personal. Firearms are ranged weapons and they imply a certain desire to keep a distance from the conflict, and are usually associated with an ambush hunter’s mind. You can be patient, but you definitely prefer to be in the thick of it.”

Torran is not wrong. Even my pistols are often used at point blank range. To be fair this is the best way to use a pistol as they are not the most precise firearms around.

“Huh. What do you think my soul weapon would be then?”

“I have no idea, dear, however I hope that you will call upon me to forge it for you. I will do it for free.”

“You are too kind,” I reply with appreciation. While the cost of a single forging is not only astronomical, the services of the smith may not even be purchased with money to begin with.

“How does it work? May I ask?” I go on.

“Explaining in too much detail would break the mystique of the forging itself. Your essence right now is in your body. It follows its outline though the essence itself is not physical. You can already pool it and send it elsewhere.”

“Like tendrils?”

“Precisely. The forging consists of drawing out a large amount of essence and then, with my assistance, severing it and molding it into a weapon. The essence is still yours but it is separate from your normal body. It also coalesces into something physical.”

“That sounds… painful,” I remark.

Torran turns his aristocratic face to me, his grey eyes twinkling with amusement.

“Excruciatingly so. It will also weaken you. Temporarily.”

I jump on the occasion to ask another question that had bothered me.

“So, we do lose essence? When we create a soul weapon and when we sire a fledgeling?”

“And when you burn under the sun.”

I shiver at the memory, a memory I have shared with him. To my surprise, Torran has never been touched by the golden orb’s unforgiving radiance, though he has suffered countless other wounds.

Yet less than a year of being able to move during the day and I have already been roasted once. Maybe I am just an idiot.

“Can we recover that essence?” I ask with worry. I cannot afford to weaken.

“Yes and no,” Torran replies, “you will recover what you lost quickly. You must have realized that the Thirst grew stronger for a while? Well, it was to rebuild yourself. It still slows your growth a little bit because while you heal, you do not grow stronger. That is why I would suggest that in the future, you try to stay out of the daylight,” he finishes with fake condescension.

“Duly noted,” I reply with a murderous glance. Torran has grown more teasing in the past few weeks, following in the footsteps of Jimena, Nami and basically anyone who has grown close to me. Is it fun to needle the Devourer? Unfair.

By now, we are crossing the fields and glasshouses covering the valley

We continue in silence for a while, until I notice signs that Melusine wishes to speak to me. Surprised, I pull back after a last nod at my lover and align myself with her. As we ride side by side I realize with pleasure that between my size and Metis’, I am easily two heads taller than her.

“Yes?” I ask with a smirk.

Melusine huffs, completely unamused.

“I have a proposal for you, Ariane.”

Ooh, we are on a name basis now.

“Do tell.”

“I am yours for this mission, under the seal of secrecy you so heavily insisted upon,” she reminds me with annoyance, “and I fully intend to repay my debt. With that said, one of the causes of the current situation should be obvious to you by now.”

“All vampires are snakes and anyone not bound to you by alliance and contract is to be considered an enemy in waiting?” I suggest.

Melusine merely rolls her eyes.

“Nature abhors a vacuum, you simpleton. If you want your land to be fully secured, a coven must be established in every power center of the state. Provided that you win, you must take over the northern part of your domain.”

I stare at her, long and hard. Melusine does not flinch under my scrutiny. She lifts her chin with all the aristocratic grace embedded into her persona since she was dragged screaming into her clan so many nights ago.

“You?” I coldly state.

“Yes, me. I will swear an oath of allegiance to you. I will cover your backyard and promote your interests in the state and in the whole continent. I will come to your side when you call for battle. I will pay a tithe. In return, you let me rule the town as I see fit, with no interference and no spy to look over my shoulder. A true City Master.”

“You would follow me?” I ask disbelieving.

“You are better than most. It is true that Devourers always keep their words, the sane ones in any case. As for me, you know well what I am capable of. You rule your land in the manner of the Eneru, with many knowing of your existence and a level of control that borders on the absolute. It will not work everywhere.”

She looks forward now, fully absorbed in her demonstration. In front of us, Torran shifts to let me see his amused smile. We must appear as children splitting a cake for one such as him.

“The north will host the state capital because of its proximity to the Great Lakes, it will grow too fast for you to swallow. A more delicate touch is required to make the most of it, an iron hand in a velvet glove.”

She closes a fist and turns to me again with a hint of disdain.

“… while you are an iron hand in an iron gauntlet, the one with the tiny spikes on the knuckles.”

“Continue with your demonstration,” I pointedly suggest.

“For larger cities, the touch of Mask is preferable. I will rule from the shadows in your name and bring us countless benefits. I will stir it in secret, for you controlling sorts still haven’t realized that only the unfelt ruler is truly safe. On the other hand, you merely have to focus on what you enjoy doing to keep the jackals off our backs.”

I consider her proposal.

First, she is serious. I can tell from her posture and determined air. She also makes a good point. I will need to create covens. I am unwilling to sire spawn for now and Urchin does not qualify as a coven member.

Second, and most important, can I trust her? If she is willing to take an oath, then yes. Despite her devious Lancaster ways, she is still one of our kind and we do not break oaths easily. It still bears the question…

“You and I have been at odds many times. Are you not worried that I may use this opportunity to take revenge?”

“Would you?”

“I am asking you.”

Melusine smiles softly.

“For all your achievements I forget that you are still young. For us, alliances of interests and enmities of opportunity are things to be discarded in the long run. I still think you are too callous and direct for your own good, and yet there is no denying your successes and, more importantly, your integrity.”

She stares me in the eyes with candor.

“I would have no qualms following someone such as you, for as long as our agreement holds. If I have my city, then I will found a coven, accrue power and eventually, after I become a Lady, I will find Moor wherever she hides and skewer her rotten heart. Then I will personally shove warm coals up her nasty…”

I phase out Melusine as she descends into cold rage, listing the many indignities she would subject her fallen superior to. Interestingly, many of them involve fire in some fashion.

I think I can trust her. In theory, her arrangement is also to my benefit, though this time I will consider the question before taking any hasty decision. I will not repeat my mistake of agreeing to lady Sephare too quickly.

“I will consider your proposal,” I reply as I interrupt Melusine’s next description on what she will do to Moor, which involves a box with a small opening, coals and a rabid wolverine.

“I must admit that I was not impressed with your performance when we were both in New Orleans,” I continue and to my surprise, Melusine does not object.

“You did not strike me as a competent follower then. It would significantly help your case if our cooperation went well,” I continue.

“I understand,” she replies.

We nod to each other with grudging respect and return to riding in a single file. The rest of the trip to the way station is done in silence. A few hours later, Torran and I part ways after promises to spend more time together when all is done. He will travel around for a bit while Melusine and I rush to Marquette at high speed using armored carriages.

We have a war to plan, and to win.

89. Council

The Dream. My old bedroom.

Marquette is still bustling with activity, but the nature of the night shifted. Perhaps leaving the city gave me the distance I needed to come to a realization.

Marquette is no longer a godforsaken mudhole.

When I came here for the first time it most definitely was. Now, even at night, ladies and gentlemen decked in good if conservative clothes walk the street, going to some fancy restaurants or the newly opened theater house. Even the Dream’s clientele has visibly improved compared to when it started. The rowdy lights and loud songs are muted, and I notice that Merritt wisely decided to make Harrigan’s security force shave and bathe.

The world is changing, including the things I built...

That is fine. I am changing too. I hope I will keep changing quickly enough. Torran told me tales of others who were left behind, who allowed themselves to drift. They do not truly fall, but their influence dims as they retreat to ever more parochial villages, their hearts filled with bitterness and the mistaken belief that they were cheated.

I must never let that happen to me.

With a sigh, I adjust my newest dress and open the window to jump out. That dress is the answer to an age-old dilemma. How can I appear as a leader of men without a dress that can also double as a mainsail? How can I walk through a salon and a battlefield with the same aplomb? And finally, is there a way to wear a dress and jump from a roof without said dress ending over my head, my unmentionables thus revealed for the entire world to see? I used to make do with good cuts and holding my hands on the sides of my knees but no longer! I have a new secret weapon.

Based on the battle dress design, I asked for a traditional cut above the waist with just a bit of cleavage to expose my collarbones. The forearms are left bare so that I can wear bracers if the occasion calls for it.

Below the waist, I wear trousers with a single layer of dress-like fabric sewed on. That way, it looks like a dress until I start running. Only then do the trousers become visible. So it’s not cheating!

Besides that, the new and improved battle dress also comes with a heart protector and some sheathes but no room for pistols and no additional armor. It is quite sturdy though, courtesy of Boothe, Wilhem’s tailor.

This one is red. I am making a statement.

Our war room is set in a new office building close to Merritt’s home and Marquette’s warehouse district. As soon as I am far enough away from the Dream, I don a dark cloak and walk the streets without worry. I could not afford to be recognized in my old establishment but out there, the old wisdom is still to not look too hard at the passing strangers.

The office is large, with three stories, proper windows and a side warehouse to store anything we might need ranging from spare wheels to muskets. The silver ingots used for crafting magical implements are kept in a safe upstairs.

As I confidently step inside, a pair of guards notice my approach. The younger one frowns and grabs for his shouldered rifle but he is instantly stopped by his partner, one of Harrigan’s veterans. The greying soldier shakes his head and the recruit swallows nervously before resuming his guard.

“Evening, gentlemen,” I generously greet as I go by.

“Mam,” they reply in unison.

Ah, it is good to be home.

Melusine is waiting for me in the soberly furnished lobby, just as I requested. Her own secured vault is under the main dormitory, the very same place where Jonathan blew up my shed, while Urchin’s is right here. He should already be upstairs.

“Have you slept well?”

“Your facilities were adequate, though I must ask, how did those two children know of what I was?”

“Merritt’s children? I did not hide my nature from them.”

“Is that wise? The little girl asked me to braid her hair!” she huffs, scandalized.

“Well, did you?”

Melusine half-pouts half-hisses.

“Then it was wise,” I reply with a knowing smile.

The proud Lancaster keeps growling behind me as we climb up to the top floor, passing a few employees still working at this late hour.

“I only did it because red hair needs a delicate hand! Ours is the rarest and most beautiful of colors.”

Right.

Melusine huffs and averts her gaze. The cubs have claimed yet another victim.

“Believe what you will!”

“Oh, I always do. Here, we have finally arrived.”

A guard in a leather overcoat opens the door to the state room, and we walk in.

A crowd has gathered around the central table upon which several maps have been drawn. There is Urchin, impeccably dressed and currently twirling a knife in his hands with preternatural speed. He apparently picked up on finger acrobatics and this is possibly the first time I have seen him move with vampiric grace.

Next to him, Sinead is helpfully showing my minion a few tricks to test his limits. He and his fiancée must not have been far to come this quickly. A lucky break, for me that is. For the Cadiz? Not so much.

Then there is Merritt, currently conversing with a Cabal mage I am pleased to see again.

John is not here, and the reminder of his absence dampens my good mood. Even if he was useful in the ambush and I thanked him for it, I can tell that something is bothering him. At his request, I granted him his first vacation since he entered my service and he has been spending more time with his wife.

I am not sure what to think. John was never Vassal material. They are meant to help us maintain our humanity while John draws out my own controlling tendencies. He is the perfect puppet, loyal to a fault, but also lacking the wit and initiative that Dalton had. At the same time, he has always been special, and I find that the distance growing between us darkens my mood.

Thankfully, I am quickly offered a distraction from those sad musings.

Melusine comes in after me and gapes like a complete bumpkin, to my utter delight. Oh, to savor the moment. To remember it forever!

“Pick up your jaw Melusine, we have work to do.”

“But… No! It’s… What!? HOW! A Fae HIGHBORN? HOW?”

She keeps protesting as I drag her forward, past Urchin who bows smartly without stopping his game.

“HE IS UNCHAINED! Ariane? Your Fae highborn is free! Free!”

“Hello poppet, and what a titillating morsel you have brought me tonight,” the prince declares in his usual velvety voice. Sinead has shed his disguise and his amber eyes and golden hair shine with an otherworldly glow. Wisps of blue flame dance in his pupils and his crooked smile only widens at the Lancaster’s surprise. Sinead apparently decided that if he was not going to hide, he would be the most visible of all in a white suit and garish golden shirt.

“I am delighted to see you, Sinead. Rest assured that these two are sworn to secrecy.”

“Of course, my dear, you are not the sharing type. Oh, but what is this I sense in your aura? You found yourself a lover?”

Is ‘well laid’ somehow written on my face? I hope not.

“Yes! And quite a capable one at that,” I retort with vengeful pride before realizing that it really is none of his business.

“Perhaps we should spend some time together so that you can compare,” Sinead replies in smooth and seductive Likaean.

I frown at the term he chose for sex. Likaean obviously possesses several words and idioms for lovemaking, and the one he picked implies feelings shared in a casual relationship. Very daring of him indeed.

“If only you could handle… all of my urges,” I reply in the same language, to Melusine’s renewed disbelief. The poor thing is positively flummoxed.

Sinead raises his hands in surrender, though he does not withdraw his offer and that is telling. He then rotates to let us pass.

“We can discuss more later, poppet. Let us start that war council of yours. I am eager to play.”

I nod and drag the nonplussed Melusine to our next guest, Merritt. I note in passing that the concentration of redheads in the room is much higher than in the rest of the country. Is there something with me and gingers? I shall have to study the question.

“Merritt, meet Melusine of the Lancasters, a semi-competent mage. Melusine, this is Merritt, my second in command,” I announce, making the presentations.

“Oh hello,” Merritt greets semi-guardedly.

“Are you the mother of Oliver and Alynna?” Melusine asks with interest.

“Oh my God, did they do something? Alynna did not ask you to help her, did she?” Merritt asks with concern.

“…no no,” Melusine replies, just a bit sheepish.

Oh, the blackmail material. Yes!

“Merritt is in charge of Marquette when I am not around. She will assist us in getting the supplies we need in a timely fashion,” I add to save my ally.

“And the reinforcements too if things get out of hand. Go finish your round Ari, we have a myriad things to go over,”

With a smile, Melusine and I turn to the Cabal mage.

“Good evening Frost, I did not expect to see you here.”

The old man smiles, his demeanor going from stern to grandfatherly in a heartbeat. His white hair and beard are impeccably trimmed, and he wears a dark grey suit that really complements his image of a benevolent elder gentleman.

Until the smile turns almost feral.

“There were mentions of werewolf packs. I have to see it with my own two eyes.”

“Forgive me for saying so, but there should be a lot of traipsing. Should you not leave this to the younger generation, someone less important?” I ask.

Frost considers me, tilting his head to the side in a gesture that vampires would consider predatory. I am amused, and keep a carefully neutral expression.

Frost is trying to determine if I insulted him. I can feel Melusine’s aura behind me shift from restrained to interested.

Eventually, Frost and I smile at the same time, aware of each other’s game.

“Do you know how long I have been at this?” he asks.

“A very long time? I know your aging slows as you grow in power.”

“You are correct, young one. I am, indeed, very old. Ancient, even! I asked to come here, because I do not want the younglings to risk themselves on what could be a very dangerous mission, you see? I am old and disposable.”

He grins and crosses his arms, waiting.

A test.

The excuse he gave me was a false one. Not quite a lie, a half-truth. What reason could he possibly have to come here? Interest in me? No, he had plenty of opportunities before and I am not so fascinating.

What then?

And finally, it strikes me. His lack of concern, his game, the eagle-like gaze and the head tilt. Frost is not just a kindly and protective senior member of the Cabal’s government. Besides that, or rather before that, he was a killer. Yes, I see it now, in the certainty of his stare. There is a… hungry quality to it.

“You miss it, don’t you?”

The grin widens.

“The hunt,” I continue. Melusine steps up and now we are a triangle of apex monsters. Oh, Frost might be a mortal and his envelope is now frail, but the aura I feel underneath that he briefly revealed, that was interesting.

“I hope you bring me something new and exciting, Ariane dear. A few more years and I might just die in my bed, and wouldn’t that be a shame?”

“Some consider it the best kind of revenge.”

“And they are completely wrong, it is merely the most convenient. Ah, but look at me rambling. I believe you have done all the little social niceties expected of you, so why don’t we move to the meat of the subject?”

“Quite right. And I hear the last two guests coming.”

As promised and a few moments later, the door is thrown wide open by an impatient Melitone.

The Servant and I have interacted only a few times, but it always struck me how similar she and Constantine are. They share the same aristocratic and exotic look, the same no-nonsense attitude and the same impatience to a world that does not move at their speed, nor matches their rational intellect. The only difference is that Melitone is slightly shorter and pretty, and that she is abrasive and direct where Constantine is distant and patient.

“I found this stumbling in the street. Is this yours?”

“Oh, evening everyone! Does anybody want some carrot cake? It’s my specialty!” a disheveled witch declares with a wide grin.

Some things apparently do not change.

When I met Violet in Alexandria, the dream-focused witch had been a bit lost and isolated. I can tell that she has made some effort with her appearance tonight, with even her winter dress sort of color-coordinated with the rest of her outfit. Her hair is also combed, for once.

Alas, she ruined the impression with some obvious last-minute rush. She chose a ditzy bright pink shawl that horribly clashes with the rest of her outfit, possibly because of the unexpectedly frigid air. The wind has blown through a badly attached ribbon and now brown strands erupt from a prim and proper bun. It would be barely acceptable in a teenager and Violet is obviously in her thirties.

I welcome her with a sympathetic smile. She will be instrumental in our next operation, and I am always willing to tolerate idiosyncrasies in talented individuals.

“Put the cake on the table, we are ready to begin,” I offer. As everyone settles in silence, an employee comes with refreshments including a cup of black coffee for myself to everyone’s disbelief.

I choose to remain mysterious and to not explain myself. Being mysterious is a form of gloating.

Both Sinead and Frost fall on the cake like Mongol raiders on a farming village, and both of them congratulate Violet for her excellent use of cinnamon, to the witch’s dismay.

“It was supposed to be a secret ingredient…” she mutters under her breath, apparently surprised at so many refined palates.

After we are done with pleasantries, I quickly explain our mission, including the possibility of having to face large numbers of coordinated werewolves which I justify as this being a possible cause of so many groups of scouts being spotted. Indeed, scouts are used to draw maps and maps are used to wage war. Before I can ask my advisors what they think we should bring, however, Melitone raises her hand.

“Yes?”

“I am sorry for being the bringer of bad news, Ariane. Unfortunately, we received a rather rude missive from Mornay, official Master of Detroit. I’ll summarize the content for you and remove the flowery crap. He does not trust outsiders. He will only allow you to bring a second and five mortals. That’s it.”

I blink, stupefied.

“I am sorry, was I not to assist him?”

Melitone takes a placating expression.

“No need to protest, Ariane, you are preaching to the choir. The Roland clan called for help and since we accepted we are bound by the conditions they impose on us.”

“Fewer resources means worse results. Are my competitors under the same constraints?”

“I am sorry Ariane, you already suspected that Lazaro and yourself would not face the exact same trials. Rest assured that your additional difficulties will be taken into consideration.”

I say nothing, but I know what the reality is. A failure is a failure, and excuses will never turn it into a success.

“Very well. Then Melusine will come with me. For the mortals I’ll take Frost and four of his retinue, unless we are meant to bring in our own nourishment?”

“That would be a terrible breach of etiquette on Moray’s part. He would not dare it.”

I nod, and the rest of the council is dedicated to organizing our party. While we can only enter Detroit proper with a small group, nothing forbids me from having reinforcements around. Urchin will wait with mages and soldiers in a nearby village while we do our best to convince Moray that we are, in fact, here to assist.

An hour later, everything is set and it is finally time for a second council, one of a darker nature.

As the others leave the room, Sinead heads towards the liquor cabinet and helps himself to a crystal glass of amber liquid. He finds the room’s most comfortable chair and collapses into it, somehow managing to make the gesture both lazy and elegant.

“How is Sivaya doing?” I politely ask in his language. His expression is guarded, and the circumstances are making me feel unusually awkward.

“She is well,” he replies in English, “Her collaboration with your dimension mage, Ricardo, is going swimmingly. He figured out a reliable way to lock on specific realms using frequencies she had apparently regarded as too weak to matter. His success stings her pride, but her esteem for humans is growing as a result.”

His voice is neutral. This distance between us worries me.

“That is good to hear,” I comment.

“Ask me,” he orders curtly, apparently out of patience.

I take a breath and state my request, one I had so far only alluded to.

“Please help me take over the state by sabotaging my competitors.”

Sinead grins, though his smile has an angry edge. He sips from his cup and leans forward. In a heartbeat, he goes from dilettante to deal broker.

“You annoy me slightly, Ariane, do you know why?”

I shake my head. Who knows what that wastrel finds vexing?

“I could tell from your message that you need some assistance in making the other group… ‘look bad’,” he quotes with disdain.

“You are still underestimating me, poppet. You still think of me as a schemer and a rake, as superficial as my acting would make you believe. Sabotage? Pfah! You expect me to send contradictory orders, sow discord, attack supply routes and spread false intelligence, do you not?”

“Well…”

“If that is the case,” he retorts, “you only needed that Hopkins lad you mentioned. He would have done perfectly, yet you called me. You must understand that the mortals and I do not play on the same field. I am no human operative, poppet, I am an artist. A Likaean prince.”

His stare drills into me.

“You said that your ally, the Lady Sephare, knows much about your foes?”

“Yes, though be careful as she is three parts scorn and one part black tea. For the rest, you can rely on Violet to pass messages and I can bankroll all of your costs.”

“Excellent. This will be enough for a proper demonstration.”

Sinead tilts his head and looks through a window. He grows contemplative.

“I told you what games we play, and where true victory lies, but you forgot. Or you did not believe me, which I can understand. No matter then, I will give you a taste of what it means to play the true eternal game. Go wage your war, make your alliances and subjugate new foot soldiers Ariane. You will absorb yourself in your struggles and forget about me and the request you made. Only when the last pieces fall in place and the king is checked will you remember what you caused, and the rule I thought I had taught you.”

I must look suitably lost because the Likaean sighs heavily.

“The best victories are achieved when no one ever figures out you were playing the game, poppet. Rather than creating long term tensions with the Cadiz like obvious sabotage would, they will blame their failures on circumstances. Only the most suspicious old monsters will look for signs of foul play and when they do not find them, your reputation will grow. They will consider the Devourer princess and wonder: what if? What if she made it happen? That, my dear, is the perfect triumph from whence a legend grows.”

“Nice words,” I reply unamused, “you will forgive me if I wait for results before marveling at your unparalleled genius. And speaking of growth, I finally figured out where mages come from.”

Now that I know that he will help me, there was another topic I wanted to raise with my most indiscreet of friends.

“Congratulations on finding out how babies are made, Ariane.”

“Stop trying to distract me. I always suspected but I had little proof, until now that is. Do you know that we have a slew of mage toddlers born from mundane mothers recently?”

“Is that so? How fortunate.”

“I am talking about your bastards, Sinead.”

The Likaean smiles slightly. Most of the babies were born from those of my employees who did not take the necessary precautions. At first, I was merely suspicious of the unusually high number of births, yet only a look at the babies’ hair was enough to understand the situation. They were like molten gold, like Sinead’s own.

“You already knew it,” I conclude at his lack of reaction, “you knew that mage bloodlines come from a Fae ancestor.”

“I find it amusing that our children are stronger than us. In our home worlds, they would be but amusing toys with little potential, yet here they are the only ones who can alter reality with any degree of success, simply because they happen to be local while we are not,” he continues with no trace of resentment.

So, he did know.

“And now you so happen to have a new generation of spellcasters growing up in your domain,” he continues, “free for the taking, and with your own retainers to train them. You are most welcome.”

I freeze, stupefied.

“You… did it on purpose?”

Sinead swirls the liquor in his glass with that typical air of light condescension that heralds the start of yet another lesson.

“My actions can benefit you while still being pleasant for me, a lucky happenstance if you will. The mortals have a term for that, I believe. Was it serendipity? Yes, serendipity.”

He licks his lips, tasting the word. When he returns his gaze to me, any hint of amusement is gone.

“Any prince of Summer who wants to live past the age of ten learns how to sow seeds and achieve multiple goals with a single word. Those mages growing in your backyard will be of use to you unless I overestimate your recruitment skills.”

I frown, realizing the obvious.

“You ‘help’ me far too much, Sinead, especially when I do not ask for it. What are you really after?”

The Likaean does not answer. He upends the glass and swallows its content, his face growing tense.

“We both know that we like each other and that all our arrangements and pacts are but formalities. You have already assisted me more than you should have, and I have returned the favor through my teachings. What do you want me to say, that I find you endearing? That from the moment you saved me from the cult, I have watched you with a longing only made more dire by the thrill of my inevitable doom, should I act on my heart’s desires? Should I explain how your shows of kindness and ruthlessness, of efficient violence tempered by the odd bout of adorable quirkiness are like a breath of fresh dew on the withered fields of my happiness? There, I said it.”

Hum. Wow.

Did he just declare?

Huh!

“Now be a dear poppet, and grow strong quickly so that I may return home, and you can finally see me as I am.”

I remain silent.

Sinead’s expression is candid with the smallest dash of vulnerability. I can imagine how incredibly rare it is for someone of his rank and stature to bare themselves so. The pitiless society he came from would chew him then spit him out if he were to reveal this degree of vulnerability.

As for his honesty, I do not doubt it. Just as he started talking, he opened his aura to me without restraint. I can taste it even now, in all its fiery glory. I do not think that even a master at control could imitate the genuine affection it radiates at that moment.

And I realize that I do like him, after a fashion. I like Torran very much. I will not betray his trust, yet Sinead is and has always been the forbidden fruit.

A fruit I do not intend to pick.

“I will not follow you,” I admit after a while even though I suspect it will hurt him.

“I am sorry Sinead, but my world is here, and it apparently needs me. I will not leave my life behind to go gallivanting in that cutthroat court of yours.”

Contrary to my expectations, the Likaean appears unaffected by my rejection. He finally closes his aura and walks towards the door, a sign that our conversation is at an end.

“I know. In any case, you asked your question and I gave you an answer. I want to go home, and I want you to survive and grow. Let us work towards that end, yes?”

Then he leaves without turning, closing the door’s state room behind him.

I would be lying if I said I was expecting this. I always knew that the way we helped each other went far beyond whatever arrangement we had, I never thought that Sinead would openly explain why.

Well, it does not matter. I have Torran and I am not interested in building a harem, especially from people I cannot entirely trust. Sinead plays too many games on too many layers. Sometimes, it scares me.

With a sigh, I gather a few maps we will need and head towards the Dream to pack.

90. Northern Wind.

It takes us only two days of hard riding to head north up to Lake Michigan, then east until we reach Detroit. Melitone, Frost, and three of his men ride by day while Melusine and I slumber. By night, the roles are reversed and since we use lesser Nightmares to pull the carriage, we manage not to stop.

During the trip, I learn from Melitone that she expects the City master to be somewhat hostile, which does not surprise me in the slightest. We arrive in Detroit from the South in the early evening of the second day.

Detroit is old, older than most cities I have been to. It was named for the river it borders, the houses lined along ridges that start at the shore and extend north. As soon as we enter the city, I turn right to take in the piers.

It does not take me long.

To my surprise, Detroit is fairly small with a population barely reaching two thousand five hundred. Many of the edifices are made of wood while Alexandria and Washington had favored bricks. We pass a few groups of late-night pedestrians trudging in the dirty snow, who eye us suspiciously, and mutter in low voices in French, English, German, and sometimes even Irish brogue until we step on the embankment.

The Detroit River flows languidly before us, its placid waters clear enough to reflect the buildings above and surprisingly unfrozen. I spot canals leading into the city bordered by trees. It feels peaceful and—

“Have you seen enough? Can we go now?” a voice interrupts.

I turn to Frost with a glare but he just shrugs.

“This is not the liquid I am interested in. And before you ask, no I am not talking about booze.”

“What are you talking about then?”

“Maple syrup.”

Behind him, Melitone takes a dreamy expression as she gathers her heavy cloak around herself.

“What is maple syrup?” I ask, wondering if they are mocking me with made-up products.

“You have never tried it? Oh, you poor thing!” Frost exclaims in mock horror, “it is as if the gods had shared ambrosia with us. It is as sweet as honey, it flows like water and tastes like heaven. I am surprised that you did not take the opportunity to try it.”

“I assure you that my change was not planned,” I hiss in a low tone.

Melitone frowns at the old man who bows his head in apology. Once more, I am amazed at how quickly he can switch from old rogue to kind grandfather in a single heartbeat. Even his aura reflects this to an extent, currently crisp when he could be glacial.

“Ariane…” Melusine interjects.

“Yes, I feel them too. Lady and gentlemen, we have company.”

I turn Metis back and we move towards the center of the city, leaving the carriage and Frost’s men slightly behind. Three vampires step forward to intercept us from around the bend of the road, appearing from behind a snow-covered hedge.

The one in the middle has sandy hair and traits a bit too sharp to be truly handsome. He is glaring fiercely, dressed in an elegant if incongruous dark ensemble that would belong more in a salon than outside in the heart of winter.

The second man, to the right, follows the first with the respect and attention I associate with Courtiers serving their sire. He has dark brown hair and a pencil-thin moustache that Loth would say he tolerates in his women. Both show the muscle structures of fencers and the overconfidence of bravos.

The third person is clearly an outsider from her posture. She is beautiful with very dark curly hair and exceptionally pale skin, even for a vampire. She looks guarded and steps just a bit behind the rest of the trio. She seems familiar for some reason.

All three have the aura of the Roland, which has a slight unyielding quality. Only the central figure is a Master and he is currently flaring his power in a display at the very limit of politeness.

“And when did you plan on greeting the master of the city I wonder?” the leader asks with disdain. Or at least he tries to.

Vampires, just like mortals, are susceptible to visual cues. Anyone on foot trying to look down on me while I am on Metis will only get a sore neck.

In the silence that follows, Metis snorts and Zana, Melusine’s nightmare, quickly follows suit.

I intentionally wait for a few seconds to pass in silence before replying in a cool voice.

“So kind of you to come and greet us, City Master Mornay.”

“Save your breath, Devourer. I do not appreciate my clan overstepping its authority on my domain, nor did I ask for one of Constantine’s hounds. Assist, if you must, but know that I do not need you to get rid of pests.”

He turns to his side to look at the woman with some contempt.

“Blake here will explain where the beasts can be found, won’t you, Blake?”

“Yes, Mornay.”

“Good.”

And with this, the man dismisses us and turns to leave.

“City Master,” Melitone interrupts in a low voice, “are you not forgetting something?”

“Watch your tone, Servant, I do not take orders from the likes of you.”

“You forget yourself, Mornay. You either respect our agreement or I ride back to Boston and your next visitor will be significantly less accommodating.”

Mornay turns once more, his face twisted in a grimace of rage. He flexes his hands, claws eager to rend and punish but with no real outlet. Melitone is completely beyond his reach.

“Very well. Blake, please lead them to the Madison Hotel and make the necessary arrangements. Goodbye.”

One minute later, only a slightly nervous Courtier remains on the muddy ground, and I observe an interesting phenomenon I did not expect to see from her clan.

Blake is now looking to the side and downward in a somewhat bashful pose, and Frost as well as the other men guarding the carriage are showing concern and even sympathy for her. I can tell that she is not using her essence, therefore the strange magnetism she emits is only a product of her natural charisma and beauty.

“Right. Follow me,” she grumbles.

I dismount out of politeness and soon all the others follow suit. As I walk by her side, she inspects me warily and I simply let her. We proceed in silence in a street running parallel to the river, then left towards the center of the town and up a small hill before stopping next to a three-story edifice, still in wood, lit by bright light.

When we enter, Blake excuses herself for a moment and soon after several staff come to take care of everyone. Melusine and I are led into a small dependence surrounded by a garden and hidden from view by tall walls. There is only one floor arranged as a large salon with a hearth, seats and a small library.

Blake wordlessly pulls a carpet from the ground to reveal a stone trapdoor surrounded by crappy enchantments the likes of which I would not use to secure a larder.

“Here we are,” she announces.

Since I am a master perfectly in control of my emotions, I do not start insulting her and her hospitality right away.

“Are you jesting?” Melusine asks coldly.

“The… the shelter is well hidden and the family who owns the land has served Master Mornay for generations,” the woman replies somewhat defensively.

Melusine and I stare in silence.

“Alright, so the man is a miser and he never expected to have guests. Happy? If it’s any comfort my own chamber is even worse.”

Now finally, we are going somewhere.

“You seem familiar. Have we met before?” I ask before Melusine starts a tirade.

Blake pouts, which even I find attractive.

“We met at the manor. I was looking for a place to settle.”

Oh, yes, I remember now!

“You were that vampire in a red dress I came across a few times!”

“That was my only decent dress. It did not work so well in the end,” she sighs dejectedly.

Melusine frowns, but she must also realize that we may have found our only ally in this place. By silent agreement, we all sit around a rickety coffee table while Melusine lights all the candles in the room with a snap from her fingers.

I will never admit to being impressed by this trick. I will, however, keep it in mind as a gloating tool.

“Then you only joined this coven recently.”

“And so did the other two! This place is the ass end of nowhere so it did not justify our presence at all. The most exciting things around are riots and epidemics!”

“You do not seem pleased with the arrangements.”

“Cut the crap. I fled here and this is the only coven that would take me in, and then only because they needed a third member to be called a coven in the first place.”

“Is it difficult to find a territory?” I ask, not understanding.

“Maybe not for you, Devourer, but us who belong to a clan with a local presence have to bend to the rules or be outcast, and I am not exactly the lone survivor type.”

“I do not mean to insult your competence, but what stops you from claiming some frontier town and building a base there,” I ask.

“Simple, my dear. I’m broke. Absolutely broke. Red dress, remember?”

“Ah.”

My dealings with the Rosenthal proved salutary during my exile. Without a starting capital, it would have been both difficult and risky to start the Dream from scratch. I would have had to steal. I mean, steal even more.

“Yes, yes, Ariane, please do not lose yourself in the memories of your own abject poverty. We are here with a purpose, remember?”

“Ah yes. The werewolves.”

“Quite. Blake, can you tell us more about the situation?”

Blake removes her hood completely and stretches. I recognize the kind of things we do to center ourselves though we no longer have the biological need for it.

Melusine and I wait in silence.

“What do you know?”

“Werewolves bad. Many werewolves worse. Go kill,” I summarize laconically.

Melusine shows fangs but Blake smiles a bit. She is a young one, I can tell.

“We should summon Frost and Melitone, I do not feel like hearing this tale twice,” the redhead advises.

I agree and call a member of the staff to request their presence. After a few minutes, they join us, gathering around the table with warm drinks. Frost also picks a plate with what appears to be toast that was liberally drowned in some amber liquid which, I will admit, gives off an enticing perfume.

Once everyone is settled, Blake begins her tale.

“Three weeks ago, we cornered and executed a werewolf who had come to stay in our town. We didn’t think much of it until two more came looking for him. We killed them as well, only to realize that a fourth one had been staying at the edge of town. He fled before we could track him down and we lost his trace at the river.”

So far, nothing too abnormal besides the high number.

“The loyalists we charged with disposing of the bodies informed us that they found matching tattoos on the victims. Two jagged black lines to be precise.”

A stylized mountain? It would make sense if this truly is the Black Peak pack.

Every new piece of evidence hints at a danger the likes of which we have never faced, and I am at the frontline with only a pair of disputable allies.

How I wish Torran were here instead of Melusine, and I would not mind backup from Jimena, Nami or John either.

“We also found maps.”

I must have reacted to that last sentence, because Melusine turns to me, soon imitated by the rest of the table.

“Maps are used to wage war. You dedicate teams to making maps when you plan an invasion,” I explain, relaying a lesson taught by Loth.

“But surely,” Blake intervenes, “they could just ask for maps at the city hall?”

I learn that Melusine’s way of conveying deep contempt is to slowly blink.

We ignore her naïve remark and move on with the conversation.

“Since last week, the werewolves have returned. There are more of them and they stay far away during the night. We only smell them at the edge of our territory.”

I wince at the memory of werewolves. They possess an innate vitality that makes them particularly appetizing to me, yet there is no denying that they have a peculiar musk which we find irritating. I remember having trouble tolerating the only werewolf I ever was on speaking terms with, the man named Alistair Locke. Every whiff of his scent would wake up my instincts and push me to track the intruder and slay him, even though he was a guest and never displayed any sign of aggression.

“Have you tried having your humans track them?”

“No,” Blake replies, “Mornay has too few followers and none of them are fighters. He would not shed their blood by sending them against such foes.”

“I see,” I reply, turning to Frost.

“Yes, we have a way to track them using special charms sensitive to smells and specific auras. I would prefer if you were with us when we engage, however.”

“There will be no engagement,” I say, interrupting them.

Melitone frowns, uncomprehending.

“What do you mean? The mission objectives…”

“… are to find and identify the primary threat. Frost will be in charge of finding their tracks and will stay at a distance. When night falls, we will join you and follow them to their base. Then, we will learn the true extent of this new threat. We will not waste time going after the small fry.”

“So you do believe in the existence of some sort of werewolf alliance?” Melusine asks with some doubt.

“Maps? Coordination? Matching tattoos? What more do you need.”

The Lancaster has no answer and for the first time since we began, I see the tiniest hint of concern in the way her eyes narrow ever so slightly.

“That works for me. I’ll leave Duke with you, he can use a messenger spell. That will save us a lot of effort.”

We conclude the council quickly with Blake being tasked with finding the maps for us to peruse. Melitone politely requests an interview and I follow her to her room while Frost and his men do some emergency work on our vault entrance.

“What is it?” I ask as she closes the door behind her. She left her luggage half-open near a narrow bed and her perfume already permeates the place, soothing me a bit.

“It appears that Mornay has elected not to cooperate with you in any meaningful way. I am allowed to share with you that he does not know the stakes you have in our arrangement.”

“Do you mean…”

“Yes, he is unaware that Lazaro and yourself are competing for control, otherwise he would have been even more obnoxious. Make sure that he does not figure it out or he could make unreasonable demands.”

“I will be sure to let the others know.”

“Good. The second point is that Jimena is close by.”

I smile at this.

“You are not supposed to know,” Melitone warns me, “and any help you receive from her would affect your final score if you ask for it against my dear brother’s orders. I just wanted you to know in case the threat is just as dire as you seem to believe.”

“Right. But if she happens to come upon us…”

“Then it will be a lucky happenstance.”

Oh, I can produce lucky happenstances, not to worry.

“Do you really think there is a werewolf army?” Melitone suddenly asks.

I realize that I am not sure.

“Hope for the best, plan for the worst,” I answer noncommittally. “In any case, we will keep you safe.”

“Good to know. Alright, thank you for letting me know and in case it was not clear, I am rooting for you.”

With that polite dismissal, I take my leave and return to our salon. Melusine and I spend the rest of the night exploring the vicinity, and I find myself enjoying my trips over snow-covered roofs. Despite our efforts, we find nothing. The werewolf maps are also of little help besides proving their complete lack of cartographic and artistic skills.

With dawn approaching, we retire to our significantly improved vault.

The following day, my mental fortress.

I come to in my palatial bedroom, surrounded by pillows artfully arranged under a canopy that defies physics. On both sides of the vast bed, pedestals hold mementos and baubles, each one corresponding to a specific memory.

Somebody is knocking.

I walk out through a labyrinth of rooms and down the monumental stairs and into the inner courtyard. Great statues of creatures and men I have slain alternate with trees of strange essence, most bearing thorns. In the dark celestial vault above, the Watcher moves, more agitated than usual.

Down into the garden I go, through hidden passages and illusions. Here and there, more statues appear. They are one of the defenses with the flora, and though no one has tried to attack my mind recently, whoever shall do so now will have a terrible time of it.

Then I will kill them.

The knocks stop, to be replaced by chimes which is quite novel.

I soon reach the edge of the forest surrounding my domain. As before, it is made of thorny roots and trunks densely interwoven, sure to shred any intruder to the bone.

With a small push from my will, the curtain parts and a figure glides in with a beatific smile.

“Oh, good day! Lovely place you have there!” she exclaims in a chipper tone.

Sometimes, I think Violet was never meant to wake. She is not unlike those birds who are terribly awkward on land but incomparably graceful while in the air. The curious thing is that her hair is still tousled, but here, in her dreams, it moves and merges into different styles according to her mood. Her clothes flow, sometimes as broad as a medieval gown and sometimes tight and scandalously vaporous. Patterns of color appear and disappear on it according to her mood and sometimes, motes of light like glittering butterflies pop out as she speaks, like now.

Violet giggles.

“What an incredible house! Please be sure to give me a tour of the garden before I depart!”

I cannot help but smile as the strange lady jumps into the air and on top of a werewolf statue, the dress immediately turning to petticoat to protect her virtue. For an instant gravity lost its grasp on the woman and the thorny branches around her grew small white flowers.

“Ooooh a maze! Amazing! Haha!”

“Violet,” I interrupt with a chuckle, “the messages?”

“Ah yes. Quite a hassle that was,” she adds, still looking around while balanced on the tip of her toes of a single foot. Her visage seemingly radiates from the inside, and her soft beauty is now made manifest through the serenity and joy that animate it. The difference is truly breathtaking.

Then the bubbly faerie is gone as she stands straight, still on my statue, and closes her eyes. Her dress morphs into a toga of the purest white, with golden jewelries encircling her wrists and ankles. Her hair tightens itself into an elaborate braid that would require an hour and the efforts of two people to recreate in reality.

“I summoned both Sinead and Sephare in the same space, and they talked for three hours. I will not elaborate on the level of detail in which Sinead went, just know that even Sephare was intimidated by the depth and breadth of his questioning,” she begins in a steady voice.

“I failed to understand the reason for many of them, and Sephare asked me to inform you that Sinead was dangerous,” she continues, looking down to me.

A part of me is bothered to be the one to look up, but the greater part is just amused at her antics, and glad to see her stretch her wings. A mortal who was bashful and possibly lonely has now bloomed into the incredible talent I knew her to be. I am only too glad to give her recognition for it.

“I already knew he was a dangerous man,” I reply.

At this she blushes.

Hmm.

Hmm?

SERIOUSLY?

“Violet?”

“It was only in a dream, I swear!”

Oh that… scandalous cad! Giving me inflamed declaration and then robbing my newest plaything of her virtue the following day?! I know that Likaeans have different customs but surely this is slap-worthy? No?

“Not to worry, Violet, you are not the first to fall to his ploys,” I tell her with gritted teeth.

“Oh, I know, only a man with experience could be so incredible!”

I facepalm.

“Err, sorry.”

Beyond the fact that I would kill him in the heat of passion, this is another reason why it would not work between us. Sinead is part of a culture that does not even consider monogamy and I do not see myself sharing. I especially do not see myself playing second fiddle to Sivaya, or anyone else for that matter. With a last shake of my head, I banish from my thoughts the possibility that… I banish any thoughts, at all.

By the Watcher, I miss Torran. If he were around, I would not even look at another man.

“Moving on,” I continue, “Sinead asked some questions. What then?”

“He made some arrangements to move towards York then disappeared with around a thousand dollars from your coffers.”

Ouch. Well, we will see if this leads anywhere.

If not, I will take the compensation out of his hide.

“What do you have to report besides that?”

“Lady Sephare gave us the location and timing of the Cadiz supply route. As far as we can tell, they are respecting the limitations the Speaker put upon them. Sinead said you should not worry about them and focus on your own thing.”

“I see.”

“The last important piece of news is that you have fifteen men from your ‘odd squad’ and five mages of the White Cabal on the way. They have orders to stop thirty miles from Detroit and to find a town to hole up in. We are having some difficulties moving around due to the inclement weather so you shouldn’t expect them before a week.”

A whole week!

“That is all.”

Now is my turn to keep my allies informed. I share my findings, such as they are, with Violet who has instructions to relay them to Merritt and whoever commands the approaching detachment. After this is finished, I oblige and allow Violet to follow me around. We walk the maze, the gardens and the inner court but stop at the edge of the manor proper.

“I will not follow you inside, it would not be proper,” she says while shaking her head.

“What do you mean?” I ask with surprise.

“This is your sanctum. It contains all the memories and emotions you hold dear and will be your last redoubt if anyone tries to break into your mind.”

“What, you mean with magic?”

She nods.

“Precisely. Not that it would be a good idea for them. Your defenses are formidable. You must have worked on this mind palace for a long time.”

“Thirty years,” I idly observe.

“It shows. In any case, it was a pleasure visiting such a wonder. I will leave you to your sleep. I hope the others have prepared coffee! Goodbye Ariane, take care!”

“And you too,” I reply as Violet closes her eyes and fades into the background. I close my eyes and find myself back into the bedroom at the heart of the complex. I jump on one of the pillow stacks and drift to sleep.

When Melusine and I climb out of the vault, we find one of Frost’s men waiting for us. He clearly wishes he were somewhere else.

“We have found them.”

“So soon?” I ask with surprise. The man winces, and nervously scratches his short blond beard.

“That is what Councilor Frost said. I do not have details.”

We order the man out while we change. We must wait for the sun to set to begin with.

I put on my true armor, the one Loth made with the sigil on the chest. It looks just as deadly as the first time I tried it. Melusine gives me the stink eye when I look down on her own uniform, the now battered and hastily patched up dark leather armor she wore when her Vassal died. The Lancaster crest has been summarily torn off.

I note in passing that she and I share the same body type. We are clearly used to physical effort, but we still have some, ahem, padding. The main difference is that Melusine is really well-endowed.

Also, she is shorter, so there is that.

And I obviously have the better posterior.

“Are you done ogling?”

“You could not get a replacement for your armor? This one is barely holding together.”

“When I exiled myself, the Lancaster took all my assets!” she hisses.

“And you did not think to ask me?” I retort with calm.

“I… You would have laughed in my face!”

“Of course, then I would have helped you get a new armor. Our future is more important than our pride, Melusine,” I sternly tell her.

“You are going to war in a wreck. This affects both our chances and our image,” I continue.

The grumbling Lancaster averts her eyes, before finally relenting.

“I apologize. I did not expect you to be so reasonable.”

“I did manage an entire city for almost two decades if you recall. It taught me quite a bit about leadership and the importance of appearance.”

“I was under Moor the whole time. Give me a break.”

“Fair enough,” I relent, “how are you for weapons?”

She shows me.

“I have a short sword and a spare set of daggers,” I tell her.

“Please. And thank you.”

In a gesture of unusual unity, we help each other bind our hair in tight braids that the wind will not disturb, then wait for nightfall. I leave a message to Mornay out of politeness, and then we ride.

The mage goes first and his horse gallops through the dirty snow with commendable speed. I personally believe the poor beast is scared beyond reason, as it should be. Melusine and I may have donned heavy cloaks, but under them, the glint of weaponry is obvious. Our guide sometimes casts back a fearful glance as if the thundering hooves of Metis were not a sure way to tell what hounds his steps.

It does not take us long to leave the city’s mostly empty streets behind. Our passage elicits a few yelps of terror from the citizens still outside. I even see a woman cross herself. Luckily for her, we are after another quarry tonight.

The ordered rows of houses soon fall behind us, to be replaced by endless farmlands now covered in a layer of snow. Smoke from fires lift up towards the sky from every direction as we move on and where we pass, dogs whimper and hide.

We go north then east until we are able to ride along the shore. After a few minutes, the mage slows down and we move alongside him. I did not realize it before but his horse is shorter than even Zana who is rather delicate herself, meaning that both Melusine and I look down upon him. We instinctively box him without the need to communicate. His horse neighs softly.

“Why are we slowing down?” I ask in a deceptively soft voice.

“The... my horse is tired, I can’t push him like you do your, uh, we’re almost there in any case.”

Ah, the smell of fear. Melusine and I exchange a knowing glance, but take no further action. It would not do to provoke our allies too much.

“There is a small ship anchored nearby. The ferryman is waiting for us. Come.”

We turn right and follow our guide on a downward path through a dense copse of trees. As we reach the edge of the water, branches and exposed roots are no longer covered in snow, but instead encased in sheaths of solid ice that gives them an otherworldly look. They glitter like strange jewels under the diffuse light of the moon.

We quickly exit the copse and find ourselves on a small, rickety pier hidden from sight. On it, a riverman wearing several layers of cloth to ward off the biting cold turns with anger, but his complaints die on his frozen lips when he takes in our appearance.

Metis and Zana lazily step on the wooden skiff in perfect silence. The man swallows nervously and pushes away from the pier with commendable haste. I watch with interest as several large blocks of ice bump against the hull, but it appears that the placid current will prevent us from turning into a shipwreck. It would certainly kill neither Melusine nor myself, in any case.

Once on the other side, our quiet guide resumes his pursuit and we soon leave any sign of civilization behind. The dense woods and pristine snow would make for a fantastic hunt were it not for the grunting mortal and his annoying light spell. Fortunately, I know that we will leave him behind soon and I feel no need to eviscerate him for ruining my fun. Truly, I have mastered my emotions.

“They’re here,” our guide finally says.

For a while, we have been following a set of horse tracks and behind a rock, in a small depression hidden from the wind, we find the rest of Frost’s group huddling around a campfire. I note in passing that the fire is hidden from view by some concealment spells that also blocks off their aura and, more importantly, their smell. Frost himself is sitting comfortably against a trunk, seemingly unbothered by the cold.

“Good evening, ladies. I hope you had a pleasant trip?”

“Where are they, old man?” I answer with a grin. I am quite impatient now.

“The tracks continue northward from here. They stopped trying to hide them so you should have no difficulties. When you are done scouting, come back here and we will make our way back to the city together.”

“Very well. Melusine?”

“We hunt.”

The light behind us fades then disappears.

The night, in all its glory. I wish Torran were here, so that three of us could gallop and recreate that exciting nightmare ride.

Perhaps another time.

Trees after trees after trees. The odd rock. Sometimes, an irregularity in the landscape forces us to ride to a side where our quarry climbed. They are close now, I can feel it in my essence. When the sensation turns to a dull warning, I raise a fist and we stop, heeding the warnings of my intuition.

Melusine and I dismount without a word and drift through the landscape as silently as shadows. Our feet touch the ground without leaving tracks and no cliff can slow us down for more than a few instants.

For a while now, we have approached a small mound and I can finally smell it on the wind.

Werewolves.

A pungent odor of dog, wet fur and human musk, as heady as it is unpleasant. Beyond the mere unpleasantness of it, their stench wakes in me the desire to find them and purge them, for we occupy the same niche, that of the apex predator. I spot Melusine frown with disapproval. She feels it too.

Quietly, I make a circling gesture and we sprint perpendicular to the origin of the smell until we are downwind. An unpleasant necessity as we, too, have a scent. The landscape before us climbs to a ridge behind which our prey surely is. I find a flat rock some distance away that overlooks the field beyond and guide Melusine there. I climb first and use the promontory to survey the scene lying before me.

Then I fall back, speechless. I almost bump into my companion who was on her way to join me.

“What is wrong?” she softly hisses.

“You know that feeling when the Order came at us in Triste Chasse? That realization that you are facing a threat you had not quite expected?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, there were hundreds of them.”

I silently point forward and Melusine lifts her head to get a good look.

“What the fuck?”

Indeed.

91. Horde

The werewolves have made camp in a basin nestled between the mound to our north and the ridge we stand on. The small depression hides the camp from sight, if not from smell, and bitter wind disperses the upward clouds of smoke of the campfires before they become visible.

What shocks me is not the size of the camp, fully capable of hosting a good two hundred men. No. What shocks me is the incredible level of organization displayed here. This is not a refugee camp or even a caravan bivouac.

We are spying on a military installation.

Most of the camp is made of large tents, not set in rows but evenly spaced across a good half of the basin. The materials used are heavy furs and tanned hides sewn together, and a sentinel stands before each entrance with their arms crossed.

I do not see any cannons or armory, nor any smithy, which does not surprise me much. I have noticed that entities who possess an overwhelming physique often underestimate the usefulness of firearms. Or perhaps, they simply lack the means or training.

Small comfort.

The missing structures have been replaced by cages. Rows and rows of densely packed prisons filled to the brim with the huddled forms of transformed werewolves. Their listless bodies form an incredible tapestry of colored fur behind a foreground of grey metal, a quiescent organism made of hundreds of temporarily inhibited monsters. When that slavering mass is unleashed, nothing will remain in its wake.

Walking at the edge of this massive jail, a man patrols, a great horn of some bony material hanging around his chest. The artefact’s power echoes slowly across the mass of prisoners with some unknown effects. With his heavy mantle made of fur poorly sewn together, he looks like some shaman from the dawn of time.

Finally, a command tent sits at the end of the camp opposite the cages, and in front of it stands the tallest werewolf I have ever seen. The creature easily tops nine feet and its muscular body is covered in thick dark hair now slowly drifting in the wind.

“Are those ferals?” Melusine whispers as she points at the cages.

“I believe so,” I reply.

Some werewolves lose themselves completely to the curse and never transform back. My companion and I share a moment of unease. Turning rogue will forever be a threat hanging over our heads, and the sight of those lost souls only reminds us of the possibility of our own demise, not to external forces but to the darker part of our nature.

“There must be at least two hundred of them.”

“Agreed. Let us fall back for now.”

We return to the Nightmares, taking extra care not to leave any trace nor to be spotted. The ride back to Frost’s camp is morose, and for good reasons.

We cannot stand against those numbers.

I am confident that I can take on a dozen werewolf and come out unscathed, but the more enemies there are and the more likely it is that a single mistake will spell my doom. A single jaw firmly clamped on my arm means a dozen more all over my body by the time I can free myself. It means being trapped, overwhelmed, and dismembered. It will take more than five vampires to stand against such strengths, especially considering that two of us are Courtiers. It will take a large force and a careful plan.

It will also require a high degree of cooperation between Mornay’s group and ours, a dubious proposal at best. Less than forty-eight hours into this operation and the situation is already desperate.

“Hundreds, you say?” Mornay asks with a sneer as he reclines in his comfortable chair. We stand in an office that would look respectable if it did not still stink of fresh paint. Blake and the unnamed spawn stand at either side of him across the massive baroque desk while I am flanked by Melusine and Melitone.

The prick did not even offer us a seat.

“I would never lie on such a serious matter,” I retort with more bite than I meant.

“Lie? No. But hundreds of werewolves? From creatures that have never banded in groups larger than three until very recently? Allons donc. And besides, did your bloodline not show issues with, let us say, clarity?” he asks in a seemingly innocent tone.

I flex and unflex my hands, claws hidden from their sight. I know Melusine enough to realize she is livid though she masks it well. By questioning my sanity, he is also insulting her, whose testimony backs my own.

If we were not trying to work together, I would demand satisfaction right now. Unfortunately, there is no time for him to recover from the lesson I would impart. Nor do I really need to.

This man is dead.

I let the silence draw on, none of us moving in the slightest. Instead, I progressively release the hold I keep on my aura. So far, I had let Mornay’s presence dominate the room as a courtesy, even if he was still flirting with the limits of what is politely acceptable. Now, my own power radiates outward with increasing pressure. The change is not fast enough to qualify as an outburst but still quick enough for the atmosphere to change, and the unspoken threat to be stated.

“Perhaps you would care to see for yourself?” I ask after his grin has fallen a bit.

“And follow you alone into the wilderness? I think not,” he retorts.

Can I just KILL HIM. DISRESPECTFUL WEAKLING.

“Are you refusing the Speaker’s aid, Mornay?” Melitone asks coldly. She, too, has a low tolerance for stupidity.

“Of course not. You can assist if you wish. Now that our prey has been revealed, I shall face those pests and bring a swift end to the current troubles.”

“And how do you propose to do that?” Melitone retorts sweetly.

“Why, I shall run them down like the parasites they are of course. A handful or a dozen it matters not, they will fall before me. If the Devourer spawn is too… wary, she may watch from afar how extermination missions are conducted.”

He slams his fist on the desk in what I imagine is an attempt at appearing decisive, but in reality, looks more like the tantrum of an unruly child.

I suppose I have grown too used to competence in the past few weeks. Mornay merely reminded me of the vicissitudes of this world, where us rational beings must every day contend with the malicious and the dimwitted.

“Very well,” I reply, “we will join you when you make your move.”

I conclude the meeting there, leaving immediately with my two companions in tow. Mornay’s parting words are interrupted by a slammed door and we promptly leave his estate and its intimidated staff. As soon as we turn on the next street, both of them start at the same time.

“That asshole…” Melitone begins while shaking her brown locks.

“I commend you for your control…” Melusine hisses, showing a bit of fang.

I raise a hand to stave off their outburst.

“Not now. We need to get back to the inn first.”

The trip is considerably faster than normal and I realize that I should have let them vent their frustration. As soon as we arrive, Melitone drags Frost into the conversation with the crafty old man only too eager to listen to everyone’s complaints.

“Mornay is a windbag and a moron. His sire should have stabbed himself in the heart on the day he chose that brainless twit to join the ranks of the undying!” she spits.

“In a way, I am pleased to see that politically motivated incompetence is not the prerogative of my bloodline,” Melusine adds.

And so on and so forth.

After vociferating for a few minutes and letting Frost needle their aggression, they finally realize that I have remained silent.

“Are you not irate, Ariane?” Melusine asks, “he disrespected you on purpose, and quite cruelly at that.”

I am indeed calm, because I know for certain that my vengeance is already assured.

I turn to the Servant among us.

“Melitone, how likely is my victory should the entire den fall?” I ask.

She winces in return and I have my answer before she can even reply.

“Well, if they all die and any of Lozaro’s charges survive…”

“… then we lose,” I finish.

Melitone only nods dejectedly as Frost decides to contribute.

“Not to mention that you will receive some unwanted attention from that clan those idiots belong to. If they perish and you don’t, they will demand an inquiry.”

“So, we need at least some of them to survive. Do you think we can win?” Melusine asks.

“Win?” I ask with disbelief, “that would depend on your definition of winning.”

That gets their attention, and so I explain.

“We cannot possibly stop that horde if they all attack at once. Which they will.”

“How about those reinforcements?” Melitone asks

“There are hundreds of werewolves. I am not even confident we could stop them in Marquette, even if I gave silver bullets to every militiamen and women. Not without devastating casualties.”

“Then what?”

I pause at that. Melitone remains an outsider, and I must not forget it. She is on my side in everything but what truly matters: formal allegiance. I cannot reveal the darker parts of my plan in her presence lest she reports it to her sibling, while at the same time I need to show enough that she does not suspect too much of a hidden agenda.

“We will use the river…” I begin. The others join and soon add their expertise and minds to my own until finally, we have a workable plan.

I find it remarkable that no matter if by ten miles or a thousand, being away from civilization and its lights always gives the illusion of infinity to the nocturnal landscape. Intellectually, I know that the dark frozen trunks and untouched snow do not go on forever, that a river flows at my back and that beyond it lies tamed land. It matters not. Here and now, we might as well be in the northern reaches of the world, where they say the night lasts for months.

Mornay paces nervously in front of our small group. He wears a genuine plate armor of a strange make, a sign that he is at least taking this seriously. From time to time, he furtively takes a glance at my unmoving form.

I repaired Melusine’s attire as best as I could with the limited time I had and the tools I brought with me. Thankfully, vampire dexterity and speed can work wonders, especially backed by a bit of Cadiz essence for continued focus. She now looks half-decent as her asymmetrical armor gives her a rebellious look, that of a pirate or highwaywoman.

I will admit that it looks good on her.

I also made sure she had proper greaves and gauntlets equipped. From experience, I can tell that werewolves will go for extremities on a moving target, so that they can bring it down. The additional protection should grant her a few more moments to break free before freakish jaws close in too deep and seal her fate.

All in all, she looks like a fighter, if a scrappy one.

I, on the other hand, look like a Master. Loth’s armor shimmers in the fleeting light of the torches held by Mornay’s men, its exquisite details obvious to my peers. I also wear my half-mask and carry with me an assortment of weapons including Sivaya’s spear and my own wolf-slayer.

John’s version of the massive arbalest is designed for absurdly strong mortals. Mine is designed for absurdly strong vampires. It has the same draw strength with a major difference: my slayer is a repeater. The bolts are stored in a long magazine stored on top of the central axis. A crank with pulleys allows me to wind back the wire-like string without having to lower the weapon. It looks exactly like what it is, a siege weapon that should be operated by a crew and fired from crenellation at approaching shield walls.

On top of that, I have a pair of one-second-fuse powder charges secured at my back, the ultimate way to clear a path.

This is the werewolf hunt equivalent of being overdressed.

I love it.

With our tightly braided hair and matching blades, Melusine and I are the cold professionals to Mornay’s mismatched group of dilettantes. Blake doesn’t even wear proper armor.

I hope she does not get caught too early.

Eventually, Mornay’s pacings fail to assuage his worry and he turns to one of the four mortals carrying torches who had the misfortune of accompanying us.

“What’s taking them so long?” he demands.

The mortal obviously shrinks before his employer’s attention. What a stupid question to ask. How could the mortal know? A leader should never reveal their fear.

Mornay’s master plan was to provoke the wolves into attacking him. We managed to find a roving patrol and he slew both untransformed wolves, one of them a woman, only to have one of his men drop the pair of severed heads at the camp’s entrance with a formal challenge.

I almost insulted him here and now for his dismal stupidity. It takes a considerable amount of willpower to remind myself that I should not waste my breath on a dead man. The mortals will be intercepted. The werewolves will smell and notice the severed heads. They will exact vengeance. Then, when they are ready, they will find us. Such an insult cannot remain unanswered.

In any case, the messengers are lost and so are the mortals present here. Simply because Mornay did not believe us and felt the need to double down like the arrogant fool he is.

As we wait for the inevitable tide, I reflect on his behavior. He does not believe that werewolves can assemble in large numbers because it never happened before. This is the sort of mistake I have also committed. I realize that until recently, I no longer believed that mages could take me down. Then Alexandria happened. Without David King, I would have died that day.

We vampires are all guilty of the sin of pride. If mages have failed twenty times to end my life, the twenty-first attempt might be the one to succeed. They have all of eternity to try and they only need to win once.

I must walk the edge between death and insanity, taking them seriously while still giving them a chance to survive a proper Hunt.

It does not take a genius in arithmetic to realize that no matter how small the odds, with an infinite amount of chances, success is assured.

At some point, I will die.

…And here I am brooding again. I blink myself awake as a noticeable shift triggers my intuition. While before the world was uncaring, there is now a sense of anticipation on the wind. No, a sense of longing. An eagerness.

I calmly load the crossbow, drawing a furious stare from Mornay and resisting the temptation to kill him right now and run while I can.

Ariane, queen of mature self-control.

I take a step forward.

It happens quickly.

No time for speeches. One moment, silence reigns. The next, snarls and grunts and pounded snow herald the coming of a pack and the very next instant, the bipedal hybrids of wolf and man storm the clearing.

I unleash the first bolt on the leading beast as the tide of fangs and furs rushes us in tight ranks. They are so close and so similar that I feel that I am not facing a group but a single misbegotten entity with more limbs than a centipede. Even their aura is but one wave of feral rage. It crashes against our own with blind obstinacy.

Then there is no more time to think.

I manage to shoot twice more, taking heads each time and slowing the mass of bodies as the bolts pierce through the following member, then I take my spear and stick it in the first wolf jumping on us, using the momentum to throw its massive body into one of its neighbors. I repeat the gesture again and again with mechanical precision, breaking the tide like a rock at the head of the formation.

Behind me, the vampires instinctively gather in a wedge, supporting each other. Melusine’s spells crash into the densely packed bodies in great fiery explosions, to my surprise. I did not know she could call fire.

Both Courtiers are pushed to our back so that we make a defensive circle while the torch carriers are swept away with brief cries of terror and pain. We fight back to back, lunging for devastating strikes before pulling back to the cover provided by our allies. Blake and the Spawn sometimes falter but the trio of masters is more than enough to stem the tide and to compensate for momentary weaknesses. Savagery is answered by stern discipline and recklessness by surgical precision. Each of our blows either kills or maims beyond recovery. Every swipe throws one body into two more to hamper five. No matter how strong they are, we are deadly fighters with centuries of combined battle experience.

And still, we bleed.

The pack fights as one despite their apparent mindlessness. They blindside, feint, and distract with an ease that can only be born from instinct. They follow each other tightly so that one jumps over the other when the first one commits. They attack from multiple sides when they can and will always try for the weakest link or the overextended fighter.

I am fine. I sometimes let glancing blows rake my armor without much effect when I want to use the momentum to strike elsewhere. Melusine manages to avoid most hits though she gets a cut on her temple, and thick dark blood now drips down her cheek.

The Courtiers are not doing so well. They are already covered in wounds. Blake’s left arm hangs limply by her side. Both Melusine and Mornay are forced to compensate and in turn, so am I.

As I kick a corpse into the side of a roving pair, it happens.

Vibration shakes the air, the powdery snow, and my very body. It comes with a low-pitched sound like a horn of impossible size. The intermingled auras of our quarry undergo a drastic change under the sonorous blast: from aggressive and unhinged, they turn dark and patient. The surviving werewolves bound away in every direction as they leave their fallen comrades behind.

We are left alone on the field, with corpses spread at our feet. Blood and other bodily fluids turn the pristine meadow into a grisly battlefield.

Silence descends upon us. As quickly as it came, the battle is finished, and yet even the bombastic Mornay does not declare victory. A blind man would know that this retreat is temporary.

This was a scouting party. They found us, and now the rest will come.

My intuition tells me that the situation has not reverted back to normal. If anything, the anticipation in the air is even thicker than before.

The horn blasts once more, again seemingly coming from nowhere and anywhere at once.

And again, a second time.

Beneath our feet the ground trembles like a drum beaten in a low roll. Beyond the densely packed trees, something moves.

I lightly jump to a nearby branch and grab it to get a better view. Far in front of us, two small ridges form a natural barrier and in the small gap between them, I see quivering movement. This is the only warning I get before the horde crests over both ridges and punches through the gap at the same time.

For an instant I am staring at the dark canvas of space dotted by a galaxy of twinkling stars before the illusion shatters, and the light is revealed to be nothing more than the moon reflected on hundreds of lupine eyes, all made frantic by bloodlust and the thrill of the hunt. A veritable tidal wave of creatures charges us in ranks so dense that their numbers obscure the ground. The drums we heard are their paws trampling the earth and the cacophony of snarls and growls heralds the violence to come.

I drop down and turn to Mornay. He is indecisive, paralyzed by inaction.

I take one last good look at him and the incredulous fear he displays, then it is too late. The edge of the horde is upon us.

I do not hesitate. I pull the first powder charge and throw it forward and to my side as the first wolves weave through the trees, then I pick the wolf slayer and catch a few of the creatures in the mouth, just to topple them and slow the charge.

The first wolves reach us on Mornay’s side.

He turns around to cover his spawn.

The first charge explodes. I step back and grab one of Blake’s arms as Melusine picks another. The Courtier yelps in pain.

Mornay realizes his flank is uncovered. He turns on himself and deflects a strike but ten more wait behind.

Our eyes meet one last time as his companion falls under the combined weight of a dozen creatures.

“YOU BI—“

And then, the massive werewolf I had spotted in the camp surges and clips him in the flank before merging back into the mass of bodies. A wall of claws and teeth overwhelm the vampire’s defenses in moments, his speed unequal to the task of stopping such numbers. He disappears under the melee with one last shriek, cut short as something finds his throat.

Melusine and I dash away as I use the last charge to blast the land behind us. The wolves are fast but not as fast as us, or rather, they would not be if we did not have to worry about our charge.

“I got her,” Melusine says in a clipped tone. I let her grab the girl in a fireman carry and she picks up speed.

Blake does not resist. Her frantic eyes look behind us at the horde on our heels. One misstep and we die.

I nod at the redhead.

This is it. Now comes the next part of the plan, the difficult one.

I will have to admit, I do not recall having this much fun without Torran for a long time. The tension, the price should I fail.

Exhilarating.

I rotate to the right as Melusine accelerates to the left. I take out my pistols and fire into the coming crowd, aiming for eyes. My first shot kills a creature but the second bounces against the orbit of a massive fighter. This one is so tough and muscular that even a silver bullet fails to achieve more than a light wound.

It matters not.

I am only doing this for the noise. It works as intended, with most of the horde hot on my heels. Most, but not all.

I jump forward, landing on a low branch two dozen yards away from the lead creature. The tip of the pack slows, all eyes fixed on me with a hungry stare.

YOU THINK YOURSELF STRONG. YOU HAVE THE NUMBERS.

I HAVE EVERYTHING ELSE.

INCLUDING PATIENCE.

HEAR IT.

FEEL IT.

KNOW IT.

I roar. In my cry, I pour all the fury and disdain I can muster in a challenge that cannot be ignored, and the horde answers. Larger specimens like the one who survived the shot echo with deep howls, lower-pitched and more tremulous than anything a real wolf could produce, then hundreds of monstrous throats pick up the yowl in a deafening warcry.

In their excitement, even the farthest creature returns to the fold so that they may hunt down the one who dared provoke them.

I cannot help it. I laugh and laugh as I move through the forest with unmatched agility. I have been running through the woods since I stopped being a fledgling two decades ago, just for the unique pleasure it provides. I know forests. We are in my domain now and we shall run indeed.

And so, we do.

For a minute, then two, then five, I sprint between trees and rocks and branches. I ascend vertical cliffs as if they were flat and cross frozen ponds as if they were grass, while my pursuers scramble and slip in their mad dash. When the horde breaks up, I pick isolated targets and skewer them, licking the blood from my spear as they fall. And always, I laugh.

This is a perfect moment. This is why we live, not just for power and influence and all those… human things, but also for this primal instant when instinct and conscience will cease to struggle for control. One mind, undivided in perfection. The wind on my face and the ground beneath my soles. The horde at my back, as unstoppable as winter but always one step behind, always a bit too late because they are flawed and weak.

They were not made by a curious god to prey on the world, nor chosen by an ancient monster as a potential heir. They are but cursed men and women thrown at us by a fool who overreached, drunk on his provincial success. They are behind and there they will stay forever because they are not the apex predator.

They are not...

ME.

And so, jaws clamp on empty air, claws flail and slip and muscular bodies fall to the ground in uncoordinated heaps.

And they know it.

After an indeterminate amount of time, the horn sounds once more and the pack slows down as we reach a clearing. I wait in the middle, fully exposed as the werewolves stop by the edge of the wood. Every bush, every tree conceals muscles like corded steel and yet, they do not move on. The imperious call of the horn proves too much.

Time stops.

For an instant, a gap in the landscape gives me a clear view of a scene a hundred yards beyond the impassable line of monsters. The black wolf who disabled Mornay stands next to a man clad in thick pelts holding a large horn made of bone, the very same who was guarding the ferals.

They stare, and so do I.

The man is the only one in human form and yet I know that he is a werewolf. There is something in his stance and in the way his iris reflects the light that leaves no doubt in my mind.

Then the moment passes, just as the wolves slowly start to withdraw. The horde disintegrates into shuffling clumps from the previously unified pack, still dangerous but nothing like they were before.

I wait until the last straggler disappears in the shadows of the trees.

It is done.

I take a few moments to center myself and to focus on the quickly fading impressions that course through me. This was great and I need to remember. I need to cherish this moment.

I only hope the rest of the plan went without a hitch.

It takes me several more minutes to find the river. I even had to find a tall tree to spot the hole in the forest. For once, the Detroit river’s languid flow does me a disservice as its quiet nature leaves little way for me to hear it. Eventually I find the shore and manage to orient myself, quickly running to one of the two hidden piers prepared for the occasion. I take the arranged rowboat and make my way across, cursing against the occasional slab of drifting ice. It takes me another five minutes before I arrive at Frost’s camp.

If I did not know it was there, I would have missed it. A large circle of basic runes hides it from aura perception and smell while the location naturally blocks sight and sound. As soon as I enter the perimeter, Frost stands up from his position near a central fire. Blake follows suit, looking dazed.

“Good you’re here. Is Melusine not with you?” the old man asks.

I stop in my tracks.

“What do you mean not with me? We split up so that she could evacuate Blake. They were supposed to cross the river together.”

“A small group of wolves followed us,” the Courtier answers in a hesitant voice, “she stayed at the pier to stave them off.”

“I thought I attracted all of them” I hiss, “well, I am going back.”

I turn around to the small pier under the mages’ incredulous stares.

“Careful Ariane, those who came after us were not ferals,” Blake warns.

It matters not.

I sit in the rower seat only for Frost to lower himself in front of me. He removes a strange contraption from his pocket, something between a dreamcatcher and a compass. The artefact tastes like tracking and searching, not in my way, but in a more methodical and rational mindset. A bit like a Rosenthal hunt.

“Well, what are we waiting for?” Frost asks.

I frown, yet also start rowing.

“I am surprised by the intensity of your reaction, Ariane. I did not expect Melusine and you to be… close.”

“You should already know that I do not simply discard an ally in need.”

“And what about Mornay? And Reynald? They were not allies in need then?”

“There was nothing I could do,” I reply with a shrug. I did not even know that the spawn’s name was Reynald.

Frost nods, pretending to be thoughtful. Then, after ten more seconds he continues.

“It is fortunate that Blake made it.”

“When pursuing a line of questioning, you should be wary of what you may find at its end,” I interrupt.

Frost raises his hands in mock surrender, but I give him no recognition. He is too eager to poke and prod for no discernible gain. I am amazed that he still lives.

“Naturally.”

The following minute is spent in silence as I focus on dodging the ubiquitous pocket icebergs and Frost tinkers with his bauble. I realize that the cold is absolutely biting, yet my companion seems unbothered. If anything, the frigid wind pools around him.

I almost crash into the pier because of my speed and lack of attention. I climb down and inspect my surroundings.

The forest around us is quiet, though the scent of werewolf blood is still strong. I notice that there are no corpses despite a suspiciously large pool, which means that our foes picked them up before leaving. The pier itself is mostly untouched but here and there, branches and trunks have been marked with the telltale signs of claws and pyrotechnics. The devastation follows the shore downstream.

I follow the trail in silence with Frost on my tail. The land is empty of life and there are no auras besides our own. No signs of Melusine, so far.

As I walk, I realize that my erstwhile bitter enemy took a significant risk by acting as bait, and I am reminded of the one prophecy I had in my life so far. The one about forgiveness. I am ashamed to admit that I have, in fact, forgiven her. We have both grown quite a bit since New-Orleans and she has been instrumental in the success of tonight’s operation.

I really hope she made it.

Fifty yards down, the traces of conflict abruptly stop.

“Do you think she went into hiding?” Frost asks.

“No, she would have had to kill the entire group for that and no werewolf died here. There would be tracks of a massive body on the ground.”

I check around but see no signs of ash, which is a good start

“Where is she then?”

I look at the river.

“She probably followed the flow as a backup plan. Werewolves are too heavy. They sink, and they are sensitive to cold. Vampires do not need to breathe, and we do not fear low temperatures.”

“She jumped in?”

“I do not think so,” I reply as I find a particularly deep set of tracks, “I believe she was thrown. She could be too exhausted or wounded to save herself, even if she survived.”

I decide to continue heading downstream. I have no idea how far she could have been carried, if she was. I start scrutinizing the waters for any sign of an anomaly. I even sniff the air and pick up a queer scent.

“There is a werewolf farther along the path,” I inform Frost who is still tuning the artefact. When he hears my warning, he removes his hand from his pocket.

Frost’s gauntlet is as white as its namesake. A single ruby is inserted halfway on the back, between his knuckles and his wrists. It glows ominously.

We continue carefully but soon realize we need not have bothered. The scent comes from a prone form at the edge of the shore. Smoke wafts from the pale naked body of a young adult, a proof of the werewolf’s impossible metabolism. He is breathing fast and shivering while his aura flickers weakly.

“Do we finish him off? He will be too weak to talk, at least for a while.” Frost asks.

I do not know how he can be so sure, but I trust him.

“No. I have another use for him,” I say, looking out again.

“You want to jump in?”

“Yes. If Melusine fell in she would be around here if my assumption is correct.”

“Then take it,” he replies as he hands me his compass, “this is the tool I used to track the werewolves. I recalibrated it to find vampires instead.”

“Will it work underwater?”

“Yes, and if your ally is unconscious, she will not try to restrain her aura.”

I nod, and jump.

Even if I expected the cold, I am still disoriented by the sensory overload that comes with it. I take a moment to recover and look around.

Seaweed. Rocks. Debris. The odd fish. No sarcastic Lancaster.

No, focus Ariane, you have a tool, use it.

I take out the compass and realize that the thin blue needle is pointing at the nearest vampire.

So, me.

I curse but realize that Frost cannot be this stupid. Below the needle, I find a single gem that I can press. I do so now and note that the next target is behind me, upstream.

I quickly swim and find Melusine’s body near the bottom, huddled against a large rock. A thin trail of black blood emerges from the back of her head where her skull was crushed. So that is why she is here. She must have landed headfirst into a block of ice and sunk, while the werewolf struggled to float and only managed to climb back to the shore a bit farther away.

It is a simple matter to drag her back and I soon emerge from the depths a few feet away from a bemused Frost.

“An impressive show with that armor of yours,” he comments, “too bad about the seaweed in your hair.”

I sigh and remove the guilty piece of vegetation, but I cannot muster any form of annoyance. I am relieved that Melusine survived.

I would have missed her.

“How is she?” he asks.

“As long as she is not ash, she will be back to her posh and caustic self within the next hour.”

“Convenient.”

Frost discarded his coat to cover the shivering body of our prisoner. I grab underneath for an arm, and at the moment I succeed, the young man’s eyes flash open.

They are a warm brown with flecks of green in it. Rather pretty.

He sniffs the air, surprised.

“You smell weird…” he comments, frowning. Then he yelps when I bite his wrist.

What is it with people taking such liberties to comment about my hygiene and appearance, huh? Go waddle in the muck and you will smell strange too. Bah!

With the wolf’s expression slackening, I bring his bleeding appendage to Melusine’s lips and let the carmine liquid trickle down. The redhead shifts and soon, ravenously latches on the wound. She stops as soon as she regains consciousness.

Slowly, she opens her jaws and releases her still breathing captive.

“Melusine,” I begin as a greeting.

“You saved me, again, like last time.”

“You are not going to battle again without some sort of helmet.”

“Agreed,” she concedes with a bitter chuckle.

Melusine does not stand up. A bad sign. We normally dislike being in a position of vulnerability. And although I appreciate the trust she shows, it also indicates that the ordeal has taken a toll on her.

“When I saw you above me it reminded me of last time. It scared me. I feared to turn around lest I see him again. My Arthur.”

“I am sorry, Melusine.”

“Oh, don’t be. By the Eye, this is ridiculous. I really thought I was done for this time. I remember every detail of my fall into the water. The branches overhead. The wind. The claws against my armor. I even remember useless details, like how the beast stank of rank sweat.”

“That’s rich, coming from a ginger.”

Melusine pauses and I witness with some pleasure her face turn from mewling to its usual haughty self.

“Ariane, you are such a bitch.”

We both snort at the same time and this time, she is smiling.

“Thank you,” she says.

“Ladies, if you don’t mind doing this later?” Frost comments.

He is right. We are in hostile territory. I almost forgot about that.

“You really could not save them?” Melitone asks firmly with just a hint of suspicion. Around us, the mages are packing their belongings in preparation for our retreat back to the city.

“But you could save Blake?” she continues after a pause, looking at the woman sitting near the fire.

I carefully maintain a neutral expression, mirrored by Melusine.

“Blake was already wounded, and she is but a young Courtier. Wrestling a reluctant master would have been a different proposal altogether. As for his spawn, he was the first to fall.”

Melitone considers my words with clear unease. My testimony is perfectly believable, but the death of Mornay is simply too convenient.

Almost as if I had planned from the beginning to let him die with his spawn so that the leadership of the den falls on Blake, who would be much more, shall we say, malleable, than her predecessor.

“Melitone, I told you that this attack was suicide. I saved whomever I could despite the odds. We were facing a veritable wall of cursed flesh, fangs and claws out there. I give you my word on this: once they were upon us, there was nothing I could do. You can ask Blake if you do not believe me,” I continue.

Technically, I could have tried to convince him to leave or dragged him away and hoped he would follow, thus promoting the interests of the Speaker of the Accords and clan Roland.

I did not.

Lord Ceron proved beyond the shadow of a doubt that ours is a merciless world where self-interest rules. I am no fanatic in the service of Constantine, nor am I some sort of benevolent savior to risk my life for others of my kind. I am here to protect my own interests and those of my friends, and Mornay resolutely placed himself in the list of disposable assets. He was not my ally and I did not have an agreement with him. Indeed, my agreement was, and still is, with Constantine himself.

Also, Mornay was a prick.

And so, for convenience and for insulting me, he had to die.

Now, with the leadership firmly in my hands, we can finally work on a proper plan.

Melitone nods, admitting that my explanations make perfect sense, and here lies one of the most valuable lessons of the night.

I swore that I could not help the deceased as the tide overran our position, and I told the truth. That does not mean that I could not have intervened before.

Vampires seldom ever break their oaths as the price is too high. Similarly, if I swore I believe something is true then unless I twist in pain on the ground as the words leave my mouth, I did not lie. The abyss between the absence of falsehoods and a faithful rendition of reality is so vast that I understand why we are loath to bind our foes and allies in complex contracts. The more we abuse it, and the more the victim will struggle for a way to wiggle out of their bounds like the proverbial genie.

And so, I am left in charge after letting nature follow its course.

“Blake, you must return to Detroit and evacuate your people.”

“What?”

“Like it or not, you are now the de facto leader of the local den. The werewolves may come to town tomorrow as we slumber and our meager defenses will not stop them, even if they keep to their human forms. We must leave and retreat to a fallback position. I have reinforcements waiting outside of town. Their camp will do.”

“Hmm. Right.”

“Then what?” Melitone asks, looking a bit lost.

“Then the boy and I will have a conversation,” I announce as I kick the prisoner by our feet, “and once we are done, we will finally understand the true nature of what we are facing.”

92. Call of Blood and Bone

“Oh, Adeline, since I met you on that fateful night and rescued you from Alonzo’s men, my world has changed beyond recognition. I thought I knew my place at court and the course of my life until the day I die. How wrong I was! ‘Twas but a lie! A gilded prison that encircled my soul in its invisible embrace and condemned it to an existence without happiness. You opened my eyes, dear Adeline! You freed me from the grey fog of apathy with the sun of your spirit! At the very sight of you, my heart expands and fills with passion…”

His heart, eh? Right.

“My handsome Alphonso, I know not what to say. I am but a lowly servant who…”

I am interrupted by a knock. Sighing, I mark the page and close my book, then slowly open the sarcophagus.

Blessed darkness.

And an impatient redhead.

“Why are you still hunkering? We have much to do.”

“And the first order of business is to interrogate the werewolf, which I will certainly not do while the sun is still up,” I retort.

That is why I stayed inside, and absolutely not because only a thick layer of cloth separates me from the vengeful radiance of the sun. I am not terrified that some birdbrain could have left the opening flap unsealed, thus condemning me to a fiery death as soon as I open the sarcophagus. Not at all.

Melusine lifts an imperious brow.

“You do not want to read the reports made by our men? They are on the table.”

My indomitable will allows me to hoist myself up without grumbling. Everything is harder during the day, and Torran was right: it does not get better. The only option is to endure and compensate.

I take a seat in front of the table and take a comb to brush my hair. I was able to take a quick bath yesterday, fortunately, otherwise, I would still be smelling like rank water and Melusine. The horror.

I am getting a bit peckish as well.

Frowning, I read the documents in front of me and remind myself that I should value the mages for their, well, mage skills. Not their spelling. It appears that a group of werewolves in human form infiltrated Detroit during the day and attempted to sniff out the vampire dens. Literally. They did break into Mornay’s office, but we had thankfully managed to clear out the place in time and they must have failed to find anything useful. Most of the Roland assets are still safe in various warehouses and caches, while the houses of loyal families were left untouched.

The scout responsible for the report left town in the early afternoon, implying that the situation may have evolved. For obvious reasons, none of the mages approached the werewolf encampment.

“A whole lot of nothing,” I comment.

“I have high hopes for our captive,” Melusine replies, “and if he does not know enough, we can always capture more.”

“Indeed.”

We are lucky in the sense that our ability to Charm, especially compounded with our bite, makes keeping information from us an impossibility. Even the sturdiest of mages with special mental training would eventually fall under our ministrations. We do not even have to rely on that barbaric and inefficient method that is torture.

Unless the target is one of our own, of course.

I discreetly pull on my fingers.

“By the way, I noticed something about the group that attacked me,” Melusine idly notes.

“Do tell?”

“Their auras were unified as if they were a single entity. A most curious phenomenon. They numbered five and covered each other as much as they could. The boy, for example, started his suicide attack to protect another werewolf. A female.”

“A female?” I ask in surprise, “how do you know?”

Melusine takes a stricken expression.

“You do realize that the creatures are in the state of nature, and though their nether regions are atrophied, they are still present. Right?”

“And you took the time to inspect their genitals? In the middle of combat?” I ask with disbelief.

“Look, perhaps your vision is only restricted to fangs and claws, but we Lancasters are trained to notice every detail so that we may capitalize on weaknesses!” she hisses back with annoyance.

“Uhu. Well, your contribution is appreciated, as we know for sure that they care about each other. Our prisoner has something to lose.”

“Yes. I killed the other three so that only leaves the woman. Perhaps his lover?”

“We shall see.”

We wait another hour for the sun to set, our conversation turning to her training during her Lancaster days and my own experience after escaping. This bonding moment surprises me as much as her lack of judgement concerning my performance. She is particularly amused by my tale of Bingle’s shenanigans, but her expression turns morose when I mention Dalton and his tragic end. When the night has fully fallen, we finally leave the tent.

The Marquette detachment managed to locate a deserted estate and settle there without trouble from the locals. Unfortunately, the main house and adjacent warehouse are both too damaged to provide adequate shelter for our delicate skins, and so we were reduced to using a heavy tent. The soldiers have no such qualms and between this and pavilions, our base has turned into a respectable military camp.

The mood remains pleasant despite the knowledge of what we face. It is true. Humans can get used to anything.

I turn back to see the tent we came out of. From the outside, it looks like any other, though a more careful inspection will reveal that the fabric is significantly thicker. We are still vulnerable to foes shooting in, thus opening gaps in the uniform cover for the light of the sun to filter in. This will not do.

I have decided that as soon as this whole business is over, I will certainly acquire one of those armored carriages. They are too convenient to pass up. I will also install a swivel gun at the top that can be fired from the inside. Oh! And load it with canister shots.

“Ariane, the prisoner is over there.”

“Ah! Yes, ahem. I was lost in thought. Let us go then.”

We walk confidently across the encampment while mages and soldiers stop what they were doing to watch us pass through under the glow of the odd torch.

“The sun is down, and the pale ones are up,” somebody whispers to our side.

There is no fear in the man’s voice, but instead a sense of anticipation. Of ownership.

I never thought that we could be adopted as if we were pet tigers.

Interesting.

Shaking my head, I follow Melusine to a tent that was set apart. Three men are surrounding it with muskets loaded and pointing in instead of out. I take a key from one of them, then turn to my companion right before lifting the flap.

“It would be preferable if you stayed outside in case the three you killed were his friends. Can you listen in?”

“Most certainly,” Melusine answers with a smirk.

I expected more resistance from her. Curious.

I get in and immediately understand why my ally was so eager to shirk her role.

This young man...

STINKS.

A subtle mélange of wet dog, filthy human and dried swamp scum. Eye-watering in close quarters. I do not remember Alistair, the only other werewolf I ever got close to without killing, being so dreadfully pungent.

Absolute bowfing lad.

The… boy is on the ground. Both of his hands and feet are being held in massive silvery manacles that dwarf his skinny limbs. Someone was kind enough to procure a small cloth, but he is otherwise naked and his muscles are incredibly well-defined. Too well-defined, in fact. We used to see some of that in freshly purchased slaves coming from the worst plantations, back when I was human. They were all wiry strands of meat with no fat.

As I watch, he tilts his head up and the light coming from outside briefly reflects in his eyes before the flap closes and surrounds us in darkness. He blinks, looking lost, and starts sniffing the air. The gesture is still oddly human.

His eyes widen. I am recognized.

“You look hungry,” I comment in a soft voice.

The boy sighs in what I recognize as an attempt to regain self-control. With his body bared, every reaction appears exaggerated from his breath to his shivering.

On a whim, I exit the tent again and signal a soldier to bring me food and ‘a lot of it’. Melusine does not react. Either she approves, or she will not oppose me publicly.

It takes less than a minute for the man to return with a bowl of hearty stew and a large slice of dark bread. I bring them in, once more regretting this odious assault on my nose. I place them on the ground in front of my captive and free him from the manacles.

He takes the bowl with some hesitation, and when no punishment comes, falls on it voraciously.

Quite the spectacle.

With his meal savaged, the boy leans back while I sit on a small stool, the only piece of furniture save for a very small table on which I light a candle. The weak light would barely be enough for a mortal to see the outline of my body, and yet the werewolf immediately inspects me from head to toe. I decide to do the same.

The boy’s traits are still underdeveloped, and the prominent cheekbones give him the appearance of vulnerability. I recognize despair in those green-flecked brown eyes. I have seen the likeness before in those who hold so much grief that the world only appears in shades of grey. Nothing really matters anymore.

This might make things easier, or he will clamp so hard that only a bite and a full-powered Charm will make him talk. In any case, resorting to strength as a means of intimidation makes little sense when the person already expects the worst without much concern.

“Do you know what I am?” I ask.

The boy considers answering me, then shakes his head and looks down.

“No need to act tough, we are having a conversation. This is your chance to ask questions as well,” I continue.

The boy scoffs.

“As if it matters. You’re gonna kill me,” he replies with a young and accented voice. Farm stock, I’d wager.

“You do not know what I am after,” I reply with a smile. Good. He took the bait. I hope he is curious as the younger ones tend to be.

“And what are you after?” he asks, still guarded.

I smile lightly, and tease his curiosity awake with a bit of Charm.

“I freed a werewolf from prison, a man by the name Alistair Locke.”

No hint of recognition. Perhaps Alistair died, after all.

“He told me that your kind had gathered in the north. In packs. He spoke of one called Black Peak.”

Deep Hatred. This is getting interesting.

“I assume they succeeded, and I would like to know how.”

“Why do you care?” he spits, “do you not hunt us like animals?”

Guilty as charged.

“You seem like a bright lad. The situation is a bit more complicated than that, as I am sure you can imagine.”

He frowns but does not object. He must believe my story.

“You said we’re having a conversation, right? So I can ask questions too?”

“Go ahead,” I generously offer.

“Why don’t you smell bad?”

Well, because I take baths, for one.

“I assume you find the smell of other vampires… upsetting?”

“Yeah. Like that redhead. I smelled her and it made me angry.”

It used to be the case for me as well.

“The redhead and I come from different bloodlines. Mine can acquire the ability to alter our smell so that animals no longer fear us. I suppose that it works on your kind as well.”

“What’s a bloodline? You mean, like horses?”

You little shit.

“Like family. We obtain some of the powers of the one who changed us.”

“Right. So. Uh. I gotta ask. You’re not gonna kill me then?” he asks in a mix of hope and disbelief.

“I have no interest in killing you. I do have an interest in stopping the Black Peaks from spreading too much. If I can do it by freeing the clans, all the better.”

I am serious. If I manage to stop the threat by myself, even if it means staying in enclosed space with werewolves for extended periods, I would gladly do so. I will just have to acquire a perfumed handkerchief prior to the negotiations.

“You’re serious?”

“Yes. I am, in fact, serious. You clearly dislike them yet you still risk your life fighting under their banner.”

So to speak. They do not have a banner. They do not even have pants!

“What tells me that you’re not just trying to split us so that you can take us out one by one.”

“Let me be perfectly clear. Do you think the five of us who faced you represent our elite, the fine fleur of our military?”

“Wha’?”

Oops. Forgot who I was talking to.

“Do you think your ferals faced the very best of us?”

“We… did not?”

“Not even close. I will ask you to believe me on this, you have not yet faced our Lords and our knights and it would be wise to solve this before they get involved.”

“But then they could just hunt us down, even if we escape north?”

“Would that not mean traipsing for years through the infinite expanses of the north?”

“Wha’?”

“Killing you off means spending years in the boonies. We have better things to do,” I translate with a bit of annoyance.

“You folks are pretty arrogant, you know that?” the boy observes, not unfairly.

I prefer this glare he gives rather than the utter gloom that preceded it, but he remains my prisoner and we cannot have that.

I grab him by the back of the neck and easily lift him above me, like a puppy. He jerks in surprise and his knee bangs uselessly against my chest plate.

When he stares down, I show him fangs and he stops struggling.

I will admit that I find his ability to understand visual cues refreshing. Some mortals would have kept struggling and spewing nonsense about ‘releasing them’ and ‘monster’ and some such drivel.

“We have cause to be arrogant, don’t you think?” I reply, still smiling. Then, I drop him without waiting for an answer and he falls heavily on the ground.

“Are there really more of you?” the boy asks as he tiredly climbs back to his feet.

“Hundreds, just on this continent.”

He considers my words for a moment.

“I am not sure why, but I believe you. Are you doing something to me?”

“Not yet,” I answer somewhat truthfully. So far, I have only nudged his curiosity so that he does not fall to apathy.

“You could?”

“Yes.”

“And you haven’t?”

I tsk, annoyed.

“I have no need for such artifice when I can have a normal conversation. Now, tell me. How does the Black Peak Clan control the others, including all those ferals.”

“It’s probably the way you smell.”

“Can we PLEASE focus on the problem at hand?”

“But it’s really weird.”

“I am going to bite you, you know?”

“Fine, fine…”

The boy looks to the side and focuses on his memories.

“I’d been with the Deep Lake Pack for two years after that big wolf bit me. Huh, in case you don’t know, werewolves can turn into a real big wolf instead of the monster thing. Depends on how you’re doing when you change. Anyway, been with the pack for a while then this big lug comes and challenges the bossman.”

He swallows with difficulty.

“Our leader was the strongest man I’d ever seen. They fought long and hard but eventually, the big lug won. He didn’t kill the bossman, just said that we’d have to obey them from then on. Then they broke a few legs, killed two men and brought us back to that huge camp of them out in the middle of nowhere.”

Is this it? I expected something more dramatic.

And I talked too soon. Only now does the boy’s eyes turn clouded.

“They split us, except us five because we were so close. Anyone who showed a smidgen of rebellion they would break until he died or turned feral. They took the women too. They made Lilly turn feral. She was only fifteen.”

The weight of those memories bends the boy’s back.

“You probably think we’re weaklings but you don’t get it. You can’t. We follow the strong or we’re isolated and when we get isolated, we can’t control the curse anymore. And there are many of them who just joined with the Black Peaks because it’s better to be on the winning side, right? And every time we started to resist, they would bring one of the skalds.”

“Skalds?”

“It’s an old word for bard or something, ‘xcept this bard just plays a big bone horn that, huh, not sure how to describe it.”

He stares into the flickering light of the candle, gritting his teeth all the while.

“It’s like all your emotions get leveled. You get that anger in your belly, right? Because they starve us and they do horrible things to us, and we want to get out and be free. And then it sort of picks up, yeah? But then the skald comes and plays and the sound, it goes through your body and soul. Not the ear. It gets into you and then you lose the emotions. It… it drains you. Like you’re a bottle and someone smashes the bottom. And all the juice gets out and you’re just… empty for a while. It’s just as horrible as before but you can’t bring yourself to care.”

Only after finishing does he look up to me and realize that I had been listening. I can imagine his pain.

“I know how horrible it can be to have your mind stolen from you,” I reply. I choose to omit that I have no qualms inflicting this treatment on other people, of course.

“You do? Yeah, maybe you do. Anyway. At some point, there is nothing left but despair. You just… go through the motions or you give up and turn feral. The five of us… we helped each other hold on. Well, we used to…”

His eyes moisten and he passes a dirty hand on them to clear them.

“It’s just me, now.”

“There is another one who survived. A girl.”

“She did? June lives?” he replies with renewed hope, though the emotion is short-lived. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Maybe it does,” I reply, “but first tell me about the Black Peak Pack leadership.”

“Alright. Yeah, fine. There is the big bossman. I’ll have to admit he’s something else. He’s got black hair and beard that he keeps long, and those very pale eyes that stare into your soul. And he’s smart and cunning and whatnot. You can’t but help being impressed, you know? Like he’s around and you don’t mind that he’s a boss for a while. Goes by the name of Fenris but it’s all bull. That’s not his real name.”

A pretentious man.

“I see. Who else?”

“There’s Maul, the one who beat my previous boss. Dumb as a rock but so strong. He’s big too. Biggest man I ever seen. Maybe twice as tall as me.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah, it’s uncanny. Anyway, Maul keeps people in line and he follows Fenris blindly. They say that Fenris defeated him in battle but I’ve never seen Fenris fight. I believe it though. Oh, and there’s Rolf. He’s the head skald. Some say he was the first one.”

“Alright that’s interesting. Tell me more about the skalds.”

“Alright, so we stay in packs because it sort of made the curse smoother. I think it splits the curse over everyone like maple syrup on a pancake yeah? Soaks it right in so that we can keep it under control.”

What is it with everyone and maple syrup?

“But skalds are different. They can force the same thing to happen, only more and with more folks, and when they ring their horns they can sort of push us in a direction. The ferals too.”

“How are skalds made?”

“It’s weird. You sound the horn and you are supposed to push into it or something. I never managed when they tested me. Those few who succeed become skalds. They get a lot of power. And women. They get to choose who, well, you can guess.”

“You mentioned that before. Are your girls used as bargaining chips?”

“It’s just that… we have those instincts, right? And, well, the pleasures of the flesh, that’s one of them. But there are not many girls around, only one in four of us, tops. Mostly they do not make it through the first transformation.”

He looks stricken again. Keeping him focused on his tale is becoming harder, quite possibly due to the sheer amount of traumatic memories. I decide to give him some time to recover as I am starting to see how ‘Fenris’ managed to unite the packs.

The key is the use of bone horns. Those are very likely artefacts of blood and death magic, or something related more directly to the nature of the curse. To learn more, I will need to acquire one.

Skalds are probably werewolves who had the potential to become spellcasters before they were transformed and can thus operate a magical item. I wonder if they can still be mages.

Then something occurs to me.

“Where are the children then?”

A mistake. The boy’s face expresses outrage and powerless anger in equal measure.

“We change every full moon. Some of the girls bleed when they turn back.”

Ah.

“I am sorry.”

He shrugs, helpless.

“It’s a curse, after all.”

It no longer bothers me to be infertile. I wonder if my vampire nature smothered those desires or if I simply grew used to my situation. I can appreciate that it would be a difficult situation for anyone who hoped to create a family.

I decide to leave the matter behind. We are getting sidetracked.

“You had one skald with you at the encampment,” I note.

“Yeah. Kohl. A prick. Some skalds resist Fenris but not him, that’s why he was put in charge here.”

“There are other groups such as yours?”

“Only one other. Bigger. They are somewhere east of here, but I don’t know where. I think that’s where Fenris went.”

York. I hope Lazaro is having fun.

“Would your group stay here, or move now that you’ve killed two of us.”

“We did? Hmm. Pretty sure we’re supposed to kill everyone before moving on. That’s how Fenris did it with the packs. Do they know you survived?”

“Yes.”

“Then they’re probably looking for you during the day and hunkering down at night.”

I now have the beginning of a plan.

“How many people would rebel if, say, Kohl were removed, and the horn disabled?”

I step back as the boy undergoes an incredible metamorphosis. From broken and sitting, he suddenly stands up and his posture changes radically. His stance widens, and where his eyes were downcast, they now burn with fervor.

“You would also need to kill Olaf. That’s the big werewolf with the dark fur. But wait. Hold on. You think you can take Kohl out?”

He frowns.

“But no. He will be at the center of the camp and surrounded by a wall of flesh as soon as the alert is given. And you cannot possibly get through the reinforced security. A whiff of you and the camp will go on high alert.”

“I already have a way, don’t you worry about that.”

“To go through the entire camp?!”

“I say, let me worry about that and answer my previous question.”

“Hold on,” he replies with his hand raised, “do you seriously intend to liberate the others? And oppose Fenris? Get us all out of his pack alive and free?”

“I intend to kill him. And liberate the others so that they may return north, yes.”

“Swear it. Swear that you will help us, and I am your man. I’ll do anything you want.”

Errr. Why not, if it can guarantee his cooperation? This was my plan anyway.

“I swear to do my best to free the werewolves in the camp from the clutches of the Black Peak Pack, and should they help me thereafter, to do my best so that they may return to their home, wherever that may be.”

The boy suddenly stands up like a valorous hero at the prow of a ship, aiming his sword at the horizon.

I try to ignore the fact that his underwear slipped to reveal half of his butt.

“Then I, Jeffrey of the Deep Lake Pack swear my allegiance to you. What’s your name fair lady?”

“Hmm. Ariane.”

“Then Ariane, come on and let’s leave this dump, we have a revolution to plan! Hell yeah!”

I mutter “language” after the man’s escaping posterior and walk to Melusine as Jeffrey shakes hands with a flabbergasted guard, informing them of what a good team they will make.

“Nicely done,” Melusine comments with a sarcastic grin, “though you are lucky that I ordered your men not to shoot at the gesticulating madman.”

“We were just having a conversation…” I reply, feeling that the situation escaped me somewhat.

“And now you have a brand-new minion and it took you, what, ten minutes?”

“You worked with his kind before, is this normal?” I ask, recalling that she had hired a mercenary to have me killed back when I was her prisoner.

“I knew they tended to be, let us say, easily excitable. I always assumed that they only answered to negative emotions. Perhaps being part of a pack grounds them a bit?”

“Yes, well, I still need to know more. Hey, Jeffrey!”

“Yes Ariane?”

“Come with me to the command tent! And please grab a pair of pants while you are at it.”

Melusine and I silently jump from ledge to ledge, digging claws in the occasional crevice to push ourselves up. The treacherous ice would be the end of any casual climber, but for us, even the most slippery of footings is barely more than an inconvenience. We scale the cliff with unmatched speed in only a few minutes until the sheer wall turns to a slope and, finally, to a large slab of stone which we share with a lone scraggly tree.

Below us, the werewolf camp lies in its sheltered recess, and I notice that its denizens made a clear attempt at turning the place impregnable.

A double ring of lit fires circles the entire perimeter with a warm halo of reddish light, flickering under the wind. No spot of darkness was left untouched, and patrols of unchanged men and women in groups of half a dozen watch intently into the darkness. In the middle of the camp, the massive black werewolf stands in front of his command tent while the skald, Kohl, sits next to the caged ferals with a small retinue of bodyguards.

I notice with some satisfaction that the herd has been slightly thinned. It confirms my suspicion and Jeffrey’s words that they use ferals as front liners to soak up casualties since they cannot be used for anything else. There should still be over a hundred and eighty werewolves down there, but the thirty or so we killed yesterday did make a dent. This is somewhat comforting.

Amusingly, I realize that werewolves make poor sentinels as the reason why they are clumped in large groups quickly becomes apparent. At any given time, at least half of their numbers will look in any direction but the one which they should.

Finally, and more importantly, my observations are confirmed: predators never look up.

I do not know whether it stems from overconfidence, carelessness, or simply out of a lack of meaningful tree-dwelling dangers on earth. In any case, our foes clearly expect us to come from any direction but the high mound to their north.

“I hope this works,” my ally mutters as she gingerly lifts the wolf slayer. I repurposed the tool with the help of Frost and his cadre for a very specific task and the trials were conclusive.

It just feels strange to watch my precious creation in the hands of that woman.

“It will work. You fired it five times and the rope deployed properly five times. Stop fussing and get in position,” I reply as I open the large case by my side and quickly assemble its content.

“You know, you defy all expectations. Ours is not the kind of plan I would associate with a Master of the Devourer bloodline.”

“Have you met many Masters of the Devourer bloodline?” I sweetly ask.

Melusine scowls.

“Then you are just being your typical arrogant strumpet self who thinks I am an airhead because I don’t turn my nose at everything. Now get in position.”

Muttering unkind words under her breath, the redhead obeys and proceeds to leap gracefully down the cliff to a ledge jutting over the camp while I finish my task.

Two months ago, Loth sent me a gift, and after a long wait, I am finally granted the opportunity to use it in combat. I screw the two halves of an unreasonably long barrel filled with silvery engravings on the breech-loaded mechanism and load what might very well be the first functional long-range musket.

I trained with it. I could shave the wings off a fly at several hundred paces. It was, of course, on a range.

Melusine reaches her destination as I line down the sight. The musket’s stock rests comfortably against my shoulder.

She waits for a particularly loud gust of wind to fire a quarrel at a stack of crates. The steel arrowhead buries itself in the frozen ground. A few nearby sentinels raise their head with curiosity. They sniff the air. They find nothing.

Melusine replaces the crossbow at her back and attaches the other end of the thin wire to a piton that she furiously stabs in the ice at her feet.

She grabs the wire in her gauntleted hand and jumps out, then lets gravity carry her down as she picks up speed.

I turn the rifle’s humongous barrel towards my target. The skald’s face appears in the crosshairs when one of his bodyguards does not block the line of sight.

His handsome face shows signs of boredom.

I breathe once, out of habit. It settles me and sharpens my focus until I reach a mindset of calm and discipline.

Melusine is still picking up speed. The way down the slope is long from the height of the mound.

My prey is still hidden.

The wind dies down for an instant.

He turns his head. There is a furry arm in the way.

He looks up.

He frowns.

The bodyguard turns as well, curious.

Kohl’s face is fully revealed.

I pull the trigger.

A quarter of a second later, my target’s head explodes out in a fountain of blood. The shot rings over the camp, reverberating on the slope of the peak I am on. Its echoes roll over the thunderstruck crowd.

Melusine hits the ground at a dead sprint. She casts a nasty spell at the four bodyguards who fall to the ground, writhing in pain. She picks up the horn without slowing and runs like the wind between groups of stupefied guards still unsure of what to do.

Slow and stupid. This is what happens when you never trust your subordinates: a complete lack of individual initiative. The Black Peak pack forfeited any chance of cornering Melusine the moment they relied on a clunky gathering of unwilling fighters.

We are just getting started.

Satisfied that the redhead is well on her way out, I return my attention to the black werewolf as I reload, but quickly give up on shooting him. Loth’s long-range rifle came with bullets designed to pierce through enchantments, not to inflict the kind of catastrophic damage that would pulp that monster’s skull. Rather than attempting it, I grab my gear and escape to the right on a path parallel to Melusine’s.

Now comes the first hurdle: making sure the wolfies take the bait.

And they do.

By the Watcher, they do. One of them must have unleashed the ferals because I can hear their constant baying even over the roar of the northern gale. A rational decision I suppose, as they have no more means to effectively direct them. The best they can do is to point them at a quarry one last time, and hope for the best.

I accelerate as much as I can, draining precious energy but gaining on my companion whose frigid aura is clearly revealed. We are almost at our destination when I finally catch up.

“You’re still carrying that thing?!” she screams, pointing one claw at my gun while her other arm is firmly holding the horn as if it were an unwieldy flowerpot.

“Why would I leave it behind?” I ask with surprise.

“Tsk!”

Prejudice against firearms is as deep-seated as it is inexplicable among my kind.

Melusine slows down as we arrive at our improvised camp.

Both the odd detachment and the mages have formed a hastily constructed half-circle with a barricade of sharpened spikes dug into the unyielding ice with Frost’s help. I may have misjudged how tired they would be as the men manning the defenses show signs of exhaustion, but at least their heavy clothes and various enchantments have kept them warm and they now show excitement as my ally and I jump over the barrier. They do not need our warnings. Only a deaf man would miss the signs that our plan worked.

We walk to the center of the camp, where Frost is waiting inside an intricate circle glowing a soft white. At either side of him, Blake stands resolute with a borrowed blade while Jeffrey watches me approach with a goofy smile as he munches a piece of dried beef.

“We are set,” I observe laconically, keeping my eyes resolutely forward.

“I hope so, dear. After all, you promised me a nice battle and here I have been, relegated to the role of support so far,” Frost replies with casual interest.

“Don’t worry, you will be elbow deep in fur within the next two minutes,” Melusine remarks drily.

I quickly disassemble the rifle and close the case under the mesmerized looks of the others, then almost tear the wolf slayer off Melusine’s back before loading it with repeater bolts.

“You look miffed. Is something the matter, bosswoman?” the young werewolf asks.

“WHY ARE YOU NAKED?”

“Oh, if it’s just that, I guess I can transform now,” he replies.

The young man drops the bag of jerky on the ground and sighs deeply, somewhere between relief and anticipation. He extends his arms to the side and, without warning, it begins.

His skin roils and erupts with fur and muscle, bones snapping as they expand and reattach themselves without method. The change is asymmetrical and messy. I fully expect blood and other fluids to cover the ground, but my expectations are dashed.

It still looks unbelievably painful, and yet not a whine escapes the creature’s muzzle.

In less than three seconds, a bipedal monster towers before us, dwarfing even the tallest man. Jeffrey flexes his sharp claws and displays a row of serrated fangs. Only his eyes remain unchanged as expressive orbs of brown flecked with green.

Conservation of mass just tipped its hat and left the planet. I feel somewhat annoyed. As our first werewolf ally struts confidently forward under the wary gaze of the mortals, I lean closer to Melusine.

“You never mentioned that he was that massive,” I whisper.

“And it’s really cold as well,” she deadpans.

I stare into her innocent face with growing frustration.

“Get your mind out of the gutter, you know what I am referring to. His human form is all scrawny.”

“I believe it relates to the strength of the curse and possibly, how they place within the pack when their aura equalizes. Leaders tend to grow larger. Perhaps his less hairy aspect is just young and starving, and he will eventually grow to match his wolf form.”

“Perhaps.”

“If you are done, then here is the artefact. Would you like to try it before we are swarmed with monsters?”

“Certainly.”

Right, our plan is simple. Eliminate the manipulative prick, steal his tool and the army’s cohesion will shatter.

The second part is by far the most uncertain. The clans under the black werewolf, Olaf, follow him because of the horn and their instincts to obey the strong. We have three ways to remove his control and eliminate the group as a fighting force without a massive bloodbath.

The first and most obvious solution is to kill him.

A daunting task, but not an impossible one. It will require me to fight through his personal guard and hope that I can manage it without too many casualties on my side.

Jeffrey assured me that without the horn’s powerful effects, the werewolves would revert to their normal mindsets. Their leader has not earned the right to lead a group of packs. A horde. He usurped it. Once the momentum of the chase is exhausted, the majority of werewolves should feel no urge to defend one they will instinctively resent.

This unique opportunity comes from my smell. I do not have the scent of an enemy like Melusine and Blake do. Therefore, the army should not instinctively unite against me if I go after its leader.

That is the theory. They could still decide to close rank on me and then I would be swarmed and killed. I will keep this option as a last resort.

The second possibility is that the horde splits immediately once the others realize that they are free. I consider this to be wishful thinking. I personally believe that it will take more than the five minutes we gave them for the flames of liberties to burn in their hearts. I would bet that the instinctive response of a beaten group would be to wait and see, rather than to stand up and risk extermination if they are proven to be the outliers. Nobody wants to be the first target in front of the firing line.

I asked if Jeffrey could challenge Olaf. My most recent minion said that yes, of course, he could issue a challenge. And then promptly die, thus reinforcing our foe’s legitimacy.

The third and last option is to use the horn ourselves to push the packs over the edge and into open mutiny.

The item is, after all, a thing of blood and bone. An artefact of the hunt. And what better wielder of such a creation, than me? There are none here.

I cradle the object between my hands, passing a thumb over its smooth surface. The bones come from a predator judging from the size. Bear and wolf, mostly. The ivory material was fused together by means unknown and the smooth planes have been engraved with runes I do not recognize. They shine softly in carmine red, waiting for activation.

The aura is mighty. I taste the hunt, of course, but also blood, lust, death, as well as warmth and cold. It was not designed for me, but I can use it. I hold nothing more than a dedicated focus meant to cast a single spell altered by the caster’s intent. Yes. I just need to place the COLD WITHIN. WARMTH IN THE PREY’S BLOOD. And everything will work out just fine.

I am reminded of the gauntlet dedicated to casting a single spell I used in the library of Alexandria. The more deliberate and precise the tool, the less training is required to activate it. What the focus lacks in flexibility, it gains in sheer power. The irony of turning their own means of control against the Black Peak Clan is an added bonus.

Yes, I think as I caress it, it will do nicely.

“I am sure I can operate the horn but it might take a lot of power. I would rather wait until the non-ferals are within range.”

Melusine nods and turns, heading to the front. I follow her when Blake steps up to me.

“Excuse me, Ariane.”

“Yes?” I ask with surprise. Blake has been helpful so far. She has protected the Roland assets through a careful evacuation and assisted with planning. Our cooperation has reinforced my opinion that she is strangely attractive to men though this in itself is not an issue, as she has done nothing to harm our efforts. Quite the contrary, in fact.

“Can I get your crossbow?”

“You know that if you die, it was all for nothing.”

“And I will not leave the shield, but I can still be useful. I can shoot.”

In a way, I understand her. She needs a symbolic kill.

“Very well. You remember how to operate it?”

“I was there when you taught Melusine.”

“Indeed,” I reply as I give her my weapon as well as the spare ammunition. Then, I turn to a stump not far away from us and point at it.

“Aim at—”

The upper part of the stump explodes in a shower of splinters.

“As I was about to say,” I drily comment to the embarrassed Courtier, “watch out for the sensitive trigger and aim a bit low.”

“Sorry.”

“There will be plenty of targets. Make sure you do not shoot our allies.”

She nods and I continue on my way until I stand at the edge of the barricade.

The troops are arrayed in three circles covered by shields, with the largest one in the center and occupied by Frost. The packs may be freed, but the ferals could just disperse and become a significant danger for the population and for Blake whose duty it is to cull them. We need to take down as many as we can before they split up.

Only a minute has passed since our arrival and already, the horde is coming. In front of us, the aura of a multitude of supernatural creatures blows like a strange wind, bringing with it a jumble of emotions. While still impressive, it lacks the terrifying pressure of yesterday’s assault. The sense of unity is gone.

Behind us, another aura grows.

Once, I stepped into a cavern while a blizzard was raging outside. The cavern was sheltered from the wind and only the back of my skull was buffeted by a furious gale. This is how I feel now. The spell Frost is building writhes inside of his circle with terrifying power, like a cannon aimed outward. I can see the glow of the fuse, but not the darkness of the muzzle. It is not aimed at me.

For once.

The forest moves in front of us as massive shapes crash against trees. The fastest ferals sprint ahead of the rest.

I remove a pistol, aim, and fire, catching a frontrunner in the eye. All around us, the soldiers fire as soon as they have a shot. There is no point in massed volleys here. We are just trying not to get overwhelmed.

Many of the bullets find a target and slow down the onslaught. Spells and the occasional bolt bring down attackers as fast as they appear until a large group bursts out in front of us.

“Fireball!” Melusine screams, and a small explosion lands in their midst. Around me, soldiers switch from their empty muskets to grenades and lob them in front of us. The multiple explosions catch more ferals, killing some of them. Then the first foe jumps over the barricade into my waiting arms.

Finally.

I have been so very THIRSTY.

GRAB CLAW. GRAB MUZZLE. SUBJUGATE. EXPOSE. BITE.

Delicious.

I Devour the creature in a second and send its corpse flying back over the barricade. I made a bit of a mess this time, I realize. Hm. That was completely on purpose for the sake of intimidation.

“Are you going to be less catty now that you have had your fill?” a voice asks.

FILL?

“I am just getting started.”

The three shields manifest themselves as the first creatures slam into them, pushed back by silver bullets and bayonets. No one remains outside, except for me.

STAB. MAIM. CLAW. They come one after the other just to die, unable to go beyond their bloodlust. I drag one more to Devour it after killing its two neighbors. The transparent energy shields waver.

“Ariane!”

I roll inside a circle as more and more bodies press against the overtaxed defenses.

WEREWOLF.

Hold on, that one is mine. No killing. STINKS. No. MINE. NO KILLING.

To my side, Frost sighs deeply and stretches his arms to his side. All three shields flash a deep blue and the ferals recoil in pain.

Incredible power saturates the inner part of the circle I stand in. The raw strength of the ritual electrifies my skin and burns my lungs. Slowly, Frost rises in the air, momentarily free of the bonds of this world.

A beatific smile spreads on the old man’s face and his skin lights from within as it loses its wrinkly appearance. His hair and beard turn to silk, radiating the white of the dawn of a winter sun and when he opens his eyes, they shine in the darkness of the night like two faraway stars. He speaks and his voice is a murmur that smothers all other sounds. From the wolves to us to the trees and the very wind, the entirety of creation falls silent.

“Cover, cover, the world over,

Extinguish now their every light

Hear thee my plea, heart of winter

And share with them your endless night.

Polaris.”

Light dims. The moon disappears behind some conjured darkness but I care not because Frost is all I can see and he is beautiful. From his extended hands, water streams and expands until it covers the spheres in a veil the color of sapphire. The liquid shudders to reflect its master’s eagerness as droplets stream up to the skies in defiance of the laws of nature. In less than a second, the watery blanket has reached an appreciable thickness. So thick it is, that the outside appears to us as if it had sunk to the depths of the ocean.

Frost’s preparations are complete and I feel the pendulum of fate at the end of its swing. The tension has reached its paroxysm and now, the steel ball is on its way back.

Frost throws both hands in a clawing gesture. The blue surface explodes outwards in a silent boom and the tinkling sound of shattered crystal. The wave expands, as unstoppable as the tide, until it disappears from my senses.

The shields lower and light returns. I shiver with pleasure at the magnificent sight before us.

We stand in a garden of statues. Ferals in all poses lay about, frozen for all of eternity, this one chasing, that one lunging, captured in the moment. I feast my eyes on this incredible sight and the beauty of their deep blue prisons. Translucent spikes of crystalline solids jut from their unmoving forms, giving the statues the appearance of some icy creatures trapped in strange amber. The spectacle is so very alien that none dare speak first among our ranks. We just stand there, facing a taste of the world at the end of times.

Slowly, we wake up from the trance of this awesome display to realize that a half-circle of wolves peer at us from the cover of the trees, just outside of the range of the spell. They were waiting for the ferals to finish the job.

The fact that they still haven’t moved is quite telling. In the middle of the assembly, the black-furred leader stands tall in an amusing attempt to look larger.

I turn back to Frost and realize that his smile matches my own. He is so very attractive. And fascinating. This carnage. This… conquest. He is…

He is worthy.

RAISE.

“Join us. Join us and conquer forever.”

The old man tilts his head. He sighs deeply and lifts a finger to my lips, touching them softly. I let him. His smile of regret tells me of his answer before he even speaks.

“No.”

He made his choice and I respect it.

“It is your turn to impress me, Ariane,” he continues.

I nod and take the horn from my side. I lightly jump on a frozen beam from our now pointless barricade. My audience is arrayed before me, paralyzed by indecision. I, too, would hesitate to strike after such a show of power.

Let me spur them into action.

I bring the horn to my mouth and take a deep breath. The artefact links with me just like the gauntlet did and I feel a great reservoir available for me to fill. I start pouring power into it and realize that it will not work.

The horn is a tool designed to convey orders in a way that the cursed understand. I am not one of them, therefore reaching their minds will require the message to be as simple and unambiguous as possible.

What do I want? In theory, I want control. In reality, subjugation is both impractical and dangerous. What I need is to free them. Just as I promised.

Freedom.

I search my memories for the feeling and find many instances of running through the woods, or riding Metis, where I felt truly free. I push into the horn and stop again.

I am an idiot.

It is not freedom I should go for, but liberation. Not being free, becoming free. And for that I have the perfect memory.

I close my eyes.

Charlotte stands close to Aintza. She is proud. She figured out our little ruse and she will gain much credit with Lady Moor for her cunning.

When she tells her.

She hasn’t done so yet. She came alone.

Her mistake becomes obvious to her as I show my fangs, as I jump on her back and push her weak body into the mud where it belongs. I am strong, and smart, and I have ALLIES. WARDEN WEAK. PACK STRONG. FIGHT AND BE FREE.

BREAK THE CHAINS.

BOW TO NO ONE.

The horn sounds over the plain in a single note, pure and mighty. The branches shiver and powdery snow fills the air. A tantalizing taste fills their mind. It speaks to them of running through the empty land with the others, the weight of their curse temporarily lifted from their shoulders. It reminds them of a better time when they found acceptance in a new family. One that understood their burden and lessened it through shared experience. It speaks of a future in which it happens again.

They merely need to seize it.

The first to change is a massive leader with a grey pelt. His transformation is the most impressive of all as cracks and groans lead him to expand his frame until he dwarfs even Olaf. A hundred pairs of malice-filled eyes turn to the Black Peak Pack’s bunched group, their torturers, jailers and rapists.

The grey werewolf roars and it carries with it a mountain of torment that demands retribution.

The next minute is one more incredible show in a night that was filled with them. The freed packs fall on their enemy with unparalleled hatred. They literally tear them apart in their fury.

They leave no survivors.

After the massacre is done, the fighters split up, gathering into little groups of naked bodies hugging each other for comfort. Cries of relief cover the plain once more as we watch without a word.

The grey leader ignores them. He steps to the barricade with confidence, transforming back mid-stride which is, I assume, a rather impressive performance. The naked man before me stops at the edge of a log. He has short brown hair and expressive chestnut eyes. His squarish jaw and heroic face give him the appearance of a tragic hero. He sniffs the air and turns his attention to me.

“Let’s talk.”

93. The Smell of Victory.

I regret everything.

“For the love of all that is precious STOP SNIFFING ME!”

“But it’s so strange…”

“NO SNIFFING!”

“Eep!”

The tiny woman jumps back with a stricken look, but not for long. A man taps her on the shoulder and she turns with a smile.

He is naked.

Regrets. So many regrets.

I agreed to follow the big grey werewolf back to his encampment with the rest of the horde in order to discuss what would follow. I will admit that my unwillingness to negotiate terms with a butt-naked individual in the middle of a statuary of frozen corpses played a big role in my decision. I thought it better to talk while the euphoria of their newfound liberty lifted their hearts.

That was a mistake.

First, my smell is apparently strange to them. It allows me to walk among their numbers without being perceived as an intruder, an advantage that my allies do not share and the reason why I left them behind. The other side of the medal is that they are rather curious. The most daring specimens challenge my personal space to sample the goods and only my unflappable countenance has allowed me to spare their miserable lives. How dare they! I am not a slab of meat! Gah!

And the odd inquisitive wolf is the least of my worries. To be fair there are only a handful of them, they are harmless, and they leave when prompted. The main problem is… Frankly, I should have anticipated it.

Sex is a great activity, in general, a true celebration of life and pleasure. Its practice is somewhat limited by a combination of factors, such as babies which werewolves cannot carry to term, diseases which they are immune to, and social constraints which they are devoid of.

As a result, a great celebration is occurring in the surrounding tents, with no concern given to propriety or, indeed, keeping one’s voice down.

And as if things were not bad enough, they STINK. By the Watcher the situation is deteriorating every time a sweaty, naked, aroused ruffian lifts a tent flap to switch groups! My poor nose!

After an interminable walk, we finally reach the command pavilion. Thanks to my indomitable will, I resist the urge to leave this forsaken place, find the highest tree I can and hug it like a Christmas ornament.

Enclosed space. A central table with a map surrounded by seats covered in fur. A few chests.

A stench like no others, a mix of wet dog, sweaty genitals, and INTRUDER.

I should have taken a perfumed handkerchief.

“Now that we’re—”

“First things first, wear some damn pants!” I hiss.

The man stares at me with his sad brown eyes and I realize the overwhelming gap between us. He has been through a lot in the past few weeks, for sure, while for me fighting for my life while embroiled in cutthroat politics and diplomacy is just another Thursday. Perhaps, for efficiency’s sake, I should cut him some slack.

After he covers his nads.

With a heavy sigh, the new leader grabs a pair of leather pants and pulls them on. They look dirty. He picked them from the ground! They are not even his size! Stop thinking about it too much, Ariane, that way lies insanity.

Pah! Pah pah pah.

“Better?” the man asks coldly.

“Somewhat. You wanted to talk, so talk,” I declare.

Blake gave me leave to negotiate in her name, provided that her bottom line is respected. In that case, it means all of the wolves leaving her territory posthaste. Besides that, I am free to negotiate the terms I see fit.

And now that we are finally settled, of course, he remains silent. I use this opportunity to study this new addition to the list of people I am supposed to pay attention to.

The grey werewolf is interesting. He is not what I expected from an improvised leader, especially not one who was the first to throw himself at his captors. His eyes are too soft and his expression too melancholic for a warrior, though with his square jaw and bulging muscles, he might just cut it. Seriously, I could hammer a steel ingot on those abdominals. And yet, he looks more like the doomed prince of a dying duchy, staring at the ocean from the battlements of his crumbling fortress with only an old butler and a few dogs for company.

I should probably slow down on reading Jimena’s novels. I fear that they might be affecting my judgement.

As I was inspecting him, my interlocutor had been dreamily staring into the distance. His musings are interrupted by someone tossing the tent’s flap aside to get in.

I turn around to see a naked woman, flushed with lust and ambition. Our eyes meet and she bares her teeth.

I deploy my aura, crushing her under its murderous pressure.

“Don’t try me,” I state.

The intruder lowers her head before skulking back. I return my attention to the pack’s de facto leader with increasing annoyance.

“Keep your people under control.”

“We men do not interfere in power struggles between the fairer sex.”

“I am not one of yours.”

“You are not completely out, either,” he calmly observes. His manners are mild and his voice mellow and I find myself lowering my guard.

“It’s the smell. Your scent is…”

Never mind my previous reflection.

“If you tell me I smell weird one more time…”

“My apologies. We obviously started on the wrong footing—”

Understatement of the century.

“—and I propose that we begin anew. My name is Augustus Jennings of the now-defunct Deepwood Pack. Whom do I have the honor of addressing?”

“Ariane of the Nirari.”

Augustus waits some more as if expecting me to go off with ‘high queen of Northumbria, the unwashed, medical doctor’ and so on. When no such thing occurs, he resumes the conversation.

“You are a vampire, correct? A master?”

“Yes.”

“Well, what do you know of our kind?”

“You taste delicious.”

Ah. Oops? Not very diplomatic, Ariane.

“Besides that?” the man grumbles.

“You headed north and split into groups you call packs. Being in one balances the curse, somehow. All was well until a man calling himself Fenris and leading a band called the Black Peak Pack started to subjugate everyone. Now you are more or less united under him, due to a mix of fear and the power of the skalds. Fenris decided to expand south and here we are.”

“Brief, if not entirely inaccurate. You are still missing an important part of the puzzle.”

Augustus looks into the horizon, broody and dreamy.

I roll my eyes. Why does he have to be so dramatic?

“What we know, we gathered from fragments of journals and ancient parchment yellowed by age over the centuries, a thankless task to find the source of the curse and the cause of our torment.”

I don’t caaaaaaaaaare.

“Our dreadful tale begins during the darkest period of the hundred-year war, in the French region of Auvergne.”

Someone please shoot me.

“A mage of considerable power weaved a dread curse, a thing so horrid and devastating that it twisted the very human form which should have remained sacrosanct. As for its purpose, we shall never know, but some suspect that it was used to punish an entire family…” the man continues in a pained whisper.

Why would he assume that I would be interested? I just want to hammer out an agreement and head out. Aaaaaa if only I could just bite him and be done, but a meek leader of werewolves is of no use.

“When the curse was made, our tormentor committed a fatal mistake. In their urge to spread destruction, they forced an instinct on the cursed: we disable our prey then move on to the next one, only to return to finish them off after no one is left standing. This turned against their intention as many wounded recovered enough to hide and thus survive the onslaught, and so our curse has spread throughout the world like a dreadful plague, causing the death of thousands.”

I must look like an attentive audience. That must be it.

“Now, and for the first time in history, we have a chance to turn our lives around, but to do so we must make peace with the curse, with the trapped wolf in our soul, and to do so we must adopt some of the beast’s social habits.”

“I assume you have a point?” I ask, utterly out of patience.

“I do,” the man replies unamused, “it relates to us and the way we work as a group. Many of the rules we follow are taken from the behavior of wolves. That means that we do not delegate authority as a government would. The army arrayed against York is it.”

“What?”

“It. All the remaining werewolves in the northern territories. Three hundred of them, give or take. It will take more than a few of your kind to hold back this tide. I am willing to guide the werewolves of this group north if you give us enough provisions and if you promise not to go after us.”

I widen my eyes in surprise, then I realize I cannot help it.

I laugh. I am being vulgar and my fangs are showing but I cannot stop. This man! What a great comedian!

“Oh dear, how precious. You are simply too much.”

“I assure you that—” he begins.

I move over the table, stopping only a few inches away from him and hit him fully with my Charm. I take the strand of apprehension, the one that is born of the knowledge of what I am, what I did, and feed my aura into it until it turns into a fat worm of terror. My claws dig into the wood below, which creaks torturously.

“You are in no position to demand, boy,” I hiss.

Augustus jumps back with a curse. To his credit, he gets his fear under control faster than I have ever seen. From what I can tell, the curse fights back, somehow. It releases him from my influence with the utmost speed.

I lean back and smile, pretending that his newfound courage is simply me releasing my hold on his emotions. His resistance to my power matters little when bluffs and manipulation can achieve so much.

“Do not think us defeated, vampire,” he retorts as his voice trembles ever so slightly, “we still have—”

“I have the horn, and I can operate it,” I interrupt.

That shuts him up. Good.

“You are the shambling leader of a defeated and brittle band of disposable soldiers. Yesterday you could field dozens of ferals. Tonight, you have none. Yesterday your army had a skald and a warlord at their head. Tonight, well, there is you.”

I sneer. Augustus grits his teeth, but he does not reply.

“You also wrongly assume that I care what happens to the population of York.”

“You do not?” he replies, half-surprised and half-scandalized.

“You may consider them as rivals, of sorts. In fact, the best solution for me now would be to let them suffer so much that our knights must intervene while I wipe you out to the last.”

“You cannot. We will--”

Augustus stops abruptly. I have the horn. I can use it. The terrible artifact is the crux of our negotiations. It places me in a position of strength from which I can demand much with little in return.

“You can no longer stop me,” I observe, “if you fight, I will disable then slaughter the packs. You scatter, and I will pick you off band by band, wolf by wolf, until I have drained every man, woman, and juvenile. We are discussing the terms of your surrender, Augustus. Do not provoke me again.”

The man leans back in his seat, contemplative. He displays no sign of giving up and I can practically see the gear turning behind his distant eyes. I respect him for it, and for not giving in despite the circumstances. If he were not so much of an insufferably stinky mutt, I could see us cooperate.

“You do not smell like a leader. You cannot change or direct the curse like I can either, even with your newest toy, and besides, you do not strike me as another slaver. There must be something we can do for each other that you could not get with just the horn. Why don’t you tell me?”

“Tut tut,” I reply with amusement, “my newest toy is you, Augustus, and as for what I want, why, it is power of course. Let me explain…”

In a few sentences, I describe the context while remaining intentionally vague about the current standing of the participating Houses.

“… best solution would be for me to save my kin in York and bring a long-term solution to the werewolf problem. My victory would be assured.”

The leader crosses his arms, always a bad sign in a conversation. At first, I take it that he is averse to cooperating but soon realize my mistake: he is revolted.

“So, that is what this is all about to you. A political game.”

“Everything is a political game when more than three people are involved, boy. Spare me the theatrics. Now, are you willing to assist me, yes or no?”

“You seriously want us to take down Fenris, Maul and Rolf?”

“Of course not, I do not believe you to be capable of such a feat. I expect you to assist me while I take care of it myself. Do so, and I will help you in returning to your homes, wherever they may be.”

I already made that commitment to Jeffrey. It costs me little to simply repeat it.

“Ariane of the Nirari, my people have suffered a terrible ordeal. They are weakened and wounded.”

Somewhere nearby, a couple screams in the thrall of a particularly intense orgasm.

Augustus winces while I show no reaction. Still annoyed, I raise a finger to interrupt him as is about to resume his impassioned plea.

“You do not know much about my kind, do you?”

“Knowledge is sparse, and for good reasons,” he replies defensively.

I imagine that we do not eagerly share the specifics of our nature. Quite the contrary, in fact.

“Then let me enlighten you in a concise manner. We are arrogant, territorial, and deadly apex predators who do not care in the slightest about your freedom or, indeed, your continued survival. What you are doing is useless, because we are only vaguely aware of the mercy you are appealing to. We do not do charity. We do deals. Give me the incentive I need, and I will assist you, otherwise you are wasting both our times. Am I being clear?”

“Crystal clear,” the man grumbles, his eyes shining dangerously. I will let it go so long as he does not provoke me further.

“It changes little,” he continues, “we cannot stand against Fenris and his groups. They are three times our numbers. Attacking them is suicide.”

“We do not have to defeat the army in battle, we just need a path to those three,” I reply.

Augustus shakes his head, then returns his attention to me.

“I need to think of a plan, Ariane of the Nirari. Would you consent to reconvening tomorrow evening?”

And giving him the time to recover or even split up the packs? Not a chance in hell.

“If I leave this tent without a formal pact between us, I am coming back with the horn and my silver spear. None of you will see the dawn.”

Augustus growls. His eyes shine in the light of the tent’s single lantern as his teeth sharpen. I hiss back with fangs displayed.

With what appears to be a supreme effort at self-control, he leans back into his throne.

Good puppy.

“Has anyone ever told you that you are difficult to deal with?”

“No one who mattered,” I sweetly reply.

Silence.

Augustus twines his fingers and closes his eyes. They flutter against their lids as their owner desperately looks for a way out, while outside, the sounds of revel continue unabated. The werewolves celebrate their newfound freedom with unbridled enthusiasm, unaware of its fragility. Behind the scene, a lone man has shouldered the burden of responsibility. He must complete a deal or the cries of ecstasy will soon turn to screams of horror, and then, silence.

In a way I appreciate his self-control and dedication. I could almost respect him if he did not stink so much. And if he wore pants without being prompted. And if he were not so dramatically broody.

Ah well.

“How well can you use the horn?” he suddenly asks.

“I can convey emotions through it,” I reply with a shrug. The horn is a makeshift blood magic focus, not exactly the most elaborate tool.

“What did it feel like, when you heard my call?” I ask, suddenly curious.

His eyes glaze over as he reminisces. His voice grows distant.

“Like I was almost there, almost free. I could feel it. I was so close. I only needed to reach out and kill that last person in the way.”

He turns his eyes to me, gauging.

“Your emotions are more abstract than ours when we are changed. Freedom remains a human concept, after all, and our equivalent would be the ability to move freely. That is not the same thing. The horn still called us, but it did so from above instead of from within, if that makes sense.”

I understand that even our instincts do not operate on the same level.

“If you can truly reproduce this effect then we may have a chance to both complete your main objective and avoid a wholesale slaughter.”

“Do tell,” I answer as I lean over the table.

“The horn’s call goes beyond the mere physical. You must have felt it too.”

“As if reality itself echoed the sound?”

“Precisely. A call occupies space like sound normally cannot. When a skald uses the horn, there will be a delay before another can impart the world with another meaning. Blowing the horn also exhausts the skalds quickly. I believe that if we time it right, we may be able to use it to our advantage.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“If we manage to approach Fenris’ camp undetected and blow the horn first, we will have a few minutes of initiative before they can bring their own skalds and numbers to bear. Within that time, we must break our way through their ranks until we reach Fenris. There, I will issue a formal challenge.”

“A challenge?”

“Yes. I will fight him for dominance.”

“Hold on,” I interrupt, “if it were that easy, why did you not do it before?”

“Were you not paying attention?” he snarls, “the skalds stole everything from us, including our drive to be free. I did not challenge him because they robbed me of the will to do so.”

I frown, keenly aware of the many holes in that plan.

“How confident are you that you can take him on?”

“If I commit to it, I will kill him. Don’t ask me how,” he replies with a confidence that I am tempted to call undue.

It does seem simple. Carve a path through an unsuspecting foe until we reach their leaders, then let the big wolf sort his differences.

I see three loss conditions. If we are detected, the breakthrough will fail, and our troops will break against superior numbers. If we manage to charge but not to pierce, then the same thing will happen. If we succeed but Augustus loses the fight, the plan fails as well. In all three cases, the enemy army takes over the defeated pack and even if I survive, then a loss will deal a fatal blow to my chances at winning the contest.

On the other hand, Fenris is in York. If the Cadiz manage to eliminate him, they will have solved the werewolf problem for the time being, and won the contest.

I still cannot think of a better plan and time is not on my side. I simply need to make this one workable.

Vampires can eliminate the scouts ahead of the army while Frost covers our approach. My allies would be in front while I stay with the werewolves. It could work.

For the breakthrough, I would simply need to convey the right feelings and stay at the tip of the formation.

As for the duel, I need to know more before I commit. Fortunately, Jeffrey should be an excellent source of information considering that he never shuts up.

“Very well,” I finally answer, “we will go for your plan and if it succeeds, I will take the survivors under my protection and allow them to return to their lands, even if it puts me at odds with other vampires.”

I am confident that Constantine would approve of any problem-solving that does not involve a bloodbath. As for what the Cadiz may think of this agreement, I do not give a damn.

“Please note that my protection only extends to the packs present here, not those assaulting York,” I finish.

Augustus considers my words for a long time. Eventually, he licks his lips and turns confrontational once more.

“I swear on my honor and the pack that I will abide by your terms, with two more conditions. You will not use my people as cannon fodder.”

“Some will die during the fight,” I observe.

“You know what I mean.”

“I do. And yes, I will not send them to a pointless death.”

“And second, no sexual abuse.”

I pause at the enormity of his declaration.

“I beg your pardon?” I reply, outraged.

“You heard me. You will not abuse your authority to gain sexual favors from my people while we work together,” he firmly replies.

I… What? No, I get where this is coming from but still! Me! And… Seriously?

“Let me be perfectly clear. I would rather stab myself in the liver with a rusty iron spike and greet the sun from atop a pile of manure than lie with you, or anyone else on this encampment!” I hiss, irate. What do they take me for? I have standards! And my heart is taken.

Augustus turns curiously contemplative.

“I do not believe I have ever been that forcefully rejected.”

“And I am delighted to be expanding your horizons.”

“Is it a race thing?”

“Yes. You stink.”

Augustus flexes his biceps and sniffs his armpit. Then, he shrugs.

“Aaaand I’m off. We reconvene tomorrow at dusk. Good night, sir! I say, good night!” I declaim on my way out.

Outside, I take a deep breath and come to the realization that, like most things, stench is relative. In the open ground, the smell of wet dog is barely tolerable.

“Hey bosswoman, you’re here. This is June, my packmate. She’s a sweetheart. Say hi, June!”

With a perfect poker face, I push my exasperation to the back of my mind and greet my future little informer with a genial smile. I phase out his incessant drone and take a moment to inspect his companion.

June is slightly taller than him with the honest face of a farm girl. She seems a bit dazed and wears an ill-fitting shirt that looks hastily put on. It reveals one of her shoulders and the lower part of her stomach.

Interestingly, female werewolves appear to share similarities with their male counterparts. June is lean and muscular but she is also lithe. Her body reminds me of Nami’s: all vine-like cords hinting at the power underneath, yet still feminine and seductive. She lacks her grace and polish, however. I would still enjoy having her as a model. It is not every day that I get to paint bodies like hers.

Come to think of it I should ask Augustus too, as he is rather fetching. I shall just have to make sure it happens somewhere with a strong air current.

“Yeah, so are you heading back to the city?” Jeffrey finally asks.

“Yes, would you care to join me?”

I have an inkling that werewolves have enhanced senses. It would be easier to interrogate my new minion away from prying ears. We would not want to be interrupted.

“Finally! A bed, in a real bedroom! We can have a bed, right?” the boy asks, excited.

Ahem.

A month ago, I had dreams of becoming the queen of North America, the head of an assembly of lords and ladies united in our desire for independence and uninterrupted dinners. Now, I am trading information on some werewolf against a room with a roof on top. How the tables have turned.

I gaze up at the Watcher and feel more amusement than usual. Have a nice laugh at my expense you big celestial dolt. You are lucky not to be a giant nose.

Imagine that. The Smeller.

Heh.

“Bosswoman?”

“Yes, you can have a bed, Jeffrey. And even share it with your lady friend. Now come on.” I declare as I take my leave, “AND STOP SNIFFING ME!”

The trip back goes smoothly. I easily step over the fresh-fallen snow while they happily walk through it with unexpected grace. I had imagined that werewolves would just break their way through the thick white layer like plow horses, but I was just being unduly dismissive. They know how to move.

Jeffrey is not the kind of man I need to crack open. Instead, he is so open I need to slow him down and sort through the drivel for the occasional nugget of wisdom. I need a direct approach.

“What can you tell me about Augustus Jennings?”

“Augustus Jennings? The moody twin? Figures. I told June, I did. I told her; he will step up to do the job if there is no one else. Didn’t I, June?”

“Ah? Huh,” she grumbles. The girl seems a bit out of it. I suspect that something is wrong in her, and she does not look like she was the sharpest knife in the drawer to begin with.

“Anyway. Augustus. He’s Thomas’ twin. Did I ever tell you about Thomas Jennings?”

“You did not.”

“Alright. When Fenris started to take over, not everyone remained passive. There was this guy, Thomas. He tried to gather packs around him. He was not as quick or efficient as Fenris but he did start to get a following. Instead of coming and beating the crap out of the local leader, he would try to convince people and sometimes do helpful stuff like killing the weird animals himself. You know about those?”

“Like a giant crocodile who can hide its presence?” I answer, recalling the first time I met Loth. We hunted a few abnormal creatures after that, but nothing came close in terms of danger or intensity.

Those hunts bring me no reward either. I cannot drink bear blood.

“I guess it would be a crocodile down south huh. Never seen one o’ those myself. We have grizzlies, normal wolves and the odd elk. Mostly. Anyway, at some point he disappeared while escorting a caravan to some forts. The pack he was helping got immediately absorbed by the Black Peaks. My bet is that they ambushed him as he was alone and did him in.”

And so, the naïve hero falls. I am not even remotely surprised.

“If they assassinated Thomas, why not kill Augustus as well?”

“Huh? But why would they? He was not the leader. Thomas was.”

I stare into his guileless face for any sign of humor. Alas, I find none.

“Are you serious?” I still ask, incredulous.

“Hm, yeah? That’s the story anyway. They were not from my pack.”

“Are you telling me that Fenris assassinated Thomas but left his twin alive? Would he take that risk?”

“Hmm, I’m not sure I follow. Is it a vampire thing?”

“It’s a commonsense thing! If you behead an organization by slaying its leader, you also kill off his identical sibling! I understand leaving the children alone but come on, a twin?”

Both werewolves stare at me with equal expressions of bovine bafflement. After scratching his dirty scalp for a few seconds, Jeffrey’s eyes widen as he finally understands.

I hope.

“Ah, it’s because you think Augustus was a leader too!”

There is no hope.

“I need to explain then, bosswoman. You see, there are three kinds of werewolves’ behaviors and a leader is only one of them. When you’re a leader like me, your transformed body gets bigger and brawnier and you have to show people what to do, where to go, take care of everyone. That sort of thing. Then there are the followers like June here.”

She nods briefly then returns her gaze to the snow before her feet.

“Most of us act as followers. A good follower reduces the burden on the leader and also makes him stronger. June is really good at it.”

June’s support must contribute to his surprising mass, though I suspect that the curse also plays a role. I find myself more and more curious about them. I would never have imagined that they could develop their own culture and hierarchy.

“Then there are the outsiders,” Jeffrey continues. “They don’t need to be in a pack to keep the curse under control and having them around is relaxing.”

“How so?”

“I’m not sure. It just feels like all the little things that usually piss you off don’t matter that much anymore and you can think more clearly.”

So, an outsider restores their mind to a semblance of functionality. I need to get myself one of those. And soap.

“Come to think of it, I believe Alistair mentioned something of the sort. He was an outsider to be traveling alone.”

“He was?” Jeffrey adds, suddenly more energetic, “then maybe he survived! Outsiders are the rarest of our kind. They are too valuable to kill off. Maybe he’s kept somewhere?”

“Perhaps…” I reply noncommittally. Alistair was certainly the least irritating werewolf I ever dealt with. I would certainly prefer to deal with him than the others.

Hold on.

I was trying to get information on Augustus! Misled again!

“Jeffrey, Augustus seems sure that he can provoke Fenris to a duel and win. What do you think?”

The young werewolf stops behind me, soon imitated by June. I turn back and am forced to look up to him as we are currently walking downhill. From that angle and with his contemplative gaze, I believe that I am catching a glimpse into what kind of adult he will grow up to be. He appears more composed. Calmer, somehow.

“There were rumors about Thomas. They said that he was invincible in direct combat. Maybe that’s why Fenris didn’t challenge him like he did everyone else. But that’s the thing, Augustus used to be an outsider, so I don’t know if it’s confidence or wishful thinking.”

“You can change roles?” I ask with surprise. Our own hierarchies are much more static.

“We change roles all the time, yeah, though mostly it’s between leader and follower. It can even happen without a challenge!”

“I see. And you never saw him fight?”

“Did you not look at him during the brawl, earlier?” Jeffrey asks with some surprise.

“I was checking our perimeter,” I explain. Jeffrey looks askance, as if he had never heard the expression before.

“He was strong,” June speaks for the first time. Her voice is raspy and a bit slow, yet it is perfectly clear too.

“He tore through Olaf without effort. I watched him do so. It was… not pleasant. He was too cold.”

She shivers, and the pair remains lost in thoughts for a few moments before Jeffrey recovers his usual smile.

“He looked almost sad. Not very werewolfy, if you ask me!”

Nobody did.

“You have not answered my question,” I observe tiredly.

“What question?”

I sigh.

“Do you think Augustus has a chance of winning against Fenris.”

“A chance? Yeah. After seeing him fight, I think he has a chance against anybody.”

We spend the rest of the trip in silence, and soon join back with the others. Melusine and Blake both frown to see that I have two mutts in tow now, but they do not comment on it in front of the mortals. A brief discussion is all we need to align on what to do.

Blake will stay here and manage the city, including the cleanup of the frozen corpse garden. As she requests, I agree to leave the wolf slayer with her until the current crisis is resolved. I can tell that she really likes it, and plan on offering her a custom version as long as I get the time to forge it.

As for the rest of us, we will be going. Frost is satisfied with the slaughter he caused and is quite eager to see if he can add a few more notches to his already massive kill count. He and Melusine will clear our approach while I stay with the horde and make sure that they get the boost they need at the right moment. The mortals will rest for a day, then we move.

As we head back to the city, I realize that, for the first time, I will go to a conflict where both sides are my enemies and attempt to rescue all of them.

Truly we live in interesting times.

94. The Die is Cast

I push Metis onward. The mass of wolves in quadrupedal form smells the air, then reluctantly parts before us. Their instincts, pushed by the curse, still see anything with four legs as prey.

Fortunately, Metis does not behave like prey. At all. Some of the more adventurous wolves are still healing from having an ear nipped off. What can I say? Metis is a gourmet.

It helps that we do not smell like their usual fare either.

Finally, we arrive in front of Augustus’ personal guard, an improvised squad resulting from remnants of packs brought together by revenge. They may not be the largest specimens, but they make up for it in aggression.

They refuse to give way.

Metis lets out a low-pitched neigh, the flesh-eating equine equivalent of “just try me.” Before someone gets hooved into the frozen ground, the man of the hour steps forth.

I have to admit that he looks better now than he did a few nights ago. His exhaustion left way to dark determination and his previously messy hair is now tied back, showing his square jaw and carved cheeks to his advantage. He wears only leather pants under a jacket left open to reveal the muscular chest underneath. With his grim air and the background of frozen wastes, he looks like some barbarian king in a raunchy novel.

The wind blowing at my back prevents the wolf stench from coalescing into a noxious cloud of nauseating horror, allowing me to appreciate the moment.

“What is it, Ariane?” he finally asks.

“We have hit a hurdle and will need to conduct some measure of diplomacy. Your presence would be appreciated,” I state.

Interestingly, Augustus will never take any orders, especially not in public. Even the most sensible instructions are answered by a silent glare. A well-formulated request will always come across, however. In this regard, he is abnormally rational. It makes communicating with him both easy and difficult.

This time again, he can read between the lines. A nod and a raised fist are all it takes for his personal guard to split before him and open us a path back. The horde stops in the valley behind us as we move up the slope to a line of pines tucked along a ridge. Frost, Melusine and Melitone are waiting for us at the edge.

Only Melusine and I are mounted right now, on our respective Nightmares. We all wear armor, even Melitone who will definitely not take part in the fight despite her insistence that she can take care of herself.

“Are we ready?” I ask.

“Yeah, let’s do this,” the Servant replies with hunger in her eyes. Being sidelined from the conflict is eroding her patience, which I understand only too well.

I take the center with Mel and Augustus to my right and Melusine and Frost to my left. The valley’s pale light disappears as the snow-covered branches progressively block off the sky. Frost picks a pair of glasses from his pocket and casually places them on his nose, looking like a distinguished entomologist on a hike, never mind the cold.

The stomping of hooves heralds their coming.

Five shapes emerge from the gloom, appearing seamlessly from behind trees as if they had been there all along.

Lamellar armors, gruesome weapons, and dark expressions to match.

Knights.

More specifically, the usual squad plus Jimena. Sergei of the Kalinin is the only one mounted on a Nightmare covered in mail. He himself wears a helm and carries with him a long spear. A massive two-handed axe hangs from his back.

The rest of his team has not changed much. Alec is still stoic, Alaric still smiling playfully with his hands twirling daggers and Aisha gives no sign of recognizing me, eyes fixed forwards and face covered by her veil. No one knows yet that the Amaretta vampire and I are allied.

“I think you owe us some sort of explanation,” Sergei begins.

“I don’t owe you anything,” I immediately retort in English, then stop when Jimena discreetly coughs. Her light protest curbs my anger. She is right, this is no time to be arguing. We are on a schedule.

“However,” I continue, “for the sake of cooperation, I will gladly inform you that we are on the way to Fenris’ horde to kill him.”

Sergei’s glance stops on Augustus who studiously ignores him, then on the dense formation of transformed wolves down on the plain. They sit patiently on their haunches, looking towards where we disappeared with eerie focus, a sea of eyes twinkling in the moonlight.

“You are bringing an army of werewolves next to another army of werewolves and expect them to fight each other,” he observes, and I recognize his use of English as a courtesy.

“Yes.”

“Is your confidence based on facts?”

“They have done it before,” I reply, not particularly surprised by the knight’s distrust. I notice that while Anatole was immediately dismissive, Sergei is merely dubious. My instincts tell me that he could be convinced.

“You there,” the haughty knight says as he addresses the werewolf, “will you really fight your own kind?”

An awkward silence descends on the assembly as Augustus stares Sergei in the eyes. His bravery is commendable, if foolish. I have not tried to dominate Augustus and I have no doubt that his status as leader affords him some degree of protection, but against a Master? I would not bet on it.

I intervene before the pissing contest degenerates and we accidentally end up at odds with some of the deadliest fighters on the continent.

“My dear Augustus, would you kindly inform sir knight as to what you intend to do to Fenris once we reach his horde, please?”

“My packs will open the path, then I will face Fenris in single combat and slay him. With the horde under my control, we will return north.”

“No you won’t,” Sergei retorts.

“Yes, he will,” I pointedly insist.

“Are you betraying us, Devourer? These creatures killed several of us!”

“You are mistaken, Sergei. They killed several Rolands.”

“If I may, Ariane?” Melitone interrupts with a pleasant voice, “as Constantine’s representative in this matter, I believe I can bring this disagreement to a close.”

She turns to Sergei, whose expression has become more guarded. His caution is soon proven to be warranted.

“The Speaker mandated Ariane to protect Detroit and bring the werewolf invasion to a close. I judge that Ariane’s plan to dethrone Fenris and disband his army not only satisfies the Roland request, it does so in a way that significantly reduces the risks of further casualties on our forces. She acts under our orders and with our approval.”

“The werewolves united once; they can do so again! We should purge as many as we can now, or they will spread again like an infestation!” Sergei retorts.

“You can do so on your own free time. Our current objective is liberation, not extermination.”

“The objective changed when the knight squad—” the knight spits, before being interrupted by Melitone taking a step forward. Sergei frowns in disapproval before realizing who she speaks for.

“Constantine said you might react this way. He also said that under the Accords, which your organization agreed on respecting while you operate on our territories, Speaker-mandated missions take precedence over knight authority. He added, and I quote, ‘if Sergei has difficulties understanding the standing agreement, I will be compelled to travel north and explain it to him in person.’ I will add that not only will it be an extremely unpleasant experience, he is also currently working on guardian golems for your Carpathian fortress. Who knows what unforeseen delays the project would face if he were to be disturbed?”

Frost and Augustus look on with interest as the knight squad leader grits his teeth. The number of hostile factions I am supposed to assist just bumped to three. Watcher grant me patience, I just want to eat them all and be done.

I can tell that Sergei has reached a decision when he slowly relaxes the death grip on his spear.

“I suppose it will be up to us to deal with the consequences of your short-sightedness, as usual. In the meanwhile, please do share your strategy so that we may coordinate.”

Progress. Such as it is.

I explain the plan in English. The knights all stare in the distance as they attempt to visualize what we intend to do, except Jimena who looks positively ecstatic.

“I must admit that it sounds both simple and actionable,” Sergei says after a delay, “I do have a few reservations.”

“Do tell,” I reply, expecting more nonsense.

“First, how can you be sure that the horn won’t affect the other wolves? Would it not be counterproductive to make them stronger?”

“It won’t affect them the same way a firebolt does not explode in your face. Magic is about intent. Besides, it already worked once.”

Sergei nods and his gaze lingers on the artifact slung over my shoulders. I will have to be careful after the battle if I want to keep my word, which I do. If I can operate the horn, perhaps he can as well.

“Very well,” Sergei continues, “I was also wondering why you have to charge through the ranks. Can your champion not simply issue a challenge?”

“I will take that one,” Augustus interrupts. To my surprise, Sergei lets him.

“Fenris is a snake. He will delay us until he can have his skald blow the horn in turn. The only reliable way to force him to duel is through a violent challenge that he cannot ignore.”

“I see. One last question: how certain are you that you can defeat him?”

“Completely so. I have seen him fight before.”

I did not know. Augustus has remained tight-lipped about his past and I have not pried. I just hope that his confidence is warranted. Our whole plan hinges on it.

Well not entirely. If he loses the fight, I will assassinate his head skald then flee through Augustus’ horde before Fenris can turn it on me. This course of events will most likely eliminate me from the contest, and yet I am committed now, and the appearance of the knights only confirms that I made the right choice. With their assistance, Lazaro will succeed then claim that he eliminated the werewolf threat. It will matter little that he had their help.

No, I must gamble.

I hate this. I prefer to approach a problem patiently and then, when the circumstances are right, I can let go in full confidence. The human part of me plans and the vampire part pounces, as it should be. All this uncertainty is grating on my nerves.

“Well, I am convinced. Your rationality and flexibility impress me, Ariane.”

Oh, wow. What a surprise, I can be rational.

Who would have thought?

…

I snap.

All the tension of the last few days. The backstabbing, including the one I caused. The constant insults. Accommodating all those giant egos and more than that, the constant stink of the horde. And now this?

“You are impressed?” I sweetly start, “Really? You are impressed? Because I came up with a viable plan? Blimey Sergei, the Devourer had a plan! It is almost as if I was not just a dumb brute! Almost as if, you know, I successfully escaped the Lancasters as a fledgling, then hid without worry for a DECADE! Protected my territory with a Dvergur fucking king and learned painting and engineering! It’s almost as if it took me repelling a FULL-SCALE INVASION, DESTROYING A CULT TO THE LAST MAN AND SLAYING THE HOLDER OF THE KEY OF BERIAH IN SINGLE COMBAT FOR YOUR CLOWNISH TWAT OF A PREDECESSOR TO FINALLY FIND ME!”

I am slightly raising my voice at this stage, but I do believe that my slight annoyance is warranted.

“I governed a town for twenty bloody years and destroyed a mercenary army with my own militia which I trained and equipped from scratch. I liberated a Gabrielite prison. I slew that absolute prick Lambert in a duel and drank his sorry hide dry. I have led raids and successful infiltrations, heists even! I am a demolition expert, a sharpshooter, a smith and a scholar of the magical arts. I am currently at the head of an alliance of people who would normally kill each other on sight, but no that didn’t count for shit you cockless fuckwit! The Devourer is an airhead! Oh look, she managed to tie her shoes! FUCK YOU! I AM FED UP OF NOT BEING TAKEN SERIOUSLY. DO YOU TOSSPOTS NOT BELIEVE IN RESULTS? HUH? IF YOU PAID ATTENTION TO ANYTHING I EVER DID YOU WOULD KNOW I SUCCEED MORE OFTEN THAN NOT. NOW SHUT THE FUCK UP AND FOLLOW MY PLAN AND STOP BITCHING, OR I’LL SHOVE YOUR SCRAWNY COLLECTIVE ARSES IN A NAVY GUN AND SPLATTER THEM OVER THE ATLANTIC! FUCK!”

I only stop when I realize that Jimena is patiently patting my hand. She walked all the way to Metis without me realizing it.

All the other vampires are staring at me with horror while Augustus looks strangely pleased. Melitone is smiling proudly and Frost has walked a few steps away, trying not to choke on his laughter.

“This… appears to be a sensitive topic,” Sergei finally says with some hesitation.

“There, there…” Jimena continues with an amused grin.

I cannot fathom what happened. I am normally so calm, my mind turned cold by my own nature. This outburst was so very… human.

Perhaps I am suffering from some sort of fatigue.

I remember when fighting side by side with Loth against Ascendency and their borrowed British forces. The fighting had gone on for days and towards the end, I had turned primal. Not rogue since I was still in control. Primal. All of my instincts were so close to the surface that every problem appeared as if they could be solved with overwhelming violence.

I may be facing the opposite problem now. Working with the werewolves, assassinating Mornay and contending with the Cadiz indirectly are political games. I may just need a good slaughter. A battle where I do not have to run.

Sergei interrupts my musings.

“Ahem, yes. In any case, the plan is sound and we will support it. I will now share more about what we had planned ourselves.

I perk up at this revelation as Jimena steps back and returns to her fellow knights without a word.

I really love her for that: the little things she does without a word, without need for recognition. It conveys more affection than hours of discourse.

“We have been helping the Cadiz for a night now. They are entrenched in a valley west of York, under siege by the army you mentioned since five days ago. Our plan was to have the vampires do a sortie, forcing a reaction from the man you called Fenris. Using that distraction, we would have flanked them and inflicted heavy losses before withdrawing. If possible, we would have killed their leaders too.”

“Sortie? Are they not heavily outnumbered?” Melusine asks.

“Quite so, but they have mobility and a fallback position. We also lack options: the Cadiz only numbered five and lost a member on the first night. They have been conservative since then, but time is not on their side.”

“How did they hold for a week?” I ask with eyes narrowed.

“The first thing a Cadiz does when investing a new territory is to build a fortress,” Sergei patiently answers. Jimena nods to confirm this piece of information before explaining a bit more.

“Fortresses start as a sort of oppidum. My clan uses logs and packed earth to create a perimeter then expands underground in a way that a handful of men can hold it for a long time. Vampires assist in the building, considerably shortening the time it would take to complete the work.”

I bet, considering that the average master can carry a trunk in one hand. If the Cadiz managed to create a proper tower, the werewolves will have lost the numbers advantage. I doubt that they carry any siege equipment either. We should still hurry.

“Why is time not on their side?” Frost asks in turn. Sergei clearly hesitates. Rank is paramount for us, and Frost’s position is still unclear to him.

“Vampires need blood, more so if they are constantly fighting,” I explain.

“The Cadiz lost half of their mortal followers on the first night. Some are getting dangerously close to… exhausting their patience,” Sergei continues.

The mortals may not understand the full implication of what such a loss incurs. Without an adequate supply of blood, the vampires may end up destroying the minds of their mortals and some could even turn rogue.

“Can they not escape?”

“The vampires may break through, if they sacrifice all of their followers.”

We all understand that it will not happen.

“Enough questions; we need to move now. I propose that you knights proceed as planned but from another angle. The Cadiz attack first, you flank them and once both diversions are in progress, Augustus and I will charge. Melusine and Frost will cover our approach, as planned. Is this agreeable?” I ask.

“It is,” Sergei replies, “Aisha will signal the Cadiz to attack with a spell. We will wait a minute before engaging ourselves. You will probably face the least resistance if you wait a bit.”

Both Augustus and I signal our agreement.

“We could be forced to disengage. Can you signal us when you attack so that we know we have held their attention for long enough?”

“Oh, trust me,” I reply, “you won’t miss it.”

For the first time since I met him, Sergei smiles. The little I can see of his mouth lifts upward and his entire demeanor changes.

“It will be a pleasure to see you at work, Ariane of the Nirari. After you are done here, you should consider joining us for a spell. We could use a Vanguard of your caliber,” he says.

Vanguards are the knights’ combat experts. Did he just try to recruit me? I turn to Jimena who nods emphatically.

Well, I could consider it in the far future. For a while. If my territory is secured. After all, they present some of the best opportunities to collect allies or blood samples.

I consider the knights as they leave. We successfully coordinated in a peaceful and mostly respectful manner despite my apprehensions. Perhaps Anatole was the exception and the rest of them are not so bad that I cannot work with them. Of course, I will never fully trust them either. They did not oppose him as he was skirting the rules, after all.

“Let us depart. We must still find our quarry,” I tell my allies.

Melusine and Frost assent and leave as Augustus and I return to the horde behind us. I can hardly believe it but with the knights on our side, our chances have significantly improved. I hope nothing comes to ruin our plan.

The trip back is anticlimactic. I return at the tip of the formation where Metis is currently munching on yet another ear while Augustus returns to its heart. We move forward at a slow pace to allow the others to sweep for sentinels.

Valleys lead to forests, and to ridges in turn. The night is beautiful, but I have difficulties enjoying it because of the smell and the unreliable allies at my back. The horde is incredibly quiet, for its size, yet even subdued their auras are too powerful for me to ignore them. Their constant presence weighs on my mind step after step. Only the reminder of what is to come relieves my overtaxed patience.

We are going to attack. That means an all-out charge.

Finally, I am done running, scheming and planning.

I can let go.

Soon.

Finally, I hear it. A clamor of flesh and roars erupt to our right. Frost signals us from a line of trees before running to the side with his mages. The path is clear.

I spot Melusine dragging a corpse away from a thicket as we enter it.

Another clamor sounds, further away. The knights have entered the fray.

And then we see it. The untapped wilderness falls before us in a large plain dotted with farms, all of them collapsed husks of charred wood. To our right, a mass of wolves in tight ranks face off against four flickering shades. The group tries to corner them, not committing too much while the vampires are forced to inflict superficial wounds before falling back. They are the largest group.

Far away in front of us, the knights have engaged a second group of wolves, close to a hundred. They are much more brutal and effective, and several corpses already litter the ground. From the gestures, It appears that Fenris has sent the ferals to cover his flank.

Finally, a bit to our left, a smaller group waits in a loose circle around a fortified encampment. Large tents and cages dot the ground and in its middle stand three men.

The first sits on a throne of bone and leather, clad in a garish white pelt like a raider king. His long black hair and black beard offer a sharp contrast with light eyes and pale skin. Next to him stands a bald man with a hawkish nose and a vicious smile carrying a horn much like my own. On the other side, a veritable mountain of muscle with the face of a caveman looms menacingly.

PREY.

I turn to the line of wolves behind me. They are looking forward to the man on the throne with an intensity I never expected from such animalistic creatures. I feel a burning resentment, a deep-seated rage that dug into their heart and now fuels the coal of their anger. They lick their chops, hackles raised. Behind them, their leader waits.

Augustus gives a single nod. They are ready.

The world is waiting. The enemy skald has not used his horn in the few minutes that have passed, or he did it far enough away that it doesn’t matter.

I stare at the circle below us.

This is not how it should be. A leader of the pack should be among his fighters, in the thick of battle. Even I can tell that he is the wrong champion for his kind.

I bring the horn to my lips.

Augustus said I should be as instinctive as possible. I am no werewolf and some of the effects of the artifact will be lost. I must call to the lowest common denominator between us, and I have just the perfect memory to draw on.

I close my eyes and remember.

Black Harbor. Belinda is dead at my feet, her resistance shattered by a point-blank range canister shot. I drank what life still flowed in her veins and destroyed her batteries. Now, the Choctaw warriors, Dalton, Loth and I will lead the charge on the Ascendency flanks. The key of Beriah will not be theirs. The Herald dies tonight.

The red-clad infantry is to our front, slightly down. They think their flanks covered.

I dive more deeply into the memory, focusing on my emotions and sensations.

Taste of blood. ONE PREY FELLED. ONE MORE TO DEVOUR. Night. Wind on my face. Warriors by my side. Friends. The PREY does not know that we are coming. THEY ARE WEAK.

We move.

It starts slowly. We march. We trot. We go faster. We are as inevitable and relentless as the tide.

Back in the present, I pour my aura into the horn. I do not hold back. A veritable torrent of power fills the body and nestles into every bony crevice, ignites every crimson rune. It shines like fresh blood on the snow.

We are running now, but nobody makes a sound. Manic grins to the sides. They do not know we are coming, and this will be A PERFECT SLAUGHTER. We will scream our rage, our delight and our lust for their lives as they turn. As they realize they are doomed.

And just like that time, my mind is overwhelmed by another memory. Sand. A scorching sun made almost pleasant by the dry heat of the desert. Rocks crushed under the rolling wheels of war chariots as men in bronze armor with glaives and bow charge forward.

We are the elite of queen Semiramis. Those who stand before us will fall. This is how it has been, how it will always be. At our front, the prince rides and laughs and shoots his hunter bow. A serrated arrow skewers a man through the chest at an impossible range. Once more, he claims the first kill. The chariots smash into packed infantry. They SHATTER AND FALL.

All three visions meld into one. The present, with the horde of eager wolves behind me, the past with the Choctaw warband and the stolen moment of a distant history. All merge into one emotion, one overwhelming imperative. The need to conquer, to make them pay, and the absolute confidence in my own power.

As unbridled energy disappears into the thrumming instrument, I realize a truth I had never contemplated.

The werewolves are not the apex predators. They had to bow to Fenris and they had to face us. A part of them must know this. A few nights of freedom do not erase years of servitude.

They are not the deadliest creature tonight.

But they wish they were.

They have come here to reclaim their freedom, and I can make it happen.

I will share with them those instincts of mine, the thirst, the fury and the unshakeable belief that I cannot be stopped. I do not need to be too close to them after all. Even a sliver of how I feel now will send them howling down in the valley below. I let the three images superimpose and keep powering up. The horn now shines like a beacon in the night. It begs to be released as hairline fractures appear along its body.

THEY ARE PREY. THE TRAP IS CLOSED. THE GAME IS OVER. NOW, I CAN LET GO.

I HUNT

WE HUNT.

COME AND PARTAKE.

I blow the horn.

The sound takes me by surprise. It starts low and deep, incredibly deep. A horn should not be able to produce this sound even if it were four times the size. The vibration spreads all across the land, smothering every other noise. Then, it grows sharper and reaches a stable pitch at a frequency that shakes me to my very core. Just one note, pure and smooth.

The note becomes richer as harmonics develop up and down until it feels like I am not blowing one horn but a thousand, echoing across faraway places, across ages, all calling for the exact same thing.

Charge.

I have no need to push Metis. We gallop down the slope carried by a tidal wave of snarls and howls. The horn breaks in my hands but the call, the call does not stop. It still carries us forward with the ineluctability of the avalanche.

Fenris’ guard gathers in a tight block. Amusing. FUTILE.

We are so fast now that the wind pushes my hair back. We are no longer charging. We are falling forward as if, for an instant, gravity pulled us straight instead of down.

The enemy werewolves in bipedal form are right in front of us. They already waver. Deep inside they must know that their efforts are pointless.

The grin on my face widens. I cannot help it.

Breathtaking beauty.

Then, impact.

I roar. I push forward into the saddle and catch one under the jaw. I lift it off its feet to crash against the next, I stab another. Metis smashes into dense muscle, barely slowing. Behind us, our own horde reaches the enemy lines.

Now I understand why Augustus kept them in their four-legged form. Like that, they are packed tight while only offering powerful backs covered with protective hair to their foes. The first ranks do not jump. They stay close to the ground and catch legs, pulling their prey under to be smothered and flayed. I always thought the bipedal version was more dangerous but I am proven wrong. The four-legged version is more stable, and Augustus’ troops take full advantage of it.

Then the moment passes, and I stop thinking. There are only jabs and sweeps, Metis’ hooves falling on a skull or sent flying backwards into ribs. I laugh as they try to reach me and fail, just before they are caught.

And soon the last creature falls and I am on open ground.

The three PREY are before me.

I smile because I am happy. Once more, I got to experience something precious and unique.

“Now,” screams the false king. His horn-toting servant raises an-old fashioned wand and screams something, I care not what. Red chains emerge from it and snake around, trying to encircle me. I raise a hand and let the spell slither over my armored body. I allow the immaterial links to ensnare my form as the giant mountain of muscle turns into its bipedal form and charges me. I permit it, and I laugh. I laugh and laugh at their bumbling efforts and pathetic ambush. They are so slow and blind to their own failings. They do not understand.

I raise my eyes to the sky and its quirky denizen. I grin with all the joy I feel and invite it to play.

“I want to show them. Let me.”

In my mind fortress, the statue of the transformed Herald twists and melts into a new form made of a mass of tendrils in an alien harmony. Its blue aura shifts to the familiar purple.

In the realm of reality, my claws flash the same color and I tear the chain apart. The skald falls back, eyes bleeding. The mountain of muscles is already committed.

Time for the appetizer!

Ducking under its arms, I grab the open muzzle with one clawed hand before dragging forward and down. I use my other on his massive biceps and bite mercilessly into the jugular. The creature is so large that I cannot get in properly. It turns into a game. The big creature tries to escape, and I try to keep it more or less standing by shifting my posture. Its free hand rakes ineffectually against Loth’s unyielding armor.

Delicious. I am surrounded by a sea of wolves and they do not intervene because I do not smell like an intruder. I belong here, feeding on one of their strongest warriors in all impunity. A monster among monsters. And I LIKE IT.

It is still weakly struggling as I take my time and glare at Fenris. I could have killed him fifty times already, but I did not. I gave my word. All is as it should be.

Augustus passes me by with solemn steps. When he stops in front of Fenris, something peculiar happens.

In the valley, the din of battle seizes as the collective aura of the packs merge once more, but this time, it also includes our own horde. The merged power is wilder, more organic than what the horn can achieve, yet at the same time, it also feels more stable. A little bit of my call remains in the surrounding mood and the lust for violence runs high. Even the Cadiz and Sergei’s group stop in a strange truce.

The night holds its breath as Augustus steps forward and stops before the throne. Fenris stands, pale eyes shining with resentment.

“You dare ally with one of them? Traitor!” the false king snarls.

“Enough games, ‘Fenris’. I have seen how honorable you were when you killed my brother.”

Fenris frowns, then his eyes widen in surprise.

“You… you were there,” he says.

“Yes, I was. The call of your horn paralyzed me, but I had all the time in the world watching you slay the greatest of us, you mongrel. You did not even have the courage to face him in battle three against one.”

“A king must value results above all else! I united the packs! Not that naïve fool you grieve!”

“A king must value his people above all else. You do not have a united people, just a patchwork of repressed packs you need a magic trick to control. You would know how little it means if you understood the curse, but your vision is as shallow as your knowledge. You are a fake king with a fake name, and if you had a sliver of intellect, you would know that Fenris was a poor title to claim. You see, the Fenris-wolf was never the king. Odin is king. Fenris is his killer.”

Augustus lets his heavy coat drop on the floor, soon joined by his leather trousers.

“And tonight, I will strip you of this name, as well as everything else. Come.”

My ally changes to his gigantic two-legged form. To his credit, the false king does the same with no hint of fear. Grey on my side, black on the other. Both creatures are at least twice the height of an adult human.

They lunge and lock arms, each trying to force the other into submission. Then, just as quickly, they separate and fight by swiping claws. They do not turn around each other to test their defenses as human fighters would. The combat is immediately intense and without mercy.

I admit to being pleasantly surprised. I never had the chance to properly duel a wolf since I am much faster and aim to kill. In truth, both Augustus and his foe are skilled fighters. They move with grace and confidence and stay light on their feet. They feint, dodge and counter with an expertise that can only stem from practice and perfect control over the curse, a human mind and bestial instincts working together in harmony.

Augustus feels cleaner and more poised. He has the reach advantage and makes use of it by keeping his distance. Fenris, on the other hand, is wilder but he has a large collection of techniques he draws on to overwhelm his opponent. His style is vicious and reckless.

They appear to be evenly matched. Soon, both sport deep furrow on the arms and chest but none of the wounds hamper their skill, or indeed, their spirit.

Eventually, I start discerning patterns in their technique and so, apparently, does Fenris. Augustus jabs twice and tries to follow up with a hook-like sweep. His opponent anticipates the third movement and gets in his guard, clawing the biceps and sending Augustus tumbling.

Fenris wastes no time capitalizing on his success. He throws himself at his opponent’s turned back.

In a surprise move that leaves me appreciative, Augustus throws his leg back in a strange kicking movement I had never seen before. His clawed paw catches the black werewolf under the chin and he, in turn, falls to the ground. What follows is a series of short exchanges relying once more on wrestling before they disengage.

I get it now. Werewolves win in a single strike. All those wounds they inflict on each other only serve to prepare that one opening that will give them victory. In this regard, we are strangely similar, though while we focus on the heart, they appear to focus on the neck.

Augustus is slowing down. The bleeding cuts on his left arm limit his range of motion and I see pain in his eyes every time he moves it. Fenris is not looking too fresh either, but he has yet to suffer any debilitating injury.

Augustus does it again. Jab jab, then hook, and just as last time, Fenris gets into his guard.

I smile because I see how this will end.

Augustus is a cunning warrior indeed. As the black werewolf goes to strike the biceps again, the grey one’s jaw clamps on his right clavicle.

Fenris yelps in pain. Rather than savaging the wound, Augustus twists his head weirdly.

There is a loud snap.

I force myself not to wince at that sound. There goes the clavicle.

Augustus falls back to avoid the return swipe and attacks with renewed fury.

I watch him circle his now losing foe and understand why he would make such a good king.

When he was wearing his human skin, he used his troops’ four-legged form to its best advantage, showing an understanding of the curse and the wolf. When he was in cursed form, he showed human adaptation in his combat style with deceit and a few unexpected movements. His merging of mind and instincts is truly impressive. It may even rival my own.

As the fight drags on and Augustus calmly harries his foe, I keep staring with rapt attention. I am no longer so immersed in the magic as to ignore the fear of failure, but this time, there is no twist of fate. No last-minute cheat to steal my victory. The battle finishes without surprise as my champion methodically picks apart Fenris until the fallen king rolls to expose his throat.

When he submits, the collective aura of the wolves ... settles, somehow. Up until now it had been, for lack of a better word, suspended. Like a held breath. Now, the power sighs and attaches itself on the shoulders of the victor.

The man standing and the one on his knees slowly shift back to human form. Fenris’ face is a mask of fury as he cradles his mangled arm.

“Take it then, take my life’s work and ruin it with your pithy dreams, but let me go.”

I realize that Augustus can indeed choose to exile the deposed sovereign. It is his choice.

But we had an agreement, and he turns to me, a question in his cold eyes.

I smile and give him the barest of nods.

The new king returns his focus to the killer of his twin. He shows nothing, no joy, no relief, not even a trace of satisfaction.

“You may leave and take your horn-toting underling with you,” he states in a calm voice.

I turn and realize that the skald is still next to me with the blood of the feedback now dried on his lower face. The improvised mage drops the artifact he still holds and runs to his leader. He helps the man to his feet and, together, they limp away. They leave the circle of werewolves under the glare of many. Not a single cursed one steps up to follow them.

Once they have left the group, the two transform again and start running.

To their left and right, I see vampires keeping their distance.

There is no need for words. I do not call for Metis. She steps up next to me, her heavy hooves pounding on the snow the only loud noise.

When we go past Augustus, our eyes meet, and I see the first true hint of feelings in his features tonight. For a single instant, his control slips to reveal a mix of dark emotions that belies his calm aura. The first is a deep hatred, buried and fiery like the heart of a volcano.

The second is immeasurable sorrow, not at the fleeing figure but at the one who should be there instead. I see it now. Augustus has always been an outsider. It was not he who was meant to carry the mantle of authority. It was his twin brother. He only stepped up because there was no one else.

Victory must taste like ash to him.

And then the moment is gone, and we ride forth. The sea of creatures seamlessly parts before us.

Fenris is banished. That means the other wolves will not touch the pariah. I, however, am not a wolf. Three out of three. Tonight will be such a feast.

Metis snorts.

“Yes, yes, you can have their ears.”

She gallops faster, the glutton.

95. Curtains

Eleven vampires stand around two corpses. Melusine silently took her place by my side, while on the left, the knight squad and Jimena arrayed themselves in a V formation. The last face of this uneven triangle is formed by the Cadiz. Lazaro and another master stare at Fenris’ remains with glassy eyes. Next to them, a woman with dark curls and a man with grey eyes under blond hair show various expressions of grief and regret. Their party has suffered the most from this adventure.

It occurs to me that we have reached a critical mass. Four hundred werewolves could overwhelm anything short of a battle lord if the vampire were to stand and fight. With nine masters, we have an army.

In theory.

“What happens now?” Lazaro asks with a wary voice.

“As per our agreement with the Speaker, we follow Ariane’s plan. Their warlord Augustus will lead his packs north and disperse them.” Sergei answers in a tired voice.

Lazaro nods, seemingly resigned. His companion does not.

“Is that it? Was your outrage just a show?” he hisses with obvious hatred.

“You are in no position to criticize me, Reyes, and particularly not before our friends,” Lazaro retorts with a chastising glare, but the other is unfazed.

“Your friends, perhaps, not mine. You can take your honor and image and go greet the dawn.”

“Last warning Reyes, you have exhausted my patience.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“Yes.”

The words were exchanged in a clipped, fast tone. The rest of us do our best not to stare.

This is unprecedented for me. Until now, all vampires had stuck to a strict etiquette. This public outburst surprises me greatly. What manner of conflict could have caused two warriors who have fought side by side to despise each other so?

“I accept your challenge.”

“Witnessed by the knights,” Sergei announces with obvious regret.

Ahem.

Melusine discreetly bumps my arm.

“Witnessed by clan Nirari.”

“Witnessed by clan Lancaster,” she says in turn.

“The duel will take place before our fortress in half an hour. Make sure your affairs are in order, Reyes.”

“And the same to you.”

The Cadiz then split up. The Masters disappear, each in one direction. The two Courtiers remain, looking quite lost. They exchange a glance then leave together at a much slower pace.

The awkwardness remains. Such an embarrassing display, unworthy of us. The only good thing is that there were no mortals to witness our shame.

“We will go to the Cadiz hold, Ariane,” Sergei says with a complicated expression.

“Can I count on you to make sure your… ‘allies’ vacate the area?”

“Yes.”

And soon, only Melusine and I are left.

We inspect the mass of werewolves walking back to their camp in a strange mix of elation and grief. Some are in wolf form, some, in human. There is some fighting, some crying and a lot of hugging. Augustus and a few of his lieutenants are at the tail of the formation, helping along the most apathetic members.

The ferals have been rounded and corralled, for now.

“Could you please get Frost and Melitone to the hold while I talk to Augustus?”

The redhead blinks and returns her focus to me.

“Very well.”

“Oh, and one last thing,” I add, because I am now certain, “you have proven yourself over the past few days. If you want to take over the north, it is yours.”

“If we win,” she replies with a small smile.

She is right. The contest is not over until Constantine passes judgement. I do believe we have an advantage now, but it will also depend on whether the Speaker considers an Augustus-led horde as a greater danger or not. Melitone’s support does not imply her brother’s approval.

Melusine runs to the trees and I leave Metis, who had impatiently been waiting behind, to snack on prime wolf cuts. I walk back to Augustus on foot, taking my time.

From that distance, the horde is a strange thing held together by some vague herd instinct. The packs, once united, now start to dislocate in units of varying sizes. I am reminded of a drunken crowd at the end of a summer feast, only, with more sorrow and slightly less clothes. They are a sorry lot.

When I reach Augustus, even his guards only give him a passing glance before turning their efforts to the most catatonic members of the group. Many of them are women, I notice. It figures.

The leader himself is still standing strong to offer a powerful façade to those who look up to him for comfort. His monolithic aura shows no weakness to those with inferior senses. Only my own expertise reveals the turmoil underneath.

“Ariane,” he soberly greets.

“How are you doing?” I ask, both out of concern and out of respect.

“Now is not the time to be introspective.”

“I suppose,” I reply.

It takes a minute before he finally asks his question.

“So, what happens now?”

“You can leave as promised. The other vampires will adhere to the bargain I made.”

“That is tremendous news,” he says with a heavy sigh. He rolls his shoulder under the coat which he has donned once more, and I can tell that the burden on his mind has lightened ever so slightly.

“You should probably still leave quickly.”

“I know. We will walk north as soon as possible. My new pack and I will… dispose of the ferals, in a humane way.”

I do not speak. What is there to say? How would I feel if I had to kill Jimena after she turned rogue? Words of comfort would not suffice.

“I am concerned about food. We are running out of supplies and we have no way to sustain such a large group.”

“I am sure I could negotiate the purchase a herd or two,” I inform him after thinking about it. It would be best if the risk of creating more ferals was reduced, in case starvation pushes some over the edge.

“That would be appreciated. I have no way to repay you for now, but I would consider it a favor.”

“It is done,” I declare. I always have a small stash with me when traveling with many mortals. It will be enough to buy a few dozen sheep from nearby villages, even if we must pay a premium.

“Good. One last thing before I forget. Your, ah, minion was looking for you.”

“Jeffrey, you mean?” I reply, thinking about the little blabbermouth.

“Yes. He’s over there.”

I follow Augstus’ finger to Jeffrey’s scrawny form. The little goof is waving frenetically with a stupid smile plastered on his face from the back of the formation. June stands next to him looking bored.

With a frown, I join them feeling like I am being summoned.

“Hey bosswoman! When are we leaving?”

“What do you mean, we?”

“Well I said I’d be your man, right? So that means I gotsa follow you to your town, right?”

“Err…”

“Aw come on, you wouldn’t throw me out like an old sock, would you? Forcing me to go back on my word like a scoundrel? Was I not a good lad?” he asks with puppy eyes. June’s eyes roll in their sockets.

“Well, I suppose you were useful, true,” I admit reluctantly.

“It’s settled then! Me and my friends will live on your land and sniff out your foes and piss on their doors and whatnot.”

“Hold on,” I interrupt, “what friends?”

“Come on bosswoman, I told ya I was a leader, yeah? There are plenty of lasses and lads here who don’t want to return north. Ya know, on account of losing everything, the horrible memories, and abuse. They can come with and we will all do the things. All the things. Great hunts all around. Your own personal horde to call, except on weekends. And during the full moon, yeah?”

A handful of girls and two boys of uncertain age detach themselves from the stragglers. Their faces show a mix of fear and determination.

They did honor their promises.

“Well, I suppose it would be acceptable,” I concede. Having a handful of werewolves at my beck and call would certainly be an advantage. I would perhaps have the prestige of being the first vampire to command such a group! As for the smell, there are plenty of forests and wild lands around. I can probably buy them a farm out of the way until they are needed.

No sooner have I accepted, than ten other wolves detach themselves from the group. Then twenty more. Then another twenty. Eventually, over fifty werewolves stand in a half-circle around the very proud and very naked young man.

“That’s settled then, thanks bosswoman! Everyone, follow June to the camp and grab some clothes. We must link up with Frost’s lads before dawn,” he yells to the crowd.

I smile and pretend that I did not just get played like a fresh daisy by a butt-naked guttersnipe half my age. Well done, Ariane, queen of the smelly mutts. Well done indeed. Now you need to buy a whole bloody village with attending woods. Farewell, my savings I had stashed to build myself a gun factory. Farewell! Thine demise is mine to bear. Out, out brief candle!

The group I just took ownership of gathers in a large pack that now walks with a more determined step. Their cohesion separates them from the rest of the horde, and so does their appearance. I notice that many of the members look younger and that almost half are women, a significantly higher proportion than normal.

And then a shape emerges from the retreating mass. A man I had not seen for a long time.

Alistair’s sandy hair is the same, but his green eyes are now deep-seated in a face made more angular by hunger.

“Mr. Locke,” I greet him with a smile. The man stops and his posture changes. He stands straighter, and pretends to salute me with an imaginary hat. The move is elegant, and I find myself chuckling.

“Ariane. A pleasure as always. I apologize for my state of undress as I remember that nakedness makes you uncomfortable.”

“Well if you turn to your left, you will see hundreds of butt cheeks quivering on their way to a camp so…”

“You have grown accustomed to it.”

“I have pushed those sights to the back of my mind and after this crisis is over, I will have to paint ten landscapes to wash away the sight of all those genitals.”

“Ah yes, a lot of painful memories were made here,” the man announces somberly, “at least it is over.”

“What will you do?” I ask to distract him.

Alistair shakes his head before focusing on me again.

“Did I mention that my father was a doctor? The call to heal remains. A lot of people here will need help to recover and I will provide it. We need a larger pack for a while, and Augustus has the power to bring us together. Besides, he, most of all, needs help.”

“I wanted to ask; I see no elders among you. Do you also never age?”

“No, we can age, albeit more slowly. We were just not given the opportunity to do so,” he replies with a bitter smile, “ah enough sadness. I came here to tell you that we would take the last horn with us.”

I almost forgot about that.

“Fair enough.”

Gathering tools of control is unwise if the would-be controlled are aware that you are doing it.

“And also return this. Here,” he says, and gives me a bramble.

The root-like appendage is still lively despite the current season. Its many thorns shine ominously, ready to rend the flesh of those foolish enough to approach it. Alistair is holding it by its severed base, which appears to have been cut by a tool of unnatural sharpness.

In fact, it looks eerily familiar. Those thorns line the walls of my mind fortress.

“Alistair, where did you get that?” I ask in a deceptively calm voice.

“It grew where you broke the chains, Ariane, and then it fell off. I figured that you would not want others to notice. Not to worry, I doubt that anyone else paid attention during the fight.”

“I see,” I reply. I pick up the strange piece of vegetation between two talons. It flashes purple and disappears into nothing.

Hmm.

Alright. Consider me disturbed. I raise my eyes to the Watcher but I get nothing. It feels more distant now that the main event of the night is completed.

“You are a woman of many secrets, Ariane,” Alistair continues, his eyes as wide as saucers.

“Indeed. I just wish the secrets were not kept from me as well. Please forget what you just saw, yes?”

“My lips are sealed.”

“Good.”

The conversation comes to an awkward close as I stare speechless at my now empty hands.

I cannot fathom what just happened. I need to consult with Torran. He will know something, or who I should talk to.

In the meanwhile, I have a duel to bear witness to and I am already quite late.

We gather in a circle, spaced evenly. There are ten of us in battle regalia, most still covered in drying blood but none hurt. Twelve fighters in total. A force sufficient to depopulate a small city in a single night.

Of course, and given the occasion, I would prefer to attack the twelfth man. Constantine’s torturer has an air of meekness that I do not trust and by his side, an executioner axe hangs with its blade well-used. He was not supposed to interfere, but I assume that a clause in his orders permits him to defend himself.

Behind us, the stocky form of the Cadiz hold offers a fitting background to this scene from another age. A duel under the stars, for honor and glory.

All the mortals keep their distance, including Melitone who is currently standing next to a curious Frost. The two opponents slowly walk from the fort’s interior, now clean and proper. Lazaro gets in first. He wears an old-fashioned ensemble that makes him look like a conquistador or an opera villain, in yellow with trims of gold. In contrast, Reyes has chosen red. The angry color clashes against the background in a statement that is addressed as much to Lazaro as it is to us.

I still have no idea what would cause such a rift between the two allies. I was late and could not afford to ask questions. Now the time to do so has passed. The atmosphere is heavy with the promise of a violence and no lust for vengeance or retribution comes to make us forget that one of us will be ash before the hour is done. There will be no winner here tonight.

“Before we begin, we knights are in the habit of seeking a last-minute arrangement. Can you two, who were once friends, not reach an agreement and let reason prevail? Have you not already lost enough?”

“For the death of my Servant and friend I demand the punishment of Lazaro’s little minx. I will have satisfaction, one way or another.”

“Miguel’s death was his own doing. You will not touch a hair from my Servant’s head.”

“I won’t have to, because she will not survive your fall, Lazaro. I should have spiked myself the night I decided to follow you.”

“Yes, you should have.”

They draw. Sergei sighs dejectedly before letting them loose.

“You may begin.”

They launch themselves at each other with a resentment that only a broken friendship can bring. Rather than anger or fear, they show expressions of outrage mixed with anguish and for the first time in my life, I find myself regretting having to see such a spectacle.

Lazaro fights with a sword and dagger while his foe favors a foil. Reyes is more nimble but the Cadiz leader compensates by forcing him back through powerful swings.

I note in passing that I could probably kill either of them, though fighting them both would be impossible.

Eventually, the challenger finds an opening but it proves to be a ruse. Lazaro masterfully baited him into an attack and manages to parry with his dagger at the last moment. Though the foil draws a dark line across his flank, Lazaro’s counter strike is devastating, carving his opponent’s chest almost in twain. The combat ends shortly afterward with a stab and a sweep.

The body falls on the ground with a burst of blue flames. Grey ash against stained snow.

Only sobs come to greet the victory.

With two red lines marring his cheeks, Lazaro cleans his blades and carefully replaces them in their sheath. Sergei’s voice rings hollow as he announces the obvious result.

I look at the ground and contemplate my own mortality. If Jimena had been slightly wrong, this is all that would have remained of me on the arena’s sand all those years ago. The Cadiz Master had been centuries old. How much knowledge had he accrued, how many lives did he touch, to finish here like this?

I am not sure that I like this resolution very much.

To my surprise, Lazaro turns to me after he is done. All the other vampires have already moved away to leave him to his grief.

“I apologize for this display, señora. A shameful end to a shameful attempt. If you still want Illinois, it is yours. I withdraw from the competition,” he declares, then turns away.

Melusine walks up to me. She had been waiting nearby. She crosses her arms but says nothing. Melitone joins us as well, her striking and confident face now showing some distress.

“I believe… congratulations are in order?” she starts hesitantly.

At first, I keep silent as I feel a small tug in my essence. It reminds me of those calls of fate that have served me well so far, only this time it appears more deliberate.

“I need a walk. I will return soon,” I answer, my rebuke to her remark left unsaid. I turn around and walk to the closest edge of the forest.

I slowly cross the packed snow, many prints bearing witness to days of battle and maneuvering. I quickly reach the woods and hide under the canopy. Then, I follow a small path that snakes between several rocks up to a clearing.

I stand facing a tall stone raised like a menhir, with a wind-battered pine tree at its top. The tug stops.

I smile in defeat. I am after all, reaping the consequences of my actions. And so, like all good audiences played by the actors, I clap.

The sounds echo throughout the tiny opening. In the distance, a bird takes flight.

And from behind the stone, a man emerges, his hair the color of gold and his eyes like two spheres of amber. He walks with absolute confidence and bows with graceful disdain.

“Incredible performance, Sinead. I can but wonder how you did it.”

“Must you? Or you could just accept my genius for what it is, and not let knowledge pollute the mystique I aim for,” the Likaean casually declaims as he approaches me.

Do I need to know?

I want to know.

“There was no way you could have predicted the duel.”

“Of course, there were ways. Violence was one of the possible outcomes of the conflict between those two. Lazaro could also have called for a trial. But then, a trial would have shown the Cadiz fragmenting to a Speaker who favors harmony above all else. And if Lazaro had lost, why, the Cadiz would have been disqualified by the death of their candidate.”

Sinead is quite close now and I taste something manic in his aura, something that seeks release but cannot, and I think I know why. This thick reality constrains him, and the height of winter only makes those shackles heavier. The prince is suffering and at the same time, he is pleased by his success. The storm of emotion erodes his normally unflappable character.

Sinead rests his finger below my jaw and pushes up until our eyes are level.

“You are still a child, poppet. We Likaeans do not play with stochastic events, we use them as a veil of deceit. A word from yours truly, a few falsified letters, and two Servants who should have known better found their way out of the Cadiz defenses. A dangerous tryst at a desperate time. A passing patrol. Tragedy strikes, and here we are. Reyes’ Servant loses his life while Lazaro’s does not, thus creating a rift that cannot be bridged. Sorrow leads to resentment, for who is to blame?”

I place my hand against his chest to push him away before he gets too close. He is warm under my palm, with an enticing perfume. My jaw aches with the desire to KILL HIM because he touched a Servant, and yet… such a WORTHY lover he would be.

“I do not need to control every occurrence to guide a plot to its satisfactory conclusion, my dear. Schemes are not strongboxes to shackle but waves to ride,” the man continues.

He is flirting with danger and I think he likes it. It annoys me because the burden of control is placed solely on me.

“Was the show to your satisfaction, poppet?”

“I am very much impressed,” I reply in Likaean, and I am. To control events to such a degree with so little time to prepare involves a large amount of skill and just the tiniest bit of luck. Impressed? I am amazed.

“I only wish you had not killed the Servant.”

“Ah, yes, the old taboo on leaving the pets alone. You are but victims of your nature, poppet.”

“Why do you try me so?” I reply with a frown.

“Think nothing of it, my dear. I am merely suffering from intense frustration and shall return to your home base promptly. Why, I believe your dream mage would enjoy my company.”

“What!? Leave the poor thing alone! And Merritt too!”

“Oh, the grieving widow. It has been long since I last had guilty sex.”

“Get out.”

“I take my leave,” the man replies. He steps back behind the rock and his aura disappears.

In one moment, only the tracks in the snow confirm that our meeting was not a phantasm. Even his smell is gone, and I cannot hear a heartbeat.

I could track him, but I will not. He helped me tremendously tonight and I will allow him to make an exit. Besides, I cannot be sure that I will remain in control if tensions rise.

The death of Reyes’ Servant bothers me on a fundamental level. I do not know if Sinead anticipated how deeply upset I would be, and I am starting to think that he would have done it anyway.

There was something a bit spiteful in his demeanor tonight, though it did not seem aimed at me. He was still more aggressive than normal.

He was still quite obviously trying to dazzle me, and he did succeed. I suspect he was also punishing me for underestimating him, only, he had remained playful so far.

Could he…. be jealous?

No. No it cannot be. Not someone as detached and arrogant as him. Surely the tension is getting to his head. If he were truly jealous, he would not be going after all those other women, would he?

Would he?

Pah, stop it Ariane, this is all in your head.

The walk back to the hold is a lonely one, until a mage sprints from the direction of our camp.

“Miss Ariane?” the man asks, out of breath.

“Yes?”

“Councilman Frost says… he says that something happened. He was resting his eyes when he got a dream message from Marquette. Mage Merritt was attacked. She is grievously wounded! And the assailants took her kids!”

“WHAT?”

96. The Cubs

Ollie hummed a song under his breath. A second later, a heavy fist crashed against the metal frame of his cage.

“Shut up, you little shit, or I swear I’ll—”

“Enough, Garrett, you know the rules!” a distant voice interrupted the guard before returning to plotting or some such.

The furious man gave Ollie a death glare, and what a glare that was. With one eye. The other wouldn’t open and the skin around it was red and all puffed up, courtesy of Ollie’s fire three days before. That was when those ne’er-do-wells had taken them and stabbed Mom, but now he knew she was fine so the thought did not make him all sorts of upset anymore.

The man finally turned and continued walking around in that thing they called doing a patrol. Ollie thought it was just silly. If you wanted to catch something, you needed to hide first. All this walking about and grandstanding? Stupid.

The men who caught him were not hidden at all. They were sitting squat in the middle of a forest like a bunch of idiots with huge fires going so that anyone with sight and more smarts than a roach could find them. They thought they were safe on account of having papers and permits and there being a bunch of them. Just stupid. Look at them standing around and worrying like old hags after church.

Ollie hated them.

Next to him, his sister tsked with a haughty voice. She smoothed the ratty cover they had been given to better warm the little kid with frizzy hair by her side, whom she seemed to have adopted. And never mind that Lynn was barely two years older than the slip of a girl, if that.

They were all young, the children in this cage. They were all casters too. Some had even been sold willingly, like Boulder. By his parents. Others had been taken, like the girl Lynn was looking after. Nobody knew her name on account of not a single word going past her lips.

Ollie thought she might be a mixed blood. She had pale skin but her hair was like Nami’s. So that means taking her would be easier. Those bastards. The anger kept Ollie warm, mostly.

The children used to be cold and hungry but now they were just cold, because yesterday, Urchin had found them and snuck in and given everyone some meat pies. Even the adults in the other cages had not noticed the slippery vampire. Those shackled men and women were black, and he thought they were escaped slaves.

Urchin also told them that mom would be fine. There was this White Cabal mage called Sola who had come to train people in healing magic and she had saved Mom. Ollie thought he was going to cry. Mom was going to be alright.

But now he was still stuck in that annoying cage, and he had also dropped his shoes on the way here to make it easier for people like Urchin to follow so he felt uncomfortable and his socks were wet to boot.

The anger once again made his heart all warm. Wisps of fire kissed the skin of his hand. But he wouldn’t use them. Too many adults anyway and besides, he wanted to see what aunt Ariane would do to them when she arrived, which would be real soon.

Honestly, what were these people thinking? You cannot hide a band of pricks and their kidnapped victims out here in the boonies. Not from mages with tracking spells and a bunch of vampires. These men were just dumber than a rock collection.

The bunch of fools was still arguing about the attack and whatnot and cussing up with great energy. He could hear it from here.

“The prize will make it worth it, the Pyke family has a huge bounty for the two little twats,” a man in a pink shirt and dark beard told the others.

Ollie thought what a fat lot of good it would do them, and good luck with collecting that thing in the afterlife.

“We need to release them, boss, you ain’t seen what I seen. Those people weren’t normal! Even their women started firing at us when we ran away! There was even one who shot Coulter and Bill in the cock!”

“Bullshit, probably just a lucky hit.”

“She was laughing the whole time. Mad people I tell ya!”

“Shut up Francis, no one asked you. We have the kids now and quite a few besides, two more days of travel and we’re going to be rich.”

“Are you now?” a pleasant male voice asked from somewhere on the right.

The camp fell silent but Ollie grinned from ear to ear. He exchanged a glance with his sister who was smiling too. From the darkness under the branches, a man emerged. He wore a perfectly tailored blue ensemble under a bowler hat and leather shoes that looked completely out of place in the frozen mud and dirty snow. That would probably be hell to clean it if that man had been human. Sunk right to his heels he would have.

But that man wasn’t human, not anymore.

As Violet would say, Urchin cleaned up nice. He still looked like some kind of outlaw though. But the kind that robbed rich people with pretty words.

Urchin smiled a sinister grin as he twirled a silver dollar on his knuckles. He launched the coin, which disappeared mid-air only to reappear in his other hand to get thrown again. That was some trick!

Tink. Tink. The game continued.

“Nice trick, asshole, you got another?” Someone asked.

Urchin kept doing the same thing, but he had replaced the silver dollar with a wicked-looking knife.

The others recoiled.

“Who in the devil’s name are you?” the man in the pink shirt finally asked with a voice that was trying really hard to be angry.

In answer, Urchin’s smile widened. Men and women with muskets and mage gauntlets slowly emerged from the undergrowth in silence to form a half-circle around the poor sods. They came from all ages and some looked rich while others, less so. Some wore traveler clothes; others wore a sort of white uniform and some other yet wore winter city clothes lined with frills and fur.

The only thing they had in common was how mightily bad-tempered they looked.

Ollie jumped in surprise when a cold aura washed over him. Melusine dropped from the top of their cage, gave them a gander to check if they were fine, and returned her attention to the front.

The men in the middle were jumping around like headless chicken and squawking at every newcomer. There were a lot of those. Maybe forty to fifty people, more than twice the numbers of their abductors.

It was entirely too much but Ollie could not blame his rescuers for being irked on account of being quite irked himself.

The idiots now huddled in a circle. Most had left their guns next to their packs and the mages among them probably felt the collection of auras rolling around the clearing, each more incensed than the next one.

It did not matter much that they could not grab their guns. It would be as useful as a garden sprinkler on a house fire when she showed up.

Oh, here she was.

Silence descended upon the clearing because something really big was plodding the earth on its way there. The Marquette group now looked on with hungry eyes, like people who came to the circus to see a lion eat its meal or something.

Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.

Metis entered the clearing with that proud gait of hers, and to her sides there were two huge wolves! Were those werewolves? By God they were the size of ponies!

The wolves sniffed the air and then focused on the pile of men in front of them. They showed their fangs and thick drool dripped down their maws. What a show that was! And still, not a pip could be heard.

Ollie could still not believe that Ariane had werewolves as minions! That was almost as intimidating as her full battle armor plus shiny spear. And the silence.

That was the thing. The wrath of a vampire was always silent. Oh, they would hiss and roar sometimes at the start but when they got going there would not be a sound. Like when Ariane and Nami were sparring. You could hear the spears swooshing and clashing but that was it. No steps, no grunts, no cries. And that made it even scarier, because they really showed what they were.

Finally, Aunt Ariane spoke.

“You are bold. Quite bold indeed,” the lady of Marquette declared, her voice echoing across the clearing.

Normally she would probably say something witty, or at least try, to but Ollie knew why she didn’t.

Ariane was livid.

Her aura smashed into the kidnappers like a cold front. Even the non-mages recoiled and cussed up a storm.

Ollie turned around when his sister closed her eyes and placed a protective hand over those of the little girl. The kid let her do so, too busy munching on a meat pie to object.

“You might want to look elsewhere, folks,” Ollie warned the others, but it was all for nothing because Melusine had taken a tarp from the ground and was putting it on the cage to block the view. Ollie still managed to hear what came next.

“Which one, Urchin?”

“The man in the red shirt,” he answered with a sinister voice.

Ollie still thought the shirt was pink.

“Very well. This one lives. Dispose of the rest.”

What followed, Ollie could not see but it was very violent and very short. Also, the wolves howled.

The action was to the front of the cage, but its entrance was to the left. Melusine dropped down once more and approached it.

“It’s spelled. The man with a missing eye got the key,” Ollie explained helpfully.

Melusine did not reply. She put her gauntlet against the keyhole and whispered something in their weird tongue. Ollie felt the spell unravel and then Melusine tore the gate open, lock and all.

It made her instantly popular with Boulder, he could tell. The others were a bit more scared, so Ollie stood up first and extended his arms so Melusine picked him up and lightly placed him on the ground after a brief inspection.

“You are a bit pungent but otherwise unharmed,” she observed.

Ollie looked right long enough to see an arm fly off and decided that, perhaps, he should look to the other side instead. He was one of the oldest kids and he was well-acquainted with Melusine here so the others should listen to him because he was the wisest and most knowledgeable man nearby.

“Right! Come on out people, we don’t have all night. Busy busy!” he said while radiating confidence.

Lynn had finally managed to coax the girl up and they were all lifted in the air, checked for defects, and then delicately put down.

“Hello, I’m Boulder,” said Boulder with far too much enthusiasm when his turn came.

“Hrm. Hello Boulder. A pleasure,” Melusine replied with little apparent interest.

Once Boulder touched the ground, he turned his big honest face to Ollie and whispered:

“She said it was a pleasure to see me!”

Ollie was a man of the world and he thought that she did not mean it exactly that way. Sometimes, adults really liked to say things and meant something else and vampires did it as well. For example, when Ariane said: go ahead and try, what she actually meant was: if you do try I will slap your face off.

Life was complicated sometimes.

Eventually, all the children were down and Violet, who was a nice lady with messy brown hair and a really colorful aura, came and picked them up. The mages and soldiers freed the captured slaves and soon, there was a big convoy ready to leave to make camp… elsewhere. Where there was less blood and other stuff on the ground.

As everyone left under the light of torches, Ollie drifted to the back of the line where Ariane was waiting right behind a man and a woman wearing entirely far too little stuff for this weather. Lynn wordlessly followed him with the little girl in tow.

He was not sure where she got the meat pies she kept nibbling on.

Eventually, he found himself looking up to Aunt Ariane who was on foot at the back of the column. That meant Metis was probably having a meal right now. She gave all three children a passing glance before resuming her vigil, looking right and left, and listening for pursuers.

“Is Mom really going to be fine?” Lynn asked in a voice that cracked a bit at the end.

“She will make a full recovery, but she needs a lot of rest and could not come with us. You can see her as soon as we get back to the White Cabal compound.”

Ollie nodded, but he was still a bit out of sorts. As a man of the world, Ollie had to plan and account for everything so he could protect Lynn and Mom until he grew up enough to kick ass and take names himself, pardon his French.

“Aunt Ari, I don’t understand,” he started. Technically Ari was not his aunt. It was just Lynn who started to call her that and though Ari grumbled a bit, she let it go. Now, everyone around thought Ariane was their relative and that meant Lynn could ask pretty much anyone to do her hair.

“Aunt Ari, how could these men just come and take us? I thought they were bounty hunters?”

“They were slave catchers,” she said with obvious disgust, “their job was to go north, and arrest escaped slaves to bring them back to their old masters. Being a slave catcher is legal, but it does tend to attract the unsavory types.”

“You mean they respect the law, but they are bad people?”

Ariane gave him a measuring glance. Ollie knew she would do that every time she was going to explain something a bit hard. It didn’t mean that he was stupid, just that she didn’t know how much he understood. Adults were like that sometimes. They forgot how different they were at five or nine and how much they understood of the world.

“Yes. The people in Congress passed a law a long time ago. It says that any escaped slaves can be recaptured at any time of their lives and if the slave was a woman and she had children, they were the property of the old master too. One thing is that when a black person is caught, their testimony is not recognized during a possible trial.”

Ollie furrowed his brows as Lynn tilted her head and Ari paused her explanation, recognizing that this last part was a bit too complex. Meanwhile, the little girl gobbled the last of her meat pie then dug another half-chewed pastry from the recess of her grubby dress.

“What it means is that what the black person says does not matter to a judge. The slave catchers can just show up and claim that someone is an escaped slave and if the local authorities find their documents convincing enough, they will be taken south and sold. It makes many of the slave catchers opportunist jackals who will kidnap freemen. That kind of mongrel will also take children from the streets of my city if they believe they can get away with it, because what is one more innocent victim?” she finished with a low hiss.

“So, they could come back?” Lynn asks, looking rightfully afraid.

Ari stopped inspecting her surroundings and focused her raptor-like attention on the girl at her side. Then she took Ollie’s and Lynn’s hands in hers. The vampire’s fingers were cold outside the armor but Ollie did not mind much.

“If those specific curs come back, they can start their own religion. As for the other bounty hunters, they will lose the incentive to come after you once the bounty is lifted.”

“You think you can convince our dad’s family to do that? There has to be a lot of them,” Lynn asked shily.

Aunt Ari did that thing again where she didn’t move or breathe. Sometimes, he wondered how she could look so much like a normal person one moment, and so different the next.

“Indeed. I made a point last time and I assumed the rest of the family had understood the message. It appears that I will have to use more… pointed arguments. It pleases me that the first instance of an alliance of humans, mages, wolves, and vampires in recorded history was assembled for the purpose of rescuing children. Now, I will make sure that such an opportunity never rises again.”

Ollie looked at the column on the road in front of him. The carriages were turning into an estate with guards at the front. That was probably their own camp. He did not know yet what would happen to the rest of his father’s family but he assumed that it would be very unpleasant. He thought it strange that he was defended by a monster against the crimes of his own blood. A bit crazy, he judged. That was fine. He was a man of the world and he would make sense of it, eventually.

Marquette, three days later.

Lynn raised her hand to knock on the door, only for Ari’s voice to tell her to come in. She closed it behind her and made a beeline for the vampire.

Aunt Ari was sitting in a comfortable chair, with a proper table by her side on which she had placed a few documents and a cooling cup of coffee. The heavy scent hung pleasantly in the air of the small but cozy study. The thick walls were also blocking the humdrum of the building: maids preparing dinner and clerks joking and laughing as they wrapped up work for the day.

The only thing missing were windows, but Ari had a very sensitive skin, apparently.

Ari did not raise her eyes from the doodle she was drawing in her notebook. Lynn knew that she would do preparatory work before she started painting and that was part of it. That also meant that the vampire was not working at the moment, and that was the best time for a conversation between proper ladies. So, Lynn went to the opposite couch and sat herself daintily, smoothing her dress in front of her.

Aunt Ari raised her eyes and put the notebook down. Lynn frowned a little bit as she caught a glimpse of the drawing just before Ari closed it. There were a lot of naked people in it. That was strange, because she was rather sure that it was not really proper.

Ignoring that, Lynn smiled pleasantly and decided to start with small talk. Starting with small talk was a mark of good education. It showed interest in the other party and allowed one to learn about the other and their priorities, or so Violet had said. Also, gossip was fun.

“Are you leaving for Boston soon?”

“Yes, tomorrow in fact. You will be safe while I am gone, I assure you.”

“My dad’s family…”

“… has made a fatal mistake. The man we captured revealed quite a few unacceptable practices and now both the Cabal and we are moving against them.”

Lynn thought gossip would be more fun.

“What about the werewolves? Mom said a lot of things about werewolves when we were kids. She said they were very dangerous.”

“They are. Those who moved in are… well, they are different. A group of werewolves together can police themselves and its members do not suffer from the curse as much. I also trust their leader to comply with my orders. He has proven himself worthy if a little too talkative.”

Lynn did not know what to think about that. Werewolves were dangerous. Many werewolves were even more dangerous. And Aunt Ari was very fast and strong, so they were not as dangerous to her as they were to Lynn. On the other hand, Aunt Ari said they obeyed her and that meant dangerous people on her side, and that was usually good.

“Okay?” she replied, but Aunt Ari frowned.

“Not you too.”

“What?”

“This ‘okay’ thing. The acronym of a purposely misspelled ‘all correct’. I first read it in a Boston journal and now it has spread everywhere, including here,” she grumbled.

Lynn kept silent. She had heard that from a traveling salesman and thought it sounded nice.

“Probably just a fad,” Aunt Ari continued, “something this silly cannot possibly become part of our everyday language.”

Then, seemingly recomforted, the vampire nodded to herself before returning her full attention to Lynn.

“Say Lynn, what do you want to be when you grow up?”

“Rich, beautiful, and with a good husband who loves me, and I love him.”

“I meant what sort of occupation,” Ari continued seriously.

“Oh. I want to be a mage that tells people what to do. Like Mom.”

Aunt Ari tilted her head, doing that thing again where only a small part of her moved and it gave her the appearance of an animated sculpture. She and Melusine were like that. They moved little and moved slowly until they were provoked. Then they moved too fast to see.

Urchin was not there yet, Lynn judged, on account of being just a bit of a clod. He was doing his best though, and as Mom said, that was what mattered.

“The White Cabal has offered to train you and the other children we rescued when your talents have matured. That will be very soon for Oliver. You should consider their offer as well.”

Lynn frowned because it sounded a bit like a test, maybe? She remembered that mom had said something about the White Cabal being allies, not friends. That was before they saved her life though. What was it she had said?

“Are you not worried that they will, err, poach us?” she asked.

“They will try, just as I know what the Cabal is like and why some resent its leadership. How should I explain? They make a lot of rules and talk a lot, and some find it annoying while I give a lot of leeway to those who… assist me. A wise man once said, it is better to be first in a village than second in Rome.”

Lynn wondered what Rome had to do with anything, but the quote sounded very smart, so she just played along. And besides, she thought she understood what Aunt Ari meant. The White Cabal were a bunch of stuffy dunderheads while Ari was proper and well-tempered and did not insist on Lynn going to bed before nine. So obviously Lynn would want to stay with Aunt Ari.

That made a lot of sense.

“I think I would like to learn from them as long as they do not force me to wear white,” she eventually decided. If they were going to teach her how to set things on fire like Ollie could then it was worth an early bedtime for a while.

Then she realized that the conversation had gotten serious and now she wanted to go somewhere else.

“Alright. I am going to see Metis,” she declared.

“No feeding her ears or she will grow fat,” Aunt Ari warned.

Giving Metis ears was really fun, so Lynn decided to negotiate a bit.

“Why were you drawing naked people?” she asked innocently, “maybe I should ask around if it is proper and if I should do it as well?”

Lynn waited in silence as Aunt Ari gauged her, and as expected the vampire eventually smiled at her antics. She always liked it when Lynn tried to manipulate her a bit.

“One ear,” she conceded with obvious amusement.

“Yay!”

Lynn ran out of the room and picked up Wisp, who had not moved from her spot and was currently inspecting a painting with her sad brown eyes. Wisp was not holding a meat pie, which probably meant a resupply run was necessary.

“Shall we go to the kitchen?” Lynn offered, and Wisp nodded with energy, her dark frizzy hair bobbing along.

They climbed down the polished wooden stairs past offices and to the ground floor. The kitchen was at the back and would serve dinner soon. The enticing smell of stew and fresh bread wafted from behind the door, and the clang of pots went hand in hand with the din of conversations.

Lynn opened the door and was greeted by the massive form of Irma, casually cleaving a pig leg apart, bones and all. The old woman scowled a bit at the intrusion, only for a large grin to replace it when she recognized the newcomers.

“Good evening Irma,” Lynn said with a small curtsey.

“If it isn’t the young lady Lynn. And Wisp! Are you ready to tell us your real name?” the woman asked the diminutive child with a laugh.

Wisp twisted left and right and squirmed a bit, which only gave Irma a throaty laugh. The large woman delicately placed her cleaver on the cutting bench and cleaned her hands on her apron before turning to them.

“And what do you want? It is still a bit early for dinner.”

“I would like one caramelized pig ear, for Metis,” Lynn solemnly declared.

Irma reached for a glass jar and popped the lid open. Lynn soon had a large brownish and slightly sticky ear which she then folded into a bit of cloth. While her back was turned, Irma made a show of sneaking Wisp a pair of small meat pies. The tiny girl rewarded the cook with one of her rare smiles.

As soon as they were loaded, Lynn bowed one last time and ran away with Wisp still in tow.

They snuck out into the courtyard and past heavy doors to Metis’ enclosure. The shack was part of the normal stable, yet everyone gave it a wide berth. Lynn was not surprised.

When she entered, Wisp let go of her hand to climb to her designated crate. From there she would watch Lynn do her thing. Lynn herself was not sure why Wisp liked high places with a good view but that was alright because she sat with grace and poise and her back straight.

The room they were in had a low plank wall surrounding the place where Metis stayed when she felt like it. It had hay and a large barrel of cold water, as well as a ball and a pillow placed on a pole to rest her head. The black Nightmare was present and she recognized Lynn immediately. Her massive frame now stomped forward, bumping her head lightly against Lynn’s chest and pushing the girl back with a small ‘oof’. The horse’s face was large enough to cover Lynn’s whole torso, though that wouldn’t last because she would soon grow as tall as Irma, just you wait.

Metis made that big ‘snuff’ sound, easily picking up the scent of the pig ear. Lynn giggled and held it in her hand.

Metis had her ritual. She would slowly eat half of the ear little bit by little bit with great care, then gobble the rest. Lynn let her do that, and then moved to pour water in a smaller barrel. That took a while because she was still not so strong but after a few minutes, she had a decent amount of liquid. She then went to the bison herb crate and removed a handful of the perfumed stalks, which she threw in the prepared water. She then grabbed a tool that looked like a giant spoon made out of wood and slowly stirred the decoction like Aunt Ari had shown her, feeling like a proper witch.

As soon as she started, Metis placed her head over Lynn’s shoulder and stared, mesmerized, at the strange tea ceremony.

‘Nightmare successfully captured,’ Lynn thought to herself with no small amount of satisfaction.

When Metis decided that it was enough, she gently pushed Lynn out of the way and sipped on her brew. While she did so, she allowed Lynn to brush her, which the girl did with pleasure.

Metis’ coat was strange. It was surprisingly smooth with a sort of glassy quality that other horses did not have. Petting her was fun and pleasant and completely ladylike and Lynn did it until Wisp cleared her throat.

The small child pointed outside, and Lynn realized that indeed, night was falling. So, they had to meet with the others.

The pair of children rushed out and left the Nightmare to her contemplative mood. Outside, Lynn half-coaxed and half-bullied a guard into doing her hair by casually dropping Aunt Ari’s name which never failed. Then, they ran through the streets of Marquette to their designated hideout which was at the back of one of the many warehouses Ari owned.

Ollie was already there, checking a large bucket for leaks. Boulder waited nearby with his large arms crossed before his sturdy chest. Boulder, whose real name was Herbert, was tall and strong for a kid and his own magic made him even stronger for a while. That would be really useful tonight.

“You’re late!” Ollie exclaimed.

“A lady is never late,” she retorted while pushing a braid back. Her brother rolled his eyes and passed the bucket to Boulder who held it without difficulty.

“Yeah yeah whatever. Are you two ready? It’s almost time.”

“Let’s go!” Lynn shouted, excited at the thought of larceny.

Well, technically it was called ‘pulling a prank’ and was expected of children her age, really. She had heard some of the cooks say that many times. That meant it was ‘okay’! Also, they did it to Maxwell who harassed girls and liked to punch people so, really, it was more like punishing the wicked. Therefore it was totally ladylike and the right thing to do and there were no ‘ulterior motives’ at all.

The four of them ran down the street as inconspicuously as children carrying a bucket and an eager expression at nightfall could manage, which Lynn admitted was not a lot. Fortunately, the inhabitants of Marquette were happy enough to be heading home and no one bothered them.

They soon found themselves in a backstreet, the kind that serviced several workshops. One of the buildings let out a slightly unpleasant smell of burnt sugar and this was where the band’s efforts would be focused.

Lynn placed herself facing the back door and Wisp stood by her side while the boys took position behind the opening, so they would not be immediately seen by anyone coming out.

They did not have to wait for long.

A young man stepped out with a heavy gait. He had a squarish jaw, boorish features and he was rather dirty. As soon as he spotted Lynn, his malicious eyes narrowed.

Lynn breathed in and blew air in front of her. It helped her focus.

Wisp clasped her hand and did her thing. Lynn felt her power expand under her friend’s influence, covering the entire backstreet like a cloud. It bumped against three presences. Two of them she recognized while the third was a tangled mess of loathing and resentment.

Then she drew a deep breath in and swallowed the tangle.

The man’s mouth, which was half-open to cuss or threaten, suddenly slackened as his eyes grew hazy. He stumbled a bit before managing to stand like a drunkard about to collapse.

Ollie and Boulder wasted no time grabbing the door. Ollie snapped his fingers and a plume of fire lit in there to illuminate the now darkened store. They went in.

In the meanwhile, Lynn’s focus was on the little ball of hatred in her mind. She held it still. It was a pretty little mess and she recognized some of the strands. That one was wrath against the other regardless of who they were. This one was self-loathing. And that one was envy!

She was tempted to pull on the strings to see what happened. She had felt Aunt Ari do so on occasion. The vampire had made it look easy and quick, but Lynn was not so sure. She thought it could change someone for a long time and she did not know how exactly. It was just that Maxwell was a horrible person and surely… There was this strand pulsing green and sickly. That one was despair. It was buried deep, but it also merged with everything else. If Lynn were just to pull on it a bit more, weaken the red angers and inflate it until it took everything over and drowned them under its thick mantle, perhaps…

Eventually, timing made the choice for her. The boys quickly left the store with a now-filled bucket, which even the strong Boulder had trouble pulling.

“Let’s go!” Ollie whispered.

Lynn let the boys disappear at a corner while slowly walking backward without breaking eye contact, Wisp still supporting her. Then she released the link and disappeared in the shadows.

She caught a glimpse of Maxwell shaking his head with obvious confusion and then they were gone.

They walked to the black side of town without hurry as the ‘deed was done’ and the urgency had passed. There was still tension in the air as they lifted a plank off a wall and slid under, ending in a cluttered backyard where three black children were waiting for them.

There was one plump boy in a blue overall carrying a basket, a girl with shorn hair and a taller boy with a beret and a red bandana.

The two groups approached each other until the tall boy spoke first.

“You got the goods?”

“Right here. You?” Ollie retorted.

The other pointed at the basket they had and leaned forward to inspect the contents of the bucket. It was molasses, thick and syrupy. There was enough sugar in there to produce cakes and pies for an entire street.

“Three bags of candies, two of hush puppies, and two tarts.”

Ollie shook his head.

“Four four and two, don’t try me Moses, we both know that’s the only molasse you will get before April.”

The tall boy shrugged.

“Not my call, fireball. We only got three bags of candies and you know the hush puppies will get bad before you can finish them. I can get you another tart after my mom’s done.”

“Throw in a medium jar of jam and some jerky and you got yourself a deal.”

Moses considered it.

“I guess. Fine. But I don’t have the rest, so you’ll get it tomorrow. Same place, same time?”

“You bet.”

The two groups exchanged the bucket for the basket and soon, both were on their way with Wisp already filling her pockets with candy. Lynn hummed under her breath and considered that this stroll had been ‘most educational’ and ‘vivifying’, whatever that meant. Aunt Ari and Mom spent a lot of time ‘liberating’ stuff from bad guys and keeping it for themselves so obviously that was ladylike behavior whatever they said in front of her. Lynn decided that once she was an adult, she would be the most ladylike of them all. She then picked one of the candies and placed it on her tongue. It tasted quite sweet.

They stashed their loot and returned home, no one the wiser.

97. Takeover

February 3rd, 1834, Boston

“Congratulations on your success, Ariane of the Nirari,” Constantine declares with all the enthusiasm of a city clerk delivering a building permit, “you are now the legitimate ruler of the State of Illinois with all the duties and rights entailed.”

Said duties and privileges are mostly about ruling properly and answering a call to arms in the event of a war.

“Thank you, Speaker. Now, what shall I call myself? Queen of Illinois?”

“I highly discourage traditional nobility titles, especially that of sovereign,” Constantine scolds.

He reflects for a moment, then concedes: “Given the size of your territory, European vampires would give you the title of Duchess. I, however, prefer the term ‘head’.”

Boring.

Well, we shall see what the others call themselves. I never considered that before.

“Are there any other ‘heads’ I know of?” I ask, clearly showing my disdain of the unassuming word. Constantine still does not understand that the trappings of power need to be solemn and awe-inspiring. Perhaps he will never learn.

“Of course. There is me. I am the head of Massachusetts. You also know Kouakou, who recently took over Louisiana with the blessing of the Rolands. Sephare rules Washington and Jarek is settling in the Texan territories in Mexico. Of the Cadiz, you know Suarez who rules the Carolinas and Ceron who commands Florida. The Roland twins rule over Mississippi and Alabama,” he continues in what I recognize as his lecturing tone, until he catches himself. The speaker frowns and when he speaks again, his voice is slightly clipped.

“You do not need me to give you a lecture. I am sure Wilhelm will be more than happy to enlighten you.”

I know for a fact that he will not. The Erenwald steward is far too busy handling the day-to-day affairs.

“In any case, here is your official deed, not that it matters. A formal acknowledgement is all you need. Will you be hosting a celebration here?”

“I was planning on it.”

“Good. Once more, congratulations Ariane of the Nirari. I will be following your progress with great interest,” he finishes before returning his attention to the pile of documents in front of him. I understand that I have been dismissed and stand up from the couch. I make my way out of his elegant office. I cross the antechamber and nod at his two mysterious bodyguards, as well as to Sophie, the Rosenthal renegade, who returns a congratulatory smile. The only surprise comes from the corridor.

Lord Ceron is waiting, standing in the middle of the hallway in an elegant old-fashioned suit. His piercing blue eyes turn to me and he shifts his muscular frame to give me a light bow. I did not even know he was in the city.

As usual, etiquette is everything. I return a low curtsey as a gesture of respect. We may be political rivals, we may have different allies and assets. None of this matters when two vampires come face to face. I am a newly minted Master and he is a centuries-old Lord who could control his essence before my ancestors even stepped on this continent. Deep inside, I can feel the power he wields, and my instincts urge me to show respect, and so I do.

“Congratulations on your victory, Ariane of the Nirari,” he says in a neutral voice. The Cadiz lord’s countenance betrays no sign of aggression. A mortal passing by could assume we were talking about the weather.

“Thank you, Lord Ceron. My condolences on the loss of Reyes. He did not deserve it,” I tell him honestly.

“I agree, still, it does not lessen your extraordinary achievement.”

The lord’s eyes glisten dangerously. It is coming.

“Tell me, how did you manage it?” he casually asks.

I feign ignorance at the implicit meaning behind his question. The old monster is fishing, just as Sinead predicted.

“You would be amazed what you can achieve when you treat other species as more than food,” I answer honestly. My face is completely expressionless because what I said was the absolute, undiluted truth.

I just failed to clarify which specific race I was referring to.

The Cadiz nods slowly, before stepping to the side and letting me through. We part ways after a last polite exchange, and he enters Constantine’s domain. As soon as I know with certainty that I am alone I allow myself a victorious grin.

Nami was right. Gloating is our guilty pleasure.

I do not take part in the purge of the rest of the Pyke family. The reality is that there are few of them, barely twenty including their retainers. Slave hunting was a valuable business that gave them a cover to abduct young casters with no formal training and induct them, twisting their minds with sick games to better serve them and cull those who would resist. As unpleasant as they may be, they do not present a challenge, therefore I let Urchin handle this issue at his insistence.

I may be annoyed, but I am also busy.

The White Cabal gets massively involved as well and our two groups find unity in common hatred.

With this concern out of my mind, I return my focus to settling my affairs. Melusine is granted the title of City Master for the future cities of the north and she decides to settle in a tiny place called Chicago, which she assures me has potential. I also organize a party to announce my ascension and invite all of the Accords to attend, knights and recently arrived Lancasters included. Finally, Blake of the Roland sends me an interesting letter offering a trade agreement between her new holdings and mine, which I accept after careful consideration.

On the diplomatic side of things, I confer with Lady Sephare, still busy worming her way into every interest group she can find. I can tell that she prods me a bit too much on my mysterious adviser, and I deflect with amusement. Sinead has grown into a master of deceit and disguise. She will have to be left wondering. In fact, she should even suspect that I am receiving help from Nirari himself since he is my most likely source of support.

With this lull in activity, with no one actively trying to kill me, rob me, or take over my lands, comes a time of planning and introspection. Painting all those new sources gives me all the time I need to ponder on the recent developments. I am only interrupted once, when I realize that a small version of the Watcher I drew over a large group of naked werewolves in human form turned into a nightmarish nose with tentacles coming out of the nostrils. Truly, an abomination that came from the recess of a completely twisted mind. Fortunately, I blink, and the image is gone.

I still look outside to the cosmic entity and get a feeling of placid innocence.

Sometimes I wonder how close the blasted thing is to full consciousness.

Except for this small distraction, I am mostly left alone with a fateful question, one I had so far avoided.

Two decades ago, Loth came to me after a particularly playful display of cruelty on my part. He advised me to develop a set of rules to follow when dealing with my foes, an advice I elected to follow. He was, as always, right. The laws I defined that night helped me keep myself grounded. Rather than base all my decisions on instinct and emotions, I set up a semi-permanent set of rules that could guide me through clouded judgement and moments of extreme stress. I have the feeling that I broke that law in the previous contest.

More specifically, I broke the law on how to deal with enemies who did not commit acts I deem unforgivable. Reyes was not at fault for Ceron’s decision to encroach on my territory. I did not consider him responsible for the backstabbing, which is the most important factor. Yet, he was tortured by the loss of his Servant, an event which I caused by unleashing Sinead on the Cadiz faction.

It would be dishonest of me to say that I am not responsible for the Likaean’s action. You do not put a snake in a crib and complain about venom. I knew he would inflict untold torment on a group who represents everything he resents about my kind.

I relished it. It made my essence sing in anticipation.

So, in some ways, I broke my own code. It matters little that it was through an agent, I knowingly let it happen. What surprises me is that I would not feel worse.

I realize that when I set the code, I allowed myself some flexibility in the future. It acts more as a guideline than a dogma. Now a new situation has come up and I have to decide whether or not I should amend it. Should I accept the devastation caused by my allies or agents in a conflict?

I do not believe so.

It is a poor tool indeed that escapes its wielder’s control, or rather, a poor wielder who allows their tool to destroy what was meant to remain untouched. In this regard, I erred. I could have set boundaries within which Sinead had to operate. I did not, because I was angry.

I do not feel remorse. Vampires are distanced from guilt in a way that only the sickest of mortals are. I do, however, believe that I made a mistake. I will offer no reparation for the damage I caused as it would be suicidal and idiotic to reveal my role in this fiasco. Instead, I will remain vigilant and take responsibility for the behavior of those under my command.

Yes, this seems wise.

After coming to a decision concerning this issue, I feel better. I accept that perfection will never be within my reach. Decades of hard work and immunity to the ravages of time will not change this fact, yet there is no reason not to keep trying, not to improve. It will take a miracle to stop either my sire or his insane mother. I might as well start by learning self-control in times of intense emotion.

Speaking of emotions, there is one invitation letter I need to deliver in person.

February 10th, 1834, somewhere in the Appalachians.

I stalk my prey with patience and determination. My feet are silent on the wet loam. No twig cracks under my steps and no hanging branch snags my clothes. I am on unknown land but on familiar ground.

The forest extends far in every direction and in its midst, a secluded cabin with a vast underground serves as home for my quarry tonight. Soon, a clearing comes in view and in it, three people are standing.

I recognize the mysterious bald woman with the tattoos on her bronze-colored scalp. The second one is a man with the lost look of a fledgling. He possesses a sturdy frame with just a bit of paunch and a bushy yellow mustache. As I watch, he closes his eyes and listens to the sounds of the forest. I remember being overwhelmed too on the first night I left the fortress.

The last man has his back turned to me.

Perfect.

I approach and climb up a large pine, taking additional care as to not draw attention. The figures below appear oblivious.

I grin at the prospect of capturing my prey. It will be glorious.

I place both feet against the trunk at my back and push, arcing delicately in the air.

Torran’s back is close, so close.

I extend my arms and try to grab his back.

“Hah! Gotchaaaaaaaaaaarg!” I scream as the tall man grabs me by the throat without looking. He flips me like a crepe and slam me into the ground, not as heavily as he could have.

“Oof!”

My lungs are emptied of all air. Torran’s face is just as handsome and slightly intimidating as I remember. His hawkish traits show cold anger, but I recognize the twinkle in his eyes.

“My dear Servant, please take Hardy inside while I deal with this intruder,” he says with mock menace.

I look up to see the bald woman take the fledgling on his way inside. She is smiling knowingly.

“Now then, what shall I do with this little spy,” Torran declares teasingly as he drags me up and holds me by the collar. I channel a smidgen of Hastings essence and struggle like a mortal, letting my feet dance a little jig. There is a dangerous glint in his gaze now at the show of fear.

“How did you even know I was coming?” I object with a choking voice.

“You masked your aura well and you came from downwind, but you forgot an important detail,” he whispers in a husky voice. Then he pulls me in so that my back is against his chest. I still cannot touch the ground. His breath tickles my ear.

“Your dress flaps in the wind like a mighty sail.”

I groan.

“And I was forewarned of your arrival by the appearance of an ominous portent,” he adds with obvious amusement.

“What!?”

A portent? Is Torran a seer?

The man himself turns to face the forest trail leading to the clearing. There, between two leafless trunks, a certain Nightmare observes us with curiosity.

“METIS! You treacherous backstabbing silly pony! No ears for you!” I sputter in outrage, but alas, the vile two-timing harridan neighs in a way that sounds suspiciously like a laugh before galloping away. The wench! She ruined my surprise!

“Now then little spy, tell me why you have come.”

Feeling cheated by fate, I wiggle my butt against my captor in a pretend attempt to escape. I do not miss his groan.

“I will only speak under duress, you big monster. Just try and interrogate meeeEEEEEEEP!”

Half an hour later, I am thoroughly interrogated and rather grateful that the log cabin’s curtains happen to be drawn. I am playing with Torran’s hair and pulling it above my lip to pretend I have a mustache when he finally speaks.

“Congratulations are in order, I believe.”

“You know?” I exclaim with surprise, blowing the gray strands away.

“Of course. I asked Salim of the Rosenthal to keep me apprised of your success via mage sending.”

“Aw, were you going to ride to my rescue?”

“…”

“By the Watcher, you really were!”

“No! No… but I did buy an option for the Rosenthal mercenary branch in case the task proved to be too much,” he concedes.

“Thank you, Torran,” I say, genuinely grateful.

“No need to thank me, my star. I knew that you would succeed. That was merely for my own peace of mind,” he replies while avoiding my gaze.

My, what a little fusspot.

“In any case, I actually came here to deliver this!” I proudly announce as I pick up my dress and remove a folded paper from a conveniently hidden pocket.

Torran opens it carefully before reading its contents.

“A celebration of your ascension with both a reception and a private concert, featuring the works of Schubert, Chopin, and Paganini,” he notes with the beginning of a smile. Once more I am amazed by how quickly he goes from stern and severe to radiant. I find the transformation uncanny.

“I have recruited two different mortals to play the piano. One has a classical education and the other is a prodigy from a poorer family, more unstable but also more expressive. For Paganini, I have called upon a newly come Roland vampire. Paganini’s caprices are designed to be displays of skills so a highly technical approach will work, even if it remains colder than what humans can achieve.”

“An excellent choice. I notice that you have picked only recent composers as well. Do you wish to convey a message?”

“One of embracing modernity, yes, but I also wanted to give those who have stayed here for a long time an opportunity to enjoy Europe’s latest creations.”

“How very thoughtful of you, my star. We will see if those old grumps appreciate novelty.”

“You think they will not?” I ask, scandalized. Torran only chuckles at my vehemence. Honestly, I am doing my best to bring them recent masterpieces. I would be profoundly offended if they did not show proper appreciation. Any grumbling will be met with a scathing silent glare. Repeat offenders will be tutted at. I will show no mercy.

“Do not concern yourself overmuch, my star. Even the crustiest of lords appreciate a good show of human creativity, and a display of technique from a fellow vampire is always a pleasure. Everything will be fine,” he replies in a conciliatory tone.

February 21st, 1834, Boston.

Winter came to the bay for one parting slap, and the air outside is bitingly cold. Standing in the ballroom of Constantine’s fortress, one could not tell.

Hundreds of candles line the windows and the back mirrors, their warm glow turning the vast hall cozy. The walls radiate a soft heat thanks to the miracle of good plumbing and those of us who still breathe have discarded shawls and gloves to luxuriate in the pleasant atmosphere.

Just like last time, I have stayed at the door to welcome newcomers and I am already noticing some major differences.

To begin, everyone is significantly more polite.

I would like to think that this was caused by my sterling behavior, my good manners, my irresistible charm, and the previous undeniable displays of competence on my part.

That would be nice.

Unfortunately, I will attribute it to the Lord by my side. Torran the soul weaponsmith stands protectively with my arm in his. Lady Hastings and Lord Suarez, who came from Charleston to offer his support, are never far. The Cadiz presence is modest after their setback, so his coming is that much more significant, and I let him know I appreciate it.

“Think nothing of it, us Cadiz are not ones to hold grudges for an honest fight. You did well.”

If he knew the truth, we would be having a different conversation.

After half an hour, it is now time to start and the crowd progressively switches to front seats. Wilhelm helped me assign them, for which I am grateful, otherwise I would have just given up and gone for alphabetical sorting. Constantine and the other lords are at the front, naturally.

I step up the dais at the back of the room and feel their attention on me. Once more, all the present members have subdued their auras.

I take a moment to appreciate the masterwork piano Wilhelm lent me for the occasion. It sits there, slick and black and entirely massive. I am really looking forward to this.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, noble assembly, thank you so much for joining me tonight. I am delighted that we have enough room tonight, seeing that perhaps a quarter of my clan is present.”

That gives me a few nose exhalations, as well as knowing looks from the lords at the front who know that there are, in fact, four of us. The others would assume that I refer to a hypothetical spawn.

“This land is one of opportunity,” I start, and stretch my hands in a gesture of offering. “This sentence is as true for us as it is for the mortals. Three decades ago, I was indentured to another clan, and did not even possess the clothes on my back. Tonight, we have gathered to celebrate my ascension as head of a territory. My success is not due to skill, or luck, though they played their part. I am here because of the opportunities I found and seized for myself, and so can you.”

Some of the younger members shift in their seats, eager to know how they could replicate my success.

“We are still parts of our respective clans and need not forfeit our traditions. We can, however, cast away the chains that tie us down. Past grudges. Past prejudices. Those prisons of the mind hamper us and limit our vision and options. I started in this world with no allies, but also with no enemies. A Cadiz freed me, an Ekon trained me, and I was proven innocent by a Lancaster. My path was made possible by the people who helped me along the way. Look to your left and right, and you will see your allies of tomorrow, if you so choose.”

No one moves but I see that quite a few people are thoughtful. Others remain unconvinced, which I naturally expected.

“Now enough words. I promised you music and you shall receive it. Tonight, young and newly arrived artists will present you with works from recent masters, those who have known how to draw upon the classics to create a new current. Please give them a warm welcome,” I finish.

I quickly step down the dais to invite the first performer of the night. She had been waiting at the back with a plump old relative acting as guardian. The girl is young, with a severe and rotund face. She steps forth with all the grace she can muster and climbs the few steps under a hundred predatory gazes. She goes through the motions of curtseying with the rigidity of an automaton, then, as she sits before the massive piano forte, her demeanor changes. She turns more graceful and more fluid. In less than ten seconds, she has shed any trace of anxiety and the music rolls free under her delicate hands.

Schubert’s sonata is beautiful and energetic, and the girl plays it well. Her interpretation is classic and scholarly but here and there, she teases a different tempo or a daring forte that hints at the character underneath. She is like a blooming flower struggling against the cage of rigid training and the others like it as much as I do. I can feel it in their immobile attention and carefully controlled auras.

When she is done, the assembly gives her the applause she deserves. She smiles radiantly before stepping down and joining the now ecstatic plump woman on her way out. I smile and grab Torran’s hands who gives me a supportive squeeze.

The next artist enters the room. He is a young black man, barely a day above eighteen, accompanied by an older man with white hair and the tracking eyes of someone who never lets his guard down. Amusingly, it is the elder who shows obvious hints of fear. He can tell that something is off by our expensive clothes and the immobility we affect when we are amongst each other. His weathered face turns grey and his grip on the shoulder of his protégé tightens. A few of the youngest Courtiers shift at the obvious show of weakness.

The pianist, however, remains unfazed. His stare has not left the masterwork piano since he entered the room. He frees himself and jumps the few steps up to the object of his fascination, belatedly remembering to bow on the way. He plops himself on the seat and plays a few arpeggios. His thin fingers dance on the black and white keyboard with the speed of knitting needles.

Finally, he settles and gives us Chopin.

I will admit that as much as I appreciated Schubert, the Polish turned Frenchman has my favor for the night. I am sure a true critique would find the perfect words for the music and compare him to great masters but since I am a neophyte and cannot, I will satisfy myself with the simplest of terms.

The music is alive.

It represents everything that we have lost and cannot possibly find again. It is clear to me that Chopin is or was a virtuoso, and the Nocturne played before us shows signs of a man improvising and searching as he plays. Some repeated sentences flow into each other in their hunt for illusive perfection and the artist knows it. The young man’s style is flowing and smooth and his movements are never twice the same.

I love it.

There is so much innovation here, so much life. Never have I so clearly understood the appeal of the Mask faction. To be the shepherds and the hands in the shadows, pushing civilization and fine arts forward. I can certainly understand.

Far too soon, the piece is over and the young man blinks as he seems to remember where he is. We applaud him with enthusiasm, and he steps down shily to rejoin his guardian who fearfully pushes him out. Both of the players tonight will be paid and sent on their way safely. There is little need for additional precautions.

The last performer makes his way in. He is a Roland Courtier by the name of Yves with close-cropped blonde hair and brown eyes who holds a violin as if it were a treasure, and perhaps it is. The mood of the assembly changes slightly as we now judge the artist with different criteria.

Yves bows slightly and starts without ceremony.

I admit to being impressed.

Paganini’s caprices are the playing field of the technical genius and Yves proves his worth with sober and measured movements. Complex melodies cascade over us at inhuman speed and with exacting precision. Not a single note is out of place and not a single interval is missed. In the middle of this impossible show, the Courtier still manages to instill a few marks of originality and personality. It does not hold a candle to what the mortals offered us earlier, but we still smile appreciatively as we all know how difficult we find it.

That last part ends quickly by virtue of Yves’ speed. We applaud him too with benevolent appreciation and respect. Soon after, we stand up as he steps down.

The humdrum of conversation is immediate. I pick up words of pleasure and wonder in Akkad as well as in English, to my pride. Torran smiles and he wordlessly takes my hand in his, caressing one finger after another with a light touch.

“For the second time you gather us and share your love of the world and its wonders. Thank you.”

“Of course, I am a woman of exquisite taste after all,” I reply without seriousness as I place a hand on his chest.

Torran chuckles warmly.

“Indeed, and although you like to mislead your enemies and allies alike through your love of gunpowder, there is, as you have taught me, no incompatibility between pyrotechnical violence and the sensitivity of the gentler sex. My own bloodline could learn a lot from this lesson.”

“Torran?” I reply, amazed.

“I will never repeat those words before my faction’s grumpy elders of course. I have a reputation of cold disdain to maintain, after all,” he finishes with a grin.

“Tch! I care not about them. I only care that you approve.”

“And I do. Ah, if we could have an organ here, my star.”

His eyes turn dreamy and I find myself smiling too. A few other revelers use the lull in our conversation to come and express their gratitude. I wish the artists themselves could have mingled but alas, they are still young and it is quite late, and I agreed to let them go.

It is for the best. They burn bright and the allure might be too much for some of us.

Constantine comes to greet me on his way out. The tall man does not enjoy celebrations, it seems.

“A capital performance by your guests, House Nirari. I find your choice quite pleasing.”

“Thank you, Speaker.”

Of course, he would. It was all very polite and consensual, just as he imagines the world should be, and will be tonight. The truth is that no agreement will be reached before dawn comes. Plotters and schemers, sycophants and the mighty will make tentative gestures and contact the more receptive audience at a later date. My party is neutral ground.

The Progenitor leaves soon after. I can tell that he makes efforts to mingle but they feel somewhat forced, while smoother conversationalists like Sephare flit from group to group, firing smiles and witty repartees like others fling arrows. The Accords will not survive long under their current structure if our numbers keep increasing. Only his personal might has kept him at the top so far.

Our next notable visitor is a man with black hair that reaches the nape of his neck. He has an angular face with a large nose and a pointy chin. With his dark coat and trousers, he looks like a prince’s tutor or a stern college dean. The impression is smoothed by the genuine smile he wears.

“Ah, Ariane of the Nirari. I am delighted to see another patron of the fine arts join our modest numbers. There are too few of us in these as of yet untamed lands.”

“Thank you for your kind words, Lord…”

Something to do with music.

“…Madrigal,” I finish, with a hesitation that he does not miss. He is a Roland as well, though seemingly less stubborn than some of his kin.

“Splendid! You remember the name. Ah, to be entirely truthful my name was Jean-Paul, but alas it was already taken. I named myself Madrigal to show my love for vocal composition in the typically childish fashion of those who do not plan. I am now stuck with it.”

“It could be worse, you could have called yourself Lieder,” I remark teasingly.

“I was naïve, not stupid,” the man castigates without any real bite. We all smile genially.

“In any case, this is a busy evening so I will be brief. I act as an ambassador of sorts for the Roland faction in Europe, and I extend a formal invitation to visit our lovely Nadir,” he continues.

“Nadir?” I ask.

“Nadir is the capital of Masks in Europe, my star,” Torran explains, “It occupies some of the catacombs below Paris, with surface access to many inner courts and buildings.”

“As drily accurate as it is irrelevant,” Lord Madrigal replies with a hint of condescension, “Nadir is a center of art and politics. We have masquerades and games that the mortals can only dream of, set in a oneiric locale transfigured by generations of artists. Some were even sane!”

Torran does not rebuke the man, though they exchange a glance I cannot decipher. I think they know each other from before.

“But I digress,” the sharp man finishes, “just know that we will always welcome such a connoisseur and that should you plan a trip to the old world, you may contact me. I will make sure that you are received with all the honors. As I have already taken too much of your precious time, I bid you a good night.”

We all bow and the man departs. I might just be tempted to travel to Europe, if only because Torran will return to his home territory as soon as his fledgling is mature enough to travel. Before it happens, I have something to finish.

Jonathan’s pale figure wavers as a lapse in concentration destabilizes the sending. The mage Salim lent me recovers and I continue our conversation.

“Are you quite certain?” I ask.

“Yes, he is your best bet.”

“You surprise me, Jonathan, I expected you to try and keep this in house.”

“It would be counterproductive. Your growth will be slow, and I need to maintain your flawless image,” he retorts with a smile. Jerk.

“Besides, you asked me for the best and he is it. Go and meet him. If he does not measure up to your standards, I have others who could.”

“And how shall I approach him?”

“Directly, of course. The more direct the better. Impart upon him the, shall we say, unfortunate consequences of refusing your offer,” the Cabal Black Dog replies with a ghastly smile.

“He would also not be an opponent you wish to intimidate, would he?” I ask with a frown,

“He is not. With that said, the White Cabal could certainly impress upon that man and his associates our power and our reach. Think of it as payment for this nugget of information. Good luck Ariane,” the infuriating man finishes before cutting the link.

I hope he is right.

March 13th, 1834, Philadelphia.

My secret lair is ready and well-protected. The local Roland coven gave me their approval, and it is now time to finally take the next step in my snail-paced yet inevitable plan to take over the world.

I pick a cheap pamphlet from my official dress, the blue one that would look nice in a salon and can also stop a bullet fired at point-blank range into my heart. I unfold the now-wrinkled paper and inspect my notes. The door facing me is as innocuous as the five others in this place of half-abandoned brick factories, save for a specific sigil that looks like the zodiacal sign of the lion.

I find all this cloak-and-dagger nonsense too amateurish to be amusing.

“Let’s see now,” I grumble, “ah, there it is.”

I find a dial conveniently hidden behind a greasy piece of paper (Old Lady Grayson Sausages, five cents apiece!) and turn it.

“Five, Six, One, Nine,” I whisper.

Nothing happens.

“Maybe Five, One, Six, Nine?”

Clank!

With the ominous sound of rusty hinges, the massive gate swings open to reveal the impenetrable darkness below.

Not absolutely correct of course, it reveals a downward set of stairs in good need of a sweeping. I also notice strands of energy hanging in the air like a spiderweb. Probably an alarm system.

I poke one out of politeness and the whole construct folds on itself like a mousetrap. Runes set in the wall a few feet ahead ignite and throw a bolt of lightning which I casually deflect with a charged claw.

“Rude.”

They still shine purple, I notice. It feels strange to bring the light of the Watcher into the world of the mortals. They… do not deserve to gaze upon its alien glow.

Or perhaps I am being snobbish.

With a sigh, I lift the heavy bag by my side and descend into the unknown, which end up twenty steps into another corridor blocked by another pane of reinforced planks. I knock politely. A deep and unsettling voice reverberates throughout the damp air. I easily recognize an intentionally garbled sending.

“You are not welcome here, dark creature. Return to the night from whence—”

“Look, we can have this conversation face to face or not at all. There are limits to how much bad taste I can tolerate.”

“I said, return from whence, gah, foolish woman! Thine path is barred by the stoutest of—”

I boot ‘thine path’ where I think the opening mechanism is and the old thing bangs open, smashes against the wall and half-closes again.

“My door!”

I ignore the whines and step into an open space that tries really hard not to look like the vaguely redesigned basement of a derelict cotton mill. I judge the effort passable.

Banners wearing eldritch symbols hang from the wall, which would be more impressive if the fabric was not so cheap and if the runes did not spell air, fire, water, and increased body weight. Between those amusing works, bookshelves filled with manuscripts of forbidden lore as well as cookbooks and at least one children songs compendium mark the den of a powerful mage. Said mage stands inside of a small stone building, a building within a building, if you will. I also note a few more doors on the side and far walls as well as a lack of ceiling. The space above us is empty as far as the roof of the factory and its dirty glass skylight. It all looks like a good idea with poor execution.

Besides the mage, three more beings occupy the cramped space. Two are clearly apprentices in ratty red robes that look like theater props dug up from a mass grave. The third one is more impressive, and I look forward to some interaction.

“Away, foul fiend! Away! You will find no easy prey, for you have entered the chambers of Ezekiel the Red! Away, I tell thee!” the man vociferates. He is indeed a redhead, with a sharp and manic face covered by a wild beard, a hawkish nose and rare green eyes. His hair reaches below his shoulders in a good attempt to mask an advanced case of bald spot. He seems tall and gangly, though it is hard to tell for sure behind a robe in marginally better state than that of his wards.

“Let me consider the question,” I answer, and I tap a claw against my chin. “No?”

“HELLBLAST!”

A plume of fire erupts from the mage’s gauntlet. I grit my teeth as my instincts cry out to JUMP and, instead, angle my chest out of the spell’s trajectory. The roaring missile passes me by and crashes against unyielding bricks at my back.

I pretend to brush ash away from my shoulder.

Truth is, that was quite hot, and my dress might be singed.

“BLOODCHAIN!” the man yells, undaunted.

This time, I dance away from the links even as they pursue me. Lambert of the Lancaster used a similar spell and I know what to expect. It takes a few seconds for the mage’s focus to falter, which is quite a long time given the complex path the bindings followed. It speaks well of the caster’s ability, if not of his wisdom.

“Anything else?” I ask in a bored voice.

“It matters not,” Ezekiel the Red spits as his two students grow more and more nervous, “you will never breach my sanctum!”

I smile at the challenge and approach the single door leading inside of their safe room. The obstacle is made of reinforced steel with an opening sealed by vertical bars at head height and some respectable enchantments. I am not confident that I could destroy the lock, especially not with a caster able to reinforce the defenses as I work.

I will, of course, not waste my time on such a stupid method.

I grab two bars and place my feet against the walls on each side on the opening, careful that my dress does not ride up my legs and gives the quartet an eyeful. Once in position, I channel the Natalis and werewolf essences and pull.

The metal hinges groan until, with a last tortured crack, the masonry gives way. It only takes a few pulls for the heavy piece to finish in my hands.

I set it down on the side with deliberate slowness.

Inside of the safe room, the mage and his pair of dunces have crawled against the walls with faces of unmitigated horror.

The last occupant is a golem made out of an old knight armor and some nifty bone constructs. It stands ominously, holding a slightly rusted mass in its ivory hands, exactly like Jonathan described.

“You… my guardian will make short work of you, night creature! It has no blood to drink, nor mind to corrupt!”

“Oh no!” I retort with a flat voice as I drop the heavy bag I was holding by my side, “I am undone! A golem, my very obvious and totally unexpected weakness! What am I to do?”

I rummage inside the bag and drag a three-parts handle which I quickly assemble into a stick the length of a quarterstaff.

“If only I had planned and brought an appropriate tool!” I continue in the same dead voice. I pick a hammer head from the bag and screw it on the handle.

The hammerhead is an inelegant work of steel with a single silver pane at the point of impact. The pane itself is engraved with a single rune that spells “shatter”. Even my own budding skills are enough to charge such a simple and specific apparatus.

It will hurt, too.

The mage observes the barbaric tool, aghast. He inspects his creation and the harbinger of destruction in the hands of she who just popped his door from its frames, bricks and all. He calculates his chances. It does not take long.

“Can we talk about this?”

“Certainly. We may even have started with that if you had not attempted to roast me.”

“Err really? What is it you want, exactly? I mean, state thine will, foul fiend!”

For a moment I consider roaring and spreading a bit of terror, so he stops with the nonsense. In the end, I consider them soiling themselves to be counterproductive.

“Is this little treasure hunt your doing?” I ask, holding the pamphlet. The crumpled piece of paper was published in a journal and advertised ‘the secrets of the universe’ for those who could decipher its code. Ezekiel led me on a merry chase, one that required the ability to perceive magical workings to complete but was otherwise as boring as it was obtuse. And now, here we are.

“Certainly. Then…”

“Yes, I am here to learn magic.”

I could shove a fist in the man’s opened mouth. I refrain from doing so.

“And you will teach me,” I finish.

98. Schooled

The gauntlet lets out a pathetic little ball of blue light, barely more than moonlight reflected on a soap bubble. The light shimmers lightly then winks out.

So, that was a success.

And now I get to do it all over again.

“Light,” the young witch by my side declares. A few seconds later, a shimmering burst erupts from her gauntlet and basks the moldy walls in its reddish glow. She cuts the spell and the shadows creep back in.

Our eyes meet before she quickly averts her gaze and returns her attention to the exercise. The corners of her mouth creep up in pride.

I allow it.

I am a vampire of many talents. I am good at painting, shooting, basic engineering, forging and accounting. I have a reasonable head for finance and diplomacy, and I have good taste in friends. And men. Truly, my skills are many.

Magic is not one of them.

I am, simply put, below average. This is an unfortunate fact of life and can only be offset by time and no small amount of effort. I knew it would be so. I was warned. That is why I do not begrudge the pallid girl her pride and return my attention to the training gauntlet on my left hand.

Magic is made of three components. The first is power. I have that aplenty. More than Ezekiel the Red himself.

And yes, Ezekiel is his real name.

It turns out that Devouring so many mages and having such a concentrated essence is a boon. I can hypothetically cast more spells, or more powerful ones, than even an experienced mage. The problem comes from the two other elements.

The second is symbols. There is a need for a focus of sort, a physical representation of the desired effect to guide the energies. Some research Loth mentioned proved that even symbols made of light and shadows can be used, though they are less effective than something more concrete, which is, in turn, less effective than metals or worked materials. The symbols can come from many different systems. What matters is that they mean something to the caster.

Loth had a theory that the more people use a system, the more powerful it becomes. It could explain why Western Standard is so popular.

The best systems are the most flexible ones. Western Standard allows for complex sets of instructions for more specific working, a bit like a language. The Likaean system is similar but I decided to stick to Western Standard for now. One, I do not want to reveal too much, and two, the Likaean system is based on its language which is itself magical. It is, therefore, a crutch. I want to learn the hard way.

A magic user needs to understand the symbol and the system at a fundamental level to wield it with any degree of mastery. My own study has progressed over the last decades and though it is by no means perfect, I am still far above the average apprentice.

No, the difficulty stems from the third part, the will. Mages need to visualize and bring forth the desired effects and it is simply something that I have extreme difficulties with, barring some notable exceptions like the darkness spell.

Calling my will forth is a bit like flexing a muscle that I never knew I had. Anger does not help. Thinking hard does not help. The mental effort fails to match anything I have done so far, including aura control. While the two others manage with commendable efficiency, I was not born with it, and need to learn from nothing. Magic is as unfamiliar to me as the sun. I am not just a talentless player learning the violin, I also need to do so while wearing mittens.

Despite the frustration, I endure.

I lift my gauntlet to look at the rune of light. I easily push power inside of the receptacle and attempt to visualize a ball. I can see the simple image in my mind, but it lacks… substance. Light is not just the light that I can see, it is light that everyone can see from different angles. It has a… trajectory. A ball of light has a depth.

I do not rush. I do not force it. I proceed with calm and patience with the belief that, in time, I will gain in speed.

Slowly but surely, something takes form in the back of my mind until a sort of trigger clicks, like figuring out the answer to a riddle.

“Light,” I whisper again, and another ball forms in my palm. I stare at its pale blue surface before dispelling it.

Once more.

We go on for fifteen minutes, then Ezekiel visits both students, giving insightful pieces of advice.

He then stops before me with visible hesitation.

“May I?” he politely asks. I nod and place my hand in his. He flinches slightly when they touch.

Ezekiel’s gangly form stands straighter as he focuses on casting the spell himself. He could do it in an instant but instead he takes the time to clearly visualize his process. Through contact and mind magic, he shares his impression with me so that for an instant, I know how to cast the spell with perfect clarity.

“Light.”

A reddish orb rises from the man’s gauntlet. It shines there like a bright star, serene and immortal, and not like my own flickering thing.

Then Ezekiel withdraws his hand and I grasp at the memories of what I just experienced, and it works. Little by little, the man shares his own knowledge so that I do not have to search for understanding, only reach it.

I am already making progress.

I have the time to cast twice more before the teacher calls the class to a stop. The two others unclasp their gauntlets with visible relief. While I have reserves aplenty, they are still quite young, and I understand that continuous casting has a deleterious effect. It tires the mind and renders the mage unresponsive and dull until they have had time to recover. Ezekiel quite capably alternates theory and practice to prevent his human pupils from burning out. Jonathan was correct, the man knows his craft.

The two red-robed youths sit at their desks and I join them. The boy’s name is Terrence. He is a painfully thin stick of a man with a prominent Adam’s apple and an unfortunate face that is made constantly melancholic by two droopy eyes. The girl is shorter, with hair as black as soot and a slightly chubby face under two piercing dark eyes. Her name is Margaret, and she reacts with violence to being called Maggie.

They are quite different.

As far as I can tell from my eavesdropping, the boy wants to escape a life as a shoemaker and his domineering mother. He is as hard-working as he is unimaginative. The girl has a chip on her shoulder and an insatiable drive for power that I can respect, even if I think it will burn her.

Terrence is also hopelessly in love with Margaret, who noticed his toad-like puppy eyes and decided that she wanted nothing to do with it. At least she has standards.

As usual, the three humans look at me with a hint of worry, even when I am on my best behavior.

“Ahem,” Ezekiel begins as he attempts to regain his composure, “tonight’s class will be focused on blood. Indeed, no one understands the vital liquid like us blood mages.”

Heavy, awkward silence.

“No human, in any case,” the man finishes sheepishly.

He then proceeds to explain an important aspect of magic: the addition of concepts to standard castings. Bolt, for example, is a basic spell made out of three runes: forward, power, and impact. The ubiquitous Firebolt is constructed by adding the concept of fire to the power of the construct, turning the projectile from one of force to one of fire. It makes the casting more difficult, but turns the spell from a heavy blow to setting things on fire.

That is particularly useful when your opponent can just shrug off that kind of damage. Now I understand why I have never been submitted to the standard bolt. It would have been absolutely pointless against me.

Ezekiel continues his explanation in a measured tone, stressing the important words to make sure we understand.

“Blood is a powerful and double-edged concept. It adds an organic dimension to the spell that can transform or enhance it, but always at a cost. A blood bolt will draw liquid from your veins. In return, the impact will be greater and wither your foe and their defenses. Competent blood mages walk that delicate edge to gain the upper hand even in the most desperate of circumstances.”

Margaret raises a hand.

“Yes?” Ezekiel asks.

“Then why are we not learning any of it?” she asks somewhat belligerently.

Ezekiel, who is apparently not dealing with his first batch of power-hungry idiots, has the appropriate response lined up.

“Because the first step in learning blood magic is to train how to work without it. You need to understand what you can do without its dangerous power. Only when you have found your limits can you safely overcome them.”

To my surprise, the girl appears convinced. I realize that the students really do look up to Ezekiel and why: he treats them with respect, something that they had apparently been missing.

The class continues with theories on glyphs that I only half-listen to. This is all known to me, but being part of the normal class is part of my arrangement with Ezekiel the Red.

The canny wizard agreed to teach me in return for a substantial monetary compensation and an obligation on my part not to interfere with his other students. The man has principles, I will grant him that, though he applies them strangely.

For example, he has granted his two students a room in his derelict factory turned secret lair at no additional cost. Terrence even considers it his home, as a quick verification showed that I could not enter it uninvited. It still irks me that walls and a door can suddenly become an unbreakable sanctum that no amount of effort allows me to peacefully penetrate. With the power of belief, those are the two things the more rational part of me find difficult to accept.

Ezekiel did not just offer them a safe haven. His training is comprehensive and he only asks from them a reasonable amount of money, to be returned in a manageable time frame after they graduate. He has garnered quite a reputation.

On the other hand, he is an occasional contract killer. He also serves as muscle and otherworldly security to Philadelphia’s criminal underworld.

I keep staring at the man lecturing us in his ridiculous opera prop costume under the yellow light of candles. He who has the blood of many on his hands, many of them possibly innocent, yet still took these youths under his benevolent guidance at a symbolic price. The dichotomy between murderous rake and fatherly figure is so poignant that I am led to wonder if we vampires truly are set apart from mankind, or if the magnificent sods simply delude themselves with ideas of universal values and self-obvious ethics.

At midnight, Ezekiel finishes his classes and the exhausted little idiots retire to their quarters. Ezekiel usually teaches at night due to, he claims, some alignment of the spheres. I suspect that it has more to do with the mysticism that the night offers. Also, the shades hide the general rattiness of the setting.

I stand up to leave when the gangly educator stops me with a hesitant voice.

“One moment of your time, please, Ariane of the Nirari. I have a proposal for you.”

“Do tell?” I answer, curious. This is the first time in a week that we exchange more than trite pleasantries.

“There will be no class tomorrow. There is a task I have to complete,” he continues.

I glare. Our agreement was a bit vague about an exact timetable, and I fully expected him to take some nights off on account of having to assassinate some poor idiots, break into houses and whatnot. I am therefore not shocked that it would occur.

I do not have to inform him of this fact, of course.

“I assure you that I will respect our agreement to the letter! It does not change anything. We will merely be delayed for a few hours.”

“I assume you have a point?” I drily ask.

“Yes! Of course. I am to visit a certain place and retrieve a certain item.”

“And you want my assistance for this burglary?”

The man coughs heavily in his sleeve and clears his throat, red with embarrassment.

“Nothing of the sort. My destination is a hotel of some repute and I merely ask that you stay in its main hall and cover my retreat.”

“You are expecting trouble,” I state.

“Most assuredly. A band of disreputable louts have it in their mind that I somehow offended them. Poppycock! Nevertheless, they shall surely intercept me when I visit that particular location. They have ways to detect my presence, you see?”

“And you expect me to stop them?”

“Yes. I do. You may do with them as you wish. And their leader is a man by the name of Salazar. He is a talented warlock, and…hmmm… I was led to understand that you are a woman of refined…” he swallows nervously.

“… palate.”

I am intrigued.

And also, a bit annoyed.

“Surely you are not implying this is payment for my service.”

“Of course not!” he energetically replies, “I would never dare! No, I will also give you access to all my personal spells.”

Ah, now we’re talking.

“All of them?”

“Well, I only made a dozen, but I assure you that they have been praised in all the right circles. And they are efficient and of middling difficulty. You should be able to cast them all within a few years with a reasonable amount of practice. I have a custom-made tracking spell that can use even a single piece of hair!”

That is, in fact, a great deal. Ezekiel is high on the list of able blood mages, and he is very clean in his casting. Anything he creates would be simple and efficient. By comparison, it will be decades before I can master the contents of the human skin tome my sire sent me as a gift.

In the end, I negotiate for the spells plus his help in learning one of them. After we are done, he retreats to his personal quarters and I exit the building via the now-repaired door.

Southwark greets me in all its dubious glory. Warehouses, docks, and trades bustle with activity during the day as Philadelphia digests coal and enough food for its tens of thousands of citizens. Now, they are mostly silent, especially in this more remote area. To the north, the strip that is the city proper shines in the night, nestled between the two dark arms of the Delaware and Schuylkill rivers. I don my cloak and slowly walk to the affluent part of town, confident that I am not being followed and that Nashoba’s earring still protects me from tracking spells.

I cross the last track of open land to the geometrical chessboard that is the city proper. Sober buildings of red bricks line its streets, interspersed here and there by the white stone of churches and official buildings. Even at this late hour, gentlemen in crisp and conservative clothes head home, speaking English and German. There are still a few trees though I understand that they have grown rare, cut down to build houses for the ever-expanding population. Philadelphia might no longer be the political capital, and finance may be moving to New York, but it remains one of the continent’s largest cities.

It is also one of the oldest, and the vampire population reflects this.

Philadelphia used to be under the purview of Lady Berenice of the Roland, but she left recently to manage her clan’s expansion north. Reigning in her stead is a master by the name of Noel, whose hospitality I purchased at a decent cost. I am his guest, benefitting from his protection and company both.

I walk unmolested to Arch street and step inside a multi-storied brick building that looks exactly like every other multi-storied brick building around it. A doorman bows as I go by, and I enter a lavishly decorated lobby.

The contrast with the sober exterior remains jarring, even after a week. Vampires can only tolerate so much puritan sobriety before our love of art and decorations fights back. The conflict between personal preferences and the need to conform sometimes lead to such dens as this one.

I make my way up a set of stone stairs. I allow my feet to bury in the luscious red carpet beneath, luxuriating in its soft plushiness. Servants and a Courtier salute me as we come across each other, and I soon arrive before a massive door. A knock, and I am invited in.

There, the building’s perfume of vanilla and cleanliness turns to coffee and sandalwood. A quiet fire burns in the office’s hearth while behind the large desk, a man greets me with a smile.

Noel is a thin man with aristocratic tendencies and a thin moustache. His auburn hair is combed back and he wears close-fitting clothes of the latest fashion. There are few official documents on his workspace. Instead, his workspace is covered in notes, correspondences and fossils enshrined in glass containers. He places one back down with great care as I come in before ringing a bell. I sit down before him with a smile.

“Ariane, always a pleasure.”

“Likewise. How is the new specimen?” I politely ask.

Noel is a great supporter of paleontology, which is, as I understand, the study of long-dead stuff. Not to be mixed with archeology which happens to be the study of long-dead people. I lost interest when he said there was no physical evidence of dragons ever existing. I do not look down upon this historical science and its practitioners. Rather, I am much more interested in a slew of more practical studies like chemistry. I still allowed Noel to teach me the basics for the sake of conversation.

“Delightful. It appears to be a sort of shelled insect never seen in our current time. Who knows how many millenia, nay, tens of thousands of years ago this thing walked the earth!” he exclaims. He then frowns.

“Or more accurately, crawled,” he finally admits.

“Any progress on a dating spell?”

“Yes indeed. Unfortunately, we face the problem of reference points. I am considering the acquisition of a fragment of an antique tool to act as a base. Possibly Greek.”

Fascinating.

“I wish you good fortune in this endeavor since you would also need a way to accurately date the tools. May I suggest Pompeii and Herculaneum? The cities are still being excavated,” I politely suggest.

“In Italy? Yes… Yes, of course! And we know when the city was destroyed, so we can assess when the tools were made give or take a decade. Brilliant!”

I wait for the man to feverishly write a message while a human maid comes in to bring me a cup of freshly made arabica. I sample it with pleasure, letting the bitter taste linger on my tongue.

“I apologize,” the Master finally says, “was there something specific you wanted to talk about?”

“Yes. I have received a request for protection by my esteemed teacher on a visit tomorrow. I wanted to clear it with you as I expect violence.”

“Whose territory does this concern?”

“Yours. It will take place on the Southern end of the city.”

“Then there is no issue,” he answers dismissively before returning his attention to a note.

I raise an eyebrow at that but refrain from commenting. I am but a guest and he is City Master in interim. How he conducts his affairs is his concern.

I sip from my cup in the following silence. Noel makes conversation for a while and I soon leave. I know when someone would prefer to be left alone to play with their new toy. I still have quite a bit of time before dawn. As usual, I start with my correspondence.

Marquette works well without me. All communities are in balance with clearly separated territories and rules to handle any dispute. So far, there has been nothing that would require my presence. I hope that this week’s mail will not prove any different. In any case, any urgent business would reach me by sending.

I climb down to my official room. I slumber in the basement below, but I conduct my business here. The room is barely enough to contain my few personal effects and a pointlessly large bed.

Torran is busy elsewhere.

I open the first letter, which comes from Merritt, and peruse its contents.

The werewolves ate a patrol of Gabrielites. We don’t know why they came because Jeffrey’s troops apparently consumed everything including the satchel containing their correspondence. There are few means of communication that can survive a trip through a werewolf’s digestive tract.

Moving on.

Jonathan’s wife Sola returned to their home base and is expected to stay there until she gives birth. Marquette now has three acceptably-trained healers.

Good.

John has successfully settled in the West with his family.

At the thought of my lost ally, I feel a moment of disappointment. A small part of me still clamors that he was too valuable to be let go. It says that the man was mine until death and that I should have bound him to my service.

This possessive drive is part of who we are, but listening to it is not always wise. We are incredibly vulnerable during the day and the one thing that can kill us is treachery brought by resentment. Forcing him to stay would have not just been dishonorable. It would have also been unwise.

Next.

The segregation law of Marquette has been lifted and anyone is now free to circulate anywhere. Excellent. The issue of slavery is still a burning topic everywhere in the nation, with Philadelphia firmly on the side of the abolitionists. I wonder for how long these tensions will last.

Finally, the children are settling in. We rescued quite a few and I volunteered to have many orphans settle in my town. With Sinead’s bastards, we now have a new generation of potential mages growing up. It will be a challenge to train them and to keep a significant proportion away from the White Cabal. We might be allies, but we are also in competition for talents.

I write a short answer to acknowledge reception and suggest that, next time, the werewolves backtrack the patrol’s path to its origin and finish their meal. I seal the envelope with wax and place it in a basket designed to that effect.

The next letter is a financial recounting of my assets. I own or have shares in a respectable amount of Marquette’s businesses as well as factories in the east. Amusingly, the spirit of the frontier is one of independence and autonomy while, in my opinion, they should rely on communities. Few individuals and companies want to borrow or share ownership. They would rather labor for decades before finally opening their long-awaited companies than be indebted for five years and profit for fifteen. It does not make sense from an economic perspective.

The world is a strange place.

I open a few more letters and make appropriate answers, then comes the time for self-study. I take my training gauntlet and fasten it, then visualize the light spell once more.

Time after time, I cast. The work is difficult and repetitive but I do not mind. The spell grows incrementally more familiar after every hour of practice and, every time the sphere appears, I feel a little bit of satisfaction. I am still learning, growing, evolving. Soon, I will add to my arsenal its most versatile element. It is only a matter of time, and I have plenty of it.

For now.

I sit on one of the Crossing Hotel lobby’s many couches. The red leather monstrosities are placed around a decadent coffee table, and their heavy musk almost overpowers that of tobacco. The monotonous ticking of a clock is the only sound breaking the silence. The receptionist took one glance at Ezekiel and I before deciding he would be better off somewhere else.

I idly inspect my surroundings. The plaster and fresh paint do a good job of creating the illusion of understated opulence. I assume that this would be a good resting place for well-to-do traders for a few days. It remains depressingly empty now.

The blood mage stepped up one of the twin sets of stairs and left me here to intercept the forces inevitably coming for him. Since I have a few minutes, I rummage in my shoulder bag and take out a few notes. They contain supplementary visualization exercises that Ezekiel made for students who struggle with it. They look entertaining and easier than a real casting. One of them consists of imagining the tracing of a cube. It is a cube spell. Completely useless but for the exercise itself.

I flip the pages and realize that one of those small spells would in theory permit me to move objects at a distance. It does appear useful in itself. Unfortunately, it falls under the category of advanced exercises.

I am still reading when the double door bangs open and a group of hard men in leather outfits barges in with fury. I count five separate pulses without turning my head. Their auras are that of experienced casters, especially the first one. He is domineering and tastes faintly of ash.

“She’s with him. Kill her,” the lead man orders with the uncaring voice of the consummate professional. A dark bolt leaves one of his subordinate’s gauntlets and slams against my patiently erected shield.

The shield holds and I am almost overcome by giddy pleasure. My first shield! And it worked! To cast it, I did not use my gauntlet. Instead, I drew a circle and a few runes on the ground in silver powder. A worthwhile, if costly, exercise.

“Rude,” I mumble, somewhat annoyed now that I realize I have been attacked. What happened to courtesy?

I finally turn to the attackers and quickly inspect them as another spell is prepared.

The leader is in a dark outfit. He has black hair and beard that jut from his face and head at a sharp angle like so many jagged rocks. His face is too sharp to be called handsome and his eyes are dark brown and piercing as he assesses me. The others are a motley crew of younger men, all fit and alert and eager for violence with their flaring nostrils and palpitating hearts.

“Witch!” the leader alerts, and he and another form shields at the head of the formation while the others focus on unleashing some deadly and complex constructs.

I sigh and stand up, closing my book with a resonating snap. Tonight, I do not wear my training implement. The focus clamped on my wrist is bulky and on its back, a single rune drawn in blood shines an ominous red. The twisting script is not Western Standard, oh no. It is much, much older.

I raise it and unleash my aura. The wave of cold washes over my opponents in a frigid tide and a few flinch. Their leader’s face whitens.

I can feel it now. Even as I weave and call forth the spell, the edges of the room already darken. Shades creep over the floor and along the wall like prowling creatures. Likaean is the language of magic. Before I can even say the word, it already exists within the space we stand on because it is concept made sound.

I am only casting it now because having a cover of darkness is an invaluable tactical advantage that I kinda sorta vaguely could use and absolutely not because my slow progress annoys me, and I want to show off.

“Nu Sh—”

“We surrender!” a voice shrieks in the mostly empty hall, interrupting me.

Ah?

Light returns and I am now just standing and holding my gauntlet forward as if it were an unwieldy weapon of dissuasion. The leader is waving his hands in the air, shield discarded. His followers stare at him with a mix of confusion and disbelief.

“We surrender! We completely surrender! Please do not kill us,” he states with a strained smile, even if I can see the sweat dripping down his brow and taste his fear in the air. His aura flickers in tone with his nervous heartbeat.

“You do?” I ask as I lower my hand and raise a brow.

“Yep. We give up. Won’t get any trouble from us. No ma’am.”

Half of the group now stands down with the lost feeling of someone suddenly drenched in cold water. Only one remains belligerent, a tall lad with a bristling blond mustache.

“How curious. I usually have to kill a few before the others realize the futility of their actions.”

“My friends here might be new, but I remember when your, ah, previous local ruler made her presence known. We did not know a being of the night would be here and ask for your forgiveness.”

That is rather new. I do not believe anyone ever surrendered so promptly before.

“Wait… is she a vampire?!” one of the men exclaims.

“Sssh! Be polite!” another whispers urgently.

“You think it will help?” a third one answers, dejected.

“It will certainly not hurt your chances,” I interrupt before they start a discussion, “now tell me why you are after Ezekiel the Red. I am curious.”

My teacher was tight-lipped and it would not do to press him for information under our arrangement. Forceful interrogation would go against the spirit of the contract, an unthinkable option for me. Obtaining information from other sources does not violate my oath, however.

“Wait, we’re all going to lower our pants for that bitch?!” the previously impatient man erupts.

Everyone takes a step back.

Well, don’t mind if I do.

I move and seize the man by the throat before he can react. I arc him backward and expose his neck.

I bite down.

Men swear. The leader INTERRUPTS THE SANCTITY OF FEEDING with a whine.

“Please… spare him.”

I lift a clawed finger to order him to COWER on the side. Once I am sated, I lick the wound close and release my moaning victim who quickly stumbles away.

I lick my lips.

“Where were we? Ah, yes. As part of our negotiations for me not to engage in a cathartic slaughter, you were going to enlighten me as to why you are currently hunting my pet. Now, speak,” I calmly state to my now very captive and very docile audience.

“We were just going to ask good ol’ Ezekiel a few things, is all.”

Heavy silence.

“…aaaaand perhaps break a finger or two for stealing. But hey! It’s not like they don’t heal right? Haha. Really, it was about the questions.”

“Elaborate.”

“Yes, well, what do you know of our charming little communities of sorcerers and warlocks?”

Casters really love calling themselves different things all the time. They are just casters. It is probably cultural.

“My host described it as a nest of vipers biting each other’s tails in a large and pointless backstabbing melee.”

The leader has the grace to look embarrassed and passes a hand in his messy hair.

“Accurate if a bit unfair. In any case, we have had a slight problem and wanted to make sure your little friend had nothing to do with it.”

“Do tell?”

“Somebody is killing us group by group.”

I pause. The entire strike team now looks a bit sheepish, like children caught red-handed on their way to some mischief.

This might be problematic.

I really need Ezekiel to stay alive long enough to fulfill his part of the bargain. I also need to make sure I do not offend Noel by slaughtering the odd killer in his backyard without his license. This outing just became a lot more complicated.

I sigh.

I am being dishonest with myself.

Even if I can guarantee Ezekiel’s safety, there is no way for me to tolerate an independent predator on my loaned territory. It does not matter that the land, in fact, belongs to a Courtier by the name of Clara. It does not matter that she answers to Noel. I will not… I cannot tolerate competition so close to MY DEN.

“My name is Ariane of the Nirari,” I finally admit.

“They call me Salazar. An honor to meet you,” the man replies with obvious relief.

“Tell me more about this killer of yours,” I request as I sit and invite him to join me.

I am going to regret this.

99. The Vampire's Best Tools.

“You seem preoccupied today,” Marc-Antoine states with a knowing smile. His blade lightly taps my chest protector.

ARROGANT.

“Careful,” I warn, and the man lifts his hands in mock surrender. The local Roland Master-at-Arms adjusts his mask and brushes his intact white chest plate. I assume the guard he showed me and we resume our bout.

“Remember, this is not a hammer,” the man remarks as I attempt, in vain, to smash his guard aside. I am faster and stronger than him, and so I could CRUSH HIM, but that would defeat the purpose of the exercise.

With Noel mostly focused on brushing stone, his only other permanent neighbor, Marc-Antoine, was left bereft of a fencing partner and I was only too happy to oblige. Unfortunately, old habits die hard. The old Master realized rather quickly that I had absolutely no proficiency with a blade, at all.

“Swords are the noble weapon, Ariane of the Nirari. You cannot keep coasting on speed and positioning alone!”

Or so he said. I believe I did a good job coasting so far. His comments keep fusing as he effortlessly keeps up with my bumbling.

“Don’t let me hit your blade! You can move the tip of your sword up and down with minimum hand movement. Do not let it stand still!”

“Jumping back is fine but we are trying to get you used to the flow, my dear. Do not always disengage, parry and counter! Are you not faster than me?”

“Cover your side!”

“Guard up! Guard up!”

Marc-Antoine is relentless. Every attack I make is easily parried or dodged, while his are flowing strikes that meld into one another, all of them deadly. He also tends to swing into my own attacks on occasion, as well as get into my guard and other annoying maneuvers.

Part of me is impressed by his technical expertise which goes beyond just moving well. His battle instincts are superb.

Another part of me wants to pick up my spear and skewer him against the wall like a fat butterfly. I could do it by playing on my superior physical abilities. Unfortunately, he is right. Technique is my weak point, despite years of practice. I am not halfway bad, I am just contending with a man who has dedicated himself to the craft for several mortal lifespans with the obsession of the Rolands.

Frustrating.

Sparring is only part of the practice. Marc-Antoine also makes me work on slow dance-like moves that Nami had also ingrained into me. They allow me to appreciate the realm of possibilities the sword offers in terms of movements. Many of those are either aerial or use walls and other vertical surfaces for quick changes of direction which I believe was designed for vampires. I enjoy this part a lot as I find it relaxing.

After one hour of practice, my improvised mentor raises a fist to signal the end of the session.

“You are doing well, Ariane. I am confident that I can turn you into a half-decent swordfighter by the turn of the century.”

“Flatterer,” I reply with limited amusement.

“Hah! Do not take umbrage, Devourer. Your dedication does you credit, and my lessons will serve you well. We will focus on the basics while you study the arcane arts. Your next teacher will have a solid foundation to build on.”

“I am surprised that you would invest so much time in me. I am, after all, but a guest.”

“Sword fighting is my life’s work Ariane. Raising a new talent is its own reward.”

“Are you not concerned that I could turn it against you, far in the future?” I jokingly ask.

Marc-Antoine’s smile only widens.

“Then it might be my turn to learn, who knows?”

I mirror his good humor as we clean our blades and gear ourselves at his insistence. The sun is still high above and it will be another hour before I can leave the compound.

“Will you train with anyone else tonight?” I ask, a bit curious as to why only we practice.

His smile falls off a bit.

“How I wish others were as dedicated as you are. Noel is too focused on his studies. As for the others, they seldom ever come back anymore. They all have their own dens in Southwark or the Northern Liberties. We have become a scattered bunch,” he admits with regret.

“Forgive me for saying so, but you all seem… disinterested in the affairs of your domain,” I risk.

To criticize your own host is always considered a faux pas, especially in our society. Recent developments have forced my hand, however.

Marc-Antoine shrugs helplessly.

“You must understand, we have held this town for over a century now. There are few opportunities to explore, and fewer still now that power shifts elsewhere. We are victims of our own success.”

I am forced to blink at this outrageous declaration. Nothing to explore? In a city of tens of thousands?

“I see that you do not believe me. Perhaps, in a few years, new mage cabals will make a move on us, blinded by our lack of activity. For now, we are at peace and our rule is uncontested.”

This is not right. We should always seek new challenges. To stagnate is to fall. We are designed for the Hunt.

“Alas, our current leadership is not conducive to vast projects.”

The blademaster hesitates, perhaps aware that with this innocuous remark, he opened Pandora's box.

“Was he always this interested in paleontology?” I ask, plunging into the breach.

“No…” the other answer with some hesitation, “at least not while he was in France. Noel was Dominique’s lover. He fell out of grace.”

“I heard about Dominique. The current leader of your clan, yes?”

“Indeed. A curious and magnetic figure they are.”

They?

“I have already said too much. Suffice to say, the man is taking some time away for himself and I admit that we have a tendency to focus a bit too much on our distractions.”

I choose not to comment and move to my room to get changed. The Roland disinterest in ruling is not my most dire concern. Tonight, I have an appointment with my newest toy.

I look down on the red brick building below. Salazar is on time, alone as requested and dressed with much more care than yesterday. He wears a well-tailored grey suit and his hair is combed back under a clean bowler hat. As I watch, he removes a silver watch from a coat pocket, which he nervously inspects. He turns left and right, his eyes scanning the deserted street.

I grab my cloak and tug my dress between my legs before falling by his side to prevent the displaced air from making it flap. I have already been standing there for a second when Salazar turns again.

“NGAAAAA! JESUS, woman! Erm. Sorry! I did not see you there.”

Silence.

“I mean, sorry milady, errrr, good evening. Would you like to go now? Aha.”

“Lead the way,” I order in a flat voice, though internally I am having an unexpected amount of fun. Salazar is jumpy. It makes me feel… playful.

We start walking south along the still busy streets of uniform brick buildings. Here, gas lights cast their warm glows from inside their glass prisons on pedestrians and passing carriages alike. Traditional clothing in drab colors abound, as befit the city’s Quaker inheritance. The fire is not in the fashion but in the voices of the groups we come across. Philadelphia is host to the Second Bank of the United States, and the President — that arrogant loon! — has decided to defund it. The gall. The entire town is aflutter with snide remarks and consternated rebukes.

My companion does not share in the general outrage, only casting looks left and right with the vigilance of someone who expects trouble.

Slowly, I compress my aura until it almost disappears and walk slightly behind the tall man. We turn left into a deserted street. Salazar’s shoulders tighten when, I assume, he only hears one set of steps.

The mage flinches and turns frightfully, only to jump once more when our eyes meet. I stand at the edge of his personal space, slightly to the side, and make no effort to breathe nor blink.

“Yes?” I ask.

“Nothing! It’s nothing. Sorry. We’re not far now. From a stable I mean. The place is a bit farther off. Errr. We’ll get a horse for the evening. You can ride horses, right?”

“I will find my own, not to worry.”

“Oh good, good. I know the stable owner. You can rent a horse there. I mean, I will pay for the horse and you can ride it. Would that be acceptable?”

“I will find my own,” I repeat curtly.

“Right. Right. It’s not far.”

We continue and this time, I slowly increase my aura while focusing on the man. As soon as he flinches, I reduce it again, then increase again.

I am not being facetious; I am conducting a study on intimidation and destabilization methods on unaffiliated mages. The fact that I am having a tremendous amount of fun is merely a side-effect of my rigorous scientific investigation. It most definitely is.

“We’re here,” Salazar mumbles as we leave the well-ordered row of buildings to more open grounds, dotted with both fields and warehouses in the distance. A long wood construction takes the side of the road here, and from there comes the familiar smell of equines and their dejections. A few neighs filter from the now-closed door and in front of them, a burly man sweeps the ground under the light of a pair of lanterns. He raises his bearded face as we approach and only relaxes when he recognizes my companion.

I stay near the entrance and leave the man to his business. He approaches the stablemaster with a confident stride and the two of them clasp hands like old acquaintances.

“Salz, good to see you. Who’s the bird?”

“Shhh!” the other man urges with a suddenly fearful glance. Both of them turn to my silhouette standing alone by the roadside. I keep a neutral face and, once more, make no particular effort to blink.

“I’ll tell you later. You got a horse for me?”

“Straw isn’t too tired and he’s already saddled. Will he do?” the other whispers back.

“Fine.”

Salazar follows the other man inside, the pair now equally nervous. He appears to hesitate at the threshold as he expected me to follow inside and I do not, but in the end, he decides to move forward.

I do not even have to whistle for Metis to stop by my side. The noble steed comes for only three things: food, extreme violence leading to the acquisition of said food, and showing off. I easily sit side saddle on her back, with my gloved hands on my lap.

And I wait.

After a few minutes, one of the large doors of the barn open to let out the stablemaster, Salazar, and a dun mount of middling size. The men freeze when they see me, mouths open and everything. The gelding by their side lowers his head and turns it to the side, casting a fearful glance at my Metis in all her glory.

My impatient friend stomps a hoof, and the unnaturally heavy noise breaks the men from their fearful reverie. The stablemaster decides that, perhaps, the entrance is sufficiently swept for the night. He pushes Salazar out and barricades himself with the loud thud of a plank resolutely shoved in place. The horse and rider pair is left stuck outside between a vampire and a hard place.

“Well?” I demand with as much queenly scorn as I can manage.

From his face, I believe I am doing well.

Metis assists with a low-pitch neigh of impatience that sends the pair on their way, posthaste. The mage hastily grabs a lantern then goes forth at the edge of a gallop, both himself and his mount focusing steadily on the path ahead as the heavy impact of nightmarish hooves leaves no doubt as to what follows.

Such unexpected fun. What an amusing bouquet coming from my dear guide! Truly, our brand of humor does require a victim.

Salazar rides south, then west towards Schuylkill. The night darkens as human sources of light grow far between. Soon, the lantern becomes a small halo of radiance surrounded on all sides by the encroaching shadows.

“Would… would you mind riding by my side?” the man bleats pitifully.

Don’t mind if I do.

I kick Metis forward. In a second, she has closed the distance.

Salazar yelps and jumps as we burst from the night, then he struggles for a few seconds to keep his mount under control.

“Mother f— Jesus!”

The scowl dies on his face as our eyes meet.

“Ah, I wanted to inform you of a few things. Yes.”

Silence.

A pearl of sweat snails its way down the man’s forehead.

“That is to say, there were three sites of attack. We will go to the most recent one which happened four days ago. And then the others afterward. At least, we think they are. We did not suspect a thing at first, you see? The first looked like a tragic accident.”

“We should start with the most recent one. The other sites are most likely too altered to reveal anything useful.”

“Sure.”

Interesting. Once focused on his task, Salazar instantly calms down. Even his posture changes.

“Do you suspect anyone?” I finally ask.

“That is the problem. I suspect everyone and no one. The first deaths were a very tight-knit group of mages following a Christian ethos, while the second victims were a couple belonging to a loose alliance of practitioners from south Germany. The last group were blood mages, or close enough, hence why I wanted to inquire about Ezekiel’s whereabouts the night of the murder.”

“From observation, he was probably holed in his moldy basement, dressed in opera prop rejects,” I deadpan.

Salazar laughs, then turns it into a cough with a measuring glance in my direction. Perhaps I should not make light of my teacher in front of his rival. I just… do not feel the kind of kinship I had with many of the other mortals I have worked with. Ezekiel and I are bound in a professional relationship. That is all.

Nevertheless, I admit, I have behaved in an uncourteous manner. I will not criticize him publicly any further.

“In any case,” my companion continues after a pause, “none of those groups were even remotely allied. I expect that the culprit is either an independent agent or a splinter group. They took great pain in erasing all tracks, therefore their purpose is not to sow discord by planting false evidence. My suspicion is that the victims were used in a blood ritual.”

“On site?” I ask with surprise.

“It is possible and, in fact, the best option. Criminals and civilians alike severely underestimate the difficulty of carrying bodies across a populated area unchallenged.”

“I see.”

As I say that, we finally arrive. In the middle of a fallow field stand the remains of barn-like structures, or at least it appears to be as the building has been devastated by a fire of great intensity. Only a few blackened beams remain pointing skyward in uneven clumps, like the rotten teeth of an evil witch. The roof is entirely collapsed in a solid pile of coal covered in soot-stained snow.

The silence is deafening,

I step down from Metis and slowly circle the wreck. There is not a single aura to be found here. The ground, trampled by a great many steps, offers nothing of value until I come across an anomaly.

On the side and to the left, I find a secondary pile of ashes linked to the main house by a snake of darkened ground. I lean forward until my nose is close enough for the frosted grass to tickle. A whiff is enough. The heavy smell of pine remains over that of charred vegetation. Terebinthine, or turpentine as it is known.

Turpentine can be used as an accelerant, a substance that increases the speed of a chemical process. In this case, it would be the fire. Whoever started this arson was meticulous, but also terribly inefficient. It would have been much simpler and safer to cover the walls then ignite multiple locations at once, unless they were so afraid of discovery that they had to leg it at the first spark.

This is quite curious.

I find nothing else noticeable and return to Salazar who had been blinking owlishly from inside his little safe place in a foolish attempt to locate me. I, of course, approach him from his blind side.

“Salazar.”

“Eep!”

“Were there any wards in place inside the barn?”

“Dammit… Yes. Yes, there were but they were purged in the fire just like most of anything. That is why we highly suspect someone from the magical community. A group of mundanes would not have known how to break through without causing an alarm. This place might be remote but the first one was not. It was a school, with houses around. A fight would have attracted attention. Especially a firefight.”

“Hence why it could not be the order of Gabriel?”

“I am not discounting them yet, though there have been no signs of them showing up. They have been known to use stealth when convenient. I just find it hard to believe that they could successfully kill a dozen people without alerting everyone around.”

“Hmm. What about that cottage?” I ask, pointing at a solid stone farm a few hundred yards away.

“What about it?”

“Did you interrogate the person there?”

Salazar has the grace to act embarrassed.

“We did not think it necessary. I mean, the building is rather far…” he replies somewhat defensively.

“Well let’s give it a try, at least,” I suggest sweetly and the man hurries to nod along.

We walk to the isolated house and easily spot the light of candles from what appears to be the living room. The door looks solid, and locked tight.

“Make the lantern brighter,” I order in a low voice.

“You can’t see?”

“Not for us, for the one who lives inside,” I hiss with annoyance.

Salazar obeys and I knock on the door. Inside, a breath hitches. One inhabitant. A woman, from the footsteps.

I pull Salazar back a bit and raise his arm so that we are well-lit. I then channel the Hastings essence.

My posture changes immediately. My back bends a bit, and I cross my arms protectively under my chest. From unmoving, I let my eyes dart left and right in a typical prey fashion. I allow my composure to crumble until what is left is a scared young woman looking for answers, though she should know better.

The person inside inspects us for a few seconds through a thick glass window. This is the moment of truth. If she refuses to open the door, there is not much I can do, and yet I remain confident.

The hinges groan and we find ourselves face to face with a woman in her forties wielding a fire poker and a mighty scowl.

As expected, curiosity has triumphed over common sense.

We do not speak. I let her finish her inspection while Salazar is apparently too busy gawping at me and my change of behavior. The Hastings essence guides me into regular breaths, shifts and other quirks that make a living person more relatable. I can even tell that my cheeks have reddened under the influence of the biting cold.

“Who are youse, and what the hell do you want?”

She is messy but clean. Her clothes are unadorned and chosen for comfort rather than for style. She is still the kind of mature beauty that Loth would go after were it not for her open hostility. A widow, I’d wager, or someone who was at the losing end of a social conflict and ended up a pariah. Our eyes meet and I taste her emotions with a light touch. Fear, anger, frustration, curiosity. I need that last one the most.

“Sorry to bother you at this late hour ma’am. My name is Ariane and I lost my brother a few nights ago. In there,” I finish, pointing at the blackened husk of the barn.

Oooh yes, the ambers of curiosity are fanned. I do not even need to push.

“People are lying to me about what happened to him. They say it was an accident but it is all nonsense. I know it is late, but would you mind answering a few questions?”

Without missing a beat, my interlocutor turns to the mage at my side and points the poker at him in a vaguely threatening fashion.

“And who is this?” she asks, her suspicion surging to the top.

Salazar is still looking at my meek figure as if I had grown a pair of horns.

“My cousin. I took him with me for safety, you understand. Please do not mind him. He is a bit…. touched in the head,” I deadpan.

The experienced caster’s expression flinches, anger at being called a simpleton warring in his mind with the realization that breaking character would have immediate and unfortunate consequences.

“Hellow!” he eventually says with a forced smile.

“I see,” the woman replies before returning her attention to me, “you said you had questions?”

“Yes. If it’s not too much bother. I would have come tomorrow but time is of the essence, if indeed this was not the accident the authorities claim it is.”

“Yes, they would, wouldn’t they? Addled-brained gossipers and cowards, the lot of them.”

Ah, excellent. Hostility successfully redirected.

“Well, come on in and hurry, ‘fore all the heat is gone! Quickly!”

I step in and allow myself a smile of pride as Salazar closes the door behind us.

Our host drags us through a corridor that separates what I guess is the workshop from the living part. From the rolls of fabric stored on planks against the wall, I assume that she is a seamstress. We turn right through a creaking door and into the lit space we saw from afar. The room we now stand on clearly started as a kitchen until she dragged in a bed. One comfortable and well-used couch lies close to a dying fire with a book and a ceramic cup of tea placed on a small table beside. The walls are covered in shelves filled with pots, jars, books, and trinkets. The smell of human and stew saturates the air in a mix that is not entirely unpleasant.

It feels cozy. This is the heart of the house. I can feel power as ancient and fundamental as crosses and the Watcher itself pulsing softly. One word from our host and I will be flung out, swatted like a fly by the very nature of locale.

I never harbored any ill will towards the prickly woman. Even if I did, I would hesitate now under the influence of this… I do not know what to call it. I am a guest and a guest is respectful. Yes, that is the proper way of things.

“I did not catch your name,” I remark.

“You can call me Paulina,” the woman grumbles while removing piles of folded covers and clothes from two small stools. She frees the seats and puts them against the table. Salazar attempts to help but is quickly dissuaded by a murderous glance. In the end, he leans against a window.

“Care for some tea? It’s not good but it’s hot.”

“I would love some,” I reply, causing another jolt of surprise in my companion. Even if I could not drink, any vampire worth their salt can pretend to sip with consummate grace. Clearly, Salazar has wrong expectations.

The woman silently hands me a large chipped mug filled half-way with steaming liquid. I grasp the body of the container with two hands, feeling the warmth travel through the fabric of my gloves. The scent of black tea travels in wafts and I take a quick sip. The piping hot liquid almost scalds my tongue and leaves behind a sweet aftertaste.

“Honey?” I ask.

“My only indulgence,” the older woman grunts. I cast a quick glance at the cover of the book she is reading. A collection of romantic poetry, nothing scandalous.

“Thank you. Would you be comfortable answering a few questions for me?”

“Yes, I suppose,” she replies with apparent impatience, but I know better. Her posture is attentive and with the bond between us deepening, I can taste more. She is defensive and cautious as the poker still by her side easily reveals. Beneath, however, are the standard traits of the exiled. Loneliness. A need for validation. Paulina’s education is respectable if the rows of books are any indication, and she appears rather distrustful. I therefore judge that showing proper diction and a bit of spine would endear her enough to share what she knows.

“I understand that my brother gathered here relatively often?”

“Yes, twice per week without fail. He and his friends would come with platters of food and spend the evening together doing whatever it is they did. Do you know what this was about?” she asks with a challenge.

“Not exactly, but I doubt that it was anything illegal. He never lacked for money.”

“What was his name?”

“James. James Dalton,” I reply immediately. The core of lying is to create another truth rather than improvising your way through the conversation. That way, there are less opportunities for contradictions. James is one of my go-to names for male relatives.

As for the name Dalton… I had not used it in a long time. Perhaps I am growing lonely.

“James, huh. Sorry for your loss,” she says, and I realize that with the help of the Hastings essence, I had revealed enough weakness and grief for her to latch on.

“Not your fault. In any case, were you here the night he… the night the barn burnt?”

“Yes I was, but I feel the need to apologize. I know very little. By the time I woke up, the fire was already raging outside.”

“You sleep in this room, correct?” I say and point at the small cot.

“Yes. In wintertime, warming the entire house is wasteful since my Henry died. I just stay down here.”

“Your windows face the barn. Were you woken up by the light?”

“No. The windows are not large enough and the bed is low so the glow never shone into my face. It’s the noise that did it. Their roof collapsed.”

“I see. Did anything coming from the barn ever wake you up before?”

Paulina considers the question seriously for a few seconds, clearly showing that those meetings have been going on for some time.

“Maybe twice last year during celebrations. They were obviously quite drunk, including the women.”

She frowns with disapproval, but then her expression softens.

“It was not much. Just loud conversations and raucous laughs, and it did not last. They were mostly a quiet bunch and I am not one to pry so I left them alone. Why? You’re thinking of something,” she adds.

I can share that much.

“The accident did not have a single survivor and I learned yesterday that they found the bodies throughout the house. I find it unlikely that not a single person could escape. Even if they were all asleep and slowly choked on smoke, the people closest to the ground should have survived long enough to escape.”

“You suspect foul play.”

“I do not suspect,” I correct her, “I know there was foul play. The fact that nothing woke you up shows that they did not scream. They were all probably dead by the time the fire claimed them.”

I darken my expression as Paulina gulps her tea to ease the tension.

“It could have been someone on the inside.”

“Or a group of bandits,” Paulina adds with some alarm, “do you think…”

“I doubt that they were chosen at random. You are probably safe,” I reassure her.

“I pray that you are right,” the woman finally adds.

This is all she knew, and it confirmed that whatever killed them did so through successful infiltration, one way or another. After a few more remarks, I take my leave with a quiet Salazar in tow. We head back to the horses and ride to the next site, as planned.

“You are not what I expected,” the man finally remarks as I ponder on what we learnt.

“What did you expect then?”

“I’m not sure. More… grandstanding and ordering around. More putting that woman under your spell and dominating her into telling her everything you want to know.”

“A more vampiric display of might?”

“Yes. That.”

I could ignore him, but in the end decide not to. As amusing as it is to tease the mage, I must not forget that he is an ally in our quest to hunt a dangerous foe. I must not let my fun stand in the way of efficiency. Or at least, not too much.

“Power is a crutch. Use it too often and you forget how to operate without it,” I finally explain.

This remark is as valid for me as ever. Such an occurrence would never happen in my territory. I would use my vast network of agents and informants to track every possible culprit, resorting to extreme measures to stop them before they could claim a second victim. I would unleash werewolves in the streets (in human form), and have mage scry every pebble. I would bring all my resources to bear.

Here, cut off from most of them, I am forced once again to rely on myself as well as unreliable agents. I welcome the practice. Time honing one’s skill is never wasted.

“You were also much less, err, vampiry,” Salazar continues, passing a hand in his spiky black hair. I notice that he looks a bit miffed.

In answer, I channel Hastings essence once more and, this time, assume the persona of the bashful young country lass, intimidated by the handsome and savvy city man before me.

“Would… would this be better, Mr. Salazar?” I ask in a sweet voice and I shily glance down.

The man recoils.

“You know what, that’s even worse!” he complains.

I stop my impersonation and return to my old glacial self with a knowing smile that I make sure he sees.

“You know what I truly am. If I wore a different skin, you would find it disturbing.”

“You don’t mean that literally, do you? The wearing a skin part?”

If my eyes roll back any farther up my skull, I shall soon see down my own throat.

“Please be patient with me, yes? I am not some century-old aristocrat of the night,” the man protests.

Hah. I have never heard us be called that, but I suppose it is fitting.

Also, he thinks that I am a century old. I am wise and mature beyond my years. Even the mortals can tell.

“Enough of this,” I reluctantly say to stop his flattery, “we have two more sites to visit. Lead the way!”

It takes us three more hours to inspect everything. The couple was killed in a shed at the back of their property while the second group was indeed slain in a school. The way the fire started was exactly the same, except the first time where the distance is significantly shorter.

“There is not much to see,” Salazar declares, mid-yawn.

“On the contrary, there is plenty to understand. I do believe it is high time we met the vampire in charge of this location. The murder of the couple happened on the master’s territory. The two others belong to a Courtier named Lydia, unless I am mistaken.”

“You need her permission to act?”

“I could bypass her and go directly to Noel, though that would be discourteous. We will visit her soon. First, we will need a little bit of magical and mundane assistance and you are going to help me.”

100. Surprise!

Ezekiel clasps his hands and frowns in an attempt to look more respectable.

“Following a, ahem, rather forceful insistence from one of the members of our little coterie…”

Three pairs of eyes turn to me.

“…I shall introduce the arcane mysteries of rituals slightly ahead of schedule. Now, Terrence, please remind us how we normally get the symbolic element of casting.”

“From the prepared circuits in our own gauntlets, or I guess you could slap some on the ground with a bit of chalk.”

“Yes indeed,” Ezekeil answers, bristling at the informal answer, “and what are the limits of such methods, Margaret?”

“They place the burden of visualization on the will of the caster, forcing her to exert herself tremendously,” the dark-haired girl answers with the solemn voice of a bishop at mass.

“Correct. You cannot glance at your gauntlet to look at the runes for help, especially not while in the middle of intensive tasks.”

Such as running away from me.

“And so, the gauntlet and its runes are a convenient yet demanding tool. Rituals, by comparison, allow us to cast spells of great powers provided we have… what, Ariane?”

“Time, material, location, and company,” I automatically answer, quoting Loth.

“Company?”

“Some spells demand several practitioners working in concert. Like Skargard artillery spells. You need three people for that if you want more than a few shots.”

“Yes, yes indeed. Hmm. We will address such spells at a later date. A much later date, as they require a very high degree of training, compatibility, and trust between the casters.”

We all look at each other without comment.

“Anyway,” Ezekiel continues with some embarrassment, “you are correct. A ritual requires a proper surface to inscribe the rune. The materials themselves are quite important as well because using chalk will barely give you an edge. Time is, of course, necessary if you want to write down more than three symbols. A ritual is therefore demanding, but they make casting a spell significantly easier. Any spell with more than twelve symbols will require a circle, even for the more experienced mages.”

I bet Frost could do twenty and look you in the eye with a smirk as he cast it. Not to mention Semiramis. Ezekiel knows a lot of theory but few people.

“It is still a bit early, but you have all been diligent and I think a small break is in order. We shall head outside to a proper ritual location.”

Terrence raises his hand, droopy eyes widened in apprehension.

“When you mean outside, you do not mean the city proper, right?”

“No, Terrence. We will go to an abandoned barn a few hundred yards away. I merely wish to limit the risks of our living quarters catching fire.”

“Okay…”

I am slightly annoyed by the use of that detestable acronym, and so I decide to tease the lad a bit as we climb up the stairs and out into the empty alley.

“What is the matter Terrence, afraid that some horrible fiendish creature will descend upon you?” I ask with a bit of fang.

“Not at all,” he deadpans, “merely that I must call her mother and listen to her whine until the rooster crows.”

I smile at that. Wit! From that bore! Perhaps I judged him too hastily.

“You know, I could rid you of her, for the right price…” I whisper in a sulky voice.

“I’m afraid I must refuse. I would not want to deny the devil his last few years of tranquility.”

Alright, that was not bad. I allow myself a chuckle.

Terrence and I close the procession as we four cross our way through the abandoned district, with Margaret sometimes casting an incredulous glance backward. I realize that I only look slightly older than them, and it was apparently enough for the socially deprived young man to form a bond.

We must be quite the show, them in crimson robes and me in my more traditional blue one. I suspect that any pedestrian witnessing the moment and trying to guess which one of us might be the blood-drinking immortal monster might act on false assumptions. In any case, it does not take long for Ezekiel to lead us to a derelict factory.

The older man fiddles with the rusty lock protecting the gate into the inner courtyard. He finally manages to coax the thing open and we make our way through piles of rotten crates and broken supplies. The building itself is pockmarked bricks and misery, slouched like an old bar fly under a filthy coat of grayish snow. Only after we have entered its innards does Ezekiel allow himself some light and my companions stop stumbling around. The smell of mildew had, outside, been tolerable.

“Jesus, what a dump,” Margaret swears, finally breaking her queen of darkness persona.

“Yes, well, at least we do not risk collateral damage,” Ezekiel replies defensively.

“Except on ourselves,” I finish. I can survive a falling building, but between the frail mage and a support beam, I would bet on the harder contestant.

“I assure you that I have used these facilities before and we are quite safe. Here,” our fearless teacher says as he goes around the derelict building, lighting lanterns. They cast dancing shadows on the walls as they come to life one by one.

In the center of the empty floor sits a silvery circle dug into the grimy floor. Contrary to my expectations, the interior is clean besides some dust and the terrible smell fades away from the continuous influx of fresh air coming from the still-open door at our back.

“The circle you see will serve as a base for the following ritual. You will draw the remaining symbols of the classical mage bolt using the paste you will find in the container by the entrance, then cast the spell at this target.”

At the end of the factory, Ezekiel has painted a series of large concentric circles with a bull’s eye in the middle. I can tell from the numerous impacts marring the wall that we are not the first to test the old wreck’s structural integrity.

“Let us start the exercise. Margaret, you go first. Do you remember the runes?”

The young woman straightens her back and marches through the dust like a duchess at her own wedding. She picks up a pot of paint and brush and marches right back. The impression is only slightly ruined by her difficulties opening said pot. Eventually, she applies a thick paste inside the circle forming the four necessary runes for a bolt: power, momentum, projectile, and direction. They are all rather basic and it does not take long for her to succeed, then link them together according to the western standard runes of inscription. Power comes first, then she links momentum and direction together as a secondary principle with direction as the catalyst. She delicately places the pot and brush on the side and stands in the middle of her work with a hint of worry.

“You are doing well, Margaret. Just cast,” Ezekiel encourages her. She turns to us and we all show signs of support. Reinvigorated, the apprentice witch raises a naked hand and bellows:

“Bolt!”

Her croaking voice does not prevent her success. A translucent bolt of force erupts from the edge of the circle, distorting the air in a wide area. A thud sounds as the missile impacts the far wall and more dust rains down from the rafters.

The mortals sneeze.

Ezekiel trots over to open the door of the far end to create a draft of fresh air before tuberculosis and the Watcher knows what else wipes out the newest generation of mages in one fell swoop. I have rarely been so glad not to have to breathe.

Ezekiel’s foresight is proven when he steps to the circle and peels off the now solidified paste, removing the symbols cleanly and easily. We will each have the opportunity to work with a pristine setting.

Terrence is next. He appears much more worried at first, and yet he calms down and focuses as soon as the tracing begins. He takes no break between drawing and casting. The pot is barely down before he, too, successfully impacts the target.

We clap as soon as our arms are no longer covering our heads.

Finally, my turns come.

“Hold, Ariane. I know that casting does not come so naturally to you, and I made some inquiries. I believe that you would perform better if we were to add a blood rune to your construct.”

“I thought we would work without blood magic?” I ask, a bit surprised.

“Indeed, and this will be valid in the future. In this case, we will make an exception. It might take too long for you to activate all four runes and the purpose of the exercise is to experience ritual magic anyway. Adding a blood rune will bring the spell closer to… the nature of your condition,” the man finishes hesitantly.

Ah, I see. I was repeatedly told that vampires take on blood magic more easily than its less sacrificial counterpart. It would be unfortunate to limit myself to learning what I am good at, but for the sake of the exercise… I suppose.

“Remember that power is no substitute for technique and effort.”

“I know,” I inform the man somewhat drily. I take the brush and step in the circle. I trace the runes at four times the speed of the mortals, drawing both on my control and my drawing experience. Power. Momentum. Projectile. Direction. I finish and place the pot on the side.

The last part will be done without a brush.

I pull my sleeve up to reveal a pale forearm, place a talon against an artery and slice deeply. The two young ones hiss in sympathy but I ignore them. The pain is nothing compared to…

“Which fingers?”

I push the memory away and smear two fingertips with dark blood. Tracing the last rune is a time-consuming and tedious process, not least because I need to add ‘paint’ several times. Eventually, the work is done.

The blood rune is visually different from the rest. Power is square and undaunted. Momentum is lithe and spiked like a lightning fork, but blood is alive. It twists organically like some nightmarish being. I feel kinship with this one. It was drawn from another script, more ancient and primal than the well-ordered code now used by astronomers and mathematicians. It speaks of dark caves lit by a tentative fire while a storm roars outside, of defeats and victories. Of squelched organs.

I expose my still butchered arm and feel the ritual ease the spell into my mind. Power from blood. Momentum and projectile from power. Direction given to the birthed arrow.

A trail of dark fluid snakes up from the jagged tear into a needle-thin dart. I feel more pain now, deeper, more intimate as the aura is forcefully dragged from my essence. The arrow is me and from me and it awaits my will.

Never since casting that first darkness spell have I felt magic click so easily. I understand blood on a fundamental level that no mage can ever hope to attain, no matter how hard they study. The ancient power is there, for a price. One I have paid many times.

“Blood bolt.”

This time air is not displaced, and the noise is not a blunt sound of impact, but the ghastly crunch of material brought over the edge of its mechanical resistance. There, in the bull’s eye, now stands a minuscule hole. Beyond that is the black of the night.

I lower my hand. The power is spent.

“And this is the might of well-executed blood magic,” Ezekiel ends in a satisfied voice.

“This is just plain stupid! How can we hope to stand against her kind with that pathetic little blast you showed us? We should learn blood magic too,” the girl whines.

“You will learn magic my way and at my speed, Margaret. First, it will take you years of practice to wield blood with such mastery, and second, if you think it will be enough to save you from a vampire, then I’m afraid that you are sorely mistaken. Enough! We are here now, and you will keep casting until I give you leave.”

“This is just unfair…” the woman eventually grumbles.

“My presence is giving you the wrong sort of expectations, Margaret. You are infinitely more likely to face a bandit or an enemy practitioner than you are to face any one of us. Besides, Ezekiel is correct. You do not want to fight us, even with magic,” I explain in a rare attempt to better our relationship.

“If you are so bloody strong, why do you even learn magic to begin with?”

“Given the same choice as me, would you not?” I answer with patience.

Margaret stops to consider, her black brows furrowed in annoyance until she comes to a realization. Her expression softens then, until the naked ambition fades to reveal the rather young mind under it.

“It’d be a shame not to.”

“Precisely. Magic is a versatile tool. Combat spells are but a small part of it.”

With this, we return our attention and efforts to ritual casting with one major difference. As each student painstakingly redraw his runes, the other leans towards me like a Florentine conspirator.

“Is it true that you can slap a man’s head off without blinking?”

“Yes, we do not need to blink.”

“Can vampires get erections?”

“Get your mind out of the gutter, Margaret. Also, yes.”

“If you only drink blood, does it mean you only have to pee?”

“We are magical creatures, Terrence. We do not ‘digest’ per se.”

“If you wake up at twilight, does it mean that you can wake up inside a steep valley then run up the mountain and then it’s day again so you fall asleep?”

“I have no idea.”

“Is it true that you can slip under a steel door?”

“Technically yes, but the steel door will not survive the experience.”

And so on and so forth. Eventually, the questions tarry as the pair starts stumbling around like drunkards, yawning terribly. Ezekiel wisely decides to call it a night and we escort them back to their quarter where they promptly collapse.

“A moment of your time, Ariane. I have prepared what you asked. Are you quite sure you want to proceed that way? I could still come with you.”

“Do not concern yourself. I have a plan.”

And now is the time to implement it.

Mireille of the Rolands is tall, with wavy black hair and piercing green eyes that remind me of a discount Lady Moor. She could be the old harpy’s plain and less bitchy cousin. She wears a sensible dress the color of pine needles, of thick fabric, padded to ward off the winter air. She is not submissive. I would say that she acts carefully polite as she sits on her throne-like chair in the middle of a cozy boudoir. Mireille is a Courtier and her aura is not fully under control. It sometimes surges and bursts like a bubbling pot.

“A killer you say?” my host asks with a frown. The light of her hearth covers one side of her face like carefully applied powder while the other remains deathly pale. Her concern appears genuine.

“Yes.”

“I was made aware of the deaths you are referring to. The lack of reaction of affiliated factions led me to believe that those were just accidents.”

“Those are, without a doubt, murder. The signs are clear.”

“Hmm.”

I already explained the reasons for my involvement. Mireille accepted my explanations without comments and with her undivided attention. I am pleased that she does not share Noel’s apathy.

“This is extremely preoccupying. So far, we have maintained a rather hands-off policy in the hope that it would lure more mages here. I can tolerate squabbles on my territory. An indiscriminate murderer is a different matter, one I cannot ignore. I will track them down. Thank you for bringing this to my attention.”

“I would not come to you with just suspicions,” I interrupt her. “I have a way to track the culprit.”

“Do you now?” she answers with obvious surprise. I nod and take a compass-like contraption from a satchel by my side. It is clearly magical in nature and emits a faint aura.

“I suspected that the scenes of the murder might have been destroyed to hide what, or who, was taken from them. That is why my associate and I scoured the houses of the victims for personal objects in an attempt to work a tracking spell. It seems that I was wrong, as there were indeed no survivors that we can tell. There was, however, one hit. A faint one. According to the mage who made the working, it should link to a personal belonging with some blood on it. Hopefully the killer made a mistake and left it in their lair.”

Mireille is suddenly more animated. She tilts her head, eyes unblinking.

“Would this work? Should we go now?”

“That would be for the best. I was hoping that we could go together for my own tranquility of mind.”

“Naturally. As long as you agree that this is my Hunt, as we are operating on my territory.”

“I understand.”

I do not. Torran let me have the lead on a few Hunts and I am not sure how he managed to shelf his pride. She is weak, or at least, weaker. I took the initiative. How DARE she…

But no. I must be patient.

I grab my cloak and fasten it as Mireille equips herself with a short cutlass. We leave her small mansion, passing a few maids on the way. The atmosphere is relaxed and the mortals barely spare us a glance. Business as usual.

Outside, I activate my tracking spell. The construct awakes and the needle spins once in its glass before settling west. Mireille and I walk on foot through fields and forests, leaving no trace behind and requiring no light. We are two ghosts in the night.

It takes us an hour before the air grows wet and the smell of frigid water hints at the appearance of the Schuylkill. The forest grows denser now and we are forced to circle around snow-covered thickets until we find a path cut through the vegetation. Barely larger than a deer trail, it carries us deeper until the sky is crisscrossed by layers of naked branches. We soon emerge onto open ground and the river now flows before us, placid in all its murky glory. A single chair made from severed logs and rotten twine thrones in its middle. Empty bottles line its feet in single file like goslings following their mother. A fishing spot.

“Right,” I say in a low voice.

We continue with some difficulty. Undergrowth as dense as this one is not easy to navigate, especially now with the biting cold making every twig a rigid claw waiting to shatter. There are no thick trunks we could latch onto and jump either.

Fortunately, fate is on our side. The line of trees recedes in favor of waist-high grass growing on uneven ground. We hop from tuft to tuft for a few minutes longer and finally arrive in view of our destination.

A few dozen yards away, at the river’s bend, someone built a tiny misshapen lodge hanging over the flowing waters. The main floor is at the top of a small mound, then a covered corridor dips towards the river and a small room that will be washed down at nature’s first tamper tantrum. Not a light in sight, as I expected.

“I hope this trip was not in vain. Shall we?” I offer.

“What if this is a home?”

“A home would be lived in at night,” I reply with conviction.

We approach from the low ground and I force a shutter open. The snap of flimsy wood causes no reaction.

I climb in, Courtier in tow.

“Aha!” I cannot help but declaim with Binglesque glee. The interior of the room is filled and well-used, belying its decrepit appearance. Turpentine saturates the air in a thick cloud coming from three barrels stashed in a corner. Other supplies are separated in orderly piles on the swept ground. A single desk sits against the wall to the right of the passage leading up. There are no lanterns.

“I think we found our foe’s den,” I idly comment.

“Well, he’s obviously not here,” Mireille observes, “can you check the workspace for hints to his identity?”

“Certainly.”

I step forward with confidence and immediately dodge low and to the left as her cutlass misses my head by a finger. I turn and claw her across the throat before the return hit.

Black blood spurts from the wound.

Black blood no longer spurts from the wound. She healed. I stop the blade with an armguard. It bites into the steel sheet with a resonating clang.

Fast.

I dodge under a swipe and my return strike eviscerates her. Once more, her wounds close at an alarming speed, as if time itself lost its grip on her body.

The next hit slides against my left shoulder, opening a long furrow. Need to focus.

Instead of falling back, I push forward. She gives up on the reach advantage and starts using her weapon as an overly large knife. She is relentless and ignores my counterstrikes. No Courtier should heal that fast from a Master’s talon.

“You can’t have him! He’s mine! I am so close! So close!” the woman shrieks. Her aura buckles like a wild thing. Strikes and blows rain upon my defenses as she has little care for defense. I focus on blocking and deflecting, managing to land a few wounds myself though they quickly heal. Eventually, they take their toll on her mind if not on her body, and she pulls back. We glare at each other.

“How did you even know?”

“That it was you? I was not sure until I found your little hidey hole yesterday.”

“You what? How?”

“There were too many elements pointing at you. All three attacks happened either on or at the edge of your territory. They all took place in public places, not homes. They were the work of an independent agent, not someone aligned with one of the many mage factions dotting this political landscape. The most decisive clue, I think, was that you started all your fires in such a cautious yet inefficient fashion. We can approach fire rationally but, deep inside, we will always fear it, won’t we?”

“That’s it? Suspicion? That was all you had?” she sputters, furious.

“It was enough to follow you here. This construct I used does not point out to one of your victim’s remains, but to a beacon I placed on the door behind you. And now, you fell into my trap.”

Mireille steps back, eyes darting to every corner of the room. The fear she shows is proof of an erratic behavior, and yet she does not feel like a rogue. I think I understand now.

“There is no trap. You lie!”

“There is one, and you already sprung it. By attacking me. You see, killing the mages on your land remains your prerogative and I have no right to protest. You are not breaking the Accords by doing so, therefore I have no right to interfere.”

She freezes as she realizes that she acted on instinct and the price thereof.

“Until you attacked me without provocation to cover your tracks, of course. Now, House Roland is in serious violation of our written agreement, a hospitality contract that I paid for.”

I smile.

Our kind has a visceral reaction to our lairs being breached. I expected her to act as soon as she realized that she was made. What I did not expect was for her to accompany me here. My original plan was to wait for her outside of her mansion, then follow when she would inevitably come to erase the evidence of her actions. She might not be breaking the Accords, but she certainly does not have Noel’s authorization to slay his people on such a large scale.

Like most successful plans, mine relied on accounting for many possibilities. Confronting me meant breaking the Accords. Erasing the proofs meant that I would catch her red-handed and report her to Noel. Cutting and running would have solved my problems. Finally, turning the tables by using a scapegoat would have been countered by the many proofs I have collected and the oaths I could take. In every case, I can swear on my honor that I saw her sneak into the killer’s hole and that she had the key. It would have been enough for a thorough interrogation.

“One last thing, my dear,” I continue, “most Courtiers of sound mind would have realized that being in an enclosed space with a Devourer is the trap.”

“I don’t—”

I am done listening.

I must admit that playing the polite student for so long has been taxing on my patience. I have a right to unwind a bit on Mireille since she has been quite naughty. Truly, no one could reasonably deny me this moment of cathartic relaxation.

Still smiling, I grab the room’s entire desk, claws dug deep, before swinging it around and into the charging Courtier.

“Oof!”

The piece of furniture smacks her across the torso and propels her into the wall like a fancy pin. I grab the improvised disciplinary implement with both hands and swat it down with gusto. She will heal.

“You”

Smack.

“Do not”

Smack.

“Break”

Smack.

“The Rules”

Smack.

“Of hospitality”

Smack.

“With me!”

The desk breaks apart at the last strike. Mireille crawls away, left leg shattered. Since I am not a complete animal, I seize her right foot to send her crashing into the far wall.

“Even with improved healing, broken bones take a while to set.”

Interestingly, Mireille and I should be about the same age. We do not, however, share the same experience.

“No, wait! Please!”

I grab her by the wrist and arc her over my head, ending the pretty display of acrobatic dance in a crate of ceramic containers. They shatter on impact with a satisfying crunch.

I feel better already. I allow the poor Courtier to extract herself from the debris. She sits back down, hands raised.

“Where is the fae whose blood is in your vein?” I demand.

For a moment, Mireille’s face twists with an expression of the hottest rage. I do not punish her for it. She is not truly defying me, she just has difficulties letting go of her treasure. I can tolerate her taking a minute to bury her ambitions.

“There is a trap door upstairs, under the bed. Lift it and climb down. You will find him there.”

“You harvested his essence?”

“Yes. I always keep a container on me in case something like this happened. Not that it helped much…”

“What were you trying to achieve? Did you think the potent blood would hasten your growth?”

“It does not work as well for us as it does for Devourers, but we can still grow faster with a constant supply of potent essence.”

“Did you attack the mages for the same reason?”

“Yes. There is only so much blood I can take from only one person.”

“Then know that your belief is wrong. You are brittle. The power you gathered has no outlet and it will escape your grasp sooner or later. You took a great risk for little reward.”

“Little reward?” she scoffs, “You are so far from the realities of our kind, Devourer. It matters not to me what you have been through. The only thing I see is how you strut around town like you own it and be treated like an equal by the haughty lords and ladies of the land. I want to be strong and free and pushing power into myself was very much worth the risk.”

“Not if it breaks you and eventually, it would have. Do you know why most Devourers do not live past twenty years?”

This sentence stops her. Deep in her rational mind, she must be aware of the cost of power.

“My siblings are forced to consume too much, too fast, and it destroys them. Pah, enough of this. I am not here to convince you. Do you yield?”

This time, her hesitation provokes me. I grab by the neck and dig two claws in her tender flesh, bringing her face next to mine.

“I yield!”

I stop mid hiss and force myself to relax. Spirit is one thing. Defiance when you are defeated is another.

“I yield. You win.”

I drop her unceremoniously. I want to see her prize now. The covered corridor leads to the upper floor you would expect in any hovel: a small bed, a cooking spot, a pantry. I lift the wooden frame to reveal the passage beneath. A few steps dug into the rock lead to a sort of cave lit by a single lantern.

At the bottom of the stairs, I find a Likaean boy, a cot, a stained bucket and a single lantern letting out a pathetic glow. The frail youth cradles the source of light like a drowning man a buoy and I cannot help but feel a deep resentment towards Mireille whom I left mostly intact on the floor. This is not our way. We defang our foes by turning them into cattle, or we kill them, or we come to an agreement. Only personal vengeance should justify that horrid treatment. Not greed. Never greed. She should not have drained him like a leech, night after night to grow stronger. We are not leeches. We are hunters.

The boy has very dark hair and abyssal eyes, showing just one little star of interest as he spots me. But soon, the realization of what I am turns hope into despair. A single heavy sigh shakes his skeletal frame and his gaze turns back to the glimmer cradled in his filthy hands. I approach slowly and kneel by his side.

But I do not speak.

Because I now realize my predicament.

I want the kid to be free. My friendship with Sinead has changed my outlook on liberty and Nami’s presence has only served to reinforce this impression. I am not some champion of light. I merely believe that mortals and other creatures shine the most when they can be themselves, and it is at their brightest that they are the most delicious. Ethics and gastronomy rolled in one ideal: freedom.

Truly, I am a benevolent being.

But I cannot save this one. If I bring Mireille to Noel and take the Likaean for myself, she could share his existence with her clan as revenge or in the hope of lessening her punishment. If I kill Mireille, I will likely be found out and at the very least be banished, my captive taken as reparation. The repercussions of this decision could hurt me diplomatically for decades to come. No matter what, I will condemn this child to slavery.

I stare at the tiny being. He still ignores my presence.

I must kill him. This is the only salvation I can grant.

It feels wrong.

My inner rules forbid me from killing a child, though would that not be mercy in this case? Sometimes, death is preferable to the alternative. Especially for one as young-looking as this one. He is already broken.

Sometimes, I must break rules in order to…

Oh.

I am a complete idiot, am I not? When we are faced with contradictory rules and promises, we keep those we deem the most important.

I step away from the kid and climb back up, then walk down the covered stairs down to the room where I left Mireille. I smile at her pleasantly, and she looks more terrified at my expression than when I had my claws at her throat.

“You can give the child to me willingly, stop your killings and pursue power through training and study. If you do that, I will forget the whole debacle and we can both go on our merry way. That is the first option.”

I step closer until the symbolism of my standing form above hers leaves no room to interpretation.

“In the heart of Constantine’s fortress hides a Master by the name of Ignace. My ransom for breaking the Accords and attacking me despite our treaty will be three days in his care. I am convinced that your House will be more than happy to throw you to the wolves for what you have done. Ignace will undress you and bind you to a chair, then, together, you will explore the meaning of pain. You will learn to recognize every organ in your body and every strand of muscle as he removes them with surgical precision. He will peel off the skin from flesh inch by inch until you beg him to die.”

“Enough! I know of Ignace.”

“Then realize that this is your second choice.”

She looks at me with narrowed eyes.

“I could inform Noel and Lady Berenice of your proposal.”

“And I would receive at most a slap on the wrist. I am not working against them by trying to keep that fae for myself. I am not technically breaking the terms of our agreement. You, however…”

“Yes, yes, I get it. What do you propose?”

“I am sure we can agree to a carefully worded treaty…”

It takes us only ten minutes to reach a compromise. By the time we are done, Mireille has seemingly accepted that the child was lost to her in any case and that it would be better to avoid punishment. I keep an option open to add terms after consulting with Salim, in case she finds a loophole, in exchange for no additional reparations. All in all, I think I covered myself well.

When I step down from the ladder, he completely ignores me until I start speaking.

The Likaean language comes slowly and haltingly. I have to think hard to get the right inflection and I am limited by my lack of information. Should I use the official vocabulary of declamation? Or a more polite greeting between unknown parties? Or should I assume that my rescue is as young as he looks and try for a more familiar tone to comfort him?

In the end, I use the most neutral tone I can because I want to avoid mistakes.

“Greetings, young one. My name is Ariane. I associate with the Court of Summer. May I ask for your name?” I say in Likaean. As the words cross my lips, their truth is carried in our small basement by the meaning I impart to them. My name really is Ariane. I truly am associated with the Court of Summer and its most disreputable prince. The weight of the sentence falls upon us with finality, and with it, hope returns.

Slowly, the desperate mask of the boy melts to reveal the pain underneath. Tears flow from his eyes in great droplets as he grabs my arms with surprising strength and lets out a panicked babble. His voice is young and musical though made raspy by dehydration. I let him talk, too fast for me to understand, until he stops to catch his breath.

It gave me the time to prepare an answer.

“I apologize, young sir, my words are that of a child. You must speak slowly.”

Likaean is as infinitely complex as it is versatile. Young sir refers to a noble son of unknown origin. Child indicates that I have issues associating sounds with meaning. Sinead’s book mentions that the most powerful sovereigns can create gardens and charnel pits by declaiming poetry.

The child slows down and his eyes aim up, to freedom. I silently hoist him over my shoulder and flinch at the stench of his unwashed body. The trip up is short, and he soon stands outside the main door, looking up the cloud-covered sky. I use dry wood and a bit more terebenthine than is wise to start a fire and haul him back in as soon as he gets the shivers. Snow and an iron basin are enough for an improvised bath. I wash his hair while he shoves syrupy apples down his throat with wild abandon.

“What about my captor?” the boy asks after he is clean, dressed in clean clothes, and filled with enough sugar to start his own distillery.

His voice is slow and measured, and just a bit condescending. Likaean is the same language across their many worlds and those who cannot learn it are not held in high regard. He does not understand yet that our reality is different.

“I defeated her. I will bring you to my honored friend, Prince Sinead of the Court of Summer.”

It grates a bit to use such a highly polite term for such a licentious scoundrel, but apparently it was the right thing to do because he looks at me with renewed wonder.

“Oh! Apologies! My name is Makyas of the Court of Wings and Keyholes.”

Hmm. I must have misunderstood that one.

“Wings and Keyholes?” I repeat. Those are unusual words. Perhaps I am mistaking them?

“Wings,” the boy patiently whispers and I hear a fleeting sound of a dove taking flight, “and Keyholes,” he continues as I perceive the word not as a passage but as a leaky thing, a flaw from which secrets escape.

“The tiny Court!”

“I am pleased to meet you, Makyas of the, errr, Court of Wings and Keyholes.”

“No no! I am pleased. In your debt now.”

I am almost certain that this Likaean is quite young. Younger than most, in any case. I need to contact Sinead because I am disinclined to act as a nursemaid.

“Right. I will protect you for now. It will take a few days before help arrives and we can take you to a safer place.”

“Yay! I am in your care. Can you sing?”

“This question is taboo.”

“So, no.”

Maybe I should just drain him a bit, as payment.

101. Tempus Fugit

Sinead comes in person to recover his newest ally and I realize a few interesting details. First, Makyas of the Court of Wings and Keyholes is slightly more intimidating than I gave him credit for, if Sinead’s reaction is to be believed. Second, Makyas is obviously not a bashful child. He drops the act as soon as he finds himself in the presence of a prince and I get a glimpse of the playful malice beneath.

Sinead also uses the opportunity to flirt outrageously. I should have expected it.

I also learn that the Likaeans are busy working on a way back and, apparently, the space magic developed by Ricardo in Alexandria is the key. Sivaya is confident that she will finish a valid spell by the end of the century. When I remark that it is a long time, I am informed that creating an entirely new branch of magic in a rigid reality is a time-consuming effort and that I am welcome to try myself.

Sinead’s condescending delivery is truly without a match.

In any case, I foresee more shenanigans in the future and let them go on their way.

Over the next few months, I manage to keep up my magical studies with the mortals through immense effort and the occasional application of blood magic when some spells become too complex. No matter how hard I try, my fire spells remain pallid and pathetic and my light spells are timid things, bright enough to be seen from afar but never seeming to give the mortals any visibility. On the contrary, anything related to blood, shadows and illusions comes to me naturally.

I get no more issue from Mireille or any of the local Roland vampires afterward, though I do continue sword practice. I eventually come to enjoy it, relishing the flexibility that swords can offer.

On the home front, I have to handle a slew of issues from the care of Sinead’s illegitimate children to the growth of the slave catcher population moving north from Kentucky. My dream mage also marries a cake maker to no one’s surprise. With the rescued children and the White Cabal’s presence, Marquette’s mage population explodes. Strangely, the werewolf population explodes as well even if they cannot bear children. Every time I pass by, there are more of them following me around with their nose in the air, only keeping a respectful distance because of Metis’ fearsome reputation as an ear thief. Any attempt to wiggle the whole truth from Jeffrey ends in a two hours declaration involving his cousins, nephews, friends from the coast, the Illuminati, that fisherwoman from Ottawa with the thick thighs… As far as I understand, their village’s fame has grown as the safest and richest werewolf haven and it attracts a lot of those who would not do so well in traditional pack structures. I understand that many of those prefer to be left alone and that the new town, amusingly named Moonside, affords them the tranquility they crave. Jeffrey assures me that they will fight when called and that is, in the end, all that I care about.

I still wish they would stop trying to smell me. I find it extremely vexing.

Last but not least, I use the opportunity of a payment for a protection detail to ask for blood from Salim of the Rosenthal, which he secretly accepts. Their essence is certainly one of the most useful I have ever consumed. I can now recall things much more easily if I focus on them, and some tedious tasks like reading reports become significantly more relaxing. I complete them as if in a trance. Making paperwork less tedious is without a doubt one of the mightiest powers in creation.

Unfortunately, better memories only make the following ordeal that much more painful.

***

I knew this day would come. I knew it from the beginning, but I always managed to push the thought to the back of my mind. I had so much to do. There were always new foes to fight and problems to solve, things to learn. Now it has come and I am at a loss.

I bump my head against Torran’s chest in a rare display of public affection. Others might see but I care little. I breathe in deep and the cold spice of him overwhelms the brine on the air to both soothe me and distress me even more.

His hand pats the back of my head. We do not speak. We are beyond words. Everything that was worth saying was said a long time ago.

The fact remains that I have my life here and he has his own back in Hungary. There is no bridging that gap, not when it takes months of travel between our territories. A Dvor can only stay so long away from his fief, after all. Torran will bring his fledgeling back with him and that is it.

I feel a strong mix of emotions now, not enough to cry but enough that it feels… good. I am alive now because of what we shared and must now leave behind. The bittersweet emotion dulls the throb of undirected anger threatening to overwhelm me. There is simply no one I can gut, stab, set on fire or detonate to keep him around and I find that extremely aggravating.

The pier around us is silent, despite sailors loading the last of the goods and supplies they will carry over the Atlantic. No one interrupts us but still, I let him go. I am delaying the inevitable.

“I release you from our bond, my star,” Torran finally says, his face showing no emotion.

“I release you from our bond,” I answer, finishing the ritual.

It hurts as much as I expected.

I can appreciate that we will not see each other for years, possibly decades, and that it would be unfair of me to expect celibacy from him in the off case that I might come back. I still feel robbed. I do not want to share.

If I come to visit and find some tart hanging about, I might just do something unfortunate. I warned him it would be the case, therefore the responsibility of any future dismemberments will be placed solely at his feet.

I leave the pier behind and walk round a warehouse. The city is mostly silent at this time of the night. I stop and lean against some stupid door.

Fuck.

I wait for some time. It doesn’t get better.

Someone comes, a familiar aura.

“Sister,” Jimena answers with a soft voice. She is dressed in a form-fitting leather armor, not in knight garb, for once. She drops a heavy-looking backpack and takes from it a case, which she gives me. I unpack it to reveal a weapon.

A pistol, to be precise.

Never have I witnessed its like. It is the work of a mad genius, nay, a revolutionary! I caress the smooth, silvery surface and ask with unmitigated wonder.

“What is this thing?”

“A prototype based on the design of a weapon dealer by the name of Colt. It can shoot six times before being reloaded. They are not even producing it yet. The cartridges go into that barrel over here.”

“Marvelous!”

“So, there is a group of outlaws who just robbed a Rosenthal carriage outside of town. Would you like to go kill them and get paid?”

This time, the emotion is too strong and a single ruby pearl drops down my cheek.

“Jimena, you are the best sister I could ever ask for.”

The smug woman catches the tear before it can drop and raises it to her lips, licking it after I give her leave.

“Aaaaah. Of course I am. I know you well and this is what you need. Now go and test this barbaric tool of yours.”

“Heathen!”

At a corner of an empty road, beyond an overgrown path and the moss-covered room of a hunter rest, a few men have set up camp. They dug a pit and lit a fire there, counting on the remoteness and the wild vegetation to hide the smoke from inquisitive eyes. It was, of course, not enough.

The sentinel is the first to notice me strutting forth with my fancy dress, my coat and the undeniably imposing leather tricorn which is totally appropriate and I would dare anyone to object.

The man squints at my approaching figure. His beady eyes widen in surprise as I enter the light halo of his dusty lantern. He stinks of alcohol.

“What the fuck?”

“Language, mongrel.”

“Who the fuck are you?”

I tut loudly, a gesture of intimidation that is known to make mortals cry, if they know what is good for them.

“I am the law around these parts. You and your little friends have been very, very naughty.”

“You insane bitch. You got some plums coming here at night, I like that. Maybe I can reward you if you make me very happy.”

“I’ll only be happy when you hang from the neck until dead, rascal.”

The sentinel takes the affected smile of someone who is convinced his interlocutor suffers from severe delusion and who is ten seconds away from beating some sense into them. He shifts his coat aside to grab and take out a knife. I mirror his gesture with one small difference, one he realizes as soon as he ends up face to maw with the business end of the six-shooter.

It will always fascinate me how some objects are clearly weapons. My pistol might be a prototype, but there is no mistaking the keen line and metallic gleam. This is a tool of death.

“What the hell?”

“Hands in the air and you might just live to see the day. I am the hand of the law and my reach is long indeed!”

Somewhere behind me, a bush swears in Akkad and lets out a muffled laugh.

“Shit! Everyone! Help! A madwoman!”

“You won’t escape your punishment, miscreant!” I yell in my loudest human voice as if I were as self-righteous as a Gabrielite.

I lightly jog after the fleeing man until we arrive at his camp.

“She’s right behind me! Shoot her, shoot her!”

A man fires a musket and the bullet misses me completely. What is he even aiming at? And now he is just standing here like a moron, gaping at the shadows.

I shoot him in the chest. He falls with a dreadful shriek and the rest of his band finally realizes that they are under attack. They pile on behind crates of supplies and fire back.

I skip behind a thick trunk and take potshots at those who break cover, making no particular effort to aim. I have plenty of bullets in a bag and this is the time to experiment.

“It can’t be just the one, there are too many bullets flying. She must have help!” one of the men says in a panicked voice.

“Maybe it’s a whole band of she-devils!” another replies, “They’re here to cut off our cocks! I told ye not to touch thoses lasses!”

“Shut your mug!”

“Your sins are many!” I shout with a gravelly voice, “and you should all repent! Repeeeeeent!”

Hah, I can see why the Gabrielite would risk dismemberment. This is fun! I leave the cover of the trunk and empty all six bullets in my left gun in quick succession.

“She’s got this strange gun! Do you think that’s why?”

“Then it must be empty! Let’s rush her!” a brave soul screams and then jumps on top of the crate.

I shoot the man down with the right gun like the dog he is. I then open the contraption to reload.

Instead of doing it cartridge by cartridge, I just remove the entire barrel and replace it with a fresh one. This is such a revolutionary invention! I am witnessing history in the making!

“Noooo she shot Jerry! Jerryyyyyyy!”

“Let me die, fools. Run. Run for your lives!”

How very dramatic. It reminds me, I should buy an opera ticket for the Queen of the Night by Mozart. An opera in German! I will go alone, have the waiters bring me a cup of coffee and throw chocolate wrappings on the heads of the rich folks below. It will be grand. Or I could bring Nami and enjoy the outrage. Hmmm.

A bullet hits the trunks fairly close to my head, showering me with splinters.

Right! I am already in the middle of something fun! Carpe diem and all that.

I lean to the side and shoot at the ass of someone attempting to crawl away. He howls and his friends drag him back. There are only three of them now, including one who is no longer so cheeky.

Heh.

I turn once more and, this time, flick the hammer with one hand while I press the trigger with the other. This allows me to shoot faster but I am still limited by the physics of the gun itself. Otherwise I could shoot even faster! Incredible!

Could I make an overly large version of this? Hmmm.

“We surrender!”

“WHAT REALLY? ALREADY?” I scream in utter annoyance.

My legitimate question is received in stupefied silence. Jimena walks to me with a chuckle as I vociferate and grumble.

“Why? How can they be such cowards?”

“They are bandits, Ariane, not fanatics dying for a cause.”

“But I killed bandits before and they hardly ever surrendered!”

“Did you even leave them enough time to do so? To understand their desperate circumstances?”

“Well…”

“Or did you just enter the fray and happily slaughtered them?”

“I was not done with the test! I want to shoot at them and play with them and have them squirm. How dare they stay here like useless sacks of flesh while Torran is leaving me? They have no right. It should not be happening like this! He was the first man I loved in a romantic capacity in my entire Watcher-forsaken life, the only one I can even think of being intimate with. I love him dearly. I feel good with him, as myself and without a mask. He accepts me and my lack of experience and all my little flaws and he is patient and caring and loving. He knows so many stories. Also he can kick my ass. And he builds swords. Fuck!”

“Ariane…”

“It is not fair! There are so many wastes of space already here, why can’t they go and he can stay?” I finish sulkily.

Jimena remains silent. She reaches up to lightly tap the top of my head. Because it is Jimena, I let her.

“Errrr,” a male voice says from behind, “can we please lower our hands or?”

***

Torran’s departure leaves me irritable and ill-tempered for a few months during which I take a more hands-off attitude to ruling Marquette and my budding business empire. Following Salim’s advice, I also invest in the real estate of my territory, apparently a vampire tradition. I sink my time and undirected anger into magical and physical training with the occasional help of a few war-minded Masters like Nami and Jimena. I also try to involve guns in my combat style but soon realize that the task is extremely arduous and that my training partners object to being shot at mid-practice. I will have to return to that at a later date.

The year eighteen thirty-six brings an interesting event in the Natalis territory. Texans conduct a revolution and manage to capture the Mexican general Santa Anna, forcibly bringing him to the negotiation table and leading to the birth of the Republic of Texas. Lord Jarek’s territory is no longer part of Mexico as a result.

The new State of Arkansas joins the union, giving us a new, clearly delimited territory, which is granted to the returning Lancaster. Lord Marion is their new leader and he takes the time to come and greet me, bearing offerings and a juicy trade agreement that finally allows me to set up a proper gun factory. Because of this and his overall politeness, I support his claim even though deep inside I am fuming. A few diplomatic agreements and he obtains a state! Pah! Back in my days, you had to wallow knee-deep in werewolf blood to get a tiny piece of land. Those newcomers do not know how good they have it.

The entry of Arkansas brings forth a burning issue, that of slavery. The growth of the abolitionist movement leads to massive frictions and each new state that enters the union threatens the fragile equilibrium between the two sides. For now, Illinois is not a slave state but there are slave-catchers operating on the southern border while in the north, abolitionists assist fugitives on their way to Canada. Although I stick to my belief that a happy human is a tasty human and that no man, or woman, can truly be happy as long as they do not have free agency, I limit my actions to keeping the less honest catchers off my area of control through heavy beatings whenever necessary.

At least three different clans have a vested interest in the institution, including the Cadiz whose financial interests are closely tied to the South and its plantations. Vampirekind is thus equally split on the subject. The Ekon, Roland and I are firmly in the abolitionist camp with Sephare herself calling it ‘odious’, while the others argue that treating people as property is as old as history itself and therefore natural, if unfortunate.

I do not see this ending well.

In the meanwhile, I continue learning from Ezekiel until, in the month of January eighteen thirty-seven, Margaret disappears.

***

The compass definitely points to the factory in front of me, showing me that the girl still lives. The building is decently new and obviously busy during daytime. The paint of the massive double gate is fresh and the many windows clearly show a neat interior.

“That is not what I expected,” Ezekiel says. Without his ridiculous red robes, he looks more like an actual professor and less like some cheap, farcical villain. His keen eyes fix the brick surface of his target as if they could bore right through it.

I know what he means. Margaret has gone missing and she has ways of contacting us. I am going for kidnapping, mundane or otherwise.

“Let me infiltrate the place, just in case,” I request.

To my surprise, Ezekiel does not argue.

“Agreed, but be warned that after five minutes I shall break in gauntlet blazing. If you find some crime afoot, this is your window to reach a diplomatic agreement. After that…”

Ezekiel’s vehemence does not surprise me. The man is surprisingly protective of his pupils, a habit I can respect. I leave without a word and crawl up the wall with the grace and expertise of the consummate cat burglar. This is not my first breaking and entering.

I find an improperly latched window and open it with minimal noise and damage, then suddenly hear a gasp.

We are in the factory district and the place is mostly empty at this time so I expected no company. Cursing my carelessness, I turn around to find a very drunk man holding a half-empty bottle of gin staring at me with bulging eyes.

Hmm.

I must strike a dashing figure, stuck like a lizard to the sheer wall in my conservative grey dress. Fortunately, the man has given me the very tool to defuse the situation. I wave at him with a manic smile then move into the building. I hear a curse, then the brittle noise of shattered glass followed in turn by barely coherent screams about she-devils and absinthe and whatnot.

Crisis averted.

The clock is still ticking however, and I quickly make my way outside of what appears to be an accounting department and down two sets of stairs. I realize on the ground floor that the door to outside is warded, and that it looks like professional work.

Fearing a trap, I slow down and focus on my senses. There, behind a wall covered in advertisement posters, is a breathing person and what feels like a strong shield. The air tastes like nervous sweat. Fresh.

I sigh and kneel to fix my dress to my leggings so that it does not trail everywhere, then I lightly jump up and crawl across the ceiling like the world’s prettiest bat.

People never look up.

I pass the corner and find a set of stairs leading down into a well-lit basement. A man stands in the way, gauntlet down but active. The air before him shimmers with a half-deployed ward of respectable power.

He is also wearing a White Cabal battledress.

My unexpected opponent is very young, although a bushy dark beard would lead people to think otherwise. He is not exactly inattentive either and I salute his discipline.

In fact, his appearance reminds me of…

No way.

“Cedric?” I ask in surprise, recognizing one of the students I had enjoyed terrifying, I mean, one of the students I had generously prepared for the vagaries of the life of a combat mage by direct request of his chief instructor.

The man jumps in fright and lets out a rather girly scream, then he looks up as his shield activates.

His frown turns to an expression of pure delight, then morphs to a mask of aloof confidence. He leans against a railing, twirling his mustache.

“Oh, Ariane of the Nirari, fancy seeing you here.”

“Cedric, is everything alright?” a voice comes from below.

“We have a guest, people!” Cedric declaims proudly as I drop from the ceiling and smooth my dress. We almost look the same age now. I do not believe I will ever get used to this.

Before testing this team, Jonathan had warned me that they were perhaps the most talented group Avalon had ever produced and therefore fully expected them to fail spectacularly, which they did. Their arrogance and recklessness caused their loss despite some rather impressive individual displays of skill. I see that this lesson was not lost on them when three people climb up the stairs slowly and in tight formation.

I recognize the man in the front as the leader, Reginald. He holds the shield, while behind him, the two ladies of the group cover him. The first is a dark-haired girl with brown eyes and a magnetic charm, Mina. Her gauntlet practically shines with power begging to be unleashed. The second is an aristocratic young woman with blue eyes and blonde hair, holding a silver sword at the ready. They all stop when they see me but to their credit, they do not lower their guard.

“Oh. Hello,” Reginald says with a slightly shameful expression. Our last interaction was indeed quite the humiliation for the fearless leader.

I notice that the last member of the team is missing.

“Is Will circling around to attack me from behind?” I ask, until I focus on my aura control and realize that the sneakier member of their coterie is, in fact, right around the corner behind his allies.

“Ah, no, he is right here. Now, let me ask the fateful question to get it out of the way. Do you happen to have in your custody a young female warlock with dark hair, pale skin and a chip on her shoulder the size of Bunker Hill?”

“Would she have a tendency to say things such as ‘behold my dark power!’ and ‘you cannot comprehend my might’?”

I sigh.

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Yeah, we have her, she’s downstairs. Unhurt. Apprentices of the dark arts are always so full of themselves,” Cedric explains, pleased.

“Yes, Cedric, pompous fools the lot of them. They always need some harrowing experience to remind them of where they stand on the food chain,” I remark, pointedly.

Cedric has the grace to blush while Reggie and his two flankers close the distance. The shields are still up, I notice. Will steps out into the open with an embarrassed smile.

“Would you consider releasing her into my care?” I politely ask in a way that merely hints at the fact that this is not a request rather than heavily imply it.

“Of course, it’s not like she’s the one we’re looking for, don’t you think so guys?” Cedric states as he turns to his friends with a winning smile.

They remain unamused.

“I think that you talk too much,” the blonde woman retorts with a freezing voice that carries just a bit of German. Her name is Carmella if I remember correctly.

“Stop trying to flirt with the immortal mage-eater Cedric, she already told you you were too young and that beard changed nothing,” Mina adds with genuine concern.

“Nonsense,” Cedric scoffs as he turns a delicate shade of tulip, “I did not grow it to look more mature and impress her!”

A very, very awkward silence spreads across the assembly. The shield mage pales as he realizes that his blabbering has become his downfall.

“Really? I had found the timing suspicious, of course, but to think…” Carmella observes.

“Gee, Cedric, you wax your mustache for that?” Reginald adds with disgust.

I clap my hands once to garner their attention and stop, nay, postpone the merciless hazing.

“Please focus for one moment. Can I recover the witch?”

“If you guarantee us protection from her retribution, such as it is, we will gladly give her to you,” Reginald quickly answers.

“It is done then. Please wait a moment while I inform my associate.”

Everyone smiles pleasantly as we wind down our spells, including my own blood-magic shield-piercer.

Allied, yes. Stupid, no.

I return to a fitful Ezekiel and inform him that I reached an agreement with the kidnappers and that they are not, in fact, kidnappers, but merely allies of mine who defended themselves. I can see the doubts in his eyes though he is smart enough not to voice them. To call a vampire a liar is a painfully vain exercise.

I return to the White Cabal hideout and their basement to find that stacks of crates filled with metal parts were set aside to leave an open space. In it, the five war mages have created a workshop centered around a massive circle. Margaret is not in it. She was set aside, lying on her belly atop a pile of tarp and liberally tied with ropes, arms behind her and feet held up. She looks one skewer away from a roast pig.

Tear trails line her cheeks, the poor arrogant thing. I detach her and she stands up, massaging her wrists to help with the blood flow and trying her best to melt into the wall. Perhaps there is a spell for that?

“So, I have a standing argument with one of the lads back in Avalon. He says that vampires and mages are natural enemies while I say that it’s vampires and werewolves. What do you think?” Cedric asks me excitedly.

“I think you are both mistaken,” I reply sweetly, “from our perspective, you are all prey.”

A distinct chill freezes everyone in the room. William, who stands close, takes an instinctual step back.

All but Cedric.

“Hmm that makes sense,” he comments as if I had shared a great pearl of wisdom. In a way, I have. He just did not get it.

Cedric caresses his lush beard, staring at the ceiling with a penetrating gaze as if it held the secrets of the universe in its dusty recess.

“Anyway,” Will continues with an embarrassed glare, “I now understand why we have been deployed here. The environment is sufficiently challenging while we have an ally who can potentially come to the rescue. The Black Dog thought of everything.”

“Speaking of allies, would you consider assisting us?” Mina asks politely. I notice that both Will and Reginald give her their full attention as she makes her plea. There is a longing in their gaze that I easily recognize.

“We are looking for a ring of human traffickers who sometimes manage to intercept refugee mages as they get off the boat. Despicable people! We are here to dismantle their local branch and prevent them from preying on the weak!” she boasts with undisguised pride.

Hmm.

Will steps forward, the first to realize that asking me to act out of the kindness of my heart is a doomed prospect.

“We were given special shaped charges by Jonathan. They are designed to direct the blast in one direction only, thus sparing the people and materials engulfed in a normal powder blast’s area of effect. Perhaps you would consent to come with us and operate them yourself?”

Ooooh, the crafty lad.

Does he think I am the kind of woman who would assault an unknown foe for the chance of understanding a prototype explosive?

Because he would be absolutely correct, but I cannot have him win so easily. It would set a dangerous precedent.

“That sounds fascinating. Good luck with that,” I inform a slightly crestfallen William.

“We would compensate you for your time, of course,” Reginald adds in a respectful voice.

“Yeah! I volunteer my blood! Are you thirsty?”

“Not now, Cedric. Ariane of the Nirari, our foe uses magic to hide themselves that renders the most standard tracking spells useless. We believe that this is extremely potent magic and one of our secondary objectives is to recover it. I believe that I can negotiate for not only access to this spell but also our help in mastering it, should you join us,” Reginald continues.

I do not need a way to hide thanks to Nashoba’s earrings. It could still be extremely useful to mask allies or even understand how to find somebody.

“Deal. Now show me those shaped charges you mentioned.”

As the night progresses and we work together, I realize that I do not mind keeping an eye on the team. They are pleasantly competent and getting to know them and be known and relied on in return improves the chances that Jonathan’s alliance lasts for more than one generation.

We eventually find the kidnappers and even get the help of both Ezekiel and Salazar as well as a few local mages. Peace soon returns to the city and I get a new blueprint for my trouble.

I spend the next four years alternating between Philadelphia and my own territory, stopping my studies only long enough to handle the odd crisis that my competent underlings cannot easily handle. Merritt eventually remarries too and hires several associates, which I allow after vetting them and just a little bit of intimidation to make sure they understand that I will not tolerate duplicity. Urchin develops into a fine enforcer to my pleasant surprise. He develops his own fighting style which revolves around pulling objects out of seemingly nowhere and shoving them in someone’s back, or shooting them in the face with one of the many tiny pistols he had specially made.

Marquette develops relatively quickly while Chicago expands at a vertiginous speed with a little help from Melusine’s peerless business acumen, allowing the both of us to consolidate our positions. I do not object when she recovers a few Lancaster exiles and even negotiates with Lord Marion to make sure there is no resentment left. Slowly, political blocks form around the Cadiz on one side and the Roland on the other, with a third force made from us weaker clans. The occurrence of issues and decisions that must be taken collectively continues to increase, leading us to today.

***

I look down at Lady Sephare’s intricate golden curls as she climbs down the stairs before me. We proceed by pair, the state leader and their second side by side with Constantine leading the way.

I chose Melusine, not that there was much competition.

Servants, soldiers and employees stick to the walls of the fortress’ cozy interior and watch us pass with a bit of awe, as is suitable. We have enough political and physical power here to overthrow a small nation.

The corridor widens and we soon tread a crimson carpet to a set of double doors guarded on each side by Constantine’s bodyguards, acting as mysterious as ever. Our combined auras, though peaceful, have a curious effect on our surroundings. We are not mingling with mortals this time, we are walking together with a purpose and a queer feeling of harmonization changes the texture of reality ever so slightly.

It tastes thinner.

I wonder if the others feel it too.

The gates open for Constantine and we follow him into a large circular room wide enough to contain a cottage. Sophia, Constantine’s assistant, is already sitting behind a large writing desk at the far end.

The floor at the center of the room is made from concentric rings of stone. As we approach, the Speaker lifts a gauntleted hand and seventeen slide up, one by one, with barely a noise. I count one for each pair of representatives and one for him. Finally, stone thrones rise up from the nineteenth ring to accommodate us.

We pretend not to be impressed while Constantine feigns indifference at our lack of reaction. Lesser minds may gasp and whisper at such a mighty display, but I know better. In a few hours, the attendants will realize that naked stone makes for a poor cushion. Not everyone benefits from my, ahem, padding.

We take our places in silence. The massive central table is split like a pie by minor light magic so that each present state is clearly shown by its flag when applicable, and its name in large, blocky letters. Right now they are all greyed out. Only the Speaker’s pie slice is lit in light red. He stands up to address us.

“Welcome to the first Pan-American Council of Princes. The purpose of this reunion is to align and decide on major events. As previously stated, we will take decisions by vote at the end of a debate with me acting as arbitrator. You will notice that my side of the table is lit while the others are greyed out. When someone has the floor, their side will, in turn, be lit. If you do not have the floor you should refrain from interrupting. Disruptive behavior will be punished.”

As if we would act like rowdy children.

“The first order of business tonight is the issue of slavery. With the recent ruling on the Amistad affair and the continuous clashes between abolitionists and their opponents, I have deemed it necessary that we establish guidelines all Houses should follow.”

Immediately, the atmosphere grows heavy. Kouakou and Naminata in particular fix Ceron and a few others with barely disguised hostility. They wear their traditional red and yellow boubous with disdainful pride, the bright colors offering a stark contrast with the drabber outfits worn by their rivals.

“Several members of this assembly volunteered actionable plans. We will listen to their proposals and discuss their merits. House Ekon, you have the floor.”

“Thank you, Speaker,” Lord Kouakou replies in a smooth bass. He stabs a talon in the flesh of his thumb, then places the pearl of dark blood on the stone surface. A few runes flare and a map of North America appears on the table.

The next hour is spent in controlled arguments. We remain polite at all times and discussions do not heat up because most of the negotiations already happened behind closed doors. This is mostly a show of strength and of eloquence.

The Ekon argue that each state leader should decide who to favor on their own territory, leaving them free to act as they see fit. In the case of the Ekon, that means facilitating escapes and freely financing groups such as the Underground Railroad. The Cadiz retort by claiming that slaves can be regarded as House assets, as such their recovery should be allowed across all territories. They add that abetting escapes is technically theft and that any House engaged in such activities should be considered hostile according to the Accords. At this stage, the fanged smiles strain noticeably.

The Ekon predictably counter with the observation that, as soon as the fugitives reach a state where slavery is illegal, they have the right of ownership over themselves and could not be reacquired without breaking the laws of said state. Any attempt to recapture slaves would be poaching, still according to the Accords. The arguments go back and forth for almost an hour before Lady Sephare asks to intervene. She makes a reasonable and impassioned speech about the dangers of giving access to one’s territory, and while the practice of slavery was an ancient tradition, the right of every vampire to protect their territory from outside influence should supersede it. An escaped prisoner must be considered lost, and that is that.

Her case is backed by every state leader who does not want foreign agents freely roaming their territory, including myself. The slavers among us will have to keep an eye on their merchandise themselves. We win that vote with a comfortable majority.

As Constantine announces the result and Sophia writes it down for posterity, I consider that it merely pushes the conflict back to unofficial support and funding of various groups. Nothing is truly solved yet.

The second order of business is land control. The Union recently gained the states of Arkansas and Michigan, while the republic of Texas was formed from Santa Anna’s blunder. At the same time, the Roland have expanded into Quebec. The question is whether to intervene into mortal affairs and steer the formation of borders in a certain way. This discussion is much more consensual, and we quickly agree to leave them to their own devices. We would only intervene by mutual agreement and if we consider our interests at risk.

Once all agreements are made, Constantine calls an end to the proceedings and we file out in silence. We climb back up to the fortress’ living quarters and split up without comments. As soon as we are all dispersed, Melusine and I do not have the time to reflect before we receive an invitation to visit the Ekon quarters. With this, the diplomatic dance begins anew.

***

Over the next five years I focus on my spellcasting and even start to experiment with complex rituals and my sire’s spells. They are nasty things of power and rage, efficient and refined yet… inelegant. There is a spell that uses blades following randomized movement, one that sets up invisible caltrops of deleterious energy, one that is specialized in flaying its target alive… I still study them all and realize that Nirari truly is talented, even though he relies more on power than subtlety,

Ten years have come and gone when suddenly, I find a letter waiting for me on my desk back in Marquette. This one bears the mark of the Rosenthal postal service and I freeze as I recognize a familiar cursive. I delicately pick its creamy surface and slide it closer, my eyes widening in disbelief. I had not seen this specific handwriting in decades.

It could not be…

I flip the envelope and read the name of the sender with ever-increasing surprise.

It is.

102. Home

April 1846.

My feet tread the familiar ground in silence, and I bounce up the three small stairs to the entrance with the ease of familiarity. They have not changed. Neither have I.

The door could use another coat of paint though.

I pull on a cord. Light chimes sound from inside and a pair of heavy steps heralds the coming of the house staff. We are late enough that a visit would be considered rude, but not enough that I would be greeted with a musket.

I do not recognize the woman who opens the door. She wears a conservative light dress and a scowl as she squints, trying to recognize me.

“I am here to see Achille Reynaud,” I announce.

“And what business do you have with Mr Reynaud?”

“He called me here.”

Her inspection is done and she clearly does not like what she sees. Some people have good instincts and I cannot help but smile. I am experiencing something new: nostalgia.

I have not been home in so long.

“Mr Reynaud is indisposed.”

“I know.”

“Then you should also know better than to come so late. Return tomorrow.”

She goes to close the door and shows quite a bit of surprise when I press a hand against the heavy frame, pushing her aside with ease. Her expression turns scandalized.

“Madam, I will ask you to leave. Immediately!”

I take a deep breath to appreciate the moment, tasting the air. I am still welcome. The old magic has left me untouched.

I step forward.

“Fortunately, you are not my host. I do not need your agreement.”

I lightly push her protesting form aside and climb up the stairs, ignoring her pathetic invectives. My brother will rest in the master bedroom and this is where my steps lead me.

The house smells of incense, sickness, old furniture, and old people. Girders and support beams creak like the knees of a crone all around and the ticks of an ancient clock thrum like heartbeats. Still, this place lives, more solemn than decrepit. The pitted planks are lacquered while the shelves sag under the weight of well-ordered books and polished trinkets. Some of them even look quite expensive.

I finally reach the fateful door. When I was a child, this was my father’s domain. He would tolerate my presence there while he accepted no one else, not since mother had died. I would charge in to wake him up sometimes, jumping on the mattress and bumping my head against his as if I were a ram.

He is long gone and so is his scent.

I knock lightly on the door and enter. Most of the furniture must have been replaced at some point. Only the bed itself occupies the same space.

In it lies the prone form of my brother.

The years have not been kind.

I suppose that he is old now at sixty-four. Age does not explain the sunken cheek, the stringy beard or the yellow skin stuck to his skeletal body. Sickness does. His breath comes out raspy and difficult. A desiccated hand grabs at his torso and the probable source of his pain even as he fitfully sleeps. The air is heavy with the smell of medicine.

I step closer and find a comfortable chair. I am confident that I was quiet, and yet just as I finish sitting, he pops his eyes open and turns them on me with unerring purpose. They are bloodshot and just as keen and blue as I remember them. His gaze turns to the table at his side and I understand the unspoken request. I stand again and light a few candles before returning to his side. We scrutinize each other in silence. His jaw shifts several times as, I assume, he struggles to find words that he perhaps prepared. I know better and did not even attempt the foolish exercise.

“You have not changed at all. Are you still… you?” he finally asks, his voice grating from an exhausted throat.

“I’m afraid that is up for debate, and I wish I could return the compliment.”

For a moment, the barb throws us back to a time when our conflicted relationship shaped the lives, and ears, of many a nurse. We both smile at those memories and something clicks between us, a fleeting sense of camaraderie. When Achille next speaks, his voice is softer.

“Thank you for coming. I wish it had been sooner but I had a few things to work through.”

“When did you learn that I was still, for lack of a better term, alive?”

“Father told me before he passed away.”

Achille’s eyes grow distant.

“It took me a long time to accept what he said as more than the delusions of a sick man and even longer to act. I apologize.”

“No need, Achille.”

“Yes, need,” he retorts. He painfully shifts in his bed and grabs an envelope from his bedside table. The paper is wrinkled and faded by old age and when he hands it to me, I feel a weight inside. His skin is dry and feverish.

“Father left this for you. There is a key inside. I did not want to give it to a monster. It took a lot of growing up to realize that it was not my decision to take.”

“Self-reflection? Who are you and what have you done with my brother?” I retort teasingly as I accept the gift. Achille’s answering smile is brittle and bittersweet.

“You laugh. I spent entirely too much time growing a business and a family before realizing I had to grow as a person as well. A lot of events happening late in my life have changed my outlook. I had many certitudes. Now, much less so.”

“Je suis surprise,” I admit, temporarily reverting to French.

“Do not be, petite soeur, it is never too late to change.”

Our moment is interrupted by heavy steps trampling the floor on their way to the bedroom. I recognize the decisive struts, quick breath and dancing heartbeat of a terrified human desperately trying to rally their spirits.

The door bangs open and a woman crashes in, head high and armed with an iron poker.

A strange sensation of uncanny otherness overcomes me and I grip the couch, fangs almost bared in an instinctive response. It takes all of my self-control to shut my mouth and force myself to relax. She is not me. This was just an illusion, a phantom born from decades spent away from my own blood.

She is not me.

Her hair is darker and her face smoother. There could be other details but I forgot. I have not seen my own face in so long that her arrival confused me for a while. I notice with some amusement that her reaction mirrors my own, and that the threats and imprecations the iron poker was supposed to back up died on her lips the moment she took me in. We could be sisters.

“Who are you?” she asks with a trembling voice.

“My guest,” Achille interrupts before I can reply. I let him. Host privilege.

“Grand-pere, the doctor said that you should rest, especially at night.”

“I know, ma petite. This meeting could not wait.”

“Grand-pere! Please, you have to take care of yourself. Mademoiselle, can you not come back tomorrow morning?” she asks, turning to me.

“June, listen to me,” Achille speaks in a kind voice that I do not recognize.

My brother has changed a lot. The Achille I knew could not tolerate objections or refusals. He had a very firm idea of his place in the world and everyone else’s too. Those who opposed his orders while being his inferior were severely reprimanded and their objections immediately dismissed as the ramblings of an inferior getting out of line and, therefore, unwise. This Achille is reasonable and patient.

“June, my dear. You know that some things cannot wait. Please.”

Tears pearl at the corner of the girl’s eyelids. She furiously tries to chase them away by blinking very fast and scowling mightily before turning away and stomping back into the corridor where she stays to eavesdrop with all the spying acumen of a five-years-old.

“You have mellowed in your old age,” I remark, not unkindly.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Achille replies with a strangled chuckle, “that was June by the way.”

“Your second son’s daughter. I know.”

He welcomes my revelation like a pleasant surprise.

“You kept an eye on us?”

“Yes. I would have acted if you were facing a true menace, mundane or otherwise.”

“I see, I see. That is good. To return to my change of heart, a great many events rocked my perception of the world in the past few years. June is one of them. My second son turned out to be a major disappointment while June herself is kind, smart, and responsible. It certainly impacted my opinion on family hierarchy and the merits of male-only inheritance.”

“You are not considering…”

“I am. When I die, she will inherit the property and quite a few assets besides.”

“You impress me,” I admit with genuine care.

“Thank you. I am sorry that I could not reconsider things before disease and circumstances made it an imperative. I called you here for a favor.”

Supplicant. It has been a while since I last felt the intimate bond created by such a request. The ingrained urge to demand a price for my help fights a short war with an old sense of loyalty and loses. I will not ask for a price from Achille.

“Speak.”

“My youngest son, Richard, enrolled in the US army last year following our increased tensions with Mexico. Are you familiar with the situation?”

Naturally. The Natalis under Lord Jarek are monitoring the situation with great attention. They favor the American side for a variety of causes ranging from security against the Comanches to the benefits of having a stable government for one full year.

“We are on the brink of war. President Polk ordered Taylor’s men south into the Nueces strip and Mexico will react.”

Achille nods.

“Correct. Richard is now a proud dragoon in the second brigade. Full of bluster, that one. ‘The nation this! Our honor that!’ His blood runs white-hot with the fury of unbridled patriotism!”

His mocking tone surprises me. I always took him for someone who would support traditional institutions with the firm belief of a man whose position in life depends on them. He must have reconsidered his values at a fundamental level over the past decade.

Achille’s breathing grows hard as the memory of his son’s departure agitates him. It takes a few seconds for him to take a deep, relaxing sigh.

“Funny things, wars. Victory or defeat, there will always be one foolhardy charge or one vainglorious assault that kills all of its participants. Then, ten years from now, some Washington asshole will paint a nice scene about the whole affair.”

“You want me to get him out?”

“I wish, but no. If life has told me one thing, it is that we must learn some lessons ourselves. I do not expect you to shield him from bayonets. I only wish for him not to lose his life in a stupid, preventable way. Can you do that?”

“I can travel west and keep an eye on him, if you wish. I may not save him, but I will extract him if he is taken prisoner or if he is on the run.”

“Good enough. Yes, good enough.”

We keep quiet for a while, Achille lost to his musings and me observing him.

“Say, I did not offer payment?” he asks as an afterthought.

“No need. I think of us as family.”

He laughs at that. One short exhalation that soon turns into a wince of pain.

“I will keep you apprised,” I tell him.

“No need. I have an understanding with my doctor. When you are gone, he will increase the dosage of some of my medicines and thus shorten my already minute lifespan. All my affairs are in order and I have no intention to dawdle and be a burden on June and the staff.”

“You will let go of the world?” I ask.

“You do not age, do you? Then you will be spared the indignities of your own body failing you. Waking every morning, weakened. Dimmer. A slow wreck that nothing can stop.”

His gaze grows clouded as he contemplates his own mortality.

“Death is not a failure. I am eager to shed this body and see what lies beyond, not because I despair, but because I can no longer grow in this crumbling vessel. You will stay here and look after our family, won’t you?”

“For as long as I live.”

“Good. Now, I have never been one for long farewells. You must go to the wine cave.“

I thought it was never finished?”

“Papa completed it a few years before he died. I think he left you something there. I sealed it after his passing and never entered it but I cleared the entrance every spring. It should still be easily accessible.”

“I see.”

“This is goodbye, you who may or may not be my sister. For what it’s worth, I think Papa is right and whatever you have become is still you.”

“Thank you, Achille.”

“Yes yes. Now begone with you! And look after everyone.”

“I will. Hopefully, for a very, very long time. Farewell Achille, it was a pleasure seeing you one last time.”

My brother chuckles and rests back into his pillow, closing his eyes. I can tell that he is in pain and do not wish to annoy him further.

I do feel something, though the cold of my mind significantly dampens the intensity of the emotion. I close the door quietly behind me on my way out.

June is gone. For now.

I do not return to the entrance. My steps carry me further into the old house until I finally arrive at my old bedroom but I do not walk in. I will not find anything that belongs to me within this place I used to know more than any other. Several occupants have come since then and left their mark. The only price I will reap would be a sense of violation, of breached den. I feel agitated and fear that bringing too many strong emotions to the surface would be unwise, and so I stop my hand before it can grip the handle and turn around, heading back.

If I had not been taken that night decades ago and turned into what I have become, I would have followed a much different path. There would have been no midnight rides, no battles and no heists. No guns. Well, less guns in any case. I would have probably found a suitable husband I could have loved and trusted, who would have supported me and my projects rather than impose his will as some tend to do. I would have built a rum distillery and managed it for years. I would be here now, in this room, caring for my dying brother supported by my children and grandchildren. We would have had massive family reunions with luncheons lasting well into the night.

I think that I would have been happy.

Just as I am now.

There was much to discover and many incredible people to meet. A mortal could not understand the ecstasy of the Hunt, of killing a werewolf and drinking them dry, of dancing in the midst of immortals dressed in fineries from another age.

Yes. It was, in many ways, a worthy life I have lived so far. I made it so through my own efforts.

Bah, enough! I am on a schedule. I retrace my steps and make for the exit.

June is waiting in the main hall. Her expression is complicated. I climb down the stairs, taking care to make some noise and still she does not turn her eyes. Her mind remains fully captured by a painting on the wall I had ignored on my way up. Now, I finally look at it.

Half a century ago, our father had sat us to celebrate Achilles’ twenty-first birthday in a way that would immortalize the occasion. Some cheap artist from Baton-Rouge came with his brushes and meek manners and drew a portrait of our family. His work had been awkward. I can now easily spot the flaws in his style and some too hasty strokes that blurred the contours of dad’s face. Despite the shoddy work, there is no mistaking the people present as one of them has not changed at all.

June finally turns to me, mouth open in mixed horror and surprise, so I do the most vampire thing I can. I lightly tap her shoulder, smile mysteriously, and take my leave before she can recover.

Being darkly secretive is a form of boasting.

Outside, the smell of wet earth from recent rain and the sounds of nature renew my sense of nostalgia. The property has changed and has also stayed the same. Like me.

The path to the wine cave is overgrown now, Achille being unable to clear it himself. I tread it with ease and end up at the edge of a gate seemingly stuck into a small hill. The surrounding vegetation assaults it from all sides in a furious attempt to close the gap. Green sprouts and other tendrils grasp towards each other like grasping limbs frozen in time.

I use the iron key on the lock and push in. The door protests the intrusion with a deafening creak.

Papa built himself a nice little haven here, away from prying eyes, and I immediately realize why. Two of the walls are lined with moldy bookshelves filled with cheap editions of magic theory books. A desk by the side collects dust, its surface barren. The entire far side of the room is covered by a large workshop filled with curious tools, including a few optical ones with their lenses shining strangely in the darkness. On it sits a box and a sealed envelope.

I neglect the books. Most of them are easily obtainable and I know their content already, having spent a decade learning from one of the greatest arcane smiths who ever lived. A quick inspection of the desk yields nothing of value; the room was thoroughly cleaned before it was vacated.

This is it.

I open the envelope with trepidation and take my time to unfold the yellowed paper. My father’s smooth cursive greets me in all its comforting familiarity. My hand goes to my neck, to the pendant where his last instruction rests locked forever in a case of steel.

Do not die before me.

I fulfilled his request and read the text, written in French, to see if there is another one.

“My dearest daughter,

When you read this, I will probably be in a better place or at least I hope so! How I wish I could have held you in my arms one more time, but despite your absence I find comfort in the knowledge that you are safe. Jimena kept me aware of your progress through small missives slipped here and there throughout the years. The woman is paranoid! But considering who you face, I suppose caution is warranted.

I am leaving soon. As I am writing these words, I have finished tidying up the cave and getting rid of the more incriminating correspondences. Know that I have not spent all of my last few years in idle occupation, sipping rum and flirting with the ladies. Only the majority of them. I also did a little bit of trading here and there. You know your old man!

Eventually, I got my hands on something that will help you. Jimena informed me that it would be some time before you could use it and I find that I do not mind. I very much enjoy the idea that you carry this present into eternity, one gift from me, by your side, forever. Please take good care of it and give your enemies hell!

This is farewell, my daughter. I wish I could have helped you through your original projects of having a large family and opening that distillery. Fate had something else in store for you and you faced it head on like the indomitable woman I raised. Remember me, remember us, and keep an eye out for Achille and his swarm, God knows he needs all the help he can get!

Your mother would be proud.

With all my love.

Your papa.”

Silly, silly Papa. Silly. I did get my family, and my distillery too. And now I am crying blood on the silly paper. Bah!

I fold the letter religiously, replacing it in the envelope. The container is locked until I try the key in the envelope Achilles gave me. It opens to reveal a velvet-padded interior like a jewelry box, and enshrined within, a mage gauntlet.

And what a gauntlet it is. Smooth, elegant lines of the darkest black shine ominously like midnight stars on a glove that redefines threatening grace. If there was ever a vampire empress, she would have worn it. I recognize obsidian as the primary material for the frame, one that is as potent as it is difficult to handle. Chains of silver alloy bind the lithe knuckles to grant the artefact even more power. This is, perhaps, one of the mightiest foci one can make, and it looks good. An exquisite tool and a fashion statement. A small, hand-written note lies near the wrist.

“Celestine ‘Blackhand’ MacDhuibh’s regalia. Certificate of authenticity of the Rosenthal consortium.”

Wow.

I recognize that name. Celestine MacDhuibh was a fifteenth century unconventional Scottish mage known for her brilliance and her short fuse. She invented several interesting spells, including the short-range killing one that afforded her the moniker, but also an explosive diarrhea hex she would use on rivals. Now, her gauntlet belongs to me, thanks to my Papa.

I caress the smooth surface lovingly and consider how lucky I am.

When I came back to my home after my escape from Lancaster custody, I almost expected him to be gone, or dead. I hesitated and delayed because I knew the most likely outcome of our reunion to be curses and screams. Instead, he welcomed me and sent me on my way with a gun and a promise.

He was wrong in a way. Dalton, Loth, and Jimena became my family and I realize that without them my path would have been much darker. It would have been cut short quickly as well. I do not know how I would have behaved if rage and bitterness had guided my actions. The memory of that time remains dark. I had traveled the land harried by time, filth, and the Thirst. A Gabrielite almost killed me. Instead of disappearing like a ghost, I may have slaughtered my way through the countryside in a fit of rage and despair.

I would not be the same person without them.

I grab the gauntlet and place it in a small bag by my side, replacing the standard focus I had purchased before. I make a note of recovering the books, just in case, and leave the wine cave. On my way out I meet an old man waiting by the road. He smokes a pipe with dignity, dressed in comfortable and clean outdoor clothes, but his eyes are laughing. I raise an eyebrow as, in my mind, mortals do not have the right to be silent and mysterious. I should maintain the exclusivity.

“Hello, cousin,” the man greets me.

I freeze and dig through my memories, the Rosenthal essence proving necessary for this one.

Cousin? I have some cousins. I even met one on the night I returned.

“Lucien?” I blurt out.

“Hah! I knew it. All those years and people telling me I had dreamt it, but no! My cousin Ariane is immortal! So, are you some sort of Greek hero or something? Is it a mythic item taken from a dead god?”

“Something of the sort…” I mumble, completely out of sorts. I was recognized! Twice!

“Alright then. Are you on your way to keep an eye on Richard?”

“How did you know?”

Arg! By the Watcher, I am supposed to be the one who surprises people! Being emotional interferes with my darkly charismatic femme fatale persona!

The man nods wisely.

“I thought old Achille would come around, eventually. On your way then! I’ll keep the house safe while you go slaying hydras or something. Good luck!”

“Um. Fine. Goodbye Lucien, it was good seeing you again. I apologize for, huh, coming back from the dead?”

“Oh, don’t worry about it. Everything in life is relative, including your relatives. Bye bye!”

Ugh.

103. Down she goes.

May 1st, 1846.

I was not granted the time to return to my home base and muster a force. A hundred disciplined militiamen would have probably been welcomed by Taylor since there was a dire need for more trained troops. Unfortunately, fate forced my hand with news of a skirmish and Mexican forces moving on Fort Texas.

I try to ignore the fact that dragoons died during the opening engagement, and that there is a chance that my mission failed before it could even begin.

I remember the loss of a potential Vassal because I overestimated myself decades ago, and so I decide to head west without delay, even if it means having access to fewer resources. I am confident that I can, shall we say, ‘convince’ Richard’s superior to be avaricious of the life of his men. I barely stop by a small pond to cast a message spell.

Messaging spells are interesting as they require knowing the exact interlocutor and his approximate location before casting. The power required to hold a conversation is also significant, as is the need for focus. Fortunately, I merely must contact Boston to inform them that I would be lightly interfering with the military and request access to Natalis land, which their local representative agrees to immediately. I manage to set a meeting with their one caster capable of message-spells at the edge of their territory. With the diplomatic aspect of the problem solved, I can set out without concern.

I make use of a more recent series of safe houses set up by Constantine on my way west. Those are maintained by the different clans in order to facilitate safe transit, a measure that we took from our European cousins. I rely on those for the first three nights on my ride by the coast, then find myself in the wilds on the fourth, at the edge of Texas.

I decide to stop in a cove with tall leafy trees and the sea lapping on a stone beach further down as the night ends. I climb down from Metis, who looks at me with the silent, judgmental disappointment of someone who has not had her ear yet.

I recover a small bag from her harness and remove the desired snack, which I wave around as I demonstrate. Her captive attention spurs my scholarly enthusiasm.

“Since the dawn of time, our worst weakness has always been the sun. How many of my kin have succumbed as dawn caught them unaware or unprepared? How many turned to ash under the yellow orb’s vengeful radiance? Too many! Too many, I say! Thankfully, my sire, bless his ingenuity if not his kindness, came up with a permanent solution!”

Metis takes a step forward, head tilted in a vain attempt to intimidate me. Silly pony. I am not done!

“Behold, the instant resting place spell! After casting it, I shall be shoved into mother earth’s comfy embrace, safe from pesky incineration! Isn’t that grand? Have the damn ear.”

I forfeit the snack to Metis’ decidedly pointy teeth and raise a gauntleted fist.

“Entomb!”

The earth takes me.

One day later.

An absolute bloody idiot crawls out of the muddy soil like the brain-dead fuckwit she is, spitting twigs.

“Pwah! Pwah pwah pwah pwah. Pwah! Urg, I think I swallowed a worm.”

The irredeemable imbecile who shall remain anonymous makes a pathetic attempt at unsticking dried earth from her completely ruined traveling dress. She looks like a mudslide.

“Forsooth! If it is not my old enemy, the direct and completely predictable consequences of my own actions! Curse you. Curse you unto the dawn!”

My moment of melodrama finished, I swallow my pride and go for a short swim in the ocean. The salty water can just finish what the mud started, I care not, I am not going around looking like an ambulating nymph-shaped bog.

After coaxing Metis into letting me ride her through bribery, I stop at a ranch to upend a few bucketfuls of crystalline salvation on my unworthy head. A passing farmer approaches but a very frank ‘I DON’T WANT TO HEAR IT!’ sends him on his way. Thankfully, the delay is short, and the incident only claims my self-esteem as a victim. Soon, I approach Corpus Christi, the town where the army used to be stationed and where I will link up with my contact.

The weather is rather warm, but dryer than what I am used to in my native Louisiana. Texas has drier parts further west, but not here.

For one irrational moment, and as the ranch-turned-trading-post-turned-garrison-town comes into view, I fear that a place named ‘body of Christ’ will somehow repel me. I think that a mighty barrier might descend from the heavens to protect the hallowed ground, smiting the inhuman beings in their midst. Then, a vigorous young couple does, from behind a barn, what I will generously call a ‘Corpus Christi Tussle’. I also quickly come across the Corpus Christi whorehouse and all my worries disappear like wrinkled dollar bills into an overstretched corset. Why should I care that I can no longer blaspheme? The mortals are doing it for me.

I cross the bloated body of a watering hole that grew too fast so as to accommodate its many bored guests. It does not take me long to find the army’s previous encampment, now mostly empty. The first problem arises when the mage I contacted, and who was supposed to meet me, fails to materialize.

Hmm.

I take a moment to ascertain that, yes, I am at the right entrance. I even flare my aura for good measure.

Nothing.

A small tingle runs along my spine in a feeling I have come to recognize and rely on. My intuition informs me that something is up. Well, that is nice, but I am on a schedule.

I manage to isolate a sentry and feed on him, leaving the poor sod woozy. Better not take risks with the Thirst. I also find the local well and fill a borrowed pot. The watery reflection will serve as a focus for the message spell.

The mage does not reply.

A worrisome development. He is, to my knowledge, the only long-range communication specialist for the Natalis. They are not exactly known for fostering mages.

No matter, I am on a mission to locate a lone dragoon. I climb back on Metis and head south after my quarry without too much hassle. Four thousand men marching with their baggage leave a mark on a land that a blind simpleton could not miss.

We ride hard and the landscape maintains its green sheen for now. There is something dry in the air that I can taste on the back of my tongue, a sunbaked flavor hinting at the height of summer when light will push down on the land, settling on the shoulders of mortals like a heavy cloak. It will be different from the engulfing wetness of the marshland but no less oppressive, I can tell.

I find myself missing winter once more. Cold is more my thing.

The land is mostly flat here and we make good time through the wilderness. A small draft carries the smell of the ocean, a constant companion these past few days. I find little comfort in it. The fateful tingle has not stopped, and though I detect no immediate danger, I am still wary.

Just as dawn approaches, the road widens and the trees shorten to reveal the estuary of the Rio Grande, a patchwork of green grass, ochre sand and blue water. A fort built on top of a small inlet stands vigil over the idyllic locale. The earthwork was obviously made in a rush but it does look defensible with all that water around it. Torches set at regular intervals protect its approach. Even this early, a flurry of activity shows that soldiers are already awake and active.

I hide behind a few trees and change into a clean dark green traveling dress, smooth my hair into a decent do and ride forth. I come across a patrol on foot made of young men who might be able to grow enough facial hair for a pencil mustache through collective efforts. They flinch when Metis trots by, but the presence of the fairer sex motivates them to straighten their backs. I am briefly asked a few questions and subsequently directed to Lieutenant Briggs, who is in charge of keeping track of things.

I admit that they look rather fetching in their white and blue uniforms.

I am stopped again at the fort gate by a grizzled sergeant with a coldly assessing look. I can taste his apprehension though he masks it well. The silly pony has this effect on everyone and particularly on those who have seen death. Some primal memory from ancient times resurfaces to warn them that she is more than she seems.

“Who might you be and what in the name of God are you doing out here at this time, woman?”

I adopt my tragic heroine persona, one of a girl who rode through dangerous lands for a noble cause. She is stricken by tragedy, yet still defiant. She is also hard to resist when she makes very reasonable requests.

“My name is Ariane Reynaud, I bear an urgent message for Richard Reynaud, a dragoon in the second brigade. I would like to find him, please. I was told that Lieutenant Briggs could help me?”

“I apologize, miss. I cannot grant a civilian access to the camp. We are in a state of war, in case you didn’t know.”

“I am aware, sir. I do not need to get in. Knowing where he is and giving him the message would suffice. Please, will you at least tell where I can find my brother?”

A small lie, but one that will serve me well. Even if Richard is here and remembers that none of his sisters is called Ariane, he will merely assume that the old sergeant misheard.

The man himself scratches his beard as I grow impatient. Dawn will fall in an hour and I am not eager to repeat the emergency tomb experience, thank you very much.

Eventually, the benign nature of my question forces a reluctant grunt. He barks an order at one of his subordinates who takes off at a sprint. A few minutes later, an officer with a spring in his step struts to us, mustache waxed and uniform ironed to flat perfection. Even the flickering light of torches reflects on his shiny buttons.

The newcomer is dark of hair and eye and his demeanor wordlessly screams of disdainful annoyance. He turns an angry gaze to my helpful sergeant. His nostrils flare as he takes a deep breath in anticipation for some furious tirade, no doubt. I do not have time for this and so I slip from Metis’ back and take a quick step forward and curtsey.

“Thank you so much for taking the time to see me, sir. I apologize for the disturbance,” I announce in an aggressively contrite voice.

The officer is taken aback and his lambasting dies on his lips as he studies me. He places a pair of spectacles on his aquiline nose and scolds.

“And what do you think gives you the right to disturb an officer? We are conducting a war here, miss, the affairs of the nation take precedence over… whatever you think you are doing.”

“Please forgive me”—you little jackass—“sir, I would not dare disturb you so in normal circumstances, but this is hardly the case here. Our father just died, and it was his dying wish that I carry over his last words to my brother as soon as I could. Please, I only need to give it to him.”

I affect my most pathetic face. Harmless, lips shaking, and eyes filled with sorrow, I plead with all of my being. It does not take long for the officer to crack under the double offensive of peer pressure and basic human empathy.

Unfortunately, his reaction is not the one I expected. The emotion I decipher in his embarrassed face and aura is not acceptance, but guilt. He knows. He already knows.

“Where is my brother, sir?” I ask, this time pushing on his sense of pressure.

“You… that is… Richard Reynaud was captured on April 25th by the Rio Grande with most of his squadron. I am sorry.”

By the Watcher, what the… Arg! It takes all of my self-control to mask the rage I feel right now and affect a tragic expression. I force my poor mouth into a ‘o’ of surprise instead of an ‘a’ of rage.

Did I fail before I could even start?

“As far as we know they are being treated with care. We recovered some wounded who named your brother amongst the captives and the Mexicans have so far respected the rules of war.”

He frowns.

“Though you never know with those Catholics…”

The sergeant clears his throat very noisily and the lieutenant immediately tries to correct his blunder.

“I am sure they are fine.”

“I… thank you, lieutenant. I believe I need a moment.”

“You’re about to keel over, miss. Come in and we’ll look after you,” the sergeant says with some concern. I cannot accept. Dawn is on its way and I feel the coming of lethargy on the edge of my mind. I need to find cover.

“Thank you kindly, sergeant. I fear that I must refuse,” I tell him, not unkindly, and turn Metis around.

They do not try to hold me back. My best of ponies tends to attract attention when she starts to move and there are few who would not be happy to see the back of her. I click my tongue to urge her on and we return north, towards the woods we just passed.

I close my eyes and let intuition guide my steps. I need an enclosed space. As we move to the road and eventually to a side path, I consider what I just learned.

Richard was captured. Now that my moment of outrage is over, I realize that this might, in fact, be a better outcome. Death in battle is less likely when one is covered in chains in some basement. Isolation, stale water, and hard bread are equally conductive to self-reflection on honor and the glories of war. The problem is that the spirit of fairness and gentlemanly conduct tends to be short-lived in any conflict. It seldom survives the first few battles.

I should extract him.

Assuming he was taken by ‘permanentes’ and not some militia, he will be held at the base of the Mexican forces in Matamoros. The war has not lasted long enough, nor has there been enough battles for there to be a prisoner camp.

I am working on more assumptions than facts here, but assumptions are all I have.

I ignore the tingle along my spine and realize that we are now above a small entrance into a rocky hill. A quick inspection reveals some sort of smuggler cache, currently abandoned. It should do for today.

Or will it?

I wince at the memory of the sun on my skin. A flash of phantom pain surges along my flank.

The sun and arrogance are the most common killers of our kind and I just looked down on both of them. Out of the hundreds of thousands of days I could spend being alive, there is bound to be an unlucky one.

I cannot take the risk of leaving this realm with oaths unfulfilled simply because I refused to be dirty. Time to bite the bullet.

Learning from the previous experience, I undress completely, stash my belongings in my bag and lift my head to see that Metis already trotted away. I do not have the time for any concealment work. I sigh, raise my gauntlet and cast the spell.

One day later.

I spring from the ground like a devil from his box, in the state of nature and covered in charcoal-colored dust. A quick inspection reveals that none are here to witness my embarrassment, so I simply grab my gear and walk a few hundred feet to the sea for a quick dip. Note to self: find a drying spell.

Less than a week after my emergency travel and I am already walking around butt-naked like some savage. Truly, the veneer of civilization is a thin one indeed.

Metis reappears after I am acceptably dry and we ride west at full speed and right into the American army.

In retrospect, I should have guessed it from the trampled earth, dodged mounted patrols, and numerous animal droppings. Metis and I crest a slope to find the valley before us covered in rows of well-ordered white tents lit by evenly-spaced campfires. Even late, the air is filled with the various noises of camp life as soldiers and aides go about their business. I hear laughter, clamors, and orders as well as the clangs and bangs of material being handled by poorly paid men. Nervousness tempered by discipline gives a spring to the step of patrolling officers, and extra strength in the arm of artillerists polishing their limbered guns. They are making ready for battle.

I consider going through and immediately realize the massive hassle it would be to lie and manipulate my way through layers of stressed bureaucrats. I turn Metis around and we make for the hills north and away from the Rio.

I follow a goat trail up another tiny hill and as we reach the top, I spot a small copse of dried pine trees. I sample the air. It tastes like sap, leather, soap, cheap aftershave and gunpowder.

It also smells like the sea and will do so until I can take a proper bath.

Closing my eyes brings into focus the heartbeats of dozen men and as I turn back, I realize why. This spot provides a commanding view of the valley below. Any scout worth their salt could crawl through the underbrush to count men, horses, and guns with reasonable accuracy. Some enterprising Corporal laid an ambush just in case.

I could avoid them with significant effort, or I could resort to a little bit of vampiric expediency.

I refuse to call it shenanigans. Deception here serves the clear and explicit purpose of saving time, therefore it is a tactically sound, perfectly justified decision and the fact that I will have fun is only a side effect of said plan.

I grab my bag and rummage through it to find my grey cloak, the only cold weather piece of cloth I packed. I drape it across my shoulder and raise my obsidian gauntlet.

I love casting in Likaean.

“Nu Sharran.”

Let darkness be.

The sentence is barely more than a susurrus and still, darkness answers. Even before the words cross my lips, the little light filtering through the cloud cover had dimmed and shadows had stretched like waking cats. The language of magic plays with time and mind like a creature of flesh and blood.

The cloak on my back turns into the black of the abyss, like a hole in the world. Filaments quest outward for more fabric to consume and the vestment becomes almost organic in appearance, a broken entity crawling out from some unspeakable dimension. In my branch of magic, darkness is more than a mere absence of light. It hides and tricks. Sometimes, it hungers, like me. The darkness is a comfortable and welcoming cocoon where the sun is nothing but a distant memory and others lose their way, their ancestral brain screaming for the safety of cave and campfire.

I am home.

And now, I feel something else, not exactly an imbalance and more an opportunity. With darkness present, its twin concept tugs at me and I am only too happy to oblige. I bend to the side and grab a fallen branch from the rocky ground, which I hold in my free hand to serve as a target. I have a plan.

The casting is smooth and effortless as it sometimes happens when the world aligns perfectly.

“Nu Sarrehin.”

Let there be light.

I remember struggling with the spell at first because I thought of light as something that reveals. A mortal tool that I no longer have a use for. I have since realized my mistake.

Ours is not the beacon that guides but the ignis fatuus, the swamp mirage that lures travelers to their death. Like us, our lights shimmer selfishly for their own amusements in an illusive dance that teases and cheats.

A dark purple orb rises atop the branch which I prune to leave a scythe-like shape of false gnawed bones. Then another. And another.

“Hey, do you see that?” a voice whispers from the meadow.

Metis perks up as she likes teasing mortals almost as much as teasing me and eating ears. I swear that she makes herself noisy on purpose.

Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.

“Shh! Someone is coming!” someone else orders.

I pass by, clad in a gown of midnight and carrying the macabre regalia of my office. The purple glint of the three orbs I conjured tremble around it like captive souls.

Gasps. Moans. The sound of soiled trousers.

The apocalypse pony stops without my prompt. She huffs the air, nostrils flaring, lungs working like two great bellows. Her massive head tilts right and two beady eyes sweep the underbrush like the glare of some hellish lighthouse. Her red, horrifying gaze slows on shapes that start to sob and mutter prayers to whatever deity might get them out of this deathtrap. Not to be outdone, I let the mortals stare at the void-black content of my hood.

I wait a few moments before urging Metis forward. She rears and the ground trembles when she lands.

Then, we are off.

Strangely, the patrol decides not to challenge us.

Our travel remains unimpeded as we continue west. I keep the darkness spell active with some effort but drop the light spell to help me hide. The landscape changes as we move away from the road: tall grass spreads out in all directions, only interrupted by the odd trees. There is very little light to be had and I must resort to my superior senses to get past the first Mexican patrol.

I lead Metis behind a ridge and peer out with some curiosity at the other side of this conflict. Some of the differences are obvious. First, they all wear thick mustaches that could double as paint brushes. Second, some of them look considerably less well-fed than their American counterparts.

I do not notice any difference in terms of discipline. The squad walks with careful attention under the direction of an officer wielding a small saber. They wear dark blue uniforms, so that only their shakos truly differentiate them from their foes.

I see how this could be problematic in a pitched battle. Oh, well.

I wait until they are gone and keep moving forward.

I still feel the weight of destiny driving me forward. Something is going to happen, I am sure of it. I doubt that the disappearance of my contact is a coincidence. The problem is that I have no idea of what I might face, or even if I would be in danger. To my knowledge, there are no foes here who would justify such actions.

As I think, we trudge through more tall grass. I see a tiny mound on my right with a lonely oak, tall and wide. I direct Metis there and jump up to have a look at the obstacle arrayed before me.

To the west and five hundred paces away, the Ejército del Norte, Mexico’s Army of the North, has made camp.

Where the American base was made of well-ordered rows so that you could not distinguish one unit from another, this one is made of tents sprouting together like mushrooms, like a patchwork of heterogeneous groups gathering for a festival. Where the Americans had patrolling officers, this one has roving bands of camp followers. Women gossip merrily around cooking pots.

The professionalism I had seen in the patrol is much less prevalent here. Most importantly, they lack something that my instincts recognize as drive. There was a sort of hunger hanging around the other army, a sort of excitement, of eagerness. Here, even the regulars eye the command tent with reluctance. They pull on ill-fitting uniforms and slog from unwilling group to wary squad.

I am unimpressed.

The only noticeable advantage they have is number. Even then, I can spot so many civilians, including whole families, that I am unable to ascertain exactly how many of those present are combat personnel.

They do appear to have some cavalry.

As for their guns, they all look antiquated. Most of the muskets are the notoriously obsolete and unreliable Brown Bess they must have purchased in bulk from the United Kingdom.

Looking at the camp, I come to a realization that chills me more than the sight of battle ever could. Even accounting for irregulars, the Mexican army should have around four thousand men while the American has two thousand.

The battle of Waterloo counted almost twenty times that number. Twenty times.

On each side.

By the Watcher, any decisive battle fought here would barely count as a skirmish on the old continent. I would not foolishly assume that we are any different, having only a handful of vampires over the whole of Illinois for example.

We barely have twenty lords in total. You could pick up more by carrying a bleeding Likaean from Basel to Paris without trying.

I really hope the deterrence Constantine offers and the old clans’ arrogance will protect us for a few more decades. Let them dismember India. Let them rend China. Let them not come here…

I shake my head. There is nothing I can do right now. I am still a small fry in the grand scheme of things. Worse comes to worst, I have weathered storms before. I am confident that I can find a way to survive this one as well.

I assume that the shore will be guarded, or at least populated, and decide to head north again. Metis carries me away from the many lights and into fields of colorful flowers dancing under the light wind. I would find the exercise relaxing if it were not for my ever-increasing sense of… not exactly dread. Anticipation.

We leave the army to our back and left, waiting a bit before angling back towards the road. A couple of hours later I come across a branch in the path as well as another ambush. High bushes by both sides of the road hide heartbeats and even one person snoring softly.

A mage cast a rudimentary spell dragging across the trampled road. I can taste their unstable aura at the back, the tell-tale signs of a poorly trained practitioner. To my knowledge, there should be no mage group in the vicinity.

Curious.

I can surmise from their location that they are Mexicans. This is a unique opportunity for me to get some information from an isolated group that I can eliminate without major consequences. I need to know more about Matamoros, where I assume the prisoners should be. I need to know if there are any events that would warrant the foreshadowing I feel now. The only difficulty I see is language. I can barely say buenos dias without Jimena ribbing me.

My only hope is that they have an interpreter to interrogate captives. Otherwise, they will try to bring me back to their camp and I will have to eliminate them.

I believe this is worth the risk.

“You might as well come out!” I announce, as I stop Metis just ahead of the crossing.

I smile at the one second of stupefied silence this grants me before the sides of the road bursts with yelling militiamen brandishing rusty weapons and polished facial hair. I am soon surrounded on all parts by pilosity. After much ordering around—Para! Para!—a sneering irregular steps forward to, I assume, grab the reins.

I am most amused by his expression of absolute disbelief when he realizes that there is none. Sadly for him, he makes the mistake of keeping his hand in the air.

A snap, a yell, and the man now holds the mutilated stump of his little finger. More screams arise on all sides while Metis chews the lost appendage without breaking eye contact.

Good pony.

The man reaches for a pistol and I believe that negotiations will fail until a clear and distinctively female voice brings order to the screaming mob.

“Ya basta!”

Silence descends upon the quivering assembly and their nine-fingered member.The men part to let through a tall woman who walks with the assured gait of a lioness. They allow her through with obvious respect, to my surprise, and I finally realize my mistake.

Some of the women I saw back at the camp were not followers. They were fighters.

Clad in a brown travelling robe that has seen much abuse, the woman looks severe. Her dark hair is held in a tight braid and shifts to gray at the temples. Her skin speaks of decades under the sun, so brown and wrinkled it is, and no one would call her beautiful. Yet, she has a sort of magnetism to her. I feel it in her posture and the way she walks, strutting as if she owned the black soil beneath her dusty shoes. She is armed with an antique musket and a long knife hangs by her side. It has seen much use.

I admit to being suitably impressed.

The unexpected amazon glares at me with naked malevolence, planted here with her gnarly hands on her waist. Her confidence almost cancels my natural height advantage.

“What is it pendeja, first time seeing a soldadera?”

“You are a combatant?”

“No, I keep the knife to skewer pumpkins. Of course, I’m a combatant.”

I keep my face impassive and dismiss the comment. She is the one who laid the ‘spell’ and I find her interesting. I notice a small statue of who I expect to be Mary by her side, wrapped in golden thread with stylized bells made of wood. This is a rudimentary focus. The warrior woman is a rare case of an untrained mage who pushed herself until she could reliably cast. She probably believes it to be some sort of miracle.

People like her began entire magical traditions when they taught their methods to their gifted children and apprentices. I did not expect to see a curandera, a Mexican witch, so far north.

“Your command of the English language is impressive.”

“Yes. I learned it from Texans when I was running with the Comanches. They taught me so that we could ransom them properly,” she explains with a sinister smile.

It fades when I do not react with the horrified shock she was expecting.

Hmm.

I have two options.

Option one, I stick with my cover story and pretend to be a foolishly brave woman on a quest. Option two, I reveal… a little more of the world I belong to. Just a smidgen of aura to freeze the woman to her core and make her feel inside exactly where we both stand on the food chain.

I think I will go with the second one as it is the most likely to get me answers. I judge that she would dismiss an idiot, brave or otherwise.

I am also less inclined to act with subtlety when working with so many unknowns.

“Is that so?” I casually ask.

“What are you doing here, chica? You look lost,” she demands, all attempt at subtle intimidation abandoned. Her goons feel like something is odd and close rank on both sides though they give Metis’ head a wide berth.

“I was on my way to Matamoros to rescue a relative. How about you? Strange place to be lying in wait. Should you not be on the other side of the army?”

“We are not here to serve the government!” she spits before her expression turns dangerous.

Before she can escalate, I distract her by slipping from Metis’ back. My decision causes a small scuffle as my ‘captors’ scramble to surround me threateningly.

This is one of the rare cases where my gender is an advantage. The militiamen may have tried to physically subdue a man attempting the same move. Instead, they just stand at a respectful distance to prevent my escape.

They do not know how to handle me.

The woman does.

“I don’t know what you think you are doing, chica. We are no longer in your daddy’s ranch. You are coming with us nice and slow and I’ll find a general for that fancy stallion of yours.”

“Mare.”

“Huh?”

“Metis is a girl.”

I bore my essence into her defenseless one with ease. Some mages can resist Charm better than others, given enough training. She is not of them. I taste many things from the luminous aura: confidence, annoyance, wariness. Wariness?

“If you are not serving the government then what are you doing here?” I ask on a cue.

I feel her resistance. The setting is wrong, and she knows that she should be the one asking questions. The discrepancy between our apparent hierarchy and the way the conversation flows grates her. I could brute force it, but I stop myself. What would Sinead do?

“I snuck past both armies and I have seen things. Perhaps I can help?” I ask, pushing just a little bit.

The crowd is silent as they await the soldadera’s decision. She considers me for one moment and I nudge her curiosity just enough to subsume her natural distrust.

“We are looking for a beast who preys on the people of the nearby village. He has returned every week for the past month to take someone. He should be back tonight and this time, he is not leaving.”

Something clicks in my mind with the inevitability of a falling boulder running down a slope. This is it. The last few nights of tingling spine and of anticipation, of searching in vain for some sort of sign have led to this moment. I am expected to act, assigned a role by the hand of fate, one that I would be unwise to shirk away from. Fate is calling.

I have not felt so strong a pull since I saved Melusine back in Louisiana. The consequences of my decision will have long-lasting consequences.

I consider ignoring it and rushing to Matamoros but dismiss the urge almost immediately. I lost a potential Vassal long ago by being too greedy, not by being careful. I am not so stupid as to ignore such a dire warning, not to mention that the disappearance of the Natalis mage could very well be related.

I must know more.

“We should head there then,” I finally say.

Her traits twist with fury, which I expected. I am, after all, challenging her authority by taking the initiative. Before she can manifest her anger, I decide to reveal my hand.

I do not blast her with my aura. I push her, pressure her, box her in. The proud woman shivers, frozen to her bones by an otherworldly wind that no cloak can ward off. And then, I am blocked. The idol of the virgin by her sides shines blue in my sight as a warning.

No matter, I have already achieved my goal.

“Perhaps,” I repeat more slowly, “I can help. I have seen such things happening in the past.”

“Madre de Dios, I just felt as if someone stepped over my tomb. Brrr.”

She crosses herself and I grit my teeth as the gesture sets me on edge.

“It must be a sign of God. Come on pendeja, let’s go back to the village and talk.”

“No more ambushing?”

“I need to check on Pedro. He was supposed to report every ten minutes, that lazy good-for-nothing,” she complains off-handedly.

Ah.

“Then we should really hurry,” I suggest as I climb back on Metis. The crowd of mortals senses that something is off and they gather protectively around their leader. She takes the branching path at a run.

I follow them and consider the important question.

What are we facing?

It cannot be a rogue; they do not have enough self-control to stop at one victim. It cannot be a feral werewolf either. That still leaves a wide range of possibilities, from a sick human to vampire. By the Watcher, I hope it is not a vampire.

The dusty road snakes down towards the river until the tall grass gives ground to tended fields of wheat and corn. After a minute, we reach the Rio Grande and the path angles right. The village itself appears made of stone buildings painted white, with low, wide roofs of straw. Nothing seems out of sort until we see the town square.

There, at the crossroad of empty streets, lies the body of an irregular. He still grips a loaded pistol in his unmoving hands. A wide straw hat rolled against a merchant stall, now empty.

“Qué pedo con eso?” my companion softly swears.

The spectacle is so bizarre that I stop Metis in her tracks. The corpse clashes against the otherwise mundane background in a stark contrast that wakes the artist in me. What makes this so captivating, I wonder? The gash in his neck?

Oh.

No blood. He was exsanguinated.

The deathly silence that falls on us as we take in the grisly scene makes the gasp of pain behind me that much more poignant. I turn and come face to face with a man who was not there, who should not be there.

He has wavy black hair that falls to his chin, a thin mouth twisted into a rictus of gleeful cruelty. He wears a dark leather coat and bears no obvious weapons and yet I cannot help but recoil. His eyes are grey, bloodshot, and they display the most manic rage, the most desperate hatred I have ever felt in my life. Their raw, bleeding intensity freezes me to my very soul.

His left hand is buried deep in the soldadera’s rib cage. She gasps in immense pain as the buried limb keeps her upright.

He has no aura.

Nothing.

On instinct, I send a tendril of essence that hits an invisible wall. Still nothing. He is as void as an empty grave.

Slowly, with contemptuous wrath, the man lifts the dying form of my guide, then his arm blurs.

I dodge the corpse. Her blood splashes against my dress as I slip from Metis’ back.

“Go!” I order. She can do nothing here.

By the time I hit the ground, my foe has killed three more men. I rush him, cursing myself for not having taken any weapons. What an idiot I am, spending ten years safely and then forgetting where I come from. I am not traveling without a full arsenal ever again, even in friendly territory.

Then battle is joined and there is no more time for thought. I still have my claws and I still have my skill.

I know immediately that it will not be enough.

We throw ourselves at each other in a mirror display of fury. Our style is the same aggressive and relentless offense filled with unpredictability. We both walk the edge. One wrong move and the fight is over. A claw to the throat or a finger through the chest. The matter of a single instant. We swipe and dodge and grapple and escape, then I manage to kick him away.

He stands there with his condescending sneer while I bend forward covered in wounds. I have deep furrows on my arms and shoulders where he raked or where I dodged a bit too late, dying the dress in a darker shade.

This is bad.

He was always too precise. The issue is not speed, the man simply moves perfectly. He breaks my rhythm. Counters too well. Even with the help of intuition I could not match his peerless style.

But I am not done yet.

I grab behind me and take one of the stalls by its side, then channel as much Natalis and werewolf essence as I can to swing it before me.

My strength multiplies for a brief moment and I move backward, anticipating his tendency to get in instead of out.

The maneuver works. The edge of the stall travels much faster than my arm and the heavy piece of furniture crashes against his guard, shattering in pieces as he strikes it but forcing him to take a step back.

“Matehin!”

Subdue.

Three purple snakes of chain link scales whip forth as I charge him. He twists backward and to the right.

Into a mortal.

The man he chooses had been scrambling for his gun instead of running away like the two other survivors of this brief slaughter. My foe grabs him by the collar and tosses his mewling form in the path of my spell with disdain. One snake impacts but the two others dodge around.

The sneering man boots the mortal in the back, pushing him to me. He jumps over the now captured militia and straight at me, leaving both bindings behind.

In instead of out. As planned.

Perfect.

I drop the spell and cast the one I had prepared in the meanwhile. I expected him to find a way to close the distance.

“Djarn.”

Flay.

The backlash of merely speaking my sire’s creation sends a ghastly sensation up to my elbow, like being caressed by razor blades that never quite pierce the skin.

My foe is not quite so lucky.

The spell catches him midair. It shreds his extended arm to the marrow and climbs up to the right side of his face, leaving behind mangled, bloody chunks of flesh clinging to exposed bones.

I sneer in turn.

The man’s coat disintegrates to reveal a silvery collar that stops the damage from hurting his neck.

He lands and charges without pause.

His hand strikes my chest. I deflect as best as I can.

PAIN.

Movement.

I crash through a shoddy brick wall back first, through filthy muck and against a pail of hay. It softens the landing, somehow.

More pain. I cough blood. That jerk got me in the lung.

By the Watcher, what the hell?

So fucking strong.

Need to GET OUT. I cannot win.

Still cannot even feel his aura, nor hear him. I am pretty sure he is a vampire from the way he moves and with such perfect control, he has to be…

A Lord.

I need to ESCAPE. I climb to my feet, hands against the gaping wound in my flank. Claws are crystallized essence and the damage they inflict does not heal quickly.

I am a mess and this place stinks.

Speaking of which, that smell is familiar…

Yes. This could work.

Desperate time…

Desperate measures!

My enemy steps into the small pigsty just as I break the far wall with a tired punch. One of his arms is just meat and I would expect his expression to have changed.

It has not. He is the same controlled maniac as he was ten seconds and an eternity ago. Worse, the wounds are knitting shut as I watch. Unbelievable.

He steps forward.

He dodges under the lantern I throw at him, arcing an imperious brow as if asking me: really?”

The lantern impacts against its intended target, covering it in burning oil.

For the first time since we started to fight, my foe shows the first sign of hesitation as an ear-piercing, horrendous screech assaults his senses. He turns just in time to be pelted by the flaming wreck of the pen gate. Several hundred pounds of porcine fury charge with the might of a creature with nothing to lose.

I… I did it.

I channeled chaos!

“Hah!” I boast as I escape the death trap through the newly made emergency exit. I land in an enclosure and take off as fast as I can. I see the river in the distance. Perhaps I can—

Something grabs my neck and flings me against a post. Sharp things dig into my heel before I can even push myself away.

Another post.

Grabbed again. Left arm snapped.

I grunt in pain and fight back with claws and feet. Too strong. He punches me in the face. I see stars.

Not giving up yet.

Another wall. I push back but he holds my head against the unyielding bricks.

Agony.

I scream, this time. Too much. He… severed my spine?

Cannot move.

The sky. I gasp. Cannot angle my gauntlet.

The man is there. For the first time, his smile broadens.

Fangs.

Four.

Six.

Eight.

Eight fangs total.

A Devourer.

“Hello, sister.”

I am so—

He kneels by my side with casual grace. A bloody hand exposes my neck despite my weak struggles, then he bites.

The eight little stilettos dig into my essence like needly spider legs. The pain they cause is intimate and exquisite. Agony expands to smother my thoughts, my instincts. He has not even drawn it in yet. Toying with me.

“That is enough, Malakim.”

A voice I have not heard in decades now breaks the silence, warm and soft as desert sand. I cling to it despite knowing better because I teeter on the edge of the abyss and any buoy is better than none. One pull is all Malakim needs to destroy me. I am powerless. I hate being powerless. Everything hurts so much.

“Let her go.”

I flop back to the ground. Less suffering now. I regain enough presence of mind to take in the newcomer. I know who he is. I would recognize the dark hair, the intimidating presence, and the kingly beard from among a million faces. I simply cannot believe it. He should not be here. They should not be here!

“Greetings, little princess. It has been quite some time. We have a lot of catching up to do.”

I am so fucked.

104. Warrens of the World

The ancient king kneels by my prone form. His expression is that of bored majesty, patient towards his lesser, yet unattainable.

“Do you yield?”

I feel no aura coming from him. Both he and Malakim have masked their presence so completely that I find myself incapable of even guessing at his state of mind. It does not matter. I know with certainty what the consequences are here, because his blood became mine and so did some of his instincts.

I am defeated. I will yield or I will die. There are no other alternatives.

I nod to signify assent, and he stands back up. It is done. I am his prisoner. I will no longer fight.

“Take her to the side.”

Malakim picks me up by the collar and drags me through the mud to a patch of grass beneath a tall apple tree at the edge of the village. I take this opportunity to make an inventory as my feet dig a furrow in the wet loam.

I have lacerations all over my arms, some of them still seeping blood. There is a gaping hole in my chest. My spine is broken. So is my arm. Despite having fed only a few days ago, the wounds are slow to heal since they were inflicted by Malakim’s claws. All in all, I hurt like a bitch.

My dress is a rag and all my belongings besides the gauntlet are gone, not that I had taken much to begin with. This is a secondary concern. I do not own, nor know of any weapon, armor or tool that could have stopped either of those two. Malakim did not even push himself. He matched my strength and speed then beat me on technique alone. He was just toying with me.

I stare at his broad, leather-covered back. The pale skin of his arm finished knitting itself from its previous butchered state.

I am not scared.

If I repeat it often enough, it might become true. Anything to take my mind off the fact that I am once again at the mercy of a man who ground me to dust, a man whose shadows I have lived under without him even being on the same continent. It took me years to rebuild myself, to forge a new identity from the wreck he left in his wake, and now he has returned and I am, once again, powerless. And the most amusing thing of all is that he does not care.

Once I give him my agreement he turns and gracefully walks to the village square.

I struggle as wariness smothers my mind, invades every recess with the urgency of my situation. I force myself to focus and rationalize it. Fate pushed me here instead of away. A path to salvation must exist, and I must witness or acquire something important. I refuse to believe that my sire can manipulate the threads of destiny himself, therefore, all is not as desperate as it seems. I just need to stay calm and play this carefully. I cannot afford to give up. Not now and not ever.

My sire stops.

From where I lie, I see him as he stands in the middle of the village. The view is… odd. He is dressed in a cream-colored ensemble that fits him perfectly. Not a mote of dust nor a speck of mud has managed to stain its understated elegance. He looks like a sovereign in the midst of a royal hunt, more interested in networking with high lords than in running down stags. By comparison, the village represents the far side of poverty with cramped houses sticking haphazardly out of the dusty ground like the teeth of a hag. There is not a single pane of glass to be found nor any dyed material piece of cloth in the ratty curtains. Even the stalls are held together by hand-woven twine instead of nails. People here do not live. They subsist.

They will not do so for long.

The ancient monster raises a fist and I gasp at the raw, unadulterated power now bursting from his unmoving figure. Reality hiccups and moves until I feel a difference in the texture of the world. Colors flare brighter, bleed into each other as they become more fluid. Even my wounds close with increased speed as willpower gains the edge over matter and rules become more lax. The sensation is slightly euphoric, causing me to smile despite my predicament. If this is how it feels to live in a Likaean world then our planet must feel dreary indeed.

My moment of pleasure dies when he casts.

The vision I had of his battle on the beach did not give him justice. Nirari whispers a word and, by this act, violates the beauty he had brought here. A rune like a scar appears before his extended arm, as if carved into invisible flesh. It pulses the angry red of a festering wound.

FLEE.

I gasp and shiver, then gasp again when the pain of movement washes my mind clean. This is a new feeling. No, this is an emotion I lost a long time ago and one I have not missed.

Terror.

It washes away everything else.

FLEE.

I cannot.

FLEE.

I fight against the all-encompassing wave of white noise hounding my mind with all the mental fortitude I can muster. This is fake. This is a trick!

Constanza wheels around, holding her lacerated cheek. A monster!

I am no longer so weak.

Which finger?

I am no longer trapped and alone!

You are.

No.

You are.

The villagers crash against their doors in their desperate attempts to escape, only to be cut down like so many sheep to the slaughter by some dreadful spell. Nirari stands in the middle like a director to some hellish orchestra, stabbing, gouging, cleaving with simple gestures and not once does his expression move away from casual ennui. He is just cleaning house. I suppose that he does not wish to leave any witnesses.

After only a minute, the massacre runs out of victims. Nirari signals, and Malakim pulls me through fields of uncaring grass like a captured flag. We leave the village behind with only two babies screaming their lungs out among a field of dead. This is not mercy, but expediency. Toddlers cannot speak and so no effort is expended to silence them. That is all.

In the following hours, I am dragged north and away from my planned destination. Malakim and Nirari do not hurry, and eventually I manage to fix my spine and upgrade my station from luggage to unwilling follower. I do my best to keep my flickering aura under control and stare at their backs with apprehension. I can see them. I can even smell a whiff of cold perfume among the smells of loam, grass, and flowers. They do not emit sounds nor do they have an aura. Every time I turn my head, they disappear. Their stealth upsets me almost as much as the fact that I am wearing filthy rags.

I have always been the one to sneak up on people, so far. I suppose that rules do not apply to them.

As the night runs its course, we keep moving north through the wilderness. The land here is choked with life but devoid of human presence. I grit my teeth and focus on closing every last wound, still feeling the sting of Malakim’s claws in my flesh. I am ready to admit being lost in the monotony of the landscape until, finally, I spot smoke in the distance.

When we crest the next hillock, I feel my sense of reality drift away once more.

Hidden from prying eyes is a camp from another era, a gathering of people I would not have expected from the most vivid imagination. Men and women clad in white linen bands work among a circle of beige tents. Their skin is golden, and their limbs are lean and muscular in the manner of hunters. Tattoos adorn them, and shaven skulls as decorations or, more likely, symbols of rank. They perform various tasks in complete silence, the shuffling of their feet the only noise besides the crackling of their fires.

A sentinel notices us and bows as we enter the perimeter. As if linked by a single mind, the others turn and salute with eerie uniformity. Those among them who wield glaives and bows raise them to their foreheads in a strange gesture I had never seen before. None speak.

Nirari waves them back to their labor as we approach the object of his attention, a narrow opening in the side of a valley not unlike that of a mausoleum. It must have started as a natural cavern at some point in the past, then someone enlarged it and added decorations on the side walls shining an organic yellow glow in the darkness like so many veins. The assembled strange people apparently spent a significant amount of time clearing debris to free the path in as small piles of broken rocks, sand, and gravels dot the far side of the basin.

We walk in.

Though the path would not let a carriage through, even the unusually tall Nirari has no need to bend his back to cross the threshold. We end up inside a small cavern showing signs of a massive excavation. The lines of fluorescent paint merge and diverge in intricate patterns with no discernible order. Sometimes, I can almost glimpse hints of shape — an owl caught mid-flight, a lit candle — then I move and the construct collapses into amorphous shapes. The mirage is gone.

The cavern is not too deep and we angle downward into a passage. Some of the walls are still wet, soil staining the glistening surface. It goes on for a few yards and then the ground dries again.

I feel a shift in the air, like opening a door to a musty cellar the further we descend. It takes us a few minutes to reach another cavern.

While the previous one had an almost primal feeling to it, this one has been clearly worked on and transformed into a workshop of sorts, now abandoned. Great tables of pale stone pitted with impacts and marred with puddles of molten metal speak of some great works in a distant past. A large brick smelter takes a significant part of the right wall, while the left used to be a storage area now empty save for a few broken remains of stone and ceramics. As deserted as it seems now, this place must have been quite a sight when active. The only intact thing remaining are runes engraved into almost every surface that still shine with remnants of power. They are in an ancient and unfamiliar script that reminds me of Akkad yet more sinuous, and the taste I get from them is that of molding and twisting.

This is an artefact production facility.

My sire lifts a fist and the ground rumbles. Blocks of stone emerge from the ground in compact formation, then some stop while others keep going up. In one second, he has formed a massive throne out of cyclopean grey slabs upon which he sits. Malakim comes to stand by his side, his eyes boring into me.

My sire’s gaze lands on me and I feel an immediate sense of dread. I do not have to think; I know what is required of me. Stepping before him, I perform an ancient warrior salute, head bent and right hand raised before my arm.

I believe that the state of my wardrobe and the obvious signs of battle grant me the right to claim a soldier status rather than that of a captured princess. The risk exists that he would take offense. It is one I am willing to take, considering the alternative.

Fortunately, it appears that Nirari is in a pleasant mood. His brows rise almost imperceptibly in what I believe to be amusement.

“Now what am I to do with you, my feisty little princess? Fate certainly has ways of toying with us.”

He did not ask a question and so I do not utter a word. The rules here are simple. Show utmost respect, answer fully and truthfully, and only speak when spoken to. To deviate is to die.

Nirari spends some time pondering the situation while, outside, the night near its end. I maintain my poise and will do so until he gives me leaves or until dawn does.

“Did you know we were there?” he suddenly asks.

“No.”

“Do you know why we are here?”

“No.”

“Do you know where you are?”

This one is open to interpretation.

“West Texas?”

He waves the answer away.

“Were you not warned of our coming?”

“No. Should I have been?”

An acceptable inquiry, considering the situation. Our meeting might be considered as a waste of time, a hurdle for him. Looking for a guilty party to punish later is standard.

“I made an agreement with clan Natalis. They were to close all outside communications and not speak of our coming, nor of our activities. They were given an hour to contact their traveling members. Did they not know that you were coming?”

“They did.”

“Hmm. Curious.”

I do not volunteer the fact that I may not be reached by message spell so long as I carry Nashoba’s earrings. This is problematic. I may have to stop using them in the future.

“What were you doing so far from your territory?”

So, he knows where I live. I should have expected it, of course, yet hearing it from his very mouth sends a chill along my newly-repaired spine. I pushed him away from my thought, he and the other old monster, like a child hiding her feet under the cover from the creature under her bed. Bedsheets are no shield, and neither is distance.

“I was on my way to save a relative. He is held captive in Matamoros to the south west.”

“A relative?”

“My nephew.”

He allows himself the shadow of a smile.

“Ah, yes. I remember having a clear lineage to protect. Children. Grandchildren. It has been so long… I am pleased to learn that the tradition is still alive. Well then, little princess, you do not seem to know what we are here for so I will allow you to live and serve. I have an inkling as to how you may assist. After all, you did successfully cast one of my spells.”

He lifts a finger and a sound like chimes spreads over the cavern.

“Send me Violet, I have a task for her,” he orders.

A few seconds later, I hear hurried footsteps from the corridor and soon, one of the strange humans appears before us. Just like the others, she is dressed in layers of white linen revealing golden skin decorated with intricate tattoos. Now that I am close enough, I notice that they are magical in nature though she herself is no mage. She walks forward without hesitation and kneels before my sire, placing her forehead on the ground.

“You will serve my spawn, Ariane, until I rescind that order.”

The woman’s eyes widen in surprise. She stares at me with renewed interest, awe, and perhaps even a bit of envy before she nods in understanding.

She understands Akkad? This is… The mortals are not meant to learn it! This is our tongue! How can he commit such a blasphemy?

Sensing my disapproval, Nirari smirks, this time genuinely.

“Violet, open your mouth.”

She obeys, revealing a scarred stump. Someone cut the tip of her tongue.

Well, I suppose that this would work. It also explains why the assembly was so silent.

“Violet, you will clear one of the rooms adjacent to ours for the use of the princess. You must do so before sunrise. You may ask for assistance.”

The woman nods and stands up. She bows and rushes back up the stairs.

“You will present yourself to me as soon as you wake up,” Nirari finishes.

He stands up and leaves through a pair of open stone gates dug in the far wall.

Only after he is gone do I allow myself to relax the position I had assumed.

I now realize that panic has saved me, because I told the truth when he asked if I knew what he was doing here. I did figure it out as soon as he mentioned the question, however.

There is only one reason that could force Nirari to plumb the depths of the world looking at abandoned magical facilities. The ancient one is looking for mother dear.

Meeting Semiramis made it rather obvious as to why Niari cannot catch up. Space is significantly more fluid for the witch queen than it is for the rest of us. It should be easy to remain one step ahead when one of hers is ten of ours.

The thing is that when he last visited one of her old abodes, he merely punched a wall then left. This is different. He is conducting a full excavation of a base that was obviously abandoned at least a century ago. I do not know what he is looking for, but I would bet a night with Ignace that it relates to finding a countermeasure to his mother’s annoying traveling habits.

I just pray that he does not find one. By the Watcher, I am not ready to oppose them. I would not even know where to begin.

In short order, Violet returns with two more minions. They bow to me with the same respect they gave Nirari and I finally realize that they do not serve him. They worship him.

I follow them through the gates and into a large corridor of rough-hewn gray rock that reminds me of a dungeon. The air is inexplicably fresh and enough light is provided by the twisting lines for the mortals to shuffle forward. They choose one of the rooms after a quick exchange of hand signals then cram themselves in like an assault team under bombardment. An instant later, I hear clangs and the rattle of heavy things dragged over rugged stone. I peer in out of curiosity.

The three humans are busy gathering debris and goods out of what appears to be a disaffected storage room. A lanky man struggles with ingots of metal colored a dull verdigris while another picks up ossified planks from the dusty ground. Violet looks at me with a guilty stare, ashamed.

I leave them to their task of making this habitable and decide to inspect the facility. There are more doors to other rooms, some wider than others. One still has abandoned tools possibly left as they were exceedingly easy to replace: calipers, pliers, and even a remote engraver used to inscribe runes on still-hot material.

Two of the gates are closed and I assume that those are Nirari’s quarters and that of his minion. I have no intention of disturbing them.

Further, the corridor ends in a junction with three ways. The one directly in front of me is blocked by more debris with signs of some of the rubble having already been cleared. The one to my right leads to another workshop.

The one to my left fills me with foreboding. It arches to the right a hundred yards in the distance. A massive spot of dried red liquid covers the ground only a few paces away from me. I smell human blood, less than three days old.

I expand my senses and focus on the space before me. I feel no magic at all, but I see a disturbance in the air. A minute current carrying motes of dust that disappears without reason.

There is something there. Something hidden and lethal and lying in wait like a moray. The sense of foreboding I feel increases ever so slightly as I take in the length of this passage. A nest of morays.

I decide to retreat. The other workshop beckons and dawn is close enough for lethargy to muddy my mind. I have no need to take any more risks.

The next room is a copy of the first one, save that the smelter has been replaced by what may be the remnants of a large saw. Pale dust covers the ground and pieces of crumbled rock lie here and there as if fallen from larger constructs. Many of them have one perfect side, polished until flat as a mirror while the rest is raw and irregular. I assume that workers here processed stones but I cannot be sure.

One thing is certain, a woman alone would have had no use for such a large place. I expected both Semiramis and Nirari to work alone and I was just disproved. What bothers me is that the tables here are just a bit too low for adult humans now that I stand by their side.

I should not dwell on that. My priority should be to find a way to leave. Surrendering does not prevent me from planning an escape. That would have to take place tomorrow, however, now is far too late to be running outside.

I also feel that it would be... treacherous to run away on the very night I was captured. I am aware of the lack of logic backing that statement. Much like all the instincts of honor and obligation I inherited from Nirari, this one is more a matter of tradition turned into law than anything else. Frustrating.

I spend some time looking around the workshop and find two other sets of gates leading away, though they are currently locked. Afterward, I return to my quarters and notice that the three linen-covered servants have cleared the space, swept it, and created a rudimentary nest made from hard fabric seeded with a few colorful pillows. A pot-pourri exhales a perfume of rose and lavender, while a single lit candle basks the naked stone with a warm glow.

They made a real effort turning this jail into a bedroom.

I close the door behind me and settle for the night, hugging myself in the ruins of my dress. Tomorrow will be a long day.

Table of Contents

- Table Of Contents -
1. Cruel Genesis
2. Jimena
3. False Haven
4. The seed of Discord
5. The Reveal
6. Uprooted
7. Servitude
8. Outside
9. A casual visit
10. No rest for the wicked
11. The Gauntlet
12. Acte I, scène finale
13. Homeward
14. Roadside snacks
15. Reap what you sow
16. Marsh March
17. Loth of Skoragg's offer.
18. Six Months Later
19. A gentleman and a scholar
20. The Pursuer and the Pursued
21. Murder of Crows
22. The Waiting Maw
23. Into the Heart
24. Valor
25. The Source
26. Self-Discovery
27. Coming of Age
28. Like Herding Cats pt. 1
29. Like Herding Cats Pt. 2
30. Charm
31. Winternight
32. Old Money
33. The science of the Hunt
34. Ring Breaker
35. Blood Ties
36. Cloaks and Daggers
37. 1812, Overture.
38. Learning curve.
39. The Righteous One
40. Masquerade
41. Stand your ground.
42. The Cruel Seas
43. Confluence
44. Daydreaming
45. Embracing Modernity
46. The Eternal Game
47. Nemesis
48. Pyre of Dreams
49. The shadow over Marquette.
50. Under the Skin
51. Prince of Azure and Gold
52. Fate and Absurdity
??. Black and Red Healer
53. Three is a Crowd
54. Night-Owned Town
55. Sins. And explosions!
56. Preparations
57. The Beacon
58. The First Queen
59. Omen of the end.
60. Big Game Hunting
61. Before the Storm
62. Eneru
63. Reign of Blood
64. Knight Takes Queen.
65. Sur les Bords du Mississippi...
66. ... un alligator se tapit.
67. Expect the unexpected.
68. Dies Irae
69. Trial
70. Painful hearing.
Glossary.
71. House Nirari
72. All that Glitters
73. Mise en Abyme
74. Vernissage
75. Oh, the Binglery!
76. Finale
77. Wilhelm's Task
78. The Secret Task
79. Reception
80. Smoke and Mirrors
81. The Test
82. Pact.
83. Divide and Conquer
84. Bloody Games
85. The Library of Alexandria
86. Et tu, Brute?
87. State of Affairs
87.5 Unhinged
88. The Gathering Tide
89. Council
90. Northern Wind.
91. Horde
92. Call of Blood and Bone
93. The Smell of Victory.
94. The Die is Cast
95. Curtains
96. The Cubs
97. Takeover
98. Schooled
99. The Vampire's Best Tools.
100. Surprise!
101. Tempus Fugit
102. Home
103. Down she goes.
104. Warrens of the World